Lord of Snow and Shadows (17 page)

Linnaius’ invention, the Vox Aethyria, had proved invaluable in all of Eugene’s recent campaigns. With these ingenious devices Eugene had been able to keep in communication with his commanders—even over vast distances. The principle, Linnaius had explained, was quite simple: it was merely a question of splitting crystals into two identical component parts so that they resonated to the same aethyric frequency. Once the crystals were in tune with each other, they worked by sending a series of sympathetic harmonic vibrations through the aethyr. The Artificier’s skill lay in fashioning the crystal glasses so that they would transmit and receive these infinitesimally small vibrations. Though Eugene was certain that, as with all Linnaius’ “simple” devices, the Magus had added some subtle touch of alchymy all his own.

Now he waited tensely for his informant to reply, tapping out a tattoo on the desktop.

With a rough crackle, a faint voice began to issue from the Vox Aethyria.

“I am delighted to inform your royal highness that Elysia Andar, once wife to Volkh Nagarian and mother of the new Drakhaon, Lord Gavril Nagarian, has arrived in Mirom.”

Eugene frowned, turning the crystal rose around to speak. “To what purpose, precisely?”

“It seems she has come to ask for help in extracting her son from the clutches of Bogatyr Kostya. And she has specifically requested that I introduce her to Doctor Kazimir.”

Eugene leaned closer to the device. “Kazimir? The inventor of the antidote?”

“
I will keep you informed on the progress of these meetings. Oh—and I thought your highness would be interested to learn that she has entrusted to our care a certain antique jewel given her by her late husband.
”

“An antique jewel?” Eugene could not disguise a sudden surge of excitement. “Can you be certain—”

“Without a doubt, highness, it is the finest ruby I have ever seen—save one in the Grand Duke’s treasury. We have here another of Artamon’s Tears.”

Eugene went across the courtyard to the workshop where the most skilled craftsmen of the Goldsmith’s Guild had been busy at work for months on a unique commission.

Alongside tools and magnifying glasses on the workbenches lay ancient woodcuts, engravings, and jewel-bright miniatures. All depicted the last emperor of Rossiya, Artamon the Great, wearing the imperial crown.

As Eugene entered, Paer Paersson, his master goldsmith, rose and bowed, presenting him with a golden diadem.

“Look, your highness. We have fixed the Tear of Khitari in its setting.”

Eugene took the crown and rotated it slowly, silently admiring the intricacy of the craftsmanship. Delicate strands of gold had been fashioned into the forms of heraldic creatures, claws clutching three great bloodred rubies: three of the legendary Tears of Artamon, from three of the five countries that made up ancient Rossiya. When Artamon died and the empire fell, his warring sons had divided the jewels of the imperial crown between them. And the legend had arisen that no man could unite the broken empire until the emperor’s crown was made whole again and the five Tears of Artamon were united in one diadem.

Eugene, the rationalist, held no belief in legends, but he recognized the symbolic power that lay in the reforging of the ancient crown.

A swan held the Tielen ruby, a merman the gem from Smarna, and a phoenix the Khitari stone, latest of his acquisitions.

The Smarnan ruby had been acquired by his father Karl when the deposed Prince Giorgo of Smarna had fled a violent revolution, only to die in exile in Tielen, a broken man, rejected by his countrymen in favor of a republic.

“Fine work, Paer,” Eugene murmured, turning the crown around in his hands again to the last two empty settings. Muscobar and Azhkendir. Azhkendir and Muscobar . . .

“Would you like to try the crown on, highness?” Paer asked, squinting at him through his jeweler’s loupe, still screwed into one eye socket.

“No. I’ll not tempt the anger of the gods,” Eugene said, smiling as he handed him back the heavy crown. “Let’s wait till we have the last two jewels. And I anticipate that won’t be too long now.”

Artamon’s Tears. Called, so the legend said, for the tears of blood shed by the emperor at the heartless behavior of his ungrateful sons.

“Thank the gods I only have a daughter.”

CHAPTER 13

“Snowcloud . . . Snowcloud . . .”

Kiukiu heard the scratch of sharp claws on wood. A white shadow appeared in the twilight, moving jerkily toward her across the rotting boards of the summerhouse.

