Prisoner of the Iron Tower (39 page)

“The
druzhina
. Free the
druzhina
.”

“And if the Emperor agrees to free the
druzhina,
will you agree to use your skills one more time?”

“No more summonings,” she said, shuddering at the memory.

“This will not involve a summoning. This is, I suspect, a simple case of possession.”

“Simple?”
He could have no idea of the risks involved. But for Semyon’s sake alone, she would do it.

“The Emperor will reward you generously if you cure his daughter.”

“The little princess?” Kiukiu began to wish she had not agreed so rashly. What would the Emperor do to her if she failed?

Kiukiu hugged her gusly tightly, holding it like a shield between her and this unfamiliar world that was the Palace of Swanholm. She glimpsed maidservants in neat grey dresses, silently disappearing into doorways as they approached. The palace was so light and clean. And she knew, better than most, how much painstaking work had gone into polishing the floorboards and cleaning the great windowpanes till they sparkled; she could smell the beeswax.

Tall guardsmen stood outside the gilded door to the princess’s apartments.

“We are not to be disturbed,” said the Magus.

Inside, Kiukiu saw a comfortable sitting room with a fire burning in the grate. Chairs and a couch in a pretty sprigged brocade of blue and pale yellow had been placed close to the fire, but the room was empty. Close by someone was coughing; a high, painful, repetitive rasp.

“Put down your instrument, Kiukiu.”

Kiukiu gratefully placed the heavy gusly on the table next to a little slate with chalks and open books. A half-sewn sampler was stretched across a frame, with colored wools hanging down. The princess must have been at her lessons.

An inner door opened and a little girl in a blue gown appeared. She spoke to Linnaius in Tielen.

“This is Kiukirilya, a Spirit Singer, Princess,” said Linnaius in the common tongue.

As Princess Karila came toward her, Kiukiu saw how badly twisted her body was; she only managed to walk with a strange lurching gait. But as she bobbed a curtsy to the princess, she could not sense any evidence of spirit possession at all.

“Is that a zither, Kiukirilya?” asked the princess.

“It’s called a gusly, highness.”

“I’m learning the fortepiano, but my music-master is very strict and makes me practice boring scales.”

“Practice is important if you want to play well,” Kiukiu said guiltily, aware that she had been neglecting her instrument.

“Can I try?” One hand crept out toward the strings and plucked a few notes. “Ow. The strings bite!”

“You have to wear these little metal hooks to protect your fingers until your nails grow strong and hard.” Kiukiu slipped the plectra onto her fingertips for the princess to see and struck a playful volley of notes, light and fast and bright as shooting stars.

“You’re so clever!” cried Karila. “It’s sky music. Flying music!”

Kiukiu was unused to playing to an appreciative audience; she was about to delight the princess with more of her improvisation when she heard Linnaius clearing his throat. Glancing up, she saw him pointing sternly to the clock.

“Sit down, please, highness,” she said, suppressing a little sigh.

Kiukiu began to play a Sending Song to try to charm out any elusive spirit that might be haunting the princess.

“I don’t like this tune,” said Karila, kicking her heels against the couch. “It’s too slow and sad.”

Kiukiu tried to ignore the princess’s complaints and played on, weaving a mist of dark notes until the firelight dwindled to a distant dull glimmer.

“Why are we here?” Karila’s voice came clearly through the darkness. “What is this place?”

If there was another spirit inhabiting the princess’s body, then it had concealed itself with great skill.

“Show yourself,”
Kiukiu commanded.
“I am here to help you.”

Suddenly the dark mists melted away, revealing a great expanse of azure water.

“The sea!” cried Karila happily. A long, white shore stretched into the distance.

And then the children came clustering about them, the children Kiukiu had seen in her vision in Kastel Drakhaon, the poor, dead children with their dark, imploring eyes and their terrible wounds.

“Who are you?” Kiukiu said, backing away.

And now, as she looked at Princess Karila, she saw another child standing beside her, half in shadow; a girl with dark hair and dark eyes.

“We are the children of the Serpent God,” said the girl. “We died to bring the Drakhaouls from the Realm of Shadows.”

“This is Tilua,” said Karila.

“Help us,” said another child, a boy, stretching out his hands to her.

