Lord of Snow and Shadows (45 page)

“Don’t let me die . . .”
the dark, dry voice whispered in his brain.
“There is so much more I have to give you.”

“You’re part of my dream. I’m still dreaming.” Gavril, trying to exorcise the phantom dreamvoice, pressed his fingers into his temples until the self-inflicted pain made him squirm.

“I am the last of my kind,”
it said with sudden clarity.
“You must protect me. Preserve me.”

“How do you feel this morning, my lord?” inquired Altan Kazimir.

Gavril sat slumped in a chair. He hadn’t even enough energy to get up.

“Kostya drugged me when he abducted me from Smarna,” he said, each word an effort. “I feel much the same as I did then. Sick. Dizzy. Confused.”

“Hm.” Kazimir slipped his fingers around his wrist, feeling for his pulse.

“And I kept hearing this voice in my sleep last night.” Gavril tried to focus his aching eyes on the doctor’s face. “Am I going mad? Or was it like this for my father?”

“There are dangerous toxins to be purged from your bloodstream.” Kazimir produced the syringe again, pushing up Gavril’s sleeve.

Gavril groaned. “Not more blood. You’ll bleed me dry.”

There came a sudden clamor of voices outside. Kazimir jumped, startled, and the syringe fell to the floor and broke.

“Lord Drakhaon!”

“You’re not to disturb him, Juri!” Sosia’s voice, shrill with annoyance, only made Gavril’s head ache more.

“This news can’t wait.” The door burst open and one of the elder
druzhina
strode in, Sosia clinging to his arm in a vain attempt to stop him.

“There’s been another sighting!” he said, hoarse for lack of breath.

“Where?” Gavril said.

“In the southern foothills. We were shadowing the Tielens, just as you ordered. And suddenly we sensed one of our own was close by.” Juri’s voice dried in his throat and Sosia poured him a mug of small beer. Juri swallowed the beer down in one gulp, swiping the last drops from his graying moustache with the back of his hand. “Grisha. It was Grisha Bearclaws. Who else can climb with such agility? He was watching the Tielens—like us—and he was so intent on his watch, he didn’t even know we were there. But he was high, high up, in a narrow gully. If we’d have gone after him, we’d have given ourselves away to the Tielens.”

“You let him go!” said Gavril in exasperation. Kazimir was on his knees, trying to pick up the slivers of glass, muttering to himself under his breath.

“He can’t have gone far. I’d guess Michailo’s hiding out somewhere close by.”

“We have a lead on Michailo?” cried Jushko from the open doorway. Kazimir flinched at the sight of him and dropped the shards of glass.

“So it seems.” Gavril had not forgotten his promise to Jaromir to find Lilias; now, at last, there was a chance he could fulfill it. “I want Lilias Arbelian and her baby caught and brought back unharmed,” he said. “Do you understand me, Jushko? They’re of vital importance to us.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Jushko said grudgingly. “But it won’t be easy with those cursed Tielens everywhere.”

“Unharmed, Jushko!” Gavril tried to push himself to his feet—but the room spun about him and he reeled, grabbing at the chair arm. Jushko lunged forward and caught hold of him.

“What are you doing to him?” he cried, rounding on Kazimir. “He looks half-dead! My lord—I beg you—stop this cure before it kills you.”

“I gave my word,” Gavril whispered, sinking back into the chair.

Eugene reined Cinnamor to a standstill and gazed back at the column of men winding away through the narrow gorge. Beneath them a dark mountain river foamed and churned over boulders stained brown with minerals. The humble beginnings of the great Nieva? he wondered. He must consult his charts. . . .

A thin, stinging sleet had begun to fall.

“What a wretched country, Anckstrom,” he said, turning his collar up to keep out the sleet. “Good thing our men are well-used to adverse conditions.”

“Well-trained, highness,” Anckstrom said dourly. His nose glowed crimson with the cold.

“We should make camp for the night.” Eugene glanced up at the fast-darkening sky.

“Isn’t this place a little too exposed?” Anckstrom gestured up at the overhanging crags high overhead. “They could ambush us from at least a hundred points.”

“And we could tramp on another ten miles and find it just the same. We knew it would be hard going through the mountains. Post extra sentinels—and issue an extra ration of aquavit to keep out the cold.”