“Food, Snowcloud.” Kiukiu put down the scraps of meat, grain, and bacon rind she had scavenged from the kitchen—and hastily withdrew her hand as the hooked beak descended, pecking greedily.

She watched, crouched down, trying to assess if the damaged leg was healing. It might be a trick of the fading light, but Snowcloud seemed to be growing larger. The rich food was obviously doing him good. But the more food he ate, the more he would need to sustain his size. . . .

“Somebody might notice what I was at,” she told him, “and then what would happen to us both?”

Telltale stains of owl droppings marked the boards and little tufts of white down had drifted into the dusty corners.

The owl finished his meal and shook his beak. Tentatively she put out one hand and stroked the soft feathers. For the first time he did not jerk away or try to peck her.

“Have you come to trust me?” she whispered. “Oh, Snowcloud. As soon as you can fly, I’ll have to let you go. You must learn to fend for yourself.”

The owl put his head on one side and regarded her with his great golden eyes. In the darkness they gleamed like firelit amber.

“It’s almost as if you understand what I’m saying.”

Kiukiu had never had a pet of her own, although she had once tried to nurse a succession of little animals back to health. First there had been the fledgling sparrow that had fallen from its nest. The poor scrawny little creature had not lasted more than three days, even though she had lavished all her attention upon it. Then there had been a baby mouse—but Adzhika, Sosia’s sharp-eyed pepper-spotted cat, had caught it and bitten its head off; Kiukiu still shuddered to think of it. Adzhika had also polished off two shrews and a broken-winged blackbird she had adopted. But now, looking at Snowcloud’s cruel hooked beak and razor-sharp claws, Kiukiu reckoned it was more than a match for Adzhika.

“I must go back now,” she told Snowcloud. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll be ready to fly away. . . .”

Kiukiu slipped silently out into the darkling garden. It was bitterly cold now that the sun had set, and the overgrown path was slippery with frost. The gleam of the lamps in Lilias’ oriel window guided her through the darkness.

Only time I’ve had reason to thank
her
for anything
, Kiukiu thought.

Rose briars tore at her skirts; she brushed them aside. She must find a way to tell Lord Gavril about Snowcloud; if it weren’t for his intervention, the owl would be dead. Perhaps they could set Snowcloud free together. . . .

She ducked under the archway into the kitchen courtyard and opened the door a crack, peering warily down the ill-lit passageway. It was empty. She rubbed the soles of her boots on the edge of the step so that she should not bring in garden mud and went in, carefully closing the door behind her.

“There you are, Kiukiu!” Ilsi suddenly stepped out from the dairy larder, blocking her way. Kiukiu turned to flee and saw Ninusha had appeared from the laundry room. She was trapped.

“Cold tonight, Ninusha,” Ilsi said. “Freezing cold—unless you’ve got someone to keep you nice and warm.”

Kiukiu gazed at her, mystified.

“Don’t you want to tell us, Kiukiu?” A hard, teasing little smile curled Ilsi’s lips.

“Tell you what?” Kiukiu’s heart had begun to thud. What had they seen? Had they followed her?

“About your admirer. Your secret admirer.”

“Me?”
Kiukiu could feel her cheeks going red. They thought she had been out with a boy?

“So, who is he, Kiukiu?” Ninusha moved closer, swaying her hips suggestively from side to side. “Aren’t you going to share your little secret with us?”

“Don’t try to pretend,” Ilsi said, “because I saw you. Slipping out at twilight, going down toward the old summerhouse. Not the place I would choose myself for a romantic tryst, but it
is
secluded.”

Kiukiu swallowed hard, her throat tight with apprehension.

“So go on, Kiukiu, tell us. Who is he?”

“I—I can’t.”

“Whyever not?” Ilsi’s eyes glittered, bright as needles.

“I—made him a promise.” It was true, in a way. As long as her foolish tongue didn’t betray her, blabbing out the very thing she was trying not to say.

“Him!” cried Ilsi triumphantly. “So you admit it!”

Whatever she said now, they were out to force the truth from her; she could see it in their eyes. Flustered, she tried to back away down the passageway, hoping Sosia would hear and come to her rescue.

