Lord of Snow and Shadows (14 page)

“Congratulate me?” Elysia looked into the weather-browned face but saw only the count’s charming smile.

“You had us quite baffled. News from Azhkendir travels slowly at best, and much is garbled when it reaches us. Some rumors said that you were dead. We had no idea you and your son had been living in Vermeille for so many years.”

“Even when I accepted the commission to paint Altessa Astasia?”

He laughed softly, patting her hand. His laugh was smooth and dark like strong, sweet coffee. “Ah, then, then we began to make connections. Shall we take a turn about the Rusalki Garden?”

The Rusalki Garden was filled with the sound of splashing waters; formal beds of topiaried box and yew surrounded a great fountain. As they walked along the alleyways Elysia saw a fine mist shimmering in the cold, dull air above the fountain from which carved river-nymphs arose, water spouting from their cupped hands, making green copper streaks on their bare marble breasts.

“Tell me about your son, Gavril. Will he make a good Drakhaon?”

Elysia stopped, swinging around to face the count.

“Can there be such a thing as a good Drakhaon, count?”

“We know so little about the House of Nagarian,” the count said with a shrug. “We understood that Lord Volkh had developed powerful weapons to defend his lands . . . yet when he and his entourage arrived in Mirom, his bodyguard was only armed with axes and sabers!”

Elysia glanced at the count, wondering why he was pursuing this line of conversation. What did he aim to learn from her?

“Count Velemir,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes, “I left Azhkendir just before my husband destroyed the Arkhels. He revealed nothing of his military secrets to me.”

“But young Gavril—he has had no military training, has he?”

“My husband wanted him to attend the academy in Mirom, but I refused to let him go.”

“You think for yourself, madame,” the count said. “A quality I much admire in a woman.”

Elysia—to her chagrin—found that she was blushing. What business had she, blushing at an idle compliment like a schoolgirl?

They stopped beside the central fountain, the splashing waters almost obscuring his voice.

“Elysia,” he said suddenly, catching hold of her hands. “We may talk freely here; no one can overhear us. I have some information for you. Your husband came to Mirom for a secret purpose. We are still not entirely sure what that purpose was, only that a doctor of science from the University of Mirom accompanied him back to Azhkendir.”

“A doctor of science?”

“One Altan Kazimir. Now I have it on good authority that the doctor has recently arrived back in Mirom. I can only suppose that his employment came to an end when Lord Volkh was murdered.”

A lead at last! Elysia was so excited that she began to babble questions.

“Has this Doctor Kazimir resumed his work at the university? Can I go find him there?”

“My dear lady, I beg you to proceed with a little caution. Altan Kazimir has so far resisted all attempts to reinstate him. In fact, it seems as if his experiences in Azhkendir may have disturbed his reason. He refuses to talk to his old colleagues and keeps himself barricaded in his apartment. However, another fugitive from Azhkendir may fare better. . . .”

“You think he might listen to me?”

“If you can convince him that you understand what he has been through . . .” He pressed her hands warmly between his own. “But take care, Elysia. He is in a volatile, unpredictable state.”

“Volatile or no, I must speak with him,” Elysia said.

“If you are determined to take the risk, I can provide a plainclothes escort. But remember, he will not even listen to you if he thinks you are not alone. He trusts no one!”

“I think I know how to be discreet, count.”

“Still so formal!” he said teasingly.

“So, when can I go?”

“And so eager!”

“Gavril is my only child.” To her annoyance tears had begun to blur her eyes again. And she had wanted to show Velemir how strong she was.

“Here in Mirom one never puts one’s own desires before the imperatives of duty,” he said sternly. “In simpler terms: you must be presented to the Grand Duke.”

“Oh!” Elysia’s hand flew to her mouth. Another gaffe in court etiquette. “I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you did not,” Velemir said smoothly, “and you must think me a boor. There is a pattern to court life not unlike that of a formal dance; once you have learned the steps it all becomes intelligible.”

“Then please, dear count, teach me the steps.”

“That is a singularly fine ruby you are wearing.”

Elysia’s fingers flew to her throat, instinctively covering the jewel. “A gift from my late husband.”

“You will forgive me, but . . .”

“I feared as much. It’s too unsubtle.” Elysia let out a sigh of vexation. He must think her so provincial. “I only brought it in the hope I could sell it to raise money for Gavril. Then Eupraxia insisted I should wear jewelry for the audience, and this is all I have.”