Eugene’s aides hastily began to erect his field tent. Eugene dismounted and handed Cinnamor’s reins to his groom. Then he went among the men as they set about setting up their tents for the night, exchanging a word and a joke here, an ounce of tobacco there. Linnaius’ fire sticks were put to good use, intense flames of scarlet springing up in the gathering gloom.

When he returned to the tent, he found that Anckstrom had set up Linnaius’ Vox Aethyria on the little table beside a half-unfurled map of the whole continent.

“Any news?”

Anckstrom looked up. “We’ve just had word from the fleet. They’ve met little resistance from the Muscobites. Exchanged a few broadsides. Sank two frigates, shot the flagship’s mainmast in two. Admiral Janssen expects to be outside Mirom by noon tomorrow.”

“But no word from Jaromir? No word at all?” Eugene could not put his mind to the other matters until he was certain Jaromir was safe.

“Everything’s going according to plan, highness. We’ve encountered no resistance from the Azhkendi.”

“By God, if anything’s happened to him, I’ll make them pay.” The news of the fleet’s victory did not excite Eugene; it was the least he had expected of Admiral Janssen.

“They’ve kept to their part of the bargain thus far. They’ve been watching us. From a safe distance.”

Eugene nodded curtly. “I’ve seen them.”

“Biding their time?”

One of the aides brought them glasses of hot lingonberry brandy, dark red and fruitily alcoholic.

“Ah,” said Anckstrom, appreciatively smacking his lips. “That drives out the chill.”

A burst of shouting rang out, then the crack of shots.

Eugene and Anckstrom grabbed their pistols and tugged open the tent flap.

“Stay back, highness!” Anckstrom tried to block the tent entrance, pushing Eugene behind him, but Eugene, pistols primed, thrust him aside.

“What’s happened? Have we been attacked?”

One of his aides came hurrying over, torch in hand.

“Not precisely, highness. There’s some kind of skirmish farther up in the gorge. Captain Olsven has gone up to investigate.”

Lilias caught sight of the Tielen campfires in the gorge far below, little red flowers of light springing up one by one in the gathering darkness. Now she could think of nothing but the comfort of lying in a proper bed again, the warmth of perfumed hot water on her skin, hot food and wine, fine wine to drink. . . .

She was tired of being a fugitive. She was tired of Michailo and his surly moods. She wanted a bath.

She set out down the narrow stony track, heedless of the noise made by the pebbles she dislodged as she walked.

Michailo came hurrying after her, grabbing her by the arm.

“Are you mad, Lilias? Anyone can see you out here! There’s no cover!”

“Let go of me!” she hissed, trying to shake herself free. “Down there, that’s our only hope of getting out of Azhkendir alive.”

“Oh, so you think you can just walk straight in past their sentries, without getting shot on sight? That’s an invading army, Lilias, or hadn’t you noticed? They’re not on maneuvers now.”

“Michailo!” Grisha shouted. “Look out!”

Michailo grabbed hold of her, pulling her down into the snow-covered bracken as an arrow rasped over her head. One of Michailo’s men let out a hoarse scream as another arrow ripped through his throat, and he pitched forward into the gully. Another arrow and another thudded into the gorse a foot away, a shower of razor-barbed, long-stemmed shafts.
Druzhina
arrows.

“Stupid bitch. They’ve tracked us!” He began to crawl forward on his belly over the frozen ground, axe in hand.

“My baby—” She tried to struggle up but he shoved her back into the scrub.

“Keep low. D’you want to be skewered?”

“You’re surrounded, Michailo!” The voice, hard as ironstone, rang out across the steep hillside. “Throw down your weapons. Give yourselves up.”

Michailo kept moving stealthily onward through the bracken. Lilias caught the dull glint of his throwing knife as he withdrew it from his boot.

“Here I am, Jushko!” Michailo jeered. “Come and get me!”

Shadowy figures appeared from behind boulders and stone outcrops. The
druzhina
had been lying in wait for them.

Lilias saw Michailo fling the knife with deadly accuracy, then hurl himself forward, whirling his axe about his head.

The barren hillside rang with the scything clash of steel on steel and the grunts and yells of the combatants.

Where were Dysis and the baby? Lilias began to edge away down the track. And where were Eugene’s sentinels? Surely they must have heard the commotion by now.

