Lord of Snow and Shadows (26 page)

“This looks bad,” Piotr said.

“Help me dig!” Gavril cried. The men from the search party looked down at their feet, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“There’s no point, my lord,” Piotr said bluntly.

“But there’s no body. Without a body, how can we be sure?” insisted Gavril.

“You heard what was said, my lord. Steppe wolves.”

“But there’s no remains.” Gavril had begun to sense an unfamiliar pulsing in his temples, dull as the thud of a heartbeat but faster, more insistent. “We should search for evidence.” Irritated by their complacency, he went farther away, scuffing up the snow, forcing himself to look for what he most dreaded to find: bloodstained scraps of clothing, a hank of fair hair, fragments of bone. . . .

“We’re wasting our time,” broke in Michailo. “She’d never have survived this long out here in the snows.”

“Michailo’s right, my lord,” broke in Piotr. “The sun’ll set soon. We should turn back now.”

The dull pulsing intensified. “But if Michailo had waited for my return,” Gavril said in a low voice, “this would never have happened.”

“I was placed in command,” Michailo said self-righteously.

“You know how treacherous the weather is in winter. You sent her to her death.” A voice at the back of his mind was urging self-control—and yet the bitter grief that had come rolling up like a dark fog almost obliterated it.

“My lord, look at the sky. We can’t stay out here—or we’ll risk the same fate.”

Gavril glanced up. The clouds fast-scudding from the mountains had an eerie yellow cast to them. A distant, low moan shivered across the snowflats—and was answered by another closer by. The sound, eerily inhuman, made Gavril’s flesh crawl. Wolf howl.

“That wasn’t the wind.” His horse gave a nervous whinny and tossed its head, pawing restlessly at the snow. “Was it?”

“Your horse can scent them,” Piotr said uneasily.

“We’re more than a match for any wolf pack,” one of the younger
druzhina
boasted. “Our horses can easily outrun them.”

“Oh, yes?” Piotr said. “So you’d ride off and leave us to fend for ourselves?”

“Give me her things,” Gavril said. He crammed Kiukiu’s few possessions into his saddle bag. “Now let’s be on our way.”

As he remounted, another howl quivered through the air. The men on foot shouldered their weapons and stolidly began to trudge back, following their footprints in the thick snow.

One lone girl, stumbling exhaustedly through the snow, had proved easy prey for a pack of marauding wolves. But a band of armed men . . . Gavril put the thought from his mind. He could only think of Kiukiu. He gazed out over the bleak landscape as he rode. He could not forget what Michailo had done. Michailo would pay.

He looked up at Michailo, riding ahead, nonchalant and relaxed in the saddle. His eyes narrowed against the glare of the snow. He hated the man. Hated his arrogant manner, his sullen comments, the way he tossed his flax-fair braids . . .

The pulsing in his temples had begun again. The more he thought how much he hated Michailo, the more the blood burned in his head.

He could not remember ever hating anyone so vehemently before. Disliking, maybe, the odd difference of opinions, but
hate
?

A lurid snowlight suddenly lit the far-distant mountain peaks, briefly gilding them a sulfurous yellow. Flakes of snow began to drift down, a few chill white petals from the ash-gray sky. The last sunlight suddenly disappeared, and the moors were swathed in gloom.

A long, low howl trembled through the air. Other voices answered, eerily close.

“The village!” cried Piotr, his voice sharp with alarm. He began to run. Michailo and the others kicked their heels into their horses’ sides, urging them back. “The children!”

Gavril followed.

The
druzhina
reached the ridge above the village, reining in their horses, hooves scuffing up showers of powder snow.

The little gaggle of children were still playing, engrossed in a game of catch. They glanced up as the men came riding back.

“What are you doing out here?” shouted Piotr. “The wolves are coming! Go in, go in!”

The children spilled down the ridge toward the village, shrieking in fear.

“Go get torches!” Michailo ordered, following them.

