Lord of Snow and Shadows (23 page)

“Assassinate?” His last words jolted Elysia from her reverie. She looked up to see Altan Kazimir staring at her, his eyes wild and grim. “You believe someone stole your elixir to kill Volkh?”

“They think it was me!” he burst out. “They think that because we quarreled that I bore him a grudge. They think I wanted Lilias all to myself—”

“Wait a moment.” Elysia held up a hand, trying to stem the flow. “Who is Lilias?”

Kazimir tipped the bottle into his glass again, shaking it till the last few drops were gone.

“His mistress,” he said thickly.

“Oh.” Elysia sat down again. Silly, really, to imagine that Volkh would not look for love elsewhere after she had left him. Why should he still pine for her, inconsolable, all these years? Hadn’t she found companionship with Lukan?

“We were just lonely, Lilias and I,” Kazimir mumbled into the glass. “Two strangers in a strange land. I never intended—”

“Be that as it may,” Elysia said briskly, “how effective do you judge your elixir to be? If it could reverse the deterioration in a man of Volkh’s age, could it prevent it completely in a younger man?”

“Your son?” he said, trying to focus on her above the rim of the glass. “It depends. If he has never . . . been transformed, then there might be a chance. But the elixir must be made from the venom in his own bloodstream, and it must be very carefully diluted and monitored. What worked for the father could well kill the son.”

“Was there any of the original elixir left in Kastel Drakhaon?” Elysia cried, alarmed.

“I don’t know. I was obliged to leave so fast I had only my valise with me. There was no time to go back and collect my papers. . . .”

“But suppose Gavril found your papers, suppose he tried to re-create the elixir—”

“Madame Nagarian, please don’t distress yourself.”

“You must help him,” she said.

“Me? Return to Azhkendir?” Kazimir began to laugh in a strange, high voice. “Never.”

“Altan!
Altan!
”

Someone stormed up the stairs. The door burst open and a dark-haired man came in, out of breath. Elysia rose, fearing some kind of trap.

“Who is
she
?” he demanded, stabbing his finger at her.

“A f-friend,” Kazimir said, waving a hand vaguely in the air.

“Who sent her? How did she know how to find you here?”

“I was just leaving,” Elysia said, wondering if she could reach the window in time to yell for help if the newcomer attacked her.

“What do you want with him?” The man stared at her, eyes dark with suspicion.

“That’s my business,” she said, staring back.

“
His
agents are on the quay. You’ll have to move on, Altan.”

“Can’t keep running,” Kazimir said, his words slurring. “Too tired.”

“Drinking again?” The stranger snatched the glass from his hand. “What use are you to us when you’re drunk all the time?”

“I’m sorry, Matyev. Really sorry.” Kazimir seemed on the verge of tears. “I’m such a stupid fool. I had it all—in the palm of my hand—and I just threw it away.”

He crashed forward onto the table suddenly, insensible.

“Altan?” Matyev shook him; the only response was a shuddering snore. Matyev slowly lowered him back down. Kazimir’s fair hair spilled onto the stained oilcloth tabletop.

“One of the best minds in Mirom, and look at him. Drunk as a pig.” He looked up at Elysia, glaring. “Whatever your business is, lady, it’s over for today. Doctor Kazimir’s not at home to visitors.”

“When can I—”

“Just go.”

Biting back her frustration, Elysia turned on her heel and hurried away.

Outside the wind had changed direction, and a bitterly cold gust tasting of snow and salt almost blew Elysia’s flimsy hat from her head. She grabbed hold of it with both hands and marched blindly out along the cobbled quay. She was angry now, angry with Kazimir, angry with herself for feeling so powerless. She stopped a moment, gazing out at the tall ships on the river, sails filling with the autumn wind.

There must be a way to get a warning to Gavril.

The rumble of carriage wheels over the cobbles startled her. Horses snorted just behind her, stamping their hooves, breath misting the cold air. The carriage door opened and Count Velemir leaned out, offering his hand.

“We had quite given you up. I was about to send one of my men in to find you.”

Elysia’s face was burning from the cold sting of the wind. She clambered up into the carriage and the coachman drove off at a brisk pace.