“But what do you want?”

“We want to go home.”

“I’ll take you, then. I’ll sing you all home.”

“We can’t go home. Our blood is mingled with the blood of the Drakhaoulim. We are part of them—and they are part of us,” said Tilua. “We are their children.”

“Grandma,” whispered Kiukiu to Malusha, so far away in Azhkendir, “I don’t know what to do. There’s so many of them.” This was much more complicated than she had imagined. She needed time to think. “Come, Karila,” she commanded. “Come with me.”

“But I want to stay and play,” said Karila, her hand entwining with Tilua’s. “I’m free here, Kiukirilya. I can run and not fall over.”

Kiukiu shivered. The light was fading fast. And she could see shadows creeping toward them across the white sand. “But it’s not where you’re meant to be, Princess.” She grabbed hold of Karila’s other hand and tugged. “We must go.” This place was not what it seemed to be at all; she could sense it now.

Clouds overhead darkened the white sand to a dull, dusty grey. And a wind began to whine, whipping up the dunes. The azure sea vanished beneath drifting mounds of sand, even as she stared at it, horrified.

She knew this place. And she must get Karila out as swiftly as possible.

She turned to see the portal she had sung for them shrinking fast.

“Now!” she cried, tugging again. And she shoved Karila, with Tilua still clinging to her hand, through the portal just as it closed, leaving her beating her hands on empty air.

“Why won’t Kiukirilya wake up, Linnaius?” asked Karila, her eyes wide with alarm. “Why is she staring like that?”

“I think she is unwell,” said Linnaius. His mind raced, trying to invent a plausible reason for what had happened. “Some people suffer from this unfortunate affliction: the falling sickness. Let me ring for help.”

He saw Karila gently touch the Guslyar girl’s face. And the fact that there was no response from Kiukirilya, not even the slightest twitch or blink, confirmed what he feared the most. She was lost in the dark spirit-world of the dead that the Azhkendi shamans navigated at their peril. “Crude, dangerous magic,” he muttered under his breath. Now what was he going to do with her?

“You rang, highness?” A little red-cheeked maid appeared, bobbing a curtsy. And then she caught a glimpse of Kiukiu lying on the couch and let out a squeak of alarm.

“Our Azhkendi musician has been taken ill,” Linnaius said, steering her toward the door, away from the couch. “Please fetch two strong men to help carry her back to her room. I will call Doctor Amandel to attend to her.”

As two footmen lifted Kiukiu up and a third followed, carrying the gusly, Linnaius said pointedly, “Let’s take the servants’ stair. We don’t want to excite vulgar comments.” Perhaps in the confusion of preparations and the many musicians milling about in the palace, no one would pay particular attention to one more, seemingly the worse for drink. . . .

Karila came up to him as he bowed to her, and touched his arm. “She wanted to take the children home, Linnaius. But they can’t go home. Not without the Drakhaouls.”

The Drakhaon scouted the surrounding area: hills, woods, and valleys. There was no sign of the Tielens at all this morning. Those that could escape must have made a hasty retreat into Muscobar.

Thirsty now after flying in the sunlight all day, he searched for water. He caught the rushing sound of fast-falling water; a waterfall tumbled down the rocky hillside, the spray glinting with little rainbows. He drank from the icy mountain cascade and then followed the course of the clear-flowing stream until it brought him to a lake.

Wading birds moved among the reeds; tufted goldeneyes dived and preened on the still water. There was no sound but the whisper of the breeze in the reeds and the burbling cries of the waterfowl.

He walked beside the lake, listening to the quiet and relishing the calm. Damselflies darted low across the surface. One settled on a reed and he crouched down to try to get a better look at its jeweled body.

He started back, catching sight of the face that bent toward the glassy sheen of the lake. His stunted hair had completely regrown, hiding the scars left by Baltzar’s scalpel.

“Had you forgotten? You needed blood, innocent blood to restore your human face.”

Now he remembered the terrible pleasure he had taken in Gulvardi’s body, her screams, her struggles. He remembered the sweet taste of her flesh, her living blood as she writhed and arched beneath him. But whose pleasure did he recall, his own, or that of the daemon that drove him to ravish an innocent stranger?