Gavril heard a shrill little scream. One of the children, the little boy Danilo, had gone sprawling headlong in the snow.

A dark, snarling creature leapt out of the shadows, teeth bared, right in front of the child.

Gavril spurred his horse down the hill toward Danilo, intending to scoop him up onto his saddle. But the horse shied, rearing up into the air. Gavril lost his grip on the reins and fell off into the snow.

Winded by the fall, he struggled to his feet. He could hear the child whimpering.

“Danilo!” he cried. “Get behind me!” But Danilo just lay where he had fallen, paralyzed with fear.

A wolf crouched, yellow teeth bared, poised to attack.

Eyes gleamed in the twilight, orange, feral eyes. Wolf voices bayed and yelped. Not one wolf—but a whole pack of them.

This is how she died. The wolves killed her, tore her apart. . . .

Gavril flung himself in front of Danilo.

The young girl stumbles in the snow. The beasts encircle her, leap on her, pull her down. And then there is nothing but the sound of screaming and the gobbling, growling sounds of the beasts as they ravage her living flesh, slobbering over the fresh carcass.

Now Gavril no longer felt afraid. He felt himself possessed by a terrible, burning anger. Anger for Kiukiu, his Kiukiu, dying alone and in such terror. The anger caught fire in his mind. Flames flickered across his sight: red, orange, white. Blue.

Blue, phosphorescent blue of starfire on freezing winter nights, starblaze of burning, brilliant blue . . .

Through the shimmering blur of fire, he saw the creature gather itself to spring.

The wolf leapt into the air. Instinctively, Gavril raised his arm to protect himself.

He heard the snap of ragged fangs, sharp as daggers, smelled the hot, rank stink of its carnivore’s breath.

Flames shot from his outstretched fingers, glittering blue as cobalt.

The twilight exploded into a dazzle of shattered stars.

The wolf’s shaggy coat caught fire.

Blinding blueflare, brighter than lightning.

Burning, the wolf dropped into the snow, writhing and making horrible whining sounds. And in the flames, Gavril saw for a moment—but how could it be?—the black shadow of a burning man, clawing and twisting in agony. Then the dazzle of the flames dimmed. Slowly the blackened paws moved aimlessly . . . and stilled.

Now there was only choking smoke and a vile smell of burning fur.

What had he done? For a moment his whole body had convulsed in that one cataclysmic burst of power. Now he felt utterly drained. His knees buckled.

“My lord, my lord—” Voices were calling his name.

He toppled forward into the snow, and the last sparks of Drakhaon’s Fire were extinguished in a black tide that overwhelmed him, dragging him down to oblivion in its lightless depths.

CHAPTER 20

Kiukiu woke with a start.

A cold snowlight filtered in from slit windows set high in the rough walls of the hut.

At first she had no idea where she was—and then, seeing Malusha stooped over the fire, stoking it with fresh wood, she began to remember.

“Snow’s stopped for a while,” Malusha said without turning around. “I’ve made porridge. Want some, child?”

Porridge. Kiukiu’s empty stomach rumbled; embarrassed, she pressed her hands on it to silence it.

“Yes, please. I’m starving.”

Malusha brought over a bowl filled with steaming barley porridge and a spoon.

“Eat it from the outside in or you’ll burn your tongue. I’ve stirred in a spoonful of heather honey to give you strength.”

Kiukiu breathed in the honey-scented steam hungrily. She was so ravenous she didn’t care if she burned her tongue to swallow down some of the delicious porridge.

She looked up into Malusha’s face—and her dream came back to her so vividly it seemed as if it had been more than a dream. She set down the porridge bowl and reached out for the old woman’s hand.

“I—I had a dream last night,” she said.

“Ah.” Malusha sat down beside her. She did not withdraw her hand.

“You were in my dream. You asked me who my parents were. You said—you said Malkh, my father, was your son.”

The old woman’s bright eyes clouded suddenly with tears.

