Prisoner of the Iron Tower (7 page)

As he opened the door to his father’s study, a rush of memories overwhelmed him. He saw it glittering with Doctor Kazimir’s tubes and alembics, transformed into a chemical laboratory as the scientist worked on the elixir to reverse the Drakhaoul’s influence on his mind and body. And then the Tielens had come . . .

The
druzhina
had nailed up sheets of vellum to cover the broken windows so that the room was infused with a turgid sepia light, even at midday. At least the books and maps were protected now from weather damage—although it was necessary to light a lantern to read or write in the gloom.

There were still fragments of glass everywhere: colored shards from the shattered windows and fine, clear splinters from Kazimir’s broken phials. Before the repairs, wind, sleet, and smoke had blown in, causing yet more damage to his father’s maps and books; some lay open, sodden pages a mush of paper pulp.

“They must still be here,” he muttered. “They must be.”

The first time he had come to the Kalika Tower with Kostya, he had noticed the books lying on his father’s desk. At the time he had wondered why Volkh had been so interested in titles such as
Through Uncharted Seas: A Sailor’s Account of a Perilous Voyage of Exploration.
Now he wondered if his father and grandfather had also been cursed with the Drakhaoul’s dreams and had been searching for clues as to their origins in these ancient volumes.

The top of the desk was covered in a layer of dirt, dust, and broken glass. Gavril began to brush the debris away. Beneath, he could just make out two or three volumes. The first was
Travels in the Westward Isles,
but as soon as he picked it up, he could see that a corrosive chemical of Kazimir’s had leaked onto it, burning a great, brown-edged hole into the heart of the book:

The tempest had blown our vessel so far from its course that we found ourselves far beyond the bounds of our maps and charts,

the page that lay open read.

Almost dead for lack of fresh water, we sighted land toward nightfall of the third day and anchored in the bay of an uncharted island, lush with green vegetation and fresh springs of clear water.

Having slaked our thirst and refilled our water casks, we made camp on the shore. In the dark of night, we were awakened by a terrible sound, like groaning or roaring. Some of the more superstitious men called on the names of the holy saints to protect them—

The rest was illegible. Gavril put the book down and picked up another, trying to suppress the growing feeling of frustration. As he brushed the dust from the cover, the title glinted dully in faded gold:
Ty Nagar: Legends of the Lost Land of the Serpent God.

“Ty Nagar,” Gavril whispered and felt a shiver, as though saying the name aloud invoked some latent enchantment long dormant in the dusty pages. He opened the book gingerly and, flicking through the first few pages, saw with a growing sense of excitement that most of the text was intact:

The fabled land of Ty Nagar cannot be found on any chart or map. Although mentioned in the ancient chronicles of the Rossiyan Empire, scholars have long dismissed its existence as mere fable. However, as this account by Captain Hernin records, there may be some truth in the old chronicles after all. When his ship was blown off course by a tempest, he and his crew found themselves sailing in uncharted waters far to the west. . . .

Gavril leafed on through the rough-edged pages until he spotted some paragraphs marked in red:

There lies one island far to the south, dominated by the cone of a volcanic peak, said by the people of these isles to be sacred to the powerful Serpent God of their ancestors. They will not go there, as they maintain that the island is haunted by hungry ghosts and ghouls who suck the blood of unwary travelers.

Another legend tells how the priests of the Serpent God, Nagar, built a great temple to their god, at the heart of which was a gateway to the Realm of Shadows. From this gateway they conjured powerful daemon-spirits to do their bidding—until Nagar himself, furious at such sacrilege, caused fire to reign down upon the temple—

Gavril turned the damaged page with great care.

—and its priests, slaying them all.

Here, for the first time, he spotted words scribbled in the margin of the text. Excitedly he raised the open book to the lanternlight, moving it first left, and then right, trying to decipher the lurching scrawl.

The burden has grown too heavy for me. The cravings are too strong to bear. I must go away and try to put an end to things, once and for all.

The burden. Gavril felt his heart beat faster as he recognized what the writer described but dared not name.

Beneath the books lay the crumpled star chart. Gavril smoothed it out and studied it. Now he saw it was not, as he had originally thought, a map of the skies over Azhkendir. Unfamiliar constellations were pricked out in silver and white on the ultramarine wash of sky. And someone had scribbled figures in the margin. Readings from an astrolabe, perhaps?

“Lord Zakhar?” Gavril muttered. Was it the Drakhaoul that had driven his grandfather to sail off on that perilous journey, never to return? A journey beyond charted territory to seek out a lost island known only in ancient legends? What had they hoped to find? Expiation? Or a final division?