“I hope you don’t think it presumptuous of me, but I know the court jeweler Maximov very well. He could be persuaded to transform this rather . . . rough-cut stone into something in gold and tiny rubies, perhaps with earrings to match? The Grand Duchess favors a six-petal rose design this year.”

“You’re very kind, count, but—”

A little clock on a nearby tower struck the hour in a pretty tinkle of chimes. Church and monastery bells echoed without in a darker resonant clamor.

“Come with me; it’s time for today’s audience.”

As they approached the audience chamber, Elysia heard a great murmur of voices and the sound of a string quartet. Servants flung open double doors of white and gilt, announcing loudly above the music, “The Drakhys of Azhkendir with his excellency, Count Velemir.”

The murmur of voices stilled as everyone turned to stare. Elysia quite forgot her anger at being announced as Drakhys as Count Velemir led her into the chamber. Everyone was staring at her in her simple velvet gown; staring and—she was certain—whispering behind gloved hands and fans. Even the vast portraits of Orlovs dead and gone seemed to glare disapprovingly at her from the brocade-hung walls.

The audience chamber glittered with gold; from the painted ceilings to the plaster moldings, every surface looked as if it had been inlaid with gilt. And the Duke’s courtiers glittered too; Elysia was dazzled by the sparkle of jewels. Every woman present seemed to be wearing diamond chokers and tiaras, sapphire earrings, and emerald rings. She felt as if she were a sparrow sneaking into an aviary of bright-plumaged exotic birds.

As Velemir led Elysia into the chamber, the courtiers drew back to let them pass, and ahead she saw two gilt chairs set on a blue-carpeted dais, guarded by two of the White Guard. Draped across the less ornate of the two chairs she recognized the indolent figure of Sofia, the Grand Duchess. Beside her a broad-shouldered man, resplendent in a blue uniform glittering with medals, sat glowering at the chamber.

“Your grace.” Elysia sank into a curtsy.

“Who’s this, Sofia?” Grand Duke Aleksei grunted. Elysia noticed the lines of worry creasing the Duke’s face and the artful way strands of graying hair had been combed to conceal his baldness.

The Grand Duchess gestured vaguely in Elysia’s direction.

“Elysia Nagarian. The portrait painter.”

“Please rise, madame.” The Grand Duke waved one white-gloved hand. “Welcome to our court. I’m glad to see that the count has been looking after you.”

As Elysia rose, she noticed that First Minister Vassian had appeared on the dais and was whispering to the Grand Duke. She risked a quick, interrogatory glance at Count Velemir, but he was watching the Grand Duke.

“Vassian has just told me that your son is to be made ruler of Azhkendir.”

“Made, your grace? Forced,” Elysia said sharply. “My son was taken from our home against his will.”

There was a little stir among the nearest courtiers. She could not be certain whether they were shocked that she had spoken so boldly to the Duke or shocked at what had happened to Gavril.

“The news of Lord Volkh’s assassination was most disconcerting—especially so soon after the signing of the Treaty of Accord. Mirom has no wish in these uncertain times to see its allies overthrown. However,” and the Grand Duke seemed to be looking directly at Count Velemir as he spoke, “until we ascertain that the assassination was an internal matter, Mirom must rest neutral, madame. If there is proof that external factors were involved—say, one of Eugene’s agents—then we will unite forces with your son and retaliate.”

This was not at all what Elysia had expected to hear. Military action, involving Gavril? All she had wanted was help to extricate him from Kostya’s clutches. For a moment the glittering room dimmed about her. She faltered and felt Count Velemir’s arm supporting her.

“But I only meant—” she began.

A crash of broken glass interrupted her. The music stopped jaggedly in mid-phrase. Instantly the White Guard went running to the windows; the Grand Duke rose to his feet.

“Keep down, your grace!” Velemir leapt onto the dais to protect the Grand Duke and Duchess, a flintlock pistol in his hand.

“Down with the Orlovs!” a muffled voice shouted. “Free Muscobar from tyranny!”

“What in the devil’s name—” bellowed the Grand Duke.

There seemed to be a scuffle taking place. Elysia, too surprised to think of her own safety, stared as the White Guard hauled a shabbily dressed man up into the audience chamber through the smashed window and flung him on the floor before the dais.

Velemir lowered his flintlock until the muzzle rested on the man’s forehead.

“Identify yourself,” he said in a quiet voice.

The man shook his head. One of the White Guard kicked him in the side.

