Prisoner of the Iron Tower (44 page)

Astasia looked away, overcome with guilt.

“I’m sorry, Andrei,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. They searched for you, you know? They searched for weeks until the riots began in Mirom. Then the search was abandoned.”

White light, diamond-bright, began to suffuse the gardens and the Orangery. Fanfares brayed out again. Astasia glanced over Andrei’s shoulder and saw that the finale of the fireworks had begun. One by one, heraldic panels began to burn beyond the lake: a giant silver swan for Tielen, a two-headed sea eagle for Muscobar, the fiery phoenix of Khitari, the green-scaled tail of the Smarnan merman, and the brilliant blue dragon of Azhkendir.

“It’s nearly over,” she said, clinging to him in sudden panic. “Must we say farewell so soon?”

“We mustn’t be seen together.” Andrei hastily pulled on the white powdered wig; she stood on tiptoe to help him adjust it. “Tasia,” he said, kissing her forehead, “take care. Once Celestine and I are gone, who will be here to look out for you?”

His words frightened her. “What do you mean? What do you know?”

“Come away with me. There’s a ship in Haeven harbor bound for Francia, the
Melusine
. She sails tomorrow on the evening tide.”

“Run away?” The suggestion shocked her. “But how can I leave my husband, Andrei?”

“If you change your mind, meet me at the harbor.”

The fresh colors of the heraldic shields faded as another, darker glow began to illumine the lake, bathing the waters and gardens, even the pale stone of the palace in its deep, crimson glow. Kettle drums beat a thunderous roll and trumpets blared. This was what Eugene enjoyed best: the music of war. Transfixed, Astasia clutched hold of Andrei’s hand.

“Artamon’s Tears,” she said softly. “The Ruby of Rossiya . . .” It was only another of Linnaius’s artifices, she knew, but for one horrible moment it looked to her as if the palace and all the guests were drowning in a sea of blood.

She felt Andrei’s warm grip loosen on her hand—and, as the red light of the fireworks died, she found she was alone in the Orangery.

CHAPTER
32

The martial music swelled to a triumphant climax as the brilliant red fireworks turned the lake waters from black to crimson.

Eugene stared, amazed. It was as if Linnaius’s artistry had recreated the fiery column that had lit the sky the night the five rubies, Artamon’s Tears, had been reunited.

“Only the Emperor’s tears will unlock the gate.”

He had lingered too long; it was time he was on his way to Ty Nagar.

The military bands broke into the Tielen national anthem. And Eugene was obliged to stand at attention, hand raised to acknowledge this loyal salute until the last strains of the anthem died away.

The guests broke into spontaneous applause. Karila clapped too, her little hands batting hard against each other in enthusiasm.

Eugene turned to Astasia who stood demurely beside him. After the fireworks came the old ceremony of jumping the bonfires, after which amorous couples disappeared into the shrubberies.

“I have urgent business. Can you and Maltheus preside over the lighting of the bonfires?”

Astasia bowed her head in assent. She seemed very subdued; all her earlier exuberance had faded. Should he ask what was troubling her? He tentatively put out one hand to touch her shoulder—and caught sight of an elegant milkmaid hastening toward him from the gardens, waving a fan. He knew it was Lovisa, because she had not troubled to hide the color of her ice-pale hair. Damn it, what did she want now? Astasia was at his side; she had been there all evening, so there had been no opportunity for dalliance as far as he was aware.

“Excuse me, ladies.” He went out onto the terrace toward the wide steps to meet her.

Astasia waited until the last glow of the fireworks died. From the path, she could see Eugene’s tall figure on the terrace, Celestine at his side in her identical blue costume, Karila between them.

How odd,
she thought.
It’s like looking at myself from outside. . . .

And then she halted. Karila was sure to sense it wasn’t her!

She hurried on through the darkness, darting between the strolling guests, desperate now to reach the terrace before Karila blurted out the truth. She could just imagine that clear voice declaring, “You’re not my stepmama. Who are you and what have you done with her?”

And now Eugene was coming down the steps, making straight toward her! Had he seen her? Would he grab hold of her and demand an explanation in front of all the guests? She shrank behind a pilaster bearing a stone basket overspilling with ivies and crimson peonies, praying her deception had not been discovered.

Eugene was halfway down the steps when someone coughed politely behind him.

“What now?” Eugene cried. Gustave stood there, as plain in his sober secretary’s jacket as a sparrow among Karila’s exotic birds, holding out a silver tray on which lay a folded paper.