“I am the last of my kind.”

Was the Drakhaoul trying to find a way home?

The third volume,
Through Uncharted Seas,
which lay open close by, was full of tiny slivers of broken glass, lethally sharp. As he shook the book to dislodge them, he felt one prick his finger.

“Ow!” A drop of blood dripped onto the yellowed page—mortal red, as if to remind him he was free.

The kastel bell suddenly began to clang again.

“What now?” Annoyed at the interruption, Gavril let the book drop and went to the door.

“My lord!” Semyon shouted from the stairwell. “The Tielens. We’re under attack!”

“It can’t be.” Gavril stared down from the tower roof at the Tielen regiments surrounding the broken walls, a blur of blue and grey uniforms.

Had time turned back on itself? Had he only dreamed the destruction of Eugene’s army? Or was this some ghostly force come to haunt him? They looked real enough from the top of the Kalika Tower.

In the courtyard below, Askold had mustered the pitifully small number of those
druzhina
fit enough to fight. Crossbows were loaded, aimed at the Tielens.

This time it looked hopeless. There were too many. All the Tielen soldiers bore firearms: muskets, carbines, and hand mortars. Now that he had rid himself of the Drakhaoul, the crossbows and sabres of his bodyguard would prove little use against the firepower of Eugene’s elite troops. Even as he watched, shivering in the morning damp, he saw a group of officers detach themselves from the ranks and ride forward under a white flag of truce toward the archway that led into the courtyard. One dismounted and entered beneath the archway.

“Hold your fire!” Gavril cried.

Askold went to meet the newcomer.

“What do they want, Askold?” Gavril called down.

“You, my lord. They want to speak with you.”

To speak with him. The words were so ordinary—yet he knew that he was in mortal danger. He looked down at his finger and the red blood oozing from the little cut.

They know. God knows how, but they know I am no longer a threat to them. Why else would they have taken the risk?

Wild plans of escape whirled through his mind. If he made for the secret tunnels under the East Wing, he could slip away unnoticed into the forest. But that would certainly lead to brutal reprisals—and executions. What kind of man would save his own skin and leave his household to face the consequences?

He had little choice but to see what it was the Tielens had to say to him.

As Gavril went out into the courtyard, Elysia came hurrying up to him. “Don’t go,” she said, catching hold of his hand.

He squeezed her hand as reassuringly as he could and walked out unarmed across the mossy cobblestones, heavyhearted in the knowledge that this time there was no Drakhaoul to save him or his people.

The Tielen officer—a young, brown-haired man not much older than himself—saluted briskly. He held a rolled parchment weighted with a blue wax seal.

“Lord Gavril Nagarian, I come in the name of the Emperor Eugene.”

Gavril heard his men murmur the title in disbelief.

“His imperial highness has charged me to read you the following decree:

“ ‘We herewith order the arrest of the renegade warlord, Gavril Nagarian, sometimes known as Gavril Andar, for crimes against the New Rossiyan Empire.’ ”

Somewhere behind him he heard Elysia cry out, “No!”

“ ‘In his place we appoint Lord Boris Stoyan as Imperial Governor of Azhkendir, until young Stavyomir Arkhel is of an age to be proclaimed Arkhaon.’ ” The officer finished reading from the parchment and rolled it up again, tucking it inside his greatcoat.

“And if I decline the Emperor’s invitation?” Gavril asked wryly.

“We have orders to counter any resistance with the utmost force. Your kastel is to be razed to the ground and all members of your household executed.”

Gavril raised his head and gazed at the ranks of well-armed, mounted Tielen soldiers waiting outside. It seemed there was no choice but to go with them.

“What are these crimes my son is charged with?” Elysia demanded. “Defending his people against an invading army? What kind of a crime is that?”

One of the older officers who had been observing, dismounted and came into the courtyard; the other saluted him smartly, clicking his heels.

“Karonen, Commander of the Northern Army,” he said brusquely, grey mustache bristling in the cold. “I understand, madame, that any legal proceedings against Lord Gavril will be merely a formality. The Emperor is not a vindictive man. He is merely anxious to restore the Arkhels to their rightful position in Azhkendir. I believe he mentioned the possibility of exile with regard to your son.”

The
druzhina
began muttering among themselves.

“That’s as may be,” said Elysia, folding her arms, “but will my son be properly represented? If he is to stand trial, he must have lawyers!”

“My orders, madame,” said Karonen with a hint of weary disdain, “are to escort Lord Gavril to Muscobar—or to destroy the kastel.”

