Lord of Snow and Shadows (30 page)

Lilias’ room was warmly lit by firelight and scented candles that let drift a drowsy scent of sweet summer meadows. Lilias was sitting on one of the sofas, her loose silk gown drooping off one shoulder, feeding her baby. Firelight gleamed on the soft curves of her bare shoulder and breast, glinting russet in her unbound hair. Gavril felt his face begin to burn. He turned away, ashamed to be playing the voyeur.

“When I heard about the child, I had to come.” A man spoke, his voice huskily deep. Gavril turned back to the spyhole, straining to see and hear. “Did you really expect me to stay away?”

“And are you insane? If you’re caught, it’ll be the end for us both.”

“At least let me see him. Hold him.”

Lilias began to laugh, a low, throaty laugh that seemed to tremble on the verge of tears.

A man moved into Gavril’s field of vision, a tall man, wrapped in a long, dark, caped coat. Gavril felt his heart miss a beat; he knew him now.

Jaromir Arkhel.

CHAPTER 23

Gavril watched as Jaromir Arkhel moved into the warmth of the firelight and gazed down at Artamon. He put out one hand to gently stroke the baby’s cheek.

“He resembles you, Lilias,” he said. His voice shook.

“What did you expect? Scales? Claws?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he said, less gently. Artamon stirred, as if sensing the tension, and whimpered. “Is he
my
son?”

Gavril heard Jushko’s sharp intake of breath.

“Why couldn’t you wait?” she said. “As soon as the snows stop I am to leave for Azhgorod. Why endanger us all by coming here? They are watching my rooms, day and night.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” There was a roughness in Jaromir’s voice now that betrayed raw emotion, barely suppressed.

“I’m told that Nagarian children show no sign of their inheritance till puberty.” Lilias went to lay Artamon down in his cradle, more intent, it seemed, on tucking in the embroidered sheets than on her conversation with Jaromir.

“Don’t you
know,
Lilias?” Jaromir went up to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, gently turning her around to face him.

So this was Jaromir Arkhel, the man he was blood-bound to kill? Gavril saw only a tall, gaunt young man, whose dark eyes had haunted his dreams ever since the Drakhaoul first possessed him.

“Jaromir,” Lilias said, “you have powerful friends. Why haven’t they come to your aid?”

“Jaromir?” muttered Jushko. “An Arkhel name . . .”

“Can you be sure your last communication was received?” Jaromir said. “If they’ve heard nothing from us, they must believe we are dead.”

“We’ve both tried, Dysis and I, day and night, but since the snows started, nothing seems to work anymore.”

A sudden gust of wind battered the kastel, and in the grate the log fire began to crackle and spit sparks.

“
It
is blocking us.” Jaromir shivered, glancing uneasily over his shoulder toward the window. “Do you have any idea what we unleashed when we—we did what we did?”

She held up a hand as if to silence him. “Please. No more of these archaic Azhkendi superstitions.”

“Can’t you sense it, Lilias? There will be no end to this bitter winter until I am dead.”

She let out a little exclamation of annoyance.

“If you won’t take action, then I must. I have my son’s interests to consider now.”

Her son’s interests. Gavril’s throat tightened, knowing she meant his death.

“I’ve heard enough.” Jushko drew his saber. “Now!” He kicked the door to Lilias’ salon open and ran in, followed by the waiting
druzhina
. “Arrest them!”

The baby let out a terrified yell and began to cry, a high, breathless sobbing.

Behind Lilias, a small secret doorway lay open, the gold and magenta tapestry that had concealed it pulled to one side. Jushko and the two
druzhina
struggled to haul out their quarry from the secret passageway.

Gavril watched as Jaromir was dragged back into the chamber. He saw how the
druzhina
caught hold of him by the arms, yanking them behind his back, roughly forcing him down onto his knees.

“Here he is, my lord,” Jushko said, breathless but triumphant. He jabbed the point of his saber under Jaromir’s chin until Jaromir sullenly raised his head. “I believe this is the one we’ve been looking for.”

“How dare you invade my privacy, Jushko?” Lilias spoke, her voice low yet controlled. “Where is Dysis? What have you done with her?”

“Take them away for questioning,” said Jushko, ignoring her.

Two of the
druzhina
went toward Lilias.

“Don’t you dare to touch me!” she spat, drawing away from them. “I am a citizen of Muscobar. A visitor in your country. I have rights. I demand to see a lawyer.”