“You remember the dream,” she said, squeezing Kiukiu’s hand. “You remember!”

“Are you my grandmother?” Kiukiu stammered.

“If Malkh was your father, then I am, child.”

“How can it be?” Kiukiu was wary now. “They told us all the Arkhel household were killed.”

“All but me, Kiukiu, all but me.” Kiukiu saw the shadow of the bleak years of solitude and suffering darkening her grandmother’s eyes. “All but me and my lords and ladies. Someone had to care for them.”

“The owls.”

“When I first saw you, there was something familiar about you, child.” Malusha gently stroked Kiukiu’s cheek, gazing at her face as if she could not stop looking at her. “Now, in the daylight, I can see it. You have your father’s eyes . . . and something of his chin, his cheekbones. Strong features, strong personality.”

“But the dream. How did you—how did I—”

“You have the gift,” Malusha said. She laid her gnarled hand on Kiukiu’s forehead. “That was what finally convinced me. I thought the gift would die with me, the last of our line. Our little Lord Snowcloud must have sensed it. . . .”

“You are my grandmother,” Kiukiu said wonderingly. This should have been such a sublimely happy moment—and suddenly there were tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Hush now, child.” The old woman leaned forward and hugged her. “Dry your eyes and eat your porridge; it’ll go cold and there’s nothing worse than cold porridge.”

Kiukiu, swathed in Malusha’s blanket, began to look about her. There were little hints of a once prosperous life in the cottage. The walls were bare—yet the bed in the corner was covered with a patchwork quilt of rich cloths: Kiukiu could make out velvets and threads of gold in the squares of material. A metal jug by the fireplace was swan-necked, too elegantly fashioned for a peasant’s cottage. And there was a lacquer chest at the bottom of Malusha’s bed. In the firelight’s glint, Kiukiu could see it was kin to the dragon chest in Lord Volkh’s room—although instead of dragons, golden owls adorned its lid and sides.

Now that she was fully awake, she could hear the distant clucking croon of hens. Somewhere beyond the firelit room there must be the barn where the pony was stabled.

“How do you manage here, Grandmother?” Kiukiu ventured. “So far from the village?”

“I’ve enough for my needs,” Malusha said. “A well of clean water, a few apple trees. There’s lingonberries to be gathered on the moors, and wild mushrooms.”

“But weren’t all the Arkhel lands withered by the Drakhaon? They told us they were laid waste, that nothing will grow there.”

“Child, you’d have had to have walked for three full days to reach Arkhel’s domains. But yes, my home was once in Kastel Arkhel. Guslyars were valued members of Lord Arkhel’s household. But everything—and everyone—was destroyed by Lord Volkh.”

“How did you escape?”

“I was away from Kastel Arkhel that night, searching for my boy. I knew something terrible had happened to him.” Malusha’s eyes darkened. “He hadn’t told me much about your mother—only that he had fallen in love. I shouldn’t have left my lord Stavyor. But what was I to do? Malkh was my only son, I had to go find him.” The old woman fell silent, staring at her hands, which were crossed in her lap.

“They say my mother was never the same after my father—” Kiukiu hesitated, “after he died. Even after I was born. I don’t really remember her. My Auntie Sosia brought me up.”

“Your mother? Oh, for a long time I hated your mother.” Malusha looked up at Kiukiu, and Kiukiu felt a sudden chill that was nothing to do with the snow. There was still a lingering shadow of that bleak, unreasoning hatred that allowed no forgiveness. “I called down every curse I knew on her head for leading my boy to his death.”

“She didn’t mean to get him killed,” Kiukiu said hotly. “She loved him. And they made her suffer for loving him.”

“And you, child?” Malusha slipped her gnarled fingers under Kiukiu’s chin, turning her face to hers. “Why were you allowed to live? An Arkhel child in the Drakhaon’s household?”