“Well, my lord?” said the first officer to Gavril.

“It seems,” Gavril said, hearing the words issue from his mouth as if another were speaking them, “that I must come with you.”

“Who is in command of the kastel garrison?” demanded Karonen curtly.

“I am.” Askold took a step forward. He stared at the Field Marshal through narrowed lids.

“You will surrender your weapons to Captain Lindgren. He and his regiment will be stationed here; a further two regiments will be installed in Azhgorod, a fourth at Arkhelskoye, and a fifth on the eastern coast.”

Askold stared at Karonen. “We are the Drakhaon’s
druzhina,
” he said slowly, stubbornly. “We are oath-bound to die in the defense of our master rather than surrender.”

“Askold,” Gavril said. “Do as the Field Marshal says. I want no more deaths.”

Askold turned and Gavril saw scorn in his eyes. He stared at him as if he were a stranger.

“You dishonor us, Gavril Andar. You dishonor your own bodyguard.”

His words cut Gavril to the heart. His own men—whom he was trying to defend—didn’t want his self-sacrifice. Locked into their archaic warrior code of honor, they didn’t understand what he was trying to do for them. For a brief while he had been their warlord, but now they looked on him as a weakling and a deserter.

“We’re wasting time.” Karonen signaled to two of the waiting soldiers. They marched forward and placed their hands on Gavril’s shoulders.

“My son needs warm clothes!” Elysia protested. “At least let me fetch him a coat—”

Karonen shrugged. He beckoned the soldiers to lead Gavril after him.

“I’ll be all right, Mother,” he said, forcing a bravery he did not feel into his voice.

“I’ll be there, Gavril,” she cried. “I have friends in Muscobar. Friends in high places!”

Gavril tried to look back over his shoulder, but the troopers were increasing their pace now, walking him briskly under the archway. The last thing he saw was the
druzhina
go slowly forward, one by one, to drop their weapons at the Tielen captain’s feet.

CHAPTER
7

The Empress Astasia sat in front of her mirror listlessly brushing her hair. Nadezhda usually performed this task for her, but she had dismissed her early, wanting to be alone with her thoughts.

She was remembering her bridal night.

All the ladies-in-waiting had teased her with lewd tales about men’s lusts and appetites. And it was not as if she had been ignorant of what was expected of her. But she had not anticipated this remoteness. Eugene had been courteous, even respectful, as though the act of consummation were some faintly embarrassing but necessary diplomatic procedure. He had murmured some affectionate words . . . but she felt they were spoken out of duty, rather than spontaneous feeling.

She had seen the portraits of golden-haired Margret, his first wife, at Swanholm. Perhaps he still held her in his heart and she could never hope to compete with the distant, dead beloved in his affections.

Or perhaps he will never see me as anything other than a commodity in a political transaction. At least Gavril loved me for myself alone.

“And where are you tonight, Husband?” she asked. “Oh yes, urgent affairs of state.” All through dinner, he had had a distant and preoccupied look in his eyes. She had tried to make conversation, telling him that Karila’s cough was much improved, but he had only nodded distractedly. Then he had made his excuses and left before dessert, kissing her on the top of the head just as if she were his elder daughter, not his wife.

The bristles snared on a tangle. Eyes smarting, she dropped the silver-backed brush and picked the knotted strands apart with her fingertips.

“I’m not crying,” she told her reflection angrily. It was only a tangle of hair. “I’m
not
crying.”

Her reflection stared back through the gauzy light of the candleflames. She forced herself to smile, willing the tears to stop.

I am Empress now. I have a duty to my country and my husband.

“More coffee, highness?” asked Gustave.

“Why not?” Eugene stifled a yawn. He had stayed awake into the small hours to read the reports specially prepared by the Mirom Senate, fortifying himself with strong coffee. It was a task he had intended to delegate to Maltheus, but after a first glance, he had seen that he needed to understand fully for himself the chaotic state of the Muscobar finances that had led to the uprising.

It made sorry reading. The Muscobar economy seemed precarious, largely based on shipbuilding, exports of iron from foundries close to the Nieva, and herring. The Orlovs had drained the country of money to fund their lavish lifestyle. All the nobles owned large estates that were only just self-sufficient enough to feed the life-bound peasants who served them and worked their lands. Both the army and navy, starved of investment, had not enough revenue left to pay their men. There was no state schooling and the few hospitals were run by religious institutions.

“If your highness has no further requirements tonight?”