“Let her go.” Jaromir spoke for the first time. Gavril could see a tiny trickle of crimson on Jaromir’s neck where Jushko’s blade had drawn blood. “Whatever your charges are, she is innocent.”

“Did I say you could speak?” Jushko struck Jaromir with the back of his hand. Jaromir’s head snapped back with the force of the blow. “Keep silent.”

Artamon yelled even more furiously. Gavril’s ears began to ring with the sound.

“Take the woman to the Bogatyr’s rooms for questioning,” Jushko commanded. “Under armed guard.”

“Lord Gavril!” Lilias cried as she was hustled past him. Her green eyes glistened with tears. “Don’t let them hurt my baby.”

Gavril looked away.

“At least let me have Dysis.” Tears spilled out, down her pale cheeks. “Don’t leave me all on my own with your soldiers, my lord. Please.”

Gavril, distracted, half-heard himself saying, “Very well. Let the maid be brought to Madame Arbelian.” All he could think was that Jaromir Arkhel was his prisoner. Now there was no escaping the blood curse his father had placed on him. He stood alone in Lilias’ empty room, paralyzed, unable to move.

What, in God’s name, would the
druzhina
expect of him now? To take part in some archaic ritual, a barbaric duel to the death? He shuddered at the thought.

In the hallway below, he could hear Kostya briskly issuing orders.

“No one allowed in or out but myself. No matter what story she spins, no matter what excuse, ‘My baby’s sick, dying. . . .’”

“What have you done to my mistress?” Dysis hurried up, escorted by Michailo and several of the
druzhina
. Her usually neat clothes were in disarray; locks of brown hair were escaping from her lace coif.

“Michailo?” Kostya broke off in the midst of his orders, frowning. “I put you on keep watch. What are you doing here? You were forbidden kastel duties.”

“Are you all right, my lady?” Michailo asked Lilias, ignoring Kostya.

“Back to the keep!” thundered Kostya. “Till you’ve learned some respect.”

“I’m taking no more orders from you, old man,” Michailo said. “Let her go.”

“You young fool—”

Gavril heard the rasp of steel. Then a sharp retort.

Light and fire exploded in his mind.

Pistol shots. How could there be pistol shots in Azhkendir, where he had never yet seen a single firearm?

Flares of violent red splashed across his vision, fire and blood. Darkness gusted, cold as winter stormclouds through his mind.

A terrifying void gaped at his feet.

He blinked—and found the whole kastel was in disorder. Maids were screaming; men of the
druzhina
clattered up and down the stairs, brandishing sabers and axes.

Now the shouts were coming from outside the kastel. Gavril ran to the window to look down on the courtyard.

A sleigh sped away across the snow, drawn by two sturdy horses. Behind it galloped a small escort of horsemen.

Druzhina
were leading out their horses from the stables, scrambling up into the saddle, spurring after them.

“She’s escaped,” Gavril said under his breath.

“Lord Drakhaon!”

In the hall below, he saw several of the
druzhina
leaning over a prostrate form. A slowly pooling stain of red leaked out onto the black and white tiles. As he leaned far out over the stair rail, he saw from the iron-gray braids that it was Kostya.

He flew down the stairs toward the gathering crowd.

“Let me through!” They drew aside when they heard his voice. “What’s happened here?”

Sosia was crouched beside Kostya. She had lifted the Bogatyr’s head and was supporting it on her knees. From the gray pallor of his battle-scarred face, from the blood trickling at the side of his mouth, Gavril could see he was badly wounded.

“How could Michailo do such a thing?” Sosia said, her voice tight with unshed tears. “To his own commander?”

“Where’s the surgeon?” Gavril cried. “Bring the surgeon here!”

“Lord Gavril?” Kostya’s hand reached out and gripped his. His eyes opened, but they were unfocused. “She’s gone. I tried to stop them. . . .”

“Don’t try to talk,” Gavril said. “Save your strength.” His voice trembled; he made an effort to steady it. “And that’s an order, Bogatyr.” Now he could see that blood was oozing from a hole in Kostya’s side, the ruined fabric scorched and burned. Whoever had fired had done so at close range.

The surgeon came hurrying up, shooing the crowd out of the way.

“What’s this, Bogatyr?” he said briskly. “A pistol wound?” He began to peel away the layers of bloodstained clothing.