“Let’s guess who it is.” Ilsi’s smile hardened. “Not old beer-breath Oleg!”

“It had better not be your Michailo,” Ninusha said, advancing menacingly on Kiukiu.

“Michailo? With Kiukiu?” Ilsi spluttered with laughter. “No, it’s one of those pimply boys, isn’t it, Kiukiu, one of the
detsky,
the little keep guards, with fluff on their chins and squeaky voices—”

“How much did he pay you for a fumble, Kiukiu? Or did you let him have it for free?”

Kiukiu kept backing away but still they came after her, their hateful voices whining like stinging gnats in her ears.

“A slut. Just like her mother,” Ninusha said contemptuously.

“Like mother, like daughter. Whore.”

Kiukiu gasped. They could insult her, but her mother’s memory was sacred. How dare they call her mother a whore?

“You’d better not let Sosia hear you,” she said.

“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?” said Ilsi.

Kiukiu launched herself at Ilsi. Ilsi screamed, thin and high, as Kiukiu thudded into her, bearing her, kicking and scratching, to the floor in a tumble of boots and petticoats. Ninusha threw herself onto Kiukiu—and Kiukiu felt Ninusha’s fists violently pummeling her back.

“Stop this at once!” Someone thrust the sharp bristles of a broom in Kiukiu’s face, forcing her and Ilsi apart.

Kiukiu—through a tangle of messed hair—saw Sosia standing over them, wielding the broom. Behind Sosia in the passageway she could see grinning, leering faces: the potboys and scullions, nudging and jostling each other to get the best view.

“On your feet!” Sosia’s voice cracked, hard as a whip stroke. “All three of you!”

Kiukiu stumbled to her feet. Her lip was bleeding. Ninusha and Ilsi helped each other up. Ilsi’s face was white with rage except for a fast-darkening bruise around one eye.

I got her!
Kiukiu raised her hand to her mouth, wiping away the blood.
I gave her a black eye! That has to be worth a beating.

“Whatever are you thinking?” Sosia’s voice dropped to a whisper, viciously sharp as her kitchen knives. “Brawling in my kitchen like fishwives. I want to know who started it.”

“Kiukiu,” Ninusha and Ilsi said in one voice.

“Kiukiu. Is this true?” Sosia stood in front of Kiukiu. “Look at me, girl, when I’m talking to you! Did you start it?”

Thoughts skittered through Kiukiu’s panicked mind. If she told Sosia how the fight started, she’d reveal she’d been to the summerhouse. And if Sosia pried the truth from her, Snowcloud was as good as dead.

“They called my mother a whore,” she mumbled. Her lip was swelling up.

“You called my sister a whore?” Sosia planted herself in front of Ilsi, hands on hips.

“I feel a little faint.” Ilsi sagged against Ninusha.

One of the scullery boys sniggered. Sosia turned on him. “You! Have you nothing else to do? Go scour those soup pots clean. Back to work, all of you!”

“And she called me a whore too.”

“For what reason?”

“Ilsi saw her,” Ninusha put in defensively. “Sneaking out to meet some boy. When she was supposed to be drawing water.”

“Is this true?” Sosia demanded.

Soft white feathers, stained red, fluttered through Kiukiu’s thoughts like a bloodstained blizzard.
Must protect Snowcloud
. She mumbled an unintelligible response.

“Ilsi, Ninusha, go and get yourselves cleaned up. I’ll speak with you two later. The roast pheasant needs basting—see to it. And check on my corn bread in the second oven. It’ll burn if it’s left much longer. Now, as to you, Kiukirilya, you’re coming with me.”

Sosia only ever used her full name when she was in trouble. Kiukiu trailed behind as Sosia marched tight-lipped through the kitchen. They were going to Sosia’s room, and that could only mean a beating.

Sosia shut the door after Kiukiu and locked it.

“Sit down.”

Kiukiu, head still down, sat obediently on one of Sosia’s hard-backed chairs. When she was younger, Sosia had often beaten her for disobedience: the ruler on the knuckles for clumsiness, the stick across the legs for answering back. The punishments had seemed harsh—she could still remember the fierce sting of the stick—but once administered, they had been over, the incidents never mentioned again.