“Inadvisable to linger here,” the count said, settling back in his corner of the carriage. “How is our good friend Doctor Kazimir?”

“Rather the worse for drink.”

“I hope the meeting did not prove too disagreeable. There are several degrees of inebriation. . . .”

“When I left him he had reached the degree of insensibility,” Elysia said wryly.

“So your visit was a disappointment?”

“Not entirely. It seems that Lord Volkh had engaged Doctor Kazimir to find a cure for
his . . . condition.”

“His condition?”

Elysia looked into the count’s shrewd brown eyes and sighed. In all the years since she had fled Azhkendir, she had never once tried to explain what she had seen there.

“We live in a rational age, count. You will find it difficult to believe what I am about to tell you.”

“Try me.”

“Lord Volkh believed himself the last of an ancient race. He was both man . . . and dragon. Drakhaon. But every time he was possessed by the dragon-spirit, he became progressively less human.”

“He looked human enough to me,” Velemir said. His expression had become unreadable; Elysia could not tell if he believed or was just humoring her.

“He was skilled at concealing his deformities. Though there were other ways of maintaining his human appearance. . . .” Elysia faltered. There were parts of that time in Azhkendir that were still too painful to talk about.

“The reports of searing blue fire, the creeping mist that kills all who breathe it—”

“All the Drakhaon’s doing.”

“And we had thought Lord Volkh had developed some revolutionary form of weaponry.” Velemir began to laugh. “No wonder Azhkendir has remained impregnable all these years!”

Elysia suddenly wondered if she had revealed too much. Velemir had charmed the facts from her with his sympathetic manner, and now they could be used to harm Gavril. Why should she trust Count Velemir?

“Why so quiet, Elysia?” he asked, solicitous again. “I wasn’t laughing at you, I assure you.”

“I told you all this in confidence,” she burst out, “because I believed it would help Gavril—”

“And I told you, Elysia, that Muscobar needs Azhkendir as an ally.” Velemir took her hand in his own, pressing it warmly. “There are troubled times ahead.”

Elysia became suddenly aware of muffled sounds of shouting outside the carriage.

“Troubled times!” Velemir repeated. He let go of her hand and rapped on the carriage roof. The coachman drew the carriage to a halt and opened the communicating window.

“What’s going on?”

“Some kind of gathering in front of Saint Simeon’s, excellency.”

“Can you make out what they’re shouting about?”

“Sounds like . . . ‘Free Stepan the Cobbler.’”

“You’d better turn the carriage around and take us back by the Water Gate.”

“Yes, excellency.”

Velemir settled back on his seat. Elysia saw that the warmth had faded from his eyes; he now seemed distant, cold.

“Damned insurgents,” he muttered.

“What is their complaint?” Elysia asked.

“Their leaders have convinced them that if the Grand Duke were to abdicate and let the people govern themselves, there would be more bread to go around.” Velemir began to drum his fingers on the armrest. “As if matters were not complicated enough. Their petty grievances will soon be forgotten if matters come to a head. Then they’ll be begging the Grand Duke to protect them, singing his praises in the streets, cheering the White Guard—”

“What matters?” Elysia said sharply.

“The Grand Duke is weak. His foreign policy is at best capricious, in spite of all Vassian’s efforts. The people despise him.”

Elysia stared at him, astonished to hear him speak so bluntly of his master. “Is not such talk treasonable, count?”

“Not a jot. I am a patriot, after my own fashion,” Velemir said with a shrug. “I want only what is best for Muscobar. And I will say—and do—what I must to keep my country safe.”

The carriage was moving alongside the river again. A brown fog drifted across the wide waters, dulling the painted facades of the grand riverside terraces to a uniform drabness.

“So Astasia must marry a stranger to protect her country. A man twice her age. A man she dislikes.”

The count shrugged. “Astasia has always known she must put her duty to Muscobar first. She is an Orlov.”

Astasia arrived late for her final portrait sitting, her pale cheeks flushed with delicate color, an early blush rose, pink on ivory.

She fidgeted around on the chair, fingers darting to play with her hair, her sash, her décolletage. Eventually Elysia laid down her brush.

“Altessa. Is something troubling you?”

“I’ve been to see Papa. I suggested that instead of marrying Prince Eugene, I should be formally engaged to your son, now that he is Drakhaon.”