“Never held with all those newfangled gunpowder contraptions,” grumbled Kostya weakly. “No honor in them. Weapons for cowards . . .”

“Who brought pistols into Kastel Drakhaon?” Gavril turned to the watching servants. As he looked up at them, he saw the apprehension in their faces, saw them draw back. They were afraid of him.

“That . . . cursed . . . Muscobar whore . . .” Kostya said from between clenched teeth.

“
Lilias
shot you?”

“We’ll have to move him, my lord,” the surgeon said, keeping one hand on Kostya’s pulse. “He’s losing blood too fast.”

“Not Lilias . . .” Kostya’s voice was fading. “Michailo . . . betrayed me . . . divided the
druzhina
. . . broke the bloodbond. . . .”

“Easy now, Kostya,” Gavril said, squeezing his hand.

“Shameful . . . way to die . . .” Kostya whispered.

“No talk of dying here!” the surgeon said. “And no more talking, Bogatyr. Save your strength.”

Four of the
druzhina
lifted Kostya and carried him away.

Gavril stood watching them, his heart chill and cold. First Kiukiu, now Kostya. Lilias had worked a subtle kind of destructive mischief in his household, attacking those closest to him. Now whom was there left to trust?

A smothered sniffling sound distracted him. In a doorway, he saw Ilsi weeping into her apron.

“Don’t cry; the Bogatyr is strong, he’ll pull through,” he said, trying to sound reassuring.

“I’m not crying for Kostya, I’m crying for Michailo, the deceiving, two-timing bastard!”

“Stop sniveling, Ilsi!” Sosia came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of steaming water in which pungent wound-herbs were steeping. “Take this to the Bogatyr’s chamber—and don’t spill it.”

“Lord Drakhaon.” It was Jushko; his usually impassive face was twisted into a scowl. “We’ve failed you, my lord. He’s given us the slip. Got away. In the confusion.”

“The prisoner?”

“The gold-haired Arkhel. The one she called Jaromir.”

“You let him go?”

“When the Bogatyr was shot, my lord—”

“There are other casualties?”

“We’ve two
druzhina
dead, that’s Nicolai and young Boris; both cut down in the stables. Three others wounded, not counting the Bogatyr. I reckon that about twenty or so have followed Michailo.”

Two dead. So it had been their deaths that had flared bloodred through his mind, disorienting him, bringing him to the brink of the abyss.

“We’ll track them down,” Jushko said grimly. “They’ll pay the price. And after we’ve done with them, no one in Azhkendir will ever dare betray the clan again.”

“And this Jaromir Arkhel went with them?”

“No, my lord. We’re searching the grounds for him now. Though we did find this.” He held out a little pistol, exquisitely fashioned for so lethal a weapon, the handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the muzzle stained black with burned powder.

Gavril took it and examined it. Michailo would never have thrown it away if he had fresh powder or shot. Perhaps, in his ignorance of firearms, he had neglected to bring fresh supplies with him?

He hurried back to Lilias’ rooms and began to search, pulling out drawers, throwing open chests, tossing their contents on the floor. In vain. Until he remembered the baby’s crib. The last place anyone would think to look . . .

Concealed beneath two soft down mattresses he found the box, rosewood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver. And inside, nestling in the gray velvet lining, a little phial of gunpowder and one single bullet.

As he loaded the little pistol, his mind moved on one matter alone.

The
druzhina
had failed to find Jaromir Arkhel the first time. But they had been searching the grounds and outhouses. Any fugitive who knew the hidden passageways could lie low in any of the ruined rooms in the East Wing, deep inside the bowels of the kastel, until the search was called off.

Snowlight filtered into Doctor Kazimir’s abandoned laboratory, turning the dust to glittering powder frost.

Gavril moved noiselessly through the empty rooms, examining the dusty floor for any traces of an intruder. Finding nothing, he hurried on toward the hall.

The blizzard had blown snow through chinks in the boarded windows to lie in little drifts on the floor.

From the upper gallery he leaned over the rail and saw—with bitter satisfaction—the unmistakable pattern of footprints leading away below the ruined stair.

Carefully edging his way down the precarious sweep of the broken staircase, he checked again for prints in the chill light. Bending down, he saw the marks of a man’s boots in the wet snow. Fresh marks. His hand crept to check the little pistol, which he had concealed in his jacket pocket. Lilias had—unwittingly—given him one significant advantage over his quarry.