And why, when that soft, persuasive voice whispered of innocent blood, did he suddenly think of RaÏsa? Why did he find himself overwhelmed with images of her: the way the sunlight caught copper strands in her boyish hair, the open-necked man’s shirt, all the more intriguing for the occasional glimpse it afforded of small, firm breasts, brown nipples dark beneath the whiteness of the crumpled linen . . .

Suddenly he was unbearably hot, his whole body burning with the unquenchable hunger of his daemon-blood. He sat down beside the lake and let his face sink into his hands. Despair overcame him, dark as a stormcloud.

I daren’t go near her. I can’t control this gnawing bloodlust any longer. I can’t go back.

CHAPTER
29

Askold raised his hand to wipe the sweat and grime from his eyes. “Did you feel that, lads?”

The oppressive darkness of the mineshaft was lit only by the dimmest of flames, well-encased in lantern glass to prevent any risk of explosion. The
druzhina
were at work underground in Captain Lindgren’s mine, excavating another new shaft into the hillside. Wooden props, hewn from the great forest pines in Kerjhenezh, held up the low roof. Yet even here, deep below the surface, Askold had felt the pull of the blood oath, the bond that tied him to his master, the Drakhaon.

“I felt it!” cried a young voice, full of hope—and was rewarded with a crack of a whip and a curse from the supervising Tielen soldier.

“Keep it down, Semyon,” Askold said, shuffling slowly forward, shackles clanking, with another barrowful of dully-glittering earth to be wheeled outside for sieving.

“But how can it be?” grunted Barsuk. “How can it be Lord Gavril?”

“Search me,” Askold said. “All I know is that’s our Drakhaon.”

“Lord Gavril?” Gorian spat.

“You watch your tongue, Gorian,” advised Barsuk. “Remember what happened to Michailo.”

“Wherever he may be, he hasn’t forgotten us,” Semyon said loyally. “And it was stronger than last time. He’s getting closer.”

“No talking!” The Tielen overseer cracked his whip again. “You’re here to work.”

“Work?” Gorian hawked and spat again. “How can we work on the pigswill they give out? They feed their horses better.”

It was no more than the truth. They were so weak from the meager rations, they could hardly last to the end of their shift.

“Are you deaf? I said no more talking!” The whip came down hard on Gorian’s back. Instinctively he lashed out, striking the Tielen, knocking him to the dirt floor. He straddled the fallen officer, eyes burning with hatred.

“No, Gorian!” Askold cried, too late.

“We’re men, like you. We deserve better!”

As the Tielen struggled to get up, Gorian landed a kick in his side, with as much force as his shackled ankles would permit.

“Stop, Gorian. That’s an order!”

As the Tielen rolled over, retching, more soldiers came hurrying down the low passageway, alerted by the shouting.

Askold cursed under his breath.

“You damned fool, Gorian. See what you’ve done?”

“That one—attacked me—” gasped out the Tielen. In seconds, the others had grabbed hold of Gorian by the arms and pinned him to the wall.

“I’m not taking any more Tielen orders!” cried Gorian. “I’m not cleaning out any more Tielen latrines! Let them shovel their own shit. If I can’t live like a warrior, then I’ll die like a warrior!”

Barsuk let out a great roar and swung his shovel at the Tielens. One turned, catching the blow on the side of the head. His skull was split open; he toppled, blood spurting.

“They’ll execute you for this, Barsuk!” Askold tried to restrain him, but Barsuk threw him off.

“We’re dead men, anyway, Askold,” he said, dealing another Tielen a ringing blow in the face with the shovel. “Let’s give ’em something to write a song about!”

“Riot! Riot in the mine!” cried one of the Tielens, blowing a whistle in short, frantic bursts.

“Put down your shovels or we shoot,” ordered another, striking a tinder to light his fuse.

“Go on, shoot,” sneered Gorian. “Shoot and be done with it.”

“No—” cried Askold, foreseeing the danger too late. He leaped forward to try to knock the carbine from the soldier’s hands, but his shackles tripped him.

The gun went off—and though the shot went wide, missing Gorian, it pierced one of the open barrels.

There was a blinding flash of light and then all went black as the props fell and the roof caved in.