Shots rang out. Shouts in a foreign tongue. Tielen soldiers were running up the track toward the fracas.

Lilias leapt out in their path, waving her arms.

“Help me, oh please help me!” she cried. “They’ve got my baby.”

Two of the infantrymen stopped, bayonets leveled at her throat. She raised her hands high in the air. Her mind went blank with terror, and then she remembered one of the few phrases in the Tielen language that Feodor Velemir had taught her long ago.

“Take me to your commanding officer,” she said, stumbling over the pronunciation. “Please.”

They stared at each other, baffled. Behind her, she heard the high-pitched wail of a baby rising above the shots and cries.

“My baby!” she said. Tears sprang to her eyes, unfeigned. “Save my baby.” She was a negligent mother, she knew it, but Artamon was her only child, and at that moment she knew she would fight to the death to protect him.

“Madame, madame, you’re safe!”

Dysis came stumbling down the steep track toward her, carrying a furiously yelling bundle. Lilias forgot about the bayonets and grabbed Artamon from her, clasping him close, feeling his hot little fists beat against her and tear at her hair, amazed at his strength and fury.

“There, there, baby, it’s all right, Mama’s got you now. . . .”

“It’s terrible up there, madame,” Dysis wept. “It’s a massacre. First the
druzhina,
now these soldiers. Blood on the snow. I wish I hadn’t seen it.” Her face was streaked with tears and dirt; her hair had come down about her shoulders.

“This way,” one of the infantrymen said stiltedly in the common tongue, gesturing with his carbine down the track toward the camp.

“Yes, yes,” Lilias said above Artamon’s crying. “We’re coming. We’re coming.”

“Not one word of farewell. Not even goodbye. Just up and away.” Kiukiu paced beneath the bare branches in the frosty monastery orchard. “Do I matter so little to him?”

Her memories of what had happened on the mountainside were as fleeting as fever dreams. Yet one moment had stayed with her, so vivid that she was certain she had not dreamed it: the moment he had spoken her name, leaning close to stroke her face, and she had heard the catch in his voice. He had feelings for her, she was sure of it—so why had he gone away?

The monastery bells began to clang. Startled pigeons tumbled out of the bell tower in a flurry of gray wings.

Kiukiu hurried toward the courtyard, wondering why the brothers were ringing the bells when there was no act of worship to be observed until dusk.

The brothers came running out from the infirmary, the library, and the kitchens, assembling in front of the church. Kiukiu followed them.

Abbot Yephimy climbed to the top of the steps, turning to address them as the clamor of the bells died.

“Grave news, my brothers,” he said. “Azhkendir has been invaded by the Tielen army.”

Kiukiu stared at the abbot. Were they at war with Tielen? Was Lord Gavril in danger?

“There’s no news yet of any hostilities, but we must prepare to receive and tend casualties. Brother Hospitaler . . .”

The assembly broke up as the monks gathered around Brother Hospitaler, who began to issue orders.

Kiukiu drew her cloak about her more closely, pulling the hood down over her head, and made for the gates.

She felt a firm hand clamp on her shoulder and, looking round, saw Abbot Yephimy behind her.

“Where are you going, child?”

“They need me at Kastel Drakhaon.”

“You’ll be far safer here in the monastery. Stay with your grandmother. She needs you too.”

“I don’t care about the danger,” she said, surprised at the coolness of her words. “I have to go help. In any way I can.”

Must escape. I must escape.

Elysia took out the third of her hairpins and began again to try to bend it. Two had snapped in her first lock-picking experiments, so this time she had warmed the metal first at the grate before setting to work.

Velemir must have anticipated that she would try to escape, for the only cutlery she was given with her meals were spoons and a blunt knife—and the servant was ordered not to leave unless every one had been returned.

Soon she would be obliged to tie her hair back with a ribbon, for there were only three pins left to support the loose chignon into which she had wound her hair. Would her jailers notice? Velemir had not been to see her in over a day. . . .

As she worked at her improvised lock pick, she forced herself to plan what she would do if she succeeded. She had already discounted stealing a horse from the stables and riding off into the snows. She must find out where in the palace Astasia was installed, and beg her protection. There was no other course of action.

Her crude efforts had bent the pin enough to risk a third attempt. She knelt down at the keyhole and slid the crude pick in, jiggling it about until it encountered resistance.