“I don’t know.” Kiukiu looked away, embarrassed by her grandmother’s intense scrutiny. “I don’t know.”

For the next few hours, Kiukiu puttered about helping her grandmother. That was what, Kiukiu reasoned, she was best at: kitchen chores. She swept up the dust with a broom, she drew water from the well outside, kneaded dough for bread and set it to rise in a warm place near the fire.

Malusha watched her, nodding her head from time to time. She seemed weary now, as if the shock of finding her granddaughter had exhausted much of her energy.

“You’re a good, useful girl, Kiukiu, and no mistake.”

“You’ve lived here all alone, all these years?”

“Not alone, Kiukiu. I’ve had my duty to my lords and ladies here to keep me busy.” There was a strange, fey glint in Malusha’s eyes now as she pointed to the rafters, where some of the snow owls were roosting, hunched white shadows high overhead. “There were still songs to be sung in praise of my lords’ hunting exploits and my ladies’ broods of owlets. I’ve nurtured a whole dynasty of Arkhel’s Owls here, no thanks to the Drakhaon’s men.” Malusha made the sign against evil and spat eloquently three times.

“But . . . no other people?” Kiukiu, who had spent all her life in the kitchens, surrounded by people, could not begin to imagine such a solitary existence.

“Oh, now and then there’s a farmer stops by or a peddler woman going to Klim. They give me things in exchange for my skills: a sack of flour here, a length of cloth there. I get by.”

Kiukiu was growing weary. She had set the bread to bake and had chopped some vegetables Malusha gave her from her homegrown supply to make soup. She sat down in front of the newly laid fire and warmed her fingers and toes at the blaze.

“Where’s Snowcloud?” she asked.

“Roosting, where else? It’s day; my lords and ladies of the night won’t stir till the sun sets.”

“Tell me, Grandmother.” Kiukiu sat back on her heels, face glowing with the fire’s blaze. “Tell me about the Guslyars.”

“You’ve had no training, child, have you?” Malusha sighed. “Where to begin? A Guslyar should be trained from childhood in her art. I fear it may be too late for you. My mother started training me when I was four.”

“Too late?” Kiukiu tried not to sound too disappointed, but the thought that by an accident of birth she had been deprived of the chance to develop her gift was devastating.

“You know no more of the art than any other Nagarian.” Malusha’s voice had become dry, deprecating.

“That’s not my fault! And how can I know if you won’t tell me?” Kiukiu burst out.

“All this talking has dried my throat.” Malusha got up stiffly, awkwardly as if her bones had become set in the hunched sitting position. “I need some tea.”

Kiukiu watched her grandmother taking pinches of dried leaves from earthenware pots, muttering to herself as she poured hot water onto the leaves, pressing them with a spoon to release the flavor.

A curiously fragranced steam wafted toward Kiukiu as Malusha brought over two bowls of tea. She sniffed suspiciously. This wasn’t the kind of tea Sosia brewed in the kitchen.

“What’s in this?” she demanded.

“Special herbs.” Malusha grunted as she eased herself back down beside her. “To ease my aching bones. To keep the cold from getting into yours.”

Kiukiu took a tentative sip and pulled a face.

“It tastes odd.” And then the bitter taste altered on her tongue, releasing unfamiliar savors that were both sweet and tantalizingly elusive. It was as if the tea reminded her of some lost childhood memory.

“Ah. That’s better,” Malusha said after taking a long sip. “Now, where were we?”

“Guslyars,” Kiukiu said. Her voice sounded different—muzzily distant as if she were trying to call through thick, swirling mists.

Malusha set down her tea bowl and went to the lacquered chest. Throwing the lid open, she took out what looked at first to Kiukiu like a large, rectangular wooden tray. She settled herself down with it on her lap and Kiukiu saw now that it was an instrument, many-stringed, its case intricately painted and gilded with patterns of animals, birds, and flowers. The metal strings, even though unplucked, gave off a slight shimmer of sound as though vibrating in sympathy with Malusha’s breathing.