Gavril lay back in the shade of ancient olive trees, staring up at the blue sky through twisted branches sparsely sprinkled with grey-green leaves. In this lonely grove high up in the foothills, he could rest without fear of being discovered.

He had just drifted into sleep when he heard the far distant sound of voices crying out to him. Starting awake, he felt a sudden deep ache in his wrist, where once his
druzhina
had sealed their bond of eternal fealty to him, touching their lips to his welling blood.

“My
druzhina
. They need me!”

It was a call he could no longer ignore. He had fought the urge to return to Azhkendir, fearing to see again the looks of betrayal and contempt in the faces of his enslaved men. He did not need to be reminded that he had failed them; he had agonized over his failure night after dark night in Arnskammar. Now he knew he had delayed too long. This was a desperate, fading cry for help. Even now he might not reach Kastel Drakhaon in time.

“Can we make Azhkendir?” he asked Khezef.

“Your will is mine, Gavril Nagarian.”

Gavril rose high above the foothills and headed for the Larani Mountains. As he flew, he scanned the land beneath for signs of soldiers. But he saw none; for whatever reason, Eugene had withdrawn his troops from the Smarnan side of the border. It could well be a ruse, but it could also mean that the Emperor had agreed to negotiations.

Agreeing to negotiations? That didn’t sound like Eugene of Tielen. It was most likely he was massing his troops beyond the mountains, making ready for another assault when the Smarnans least expected it.

But as he winged on northward, passing over the rocky crags and grey-sheened glaciers of Mount Diktra, crossing into Muscobar, he saw no sign of army encampments, only a thin straggle of a column, winding its way dejectedly down a steep mountain path, with heavy cannons drawn by mules. Had he inflicted more damage on Eugene’s forces than he first imagined? The idea brought a sense of grim satisfaction.

And then he was flying over the green pastures and birch forests of Muscobar, over peasants toiling in the fields, goading teams of oxen to plough. Muscobar, with its fertile plains and many rivers, looked so much more prosperous than rugged Azhkendir. He saw villages and towns, well-stocked farms with orchards and monasteries whose gilded onion domes glinted in the slow-sinking sun.

He must make Kastel Drakhaon before night fell.

Nils Lindgren leaned over his plan of the mine, desperately searching for a shaft or air vent that could be dug out to provide an alternative escape route. If they tried to blast their way through the collapsed entrance, they only risked killing more men. And the rockfall at the entrance was so heavy it would take hours of digging to clear it.

“If you please, Captain,” said a nervous voice.

“What is it now?” He looked around to see Ilsi, the tart-tempered little maidservant, standing behind him. She was biting her lip.

“There are old tunnels beneath the kastel. Secret passages. If you could run a new tunnel between one of the kastel passages and the mine—”

“Where are these secret passages?”

“Under the East Wing.”

“Which fell down in the bombardment.” This was leading nowhere.

“Was that our fault? I thought your engineers had ways of finding tunnels and wells,” she said.

“We don’t have time to run a survey. The men will die for lack of air!” he said more angrily than he intended.

“Well pardon me for trying to help!” Ilsi flounced away, head held high.

Lindgren put his hands to his head in utter frustration. He was an engineer, skilled at his work. And he enjoyed it as long as it involved calculations, plans, and excavating. But this collapse deep within the mine was a disaster. His men were trapped. The
druzhina
were trapped. And what was worse was that his engineering would probably be blamed for the accident.

“Lord Stoyan is here,” announced his adjutant from the doorway.

Lindgren half-turned, not believing what he was hearing. The Governor of Azhkendir at Kastel Drakhaon? Without any advance warning? It must be a coincidence. A horrible coincidence.

Boris Stoyan strode in.

“Lindgren!” he shouted in his great voice. “We’ve come to see how the restoration’s progressing.”

“We?” echoed Lindgren weakly.

“Good-day to you, Captain Lindgren.” A woman had appeared at Lord Stoyan’s side: a handsome woman with red hair and langorous green eyes. Behind her came a maidservant, carrying a wide-eyed baby. “I heard that a trunk containing my personal possessions had been found. So I thought I’d come to collect it when the last snows had melted from the moors.”

“I-I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure—” he stammered.