“News from Azhkendir,” he said in his most formal voice.

Eugene faltered, torn between Lovisa’s frantic signaling and reading the contents of the letter. He snatched up the letter and started toward her, stopping under the light of a flambeau to read what was written:

Lord Gavril has returned.

Nils Lindgren, Captain.

“Ah!” said Eugene aloud. He held the paper to the torchflame until it flared up, then collapsed to ash.

Astasia tapped Celestine lightly on the shoulder. In a matter of seconds, the switch was effected and Astasia, heart still fluttering like a trapped bird in her breast, took her place again beside Karila. The little girl was happily licking the icing off a marchpane swan. Astasia smiled and nodded at her stepdaughter.

Please don’t blurt anything out, Kari.

But when the swan was half-nibbled away, Karila lost interest and the swan dropped from her sticky fingers. Astasia had never been so glad to see Marta appear to take the child away to bed.

Karila began to protest. “But I want to see the bonfires, Marta.”

“You need your sleep,” said Marta severely. “You can see them from your bedroom window. Say good-night to the Empress.”

“ ’Night, Tasia . . .”

A little string orchestra struck up on the terrace; to Astasia’s dismay, she recognized the yearning strains of “White Nights,” her favorite waltz. The violins soared, the melody throbbing out across the dark gardens, high and intense.

Homesickness suddenly flooded through her. She had been so happy to see Andrei. But now that he was gone, she felt even more bereft, knowing that her marriage had divided them, sending him far away to Francia.

And where was Eugene? It was most uncivil of him to leave his empress standing on her own, without an escort, among all these strangers.

Through her tears, she stared down into the darkening gardens. Bright flames sprang up as the servants lit the first Dievona Bonfire, illuminating the parterres. There was Eugene—and he was deep in intimate conversation with a tall, elegant woman.

“Lovisa!” she muttered, clenching her fists till her nails dug into her palms.

“I haven’t time for this now, Lovisa,” Eugene said quietly. “You should be protecting my wife.” He looked up to the terrace and saw Astasia standing on her own. A little pang of guilt—an unfamiliar sensation—unsettled him. “Why is no one with her? I want her guarded at all times, especially in this crowd.”

“Can you be sure that woman is your wife?” Lovisa asked coolly. “I tell you, I saw two identical shepherdesses in blue on the terrace a moment ago. I signaled to you, but you were distracted by Gustave.”

“And for all I know, there are three milkmaids dressed as you are here tonight, maybe four.” Eugene was impatient to escape the festivities. This was no time for dancing or singing.

Lord Gavril has returned.

For all he knew, Gavril Nagarian was already winging his way here to Swanholm to take his final revenge. The security of New Rossiya was at stake—and he must act quickly or lose his hold over the empire.

The guests had grabbed torches and were gathering around the bonfires for the ancient ceremony. Florets of flame flickered and danced in the dark gardens, like fireflies. Servants moved among the guests, offering steaming glasses of hot punch to keep out the night’s chill. A lone singer burst into the time-old Dievona Night chant and soon many voices joined in, raising a raucous, full-throated paean to the ancient gods of spring. As the flames died down to smoldering ashes, the boldest (or most inebriated) of the youngsters would leap the bonfire, hand-in-hand, to ensure fertility and good fortune in the coming year.

He realized that Lovisa had been talking to him while his thoughts raced to Vermeille and far beyond.

“All I’m saying is, I lost sight of her for some minutes.”

“Yes, yes.” Eugene had no more time for the countess’s excuses and vague insinuations. He had to find Linnaius.

“And then I glimpsed them together. In the Orangery. He was kissing her.”

“Saw whom?” Eugene had only half-heard what she said.

“The Empress. Or a woman who was wearing the same costume. With a man.”

Now he heard her clearly. She was insinuating that she had seen Astasia in a compromising situation in the Orangery. His heart went cold. But all he said was, “Can you be sure, Lovisa?”

“Well, no, Eugene, but—”

“Watch her. And report to me again only when you have firm evidence.” He strode briskly away before she could say any more. He did not have time to deal with this now.

The strength of the singing startled Astasia. She leaned on the balustrade, listening to the voices singing in some old Tielen dialect she couldn’t understand. The bonfire chant had a raw, pagan quality, as if it had been sung under the bright spring stars for years without number since the dawn of the world.

A sweet, alcoholic smell, flavored with cinnamon and cloves, wafted under her nose. One of the servants was offering her a silver-handled glass of some steaming beverage.

“Hot Dievona punch, imperial highness?”