Elysia winced.

“Your name,” Velemir said again. There was a small but audible click as he cocked back the hammer, readying the weapon to fire.

“Stepan,” the man muttered.

“Search him,” Velemir said.

More of the White Guard came running in. They held the man down and in spite of his struggles, roughly searched his clothing.

“What’s this?” one of the guards demanded. He brandished a knife in front of the man’s face.

“I’m . . . a cobbler. . . .” The man spoke thickly, half-choked by the stream of blood pouring from his nostrils. “It’s a . . . leather knife. . . .”

“Cobbler! An assassin, more likely.”

“Take him away,” Velemir said impassively. “Question him. But go easy. I want names this time. And double the guard. I want to know how this self-styled cobbler got inside the gates.”

The guards hauled the man to his feet and dragged him away. Elysia could not help but notice the trail of blood spots left in his wake on the marble—and the speed with which the liveried servants swiftly polished them away. She felt shaken, unsettled by the whole incident.

“Today’s audience is at an end,” announced the majordomo.

“But wait—I haven’t—” Elysia spun around to see the Grand Duke escorting the Duchess from the room. “Count Velemir. What did the Duke mean about retaliation? I must speak with him again.”

“Tomorrow, my dear Madame Andar,” the count said, smiling. He seemed utterly unruffled. Behind him, repair work was already taking place, broken glass being swept up, carpenters and glaziers taking measurements of the shattered panes.

Elysia stood watching them, confused and angry. What had she stumbled into? What was happening in Mirom? No one seemed to understand her concerns. No one understood—let alone cared about—the danger Gavril was in.

CHAPTER 11

A shaft of dazzling morning sunlight pierced the brocade curtains of Gavril’s bed.

Gavril instinctively covered his eyes with his hands. His nails bit into his skin. With a yelp he lowered his hands and saw that his jagged fingernails had a dark glitter to them, as if dusted with spangles. And they were indigo now, right down to the quicks. More like talons than human nails . . .

He stared down at them, revulsed yet fascinated. Why had the discoloration progressed so rapidly? Were other changes taking place, subtler changes of which he was not yet aware? This odd feeling brought memories of childhood illnesses, of waking to find his throat sore, his body covered in a rash of red spots.

Suddenly he was gripped with a compulsion to look at himself.

“Ready for your morning ablutions, my lord?” inquired a quavering voice. Gavril flung open the curtains, wincing at the brightness of the light. Old Guaram stood there, towel draped over his shoulder, a razor in one hand and a bowl of soapy water in the other. Every morning he had brought hot water and shaved Gavril—another ritual that Gavril had inherited from Volkh.

“I’ll shave myself today, Guaram,” Gavril said curtly.

“But how, my lord?” The old servant looked bewildered. “How will you see what you are doing?”

“You will bring me a mirror.”

“A mirror?” Guaram shook his head vehemently. “I always performed these services for your father. It would not be right for my lord—”

“I want a mirror, Guaram. You can shave me if you wish, but I want a mirror.”

“The water will be cold, my lord—”

“Now, Guaram!”

“Very well, my lord.” Guaram shambled away, muttering to himself and still shaking his head. He did not reappear for a good quarter hour, but when he returned he was carrying a small hand mirror.

“At last.” Gavril snatched it from him and gazed down at his reflection. The face he saw frowning back at him was still recognizably his own—even if the brows seemed darker and the narrowed eyes more hooded, more wary. But he was not in the least reassured by what he saw. He might still look like Gavril Andar outside, but he did not feel the same inside. He felt restless and off-color.

As if he no longer belonged in his own skin.

“Tell me about my father, Guaram.”

“I attended Lord Volkh for over forty years, my lord.”

“And is it true? That his hair was more blue than black? That the pupils of his eyes became like snakes’ eyes, just slits? That—”

“My lord was Drakhaon,” Guaram said with a shrug.

“But how did he look at my age?”

“That is too long ago for old Guaram to remember clearly.” Guaram gave him a wide, toothless grin. “I am eighty this year, my lord. And I am becoming forgetful. Now as this second bowl of water is getting cold . . .”

Gavril resignedly let Guaram shave him, inwardly fretting through the procedure, wanting the old man to be done and leave him in peace. At last Guaram gathered up his barber’s tools and shuffled away, leaving Gavril staring at his smooth-shaven reflection in the hand mirror.

What is happening to me?