She left Lord Stoyan’s side and came up to him, her hand held out. “Lilias Arbelian, wife to the late Lord Jaromir Arkhel,” she said, smiling at him. “This is Stavyomir, our son. He will rule Azhkendir when he comes of age.”

Lindgren took the proffered hand and briefly brushed it with his lips. Her perfume was exotically sweet and strong; it reminded him how long it was since he had been in society, how long he had been dealing with trenches, props, earth-moving. He wondered if he had any polite conversation left.

And then he became aware of a little huddle of kastel servants skulking outside the half-open door. All the maids were there, staring. He opened his mouth to send them away, then realized they might be his salvation.

“Sosia,” he called sternly.

The kastel housekeeper came in, eyes downcast, deliberately not looking at the visitors.

“Sosia, would you fetch our visitors some refreshment?”

“If that’s what you want, Captain.” From her disapproving expression, he saw that the visitors were as unwelcome to her as to him. As she passed Lilias Arbelian, she said distinctly, “I wonder you have the nerve to show your face here.”

Lilias slipped her hand through Lord Stoyan’s arm. “Dear Boris, the kastel staff are lacking in manners. Perhaps you could ask the captain to have them disciplined?”

“Where are all your men, Captain?” Lord Stoyan asked. “The place looks remarkably quiet.”

The governor had missed nothing.

“We have—a situation over at the mine. Nothing we can’t bring under control,” he added hastily. “In time.”

“Situation?” Lord Stoyan stared at him under thick, dark brows. “A rockfall? d’you want me to send in some of my own men to help?”

“That would be—yes, thank you.” Lindgren was desperate to get back to the mine; every minute counted, where men’s lives were at risk.

Sosia reappeared with a bottle of Tielen aquavit and a pot of mint tea on a tray, which she placed on the little table near the fire.

“Mint tea?” Lilias said disdainfully. “Don’t you have any real tea? From Khitari?”

“If you’d care to bring us some,” Sosia said sourly. “We’ve had to make do as best we can here. My pantry was blown to pieces in the bombardment—oh but you wouldn’t know that, would you, as you’d gone running off into the hills with Michailo.”

“We’ll be staying the night. The baby’s tired.”

“Sosia, make the necessary preparations for our guests.” Lindgren grabbed his plans and hurried away.

Gavril had forgotten how long the sun stayed in the sky in the far north during spring and early summer.

He had left Azhkendir as the first snowdrops were piercing the snow. He returned now to a land he hardly recognized—to moorlands bright with gorse, the moss starred with tiny white flowers, the cloudberry and lingonberry bushes in bloom.

He had no need to look for landmarks to navigate by; the pulsing of the scar on his wrist grew stronger, as did the confusion of voices in his mind as he neared Kastel Drakhaon.

There lay the vast, wild forest of Kerjhenezh, stretching on toward the distant mountains. And there was the Kalika Tower, rising up into the pale sky where the evening star glittered, even though the sun had still not set.

At the sight of Kastel Drakhaon, Gavril felt a sudden rush of emotion. He had escaped the Iron Tower, but he was not unscathed. He was not the same man who had left in a prison carriage with barred windows, his mind filled with fear and despair. He was even less the naÏve young painter who had come to Kastel Drakhaon with Kostya on a cold autumn evening so many months ago. He had been abused and experimented on by Eugene’s torturers in Arnskammar. And he had killed for prey.

Fluttering from every remaining tower in the evening breeze were the flags of Eugene’s army, the standards of New Rossiya. His first instinct was to rip them all down. And then he sensed cries again, much fainter than before. They were dying.

He had a duty to save his
druzhina
.

But where were they? Circling high above the kastel, he noticed now the extensive excavations on the escarpment—the pulleys, the carts, all the trappings of some kind of mineworks. And from the Tielens’ frantic activity below—the digging and shouting—he guessed that this was the heart of the problem.

His
druzhina
must be trapped underground.

Nils Lindgren threw down his shovel and wiped his damp forehead on his sleeve.

“It’s no use,” he said. “We’ll never reach them. Too much earth has come down.”

All around him, his men leaned on their spades and stared at him, their faces smeared with earth and sweat, their eyes dull with exhaustion.