The paintbrush dropped from Elysia’s hand. Paint spattered the floor and the hem of her dress. She knelt down, hastily dabbing at the polished boards with a rag, trying to collect herself.

“And what did your father say?” she asked warily.

“That it would be
difficult
to withdraw the offer he had made to Prince Eugene,” Astasia said, eyes dark with anger. “Difficult! He has no consideration at all for my feelings.”

“My dear,” Elysia said, taking in a deep breath to steady herself, “what I have to tell you now is not common knowledge. The Nagarian family has . . . an inherited condition. It is passed on from father to son. And at present there is no reliable cure for it.”

“A medical condition?” Astasia looked confused. “Like hemophilia? I could learn how to manage hemophilia. I’d do all in my power to help Gavril, Madame Andar. I’m not afraid of illness.” And then when Elysia did not, could not reply, “Oh, do you mean madness? Dementia?”

“Not precisely,” said Elysia unhappily. It had been hard enough to tell Count Velemir. Now she could hardly bring herself to talk of it.

“But you married Lord Volkh!”

“Like you, altessa, I was young, idealistic. I believed that our love was so strong that nothing would shatter it. And then . . . then he began to change.”

A swirl of memory fragments suddenly clouded her mind: young Volkh, darkly and dangerously beautiful; a winter wedding in Azhgorod with snowflake confetti spiraling down as the great bells of the cathedral dinned out their sonorous, sinister peal; the jagged towers of Kastel Drakhaon looming black against the snowy sky . . .

“Change? How, change?” demanded Astasia.

“If I were to tell you, my dear, you would think I had lost my reason.”

Astasia let out a little cry of vexation. “I thought you—of all of them—would have understood!” And she ran from the room.

Elysia spent the next day immersed in her painting. While she was busy with the technical concerns of the canvas, touching up the last details, she could block everything else from her mind.

At last, at about four in the afternoon when the last of the natural light had faded from the room, she lit the candles and stood, wiping her brushes, looking at the finished work with a critical eye.

Yes, Gavril would not be displeased with the way she had completed his portrayal. If only he were here to see it. . . .

Elysia sat down in the window seat, resting her cheek against her hand, and stared out at the twilit gardens below, half-wreathed in drifting river fogs.

“Elysia . . .”

She looked round to see Velemir standing watching her.

“So the portrait is finished.”

“The portrait? Yes; it’s ready to be framed.”

“It’s very fine.” The count walked around the canvas, inspecting it from another angle. “How well you have captured the young lady’s dreamy, capricious nature. You have a true gift, Elysia.”

“It’s mostly Gavril’s work.” Elysia glanced again at the wistful expression on Astasia’s face and felt a sudden pang of regret. If she had known this portrait was to be the prelude to consigning a young girl to a loveless marriage . . .

“I have something for you.” He drew a crimson velvet box from his jacket and opened it, presenting it to her. Inside, nestling against the soft velvet, lay a gold necklace, exquisitely fashioned, with rubies cut into tiny rosebuds. Matching drop earrings, set in gold filigree, completed the set.

“The ruby?” she said, amazed. “But this—this must be worth far more than one single stone.”

“Here.” He lifted the necklace and fastened it around her throat. She shivered at the touch of the cold metal until she felt the warmth of his fingertips, almost caressing the nape of her neck.

Overcome with conflicting emotions, she drew away, gazing down at the delicate workmanship.

“Do you like it?” he said.

“It’s beautiful.” She nodded, trying to find adequate words to express her pleasure. “But your jeweler must have worked night and day to finish this so quickly.”

“We never concluded our conversation, Elysia.”

“There were too many interruptions,” she said with a sad smile.

“I thought we might finish it over dinner.”

“Dinner?” Since they arrived she had forgotten about formal meals. She had not had much appetite and had been sustaining herself on tea, fruit, and bread and butter. Now she realized that she was very hungry. “Thank you, count.”

“If we are to have dinner together,” he said, offering his arm, “you must remember to call me Feodor.”

The count’s apartments were more soberly decorated than the rest of the palace: the paneled walls were painted a cool, pale gray, and the polished boards were covered with carpets woven with patterns of black and gold.