Hastily, she waved him away. The smell made her dizzy and nauseous and she grasped at the smooth-polished stone of the balustrade for support.

Why do I weep one moment and feel faint the next? I was never that kind of silly moping girl!
And then she remembered. Her hands instinctively crept to cover her stomach.

His child. Our child.

Great cheers arose from the onlookers around the bonfire. They were jumping over the dampened flames, young men and their girls, hand-in-hand, shouting with exhilaration as they leaped into the spark-dusted air.

I’d like to run, to leap high over the bonfire . . . but whose hand would be clasped around mine? Eugene’s?

She saw him now, striding purposefully up the gardens from his rendezvous with Lovisa.

Is it true, Eugene? Did you order Linnaius to sink my brother’s ship, and all of Muscobar’s hopes with it?

He took the steps two at a time, as vigorously as a young man.

“I’m going hunting, Astasia.”

“Very well.” She looked back at him coldly through the eyeholes of her mask. If hunting was his alibi for spending time with his mistress, then she must play along with his little game for the sake of propriety.

I’m carrying his heir and he doesn’t even know it. Nor shall he! It’s obvious that his secret affairs are of far greater importance.

“Come,” Celestine whispered in Andrei’s ear, “now’s our moment; everyone’s busy around the bonfires.”

But Andrei stood staring at the flames. He did not want to leave his sister all alone in this foreign court. His heart, so light and happy at the start of the ball at the thought of seeing her, now ached with despair.

“What pressures did they put on you to marry him, Tasia?” he murmured. “What happened in those long months when I was dead?”

As in a dream, he saw men and women catch hands and leap the bonfires, transient as flickering shadows against the fiery brightness.

“Come on!” Celestine tapped his shoulder. “It’s too dangerous to stay. Someone might start asking questions. . . .”

“What would be the harm?” he said slowly, still staring into the flames, mesmerized by their brilliance. “Tasia needs me, Celestine. If all you’ve told me is true about Eugene—”

“Oh no,” said Celestine firmly. “
No!
Imagine what a difficult situation that would be. It’s not yet time for you to come out of the shadows. Though that time will come, Andrei. Have faith in me.”

She spoke with such authority that he gazed at her in astonishment.

“Who
are
you, Celestine?”

“One who has your best interests at heart,” she said lightly. “And now we really must be on our way.”

They reached the gravel drive where the coaches were drawn up, waiting; little stableboys ran to and fro collecting the fresh manure left by the horses. Celestine moved swiftly, searching in the darkness for their coach. But in the darkness, they all looked very much alike, the family crests painted on the doors difficult to distinguish on the ill-lit drive. Andrei followed slowly, unable to disguise his limp any longer; he had stood too long and was badly in need of a rest.

“Can I help you?”

Andrei hung back; he recognized the voice too well. It was Valery Vassian; ever the gentleman, he had approached Celestine, lantern in hand.

“I seem to have mislaid my coach and driver, Lieutenant.”

Andrei heard Celestine, adept at charming anyone she met, working her magic on Valery. He lingered in the shadows, listening, longing to speak to his old friend, yet not daring to reveal his identity. In a few minutes, the coach was found.

“Lieutenant, how can I thank you? I could have been searching till dawn and not found my driver in this crowd. . . .”

“My pleasure, demoiselle. I’m honored to have been of service.”

Andrei smiled, hearing Valery’s gallant reply; it seemed that Vassian had not lost any of his old-fashioned courtesy in the Emperor’s service.

He started out toward the coach. The ache in his legs made him clumsy. He reached for the door to pull himself up onto the first step, and his left leg buckled beneath him. To his embarrassment, he fell back onto the gravel. His wig came off, and the mask slipped awry. Before he could right himself, someone caught hold of him and steadied him.

He knew, without looking, that it was Valery. Eyes lowered, cheeks smarting with shame, he tried to avert his face.

“Andrei?” Valery whispered his name. “Andrei—is it you?”

Andrei turned, Valery’s arm still supporting him. “Don’t give me away, Valery, I beg you. For Astasia’s sake.”

“But—they said you were dead!” Valery’s dark eyes were wide with surprise.

“Valery, I
am
dead.” Andrei gripped Valery’s arm tightly. “Do you understand?”

Vassian nodded. He seemed stunned.

“Listen,” Andrei said, aware that other guests were approaching, “I want you to do something for me.” He leaned forward, his head close to Valery’s. “Look out for my sister. She’s so alone here in Tielen. And vulnerable.”