She held out her hands, bracing herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Nothing happened. She looked up and saw to her surprise that Sosia was dabbing at reddened eyes with the corner of her apron.

Her aunt was weeping.

Kiukiu stared at her, shocked. Sosia never wept. Was she so mortified by her niece’s behavior that she was reduced to tears of shame?

“I— I’m sorry, Auntie Sosia,” Kiukiu ventured.

“It was a mistake to keep you here, I said so all along,” Sosia said in a dark, hard voice. “But who else was there to care for you? What with your poor silly mother driven out of her wits.”

“She was never a slut!”

“No. Afimia may have lacked one grain of sense in her pretty head, but she was never a bad girl. Sweet-natured, yes. But irresponsible, foolish—”

“So why did they call her that? Just to provoke me?”

Sosia looked up at Kiukiu. The expression in her eyes made Kiukiu shiver.

“You had to know the truth one day. And now that Lord Volkh is dead, maybe it’s time to tell it. Your mother wasn’t raped by the Arkhels. She met your father by chance in the forest and—silly girl—she fell in love with him.”

“With Lord Arkhel?” Kiukiu whispered.

“With one of his followers, Kiukiu; pay attention!” snapped Sosia. “His name was Malkh. That’s all I know.”

“Malkh.” Kiukiu repeated the unfamiliar name to herself. She was the daughter of a man called Malkh.

“They found him in her bed one night. Dragged him out, put him to the torture. To make him betray his master, Lord Stavyor. Then they killed him. They made her watch. I’ll never forget his screams . . . or hers.” Sosia’s eyes had gone cold and dark as moorland mists. “I thought she would miscarry. But though her wits never returned, she carried you to nine months. After you were born, she just faded away. She would sit singing to you in a strange, soft voice, singing and smiling, smiling and singing . . . my poor sweet-natured Afimia. When the winter snows came, she wandered out into the forest, saying she was going to meet your father. No one thought to stop her, they just thought she was talking her usual nonsense. They found her the next day, frozen to death. You were just a few months old.”

Kiukiu sat staring at Sosia. She could feel tears prickling in her eyes, but they would not come. She was numb, cold as her long-dead mother. She could see the endless canopy of snow-laden forest branches, feel the sting of the bitter cold, the crunch of hard-frozen snow beneath her trudging feet . . .

“I had to fight for you, Kiukiu. For your life.”

“What?” Kiukiu blinked away the white chill of the snow-mantled forests.

“The
druzhina
wanted you dead.”

“Because I was an Arkhel bastard child?”

“They urged Lord Volkh to have you killed.”

“A baby. What harm could a little baby have done?”

“Babies grow up.”

“So why did Lord Volkh spare me?”

“He said a curious thing. It was late at night and you were kicking and cooing in your crib near the fire when he came in. His face was dark as thunder. I was so terrified I didn’t know what to do. His hand was outstretched and I feared, I feared he was about to—”

“To do what?” Kiukiu could see terror gleaming in her aunt’s eyes, pale as the glow of the long-ago firelight.

“Be thankful, child, that you never had to see the Drakhaon wield his powers.” Sosia gave a dry little shudder.

The last time Lord Volkh had tried to summon his powers, Kiukiu thought, shuddering too, he had been so weakened by poison that they had failed him.

“But all he did was touch your face. Those powerful fingers gently stroking the cheek of a child in a cradle. And he said . . . I’ve never forgotten what he said.”

Kiukiu found she had been unconsciously touching her cheek, as if trying to recall that long-ago firelit night. Strange benediction . . .

“What did he say, Auntie?”

“He said, ‘There will be no more songs for the House of Arkhel. But one day, perhaps, this child will use her inheritance for the good of my House.’”

“My inheritance?” Kiukiu shook her head, utterly puzzled. “What inheritance? What did he mean?”

“Does one question the Drakhaon?” Sosia said sharply. “I did not dare then; I would not dare to presume now. It was not often in Lord Volkh’s nature to show mercy. Never forget that he spared your life. You have a debt of loyalty to the House of Nagarian. . . .”