“This was my mother’s gusly.” Malusha ran her hard, curved nails over the strings, releasing a wild quiver of notes that set Kiukiu’s flesh tingling. “Needs tuning.” Malusha plucked at the strings, head on one side, twisting the metal pegs that glinted like gold, adjusting the pitch until it reached her satisfaction.

“I’ve never seen—never heard—anything quite—” Kiukiu stammered, overwhelmed.

“How could you?” Malusha snapped. “This is Arkhel magic. Subtle magic. What would the House of Nagarian understand about subtlety?”

“Play for me, Grandmother.”

“What shall I play? I know. A song to welcome home young Lord Snowcloud.” Malusha bent her head over the strings and began to play.

Kiukiu listened, entranced. The little flurries of notes evoked fast-falling snow. And suddenly she was flying through the snow-spun darkness, soaring and swooping, her senses alert to the tiniest sounds of the moorland night.

As the last notes died, she realized she was gazing down at herself and Malusha from the rafters. Slowly, softly as a falling feather she floated down, and found herself looking at her grandmother through her own eyes again.

“I was flying,” she whispered. “Was that you, Grandmother, or the tea?”

“Tsk, child, a little of both.” Malusha laid down the gusly. “And a little of your own gift. Look at me.” Malusha placed her fingers on Kiukiu’s cheek, staring into her eyes as she had done the night before. “You’ve been out of your body before, haven’t you?”

“Only once,” Kiukiu looked away, ashamed.

“And how did that come about?”

“Lord Volkh,” Kiukiu whispered. “He made me bring him through the mirror. From the Ways Beyond.”

“You’ve traveled that dark road? Unguided, untrained? Alone?” Malusha shook her gray head. “Child, child, what a foolishly dangerous thing to do. But then, how were you to know?”

“To know what?” Kiukiu said, alarmed now.

“A Guslyar can use her gift in many ways. But others can take advantage of her—and each journey she makes into the Ways Beyond drains a little more of her lifeforce. It is not a journey to be lightly undertaken.”

“Lifeforce? You mean strength?”

“Each time you return, you return a little more diminished, leaving a little more of yourself in the world of spirits.”

“But why do you have to go there at all?” Kiukiu shuddered, remembering the chill winds sweeping the bleak plain where she had found Lord Volkh.

“You’ve heard one of our other names? Ghost Singers? Did no one ever tell you how the Arkhels became so powerful?”

Kiukiu shook her head.

“There were many hero warriors among the ancestors of the House of Arkhel. Bogatyrs, golden knights, who once ruled Azhkendir in ancient days. Before battle, the Ghost Singers summoned the spirit-wraiths of the ancient heroes to possess Lord Arkhel and his clan warriors. Fired with the strength of their ancestors, they were invincible. And no one knew, no one guessed the secret until . . .” Malusha’s voice died away, her eyes staring into the distant shadows.

“Until?” prompted Kiukiu uncertainly.

“Destroy the Singer, and you leave the Arkhels vulnerable. Unprotected by the ancestor warrior spirits, open to attack. Not even my lord and lady owls could save them.”

“The Singer?” Kiukiu understood now. “You mean my father.”

“I mean my poor Malkh.”

“But what about you, Grandmother? Why didn’t you—”

“Because I was his mother,” Malusha snapped. “I was out searching for him on the moors when I should have been at Kastel Arkhel. When the sky grew dark and the Drakhaon swept out across the moorlands toward the mountains, I knew too late that I and my son had failed. Failed in our duty to the Lords of Arkhel. Beneath that terrible shadow, I fell to the ground and wept. I could do nothing, nothing but watch. I saw the distant flare of blue fire, I saw the glittering cloud that enveloped the kastel—and I felt them die, so many extinguished, all at once. I felt their deaths even from so far away, like a dark wave engulfing me. When I came back to myself, I was alone and the day was spent.”