He stuck out his tongue. It looked dark, slightly furred, as though after a night or two of drink and dissipation. But there was nothing to explain this inexplicable sensation of . . .
wrongness.

Gavril flung on his clothes and, taking the mirror with him, hurried over to the Kalika Tower, where he had hidden Kazimir’s ledger and the little phial the night before.

No one challenged him—but he had the distinct impression that the servants and
druzhina
he encountered in the passageways were all staring at him and whispering to each other after he had passed. He took the precaution of locking and bolting the door after him.

Then he took out some clean sheets of paper from his father’s desk and propped up the mirror on some books. He inscribed the date at the top of the first sheet and the words “Self-Portrait 1.” Then, with feverish penstrokes, he began to sketch his reflection in ink. When he had finished, he set the portrait to dry.

As he looked down at what he had drawn, he could not remember ever having produced such somber work before, full of shadows and jagged penstrokes.

Every day he would come here and sketch another self-portrait. And if there were any gradual process of degeneration or change taking place, the portraits would provide a tangible record.

“What shall I call this? ‘Transformation’?” he muttered. “‘Disintegration’? Or ‘Birth of a Monster’?”

Late afternoon light from the moorlands, filtered by the colored lozenges of glass in the windows, tinged the study walls with wine-rich stains. Gavril still sat at his father’s desk, poring over the pages of Doctor Kazimir’s ledger. And the more pages he turned, the more his desperation grew.

Some of the symbols here he recognized—for sulfur, for volatile alkaline salts—but others were as unfamiliar as the curling, intricate script of the Djihari. Page after page of incomprehensible formulae, many dashed out with only the occasional irritated comment scribbled in the margin, betraying Kazimir’s frustration. Many of the later pages were almost indecipherable, as if some caustic substance had splashed onto the ledger, eating away both ink and paper. In other places, the black of the ink had discolored and run, creating strange blotches of sepia brown, blue, and purple.

What had been in the little phial? Poison—or traces of Kazimir’s elixir that could halt the physical and mental degeneration?

Gavril held the phial up to the light, squinting into the glass tube at the dried blue stains, cautiously sniffing.

He had even begun to wonder if the scientist had unintentionally poisoned his father. Kazimir had been working for a wealthy, intimidatingly powerful patron desperate for a remedy for a fast-worsening condition. The temptation to hurry the process, to experiment and take risks, must have been overwhelming. But the entries in the ledger did not read like the writings of a man with a grudge.

The passage that had intrigued him most described an experiment using “Drakhaon’s blood.” But acid or rot had eaten away one side of the page, leaving a tantalizingly incomplete account. It seemed that Kazimir had been using his father’s blood—but in what quantities and to what precise purpose, he could not be certain.

Eyes aching from trying to decipher the blurred text, Gavril laid the ledger down. The only one who could help him was Kazimir himself. And no one knew where he had gone. Except maybe . . .

“Lilias,” he said aloud.

It was time to accept her invitation to tea.

“Welcome, my lord.” Dysis ushered Gavril into an oriel-windowed room, lit by the low, rich light of the dipping sun. “My mistress is waiting to receive you.”

The walls were hung with subtly dyed silks in peony shades of cream, rose, and moss. There was no trace here of savage hunting tapestries. Little cushions, fringed and tasseled, were strewn over the long, low sofas. Porcelain bowls, white, gold, and pink, filled with sugared almonds and crystallized rose and violet petals, were placed on the mosaic tops of little tables; Lilias obviously had a sweet tooth. And a volume or two lay open beside the bowls of sweets, as if Lilias had been disturbed at her reading; the uppermost book was the fashionable
Autumn Leaves
of the Muscobar poet and philosopher Solovei.

“Please sit, my lord.” Lilias was reclining on a sofa. She was wearing a long, loose-fitting gown of turquoise silk intricately embroidered with peacock eyes and fantails. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Gavril remembered salons like this in Vermeille: bowls of scented tea, almond petits fours, witticisms, discreet laughter drifting from the shaded terraces. In Vermeille he would have been able to relax and enjoy the flirtatious glances, the clever wordplay. But this was Azhkendir and there was too much at stake; he had hazarded a great deal on the outcome of this meeting.

“I have jasmine tea or vervain. Which would you prefer?”

“Jasmine.”

Lilias lifted a little teapot and poured the pale, fragrant tea into a porcelain bowl. Leaning forward, she handed the bowl to Gavril.

“Take care. It’s very hot.” Her fingertips brushed his as he took the bowl from her. A single jasmine flower floated on the surface of the steaming liquid.