Eugene looked around and saw Gustave was still in attendance. “I didn’t mean to keep you up so late, Gustave. I can see to myself.”

By three in the morning, Eugene was rubbing his sleep-starved eyes as he outlined a plan to turn around Muscobar’s economy. It would have to be negotiated with both Tielen and Muscobite councils, for it involved a substantial amount of investment from Tielen coffers to exploit Muscobar’s natural resources and to develop manufacturing industries. It would mean persuading the Muscobar nobility to part with many of their peasant-servants to work in the new factories. Silk mills and looms could be established on each estate. Though this would not be an easy task. He would have to buy the nobility’s support with promises of privileges and subsidies. They had been used to a life of indolence and luxury for far too long.

The flame in the oil lamp began to gutter and a thin thread of black smoke snaked upward; the wick was almost burned out and the light was too dim to read by.

Eugene rose from his desk and stretched his stiff back. He had heard Saint Simeon’s clock strike three some while ago. It was too late to disturb Astasia. As a precaution, he had had Gustave set up his camp bed in his study, just as if he were on campaign. He kicked off his shoes and took off his jacket by firelight. He raked the embers of the dying fire and replaced the fireguard. He liked doing things for himself. So much less fuss.

The air was chilly now that the fire had died down; he pulled the blankets around him, emptied his mind of all extraneous thoughts, and let sleep take him.

At dawn Eugene woke and got swiftly out of his camp bed, fired with the plans he had been devising for Muscobar. It was a brisk morning and he was up before the servants had reached his study to make the fire. No matter. He had accustomed himself to cold mornings and to managing on little sleep on campaign. He even found this regime invigorating. Besides, he was looking forward to the meeting with the Senate today. His plan for Muscobar would encounter some opposition, but he was confident he could persuade even the most reactionary diehards that it was time to change. His enlightened ideals had brought prosperity and contentment to Tielen. And if Muscobar could be swayed, then maybe recalcitrant Smarna could be influenced as well.

Ever since the dissidents torched the Senate House, the members of the Senate had been meeting in the Admiralty, a magnificent colonnaded building painted white and brilliant blue, on the banks of the river.

Eugene rode to the Senate at the head of his bodyguard. To his pleasure, people going about their daily business in the streets stopped to watch the cavalcade pass by, and he distinctly heard cheering and saw smiling faces in the crowd. He acknowledged their greetings with a wave of the hand and a nod of the head, smiling back with genuine warmth. This could only be a good omen for the reforms he was preparing to put to the Senate.

“The free wine and beer on coronation night were much appreciated in the city, highness,” murmured the captain of the bodyguard. “And the silver coin you gave to each child.”

As Eugene dismounted and climbed the broad Admiralty steps, he could not but notice that the central pediment of the building was still ornamented with the two-headed gilded sea eagles of the Orlovs.

Inside he was greeted formally by representatives of the Senate and shown to a lofty council chamber whose painted walls and ceiling showed billowing seascapes dominated by magnificent warships and rosy-bosomed sea nymphs.

The senators all rose to their feet as he entered and took his place at the head of a great oval table, with Maltheus at his right hand. His bodyguard silently stationed themselves around the great chamber.

“Please be seated, gentlemen.” As Eugene sat down, he noticed the chair to his left was still empty. “But where is Kyrill Vassian?”

The senators glanced uncertainly at one another.

“This is most unusual; the First Minister has never, in my experience, been late before, imperial highness,” said one, evidently embarrassed. “I will look into the matter straightaway.”

Eugene nodded. He had seen the glances exchanged and wondered briefly if Vassian’s absence could be interpreted as a last silent protest against the annexation of his country.

Chancellor Maltheus rose to his feet and, after clearing his throat, began to address the Senate in the common tongue.

“Now that we are united in one empire, Tielen is ready to share the benefits of her experience in commerce and manufacture with Muscobar.”

As Maltheus gave a brief outline of Eugene’s plans, Eugene himself studied the faces of the listening senators, searching for any hint of approbation or objection.

“This is all well and good,” called out a dark-bearded senator, “but how is this to be financed? With more taxes?”

“As soon as the First Minister arrives, the Emperor will address us himself on that issue,” said Maltheus with extraordinary restraint, Eugene noted.

“And I see the Emperor has filled this chamber with his bodyguard,” cried out another. “Is this to ensure we all vote in favor of the plan? Are those who abstain to be arrested?”

Eugene glanced up at Maltheus.

“The bodyguard always accompany his imperial highness wherever he goes,” Maltheus said mildly. “They are all specially chosen men whose sole task is to protect the Emperor—”

The door opened and a man hurried in. It was the official who had gone to fetch Kyrill Vassian.