“We need to talk, Madame Arbelian,” he said.

“I’m glad you see it that way too.” Lilias smiled at him. The strident, needy tone he had heard at the reading of the will had been smoothed away. “But please don’t be so formal. Call me Lilias.”

“Only if you will call me Gavril.” He had learned how to play these little exchanges of gallantry on summer evenings at the soirées of Elysia’s friends. He had enjoyed their gently seductive teasing, their playfully adoring looks and sighs. There it had all been a flattering, pleasurable game. But now he was in no mood for playing games.

“So, Gavril,” she said, “where shall we start?”

He took in a deep breath. “How did my father come to employ Altan Kazimir?”

“Your father was in Mirom on state business. To sign the Treaty of Accord with Muscobar. He met Kazimir at the university, I believe. They shared a passion for astronomy. The nights are so clear in Azhkendir and the constellations are, they tell me, easier to chart.” She had shown no reaction to the name of Kazimir. “Have you ever been to Mirom, Gavril?”

Gavril shook his head.

“Oh, you must visit Mirom. It is such a beautiful city. But then, it’s my home; for me it is the most beautiful place in the world. I imagine you feel the same way about Vermeille?” Lilias smiled at him again. “Your father attended a reception at the Winter Palace. I happened to be there with Count Velemir, an old friend of mine. When I was introduced to your father there was . . . an instant rapport. When he asked me to come back to Azhkendir with him, naturally I accepted.”

Velemir. He had heard that name before. But where?

“You gave up Mirom society to come here?”

“One can grow tired of so many balls, ballets, concerts,” she said lightly. But Gavril saw that though her lips smiled, her eyes were shadowed, giving nothing away. Had she left Mirom to escape a tiresome relationship . . . or a court scandal? There was more, so much more to Lilias Arbelian than she was prepared to reveal to him.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” she said. “You and I, both strangers in a strange land.”

The sun was setting, its red light burning through the oriel windows like autumn bonfires.

“I want to find Kazimir, Lilias.”

“And you think
I
know where he is?” One plucked eyebrow rose eloquently upward. “Kostya’s been slandering me again, hasn’t he? Oh, I was lonely, I don’t deny it. Altan Kazimir was lonely too, so far from his friends and colleagues in Mirom. You’ve only been here a few days, Gavril. When the winter sets in, this drafty kastel can feel like a prison.” Her eyes brimmed with sudden tears. “Was it so wrong to spend time together? To have a friend of my own to talk of happier times in Mirom?”

“So you have no idea where he went?” Gavril was determined not to let her distract him from the purpose of his visit.

“My guess is he returned to Mirom. He was lucky to escape with his life. Kostya sent the
druzhina
after him.”

“Mirom.” The mood of despair was descending again, dark as a winter fog. Mirom was—if Kostya was to be believed—as inaccessible as Vermeille until the thaw came.

“And Kazimir never talked of his work with you?” He could feel a muscle had begun to twitch to the side of his mouth.
No one else must ever know.
Recklessly, he ignored his father’s warning. “He never discussed the elixir?”

“With me?” Lilias set down the little bowl of tea. A sudden horrible thought crossed Gavril’s mind. She had not even tasted her tea, and it was so exotically perfumed that the strong flavor could easily have disguised the bitterness of poison. “Why?”

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry with apprehension. Was this how the assassin had disabled his father, leaving him weak, vulnerable to attack? And hadn’t Lilias—for all her pleasant small talk—stated quite openly that she expected
her
child to inherit?

“I—I need the elixir,” he said hoarsely.

“But I thought you knew. Your father destroyed it,” she said, staring at him. “The night of the . . . the misunderstanding. He went storming into Kazimir’s laboratory and smashed every bottle, every phial. He accused Kazimir of trying to poison him.”

Gavril stared at her, speechless. So it was his father who had destroyed the elixir in a fit of jealous rage. His last hope of finding a cure in Azhkendir was gone.

“Ah,” she said softly. “Now I understand. It’s started, hasn’t it?”

“How can you tell?” he asked, as softly as she.

“Oh, little things that remind me of Volkh. It’s not just your hands, your hair, your eyes. There’s a kind of . . . darkness about you.”

“You must be mistaken,” he said coldly.

“Why fight it, Gavril?” Her voice had become softer, almost seductive. “Think of the power you have inherited. Power that could make you master of the whole continent.”