“There’s been a terrible tragedy,” he stammered. “The First Minister—” He held out a piece of paper to Eugene in a trembling hand.

As Eugene read aloud the handwritten message, he noticed it was faintly speckled with tiny spots of dark red:

“I have dedicated my life to Muscobar and her people. But I have failed in my duty to the city of Mirom and to the House of Orlov. I can see no other course of action but to end it all. May God have mercy on my soul. Vassian.”

Eugene looked up and saw the shocked expressions of the senators. “I take it he is dead?” he said quietly.

“And by his own hand.” The official took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweating face, trying to conceal a shudder.

“You saw the body?”

The man nodded.

Patriarch Ilarion had begun to shake his head; the senators were muttering among themselves.

“A tragedy, indeed,” Eugene said, sinking back down into his chair. He cast the blood-spotted note onto the polished table. If Kyrill Vassian had wanted to sabotage his plans for Muscobar as his final gesture, he could not have chosen a better—or more drastic—way to do it. Even with a suitable respectful pause to honor the dead, no member of the Senate would have his mind fully on the matters under consideration if they proceeded.

“I suggest we adjourn, gentlemen,” he said, “and meet again tomorrow.”

Maltheus turned to him, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Now what?”

“We send our sincerest condolences to his widow and family. We assure Madame Vassian that she shall want for nothing. I suspect that an imperial visit would seem somewhat insensitive under the circumstances.”

“Kyrill Vassian is dead?” shrieked Sofia. She collapsed onto a sofa, weeping noisily. “A suicide?”

“Mama, Mama, please don’t upset yourself.” Astasia was as shocked as her mother at the news, but Sofia’s loud cries drove all other thoughts from her head.

“What will your father say? It will undo him utterly. He had such faith in Vassian.”

“Mama—” This uncontrollable weeping would surely lead to a fit of the hysterics, and Astasia did not want Eugene to come in and see her mother in such a state. She began to back away toward the bellpull, ready to summon help.

“And poor, dear Elizaveta, she must be quite distracted with grief. What a disgrace for the family. That handsome boy of hers, Valery, now all his prospects are ruined. Why didn’t Kyrill think of such a thing? Why?” Sofia had begun to breathe too fast, taking in little hiccups of air between sobs. Astasia hastily tugged the bellpull and hurried back to her mother’s side.

“Remember what the physician told you, Mama,” she said, “you must breathe slowly. Inhale—then let the breath out steadily.”

Nadezhda appeared.

“Smelling salts, quick!” Astasia said, seeing her mother’s lashes fluttering rapidly, her eyes sliding upward.

Nadezhda swiftly reappeared with a little silver and crystal bottle, which Astasia waved beneath her mother’s nostrils. Sofia wrinkled her nose in disgust and let out a sharp sneeze. Her sobs slowly calmed and she fumbled for Astasia’s hand, gripping it in her own. Astasia patted her mother’s hand as soothingly as she could.

“Fetch my mother some brandy, please, Nadezhda.”

Nadezhda gave Astasia a little glance of sympathy and knelt down beside the Grand Duchess, placing the glass firmly in her shaking hand, steering it to her lips.

All the while she was trying to calm her mother, Astasia had had no time to examine her own feelings. But now she could imagine all the horrible little details: the sound of a shot from the stables, Elizaveta hurrying out, the stableboy trying to hold her back, knowing what a terrible sight lay within . . .

And Valery Vassian . . . How would his father’s suicide damage his career? He had been one of Andrei’s close circle of cadet friends from the Military Academy, often the butt of practical jokes, but good-natured enough to laugh them off. She felt ashamed of the times she had teased him. Now that Andrei was not here to protect his friend, she must take on that role herself. She would speak to Eugene as soon as possible.

Sofia let out another sob.

“Oh,
Mama
.” Astasia settled herself on the sofa next to her mother. “You and Papa need a little rest, a change of air. It will do you both good.”

“Smarna’s so far,” sniffed Sofia. “Couldn’t we come to stay at Swanholm with you?”

Mama in Swanholm, ordering everyone about, taking charge before Astasia had had a chance to establish herself as mistress of the palace? “The Straits can be very rough at this time of year,” she said hastily. “And you know how you hate storms at sea, Mama. What about Erinaskoe? You haven’t been there in over a year. The valley’s so pretty in the spring. Papa can potter in his glasshouses and you can walk in the Orangery. Why not send word to the housekeeper to air the rooms?”