Lord of Snow and Shadows (54 page)

Visions of past, dead Drakhaon’s Brides clustered in the shadows of her mind. Tender white bodies streaked with traceries of living scarlet; dark, dead eyes staring warningly at her . . .

But wasn’t this what she’d always wanted? To be his?

“Drink. Take what you need from her.”
The smoke-dry voice burned through Gavril’s skull, searing away all rational thought.
“Do you want to die? Without her blood, you’ll die, a horrible, protracted death, starved of nourishment. And I can’t let you die.”

Gavril’s dry lips moved from her mouth to her throat, seeking the sweet succor the Drakhaon promised.

One taste of the blood leaking from her broken flesh—and it was a cooling, healing sweetness that flooded his parched body with life-giving moisture. He could not help himself. He had to have more.

“More,”
breathed the Drakhaoul.

And then he felt Kiukiu shudder in his arms. He raised his head from her breast and saw that her eyes were rolling upward. She slumped fainting against him, her unbound hair soft against his chest like a skein of gold silk, pale autumn gold.

And suddenly he was shocked back into himself.

“Kiukiu?” He said her name, but she did not respond.

“You have not taken enough.”

“I’ve taken too much!” There was blood on his lips. Her blood. What had he done? Weak as he was, he couldn’t bear to begin to imagine what obscene act he had committed.

“She’s given herself to you. Willingly. Why won’t you take what’s yours?”

“No!” Gavril, faint and sick, tried to block out the Drakhaoul’s serpent voice.

“Take her.”
Gavril felt the Drakhaoul rear up within his mind, its dark puissance threatening to overmaster his will.

“I can’t!” Gavril cried out with the last of his strength. “And you can’t make me. I won’t be your puppet any longer!”

“I must survive! And I need your body to do so. . . .”

The room spun. There was a rushing sound in his ears; he was losing consciousness. Yet one simple truth suddenly burned bright in his heart.

“I . . . I love her,” he said in a whisper. “And . . . I won’t let you destroy her. Without her I’d be . . . nothing.”

“Then . . . be . . . nothing.”

Nothing. Gavril, exhausted by the battle of wills, felt himself sucked slowly down into a vortex of blackness.

Nothing . . .

A cold dawn, chill as melting ice, woke Gavril, and for a while he lay staring up at the lead-lighted window, wondering bemusedly where he was and why most of the little glass panes were broken.

Fragments of broken glass were scattered on the floor beside him. And disjointed fragments tumbled through the void of his memory.

The kastel was under siege. Tielen cannons and mortars had blasted the towers, shaking the building to its foundations. . . .

He listened, holding his breath. There was no sound of cannon fire now.

Was it all over?

He looked around him and saw that he was in his father’s study with Kiukiu sprawled across him.

“Kiukiu?” he whispered. He levered himself up on his elbows, until he could touch her hair, her face.

Had the tower been hit by the cannon fire, and they both been knocked unconscious? He was almost naked; the blast must have been very violent to have stripped his clothes from his body. And Kiukiu . . . beneath the curtain of her long golden hair, he saw that her simple linen shift was torn.

“Kiukiu!” he said again, louder this time. Why didn’t she reply? She lay so heavily across him, a dead weight, almost as if she were—

“Kiukiu!”
He leaned forward and lifted her, turning her gently over. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, and as her white breasts and neck were exposed, he saw to his horror the ragged wound, still leaking beads of blood, shockingly red against the pallor of her skin.

Soft white flesh, so fragrantly sweet to kiss, to taste . . .

“Oh no, no, no . . .” he murmured. For now it seemed to him that ragged gash was where he had pressed his burning mouth, seeking succor.

He put his ear to her lips, listening for the faintest hint of a breath, cradling her limp body close.

What have I done?

CHAPTER 42

A white dove wings through the dark woods of Malusha’s dreams, white as innocence.

“Come to me, little pretty one,” Malusha croons, raising her hands to catch the dove.

But before it can alight, eyes gleam blue in the darkness. Some creature of darkness comes writhing out from the thorn-shadows and seizes the dove in its claws, rending it, tearing its soft flesh.

“No!”
cries Malusha, but it is too late. One bloodied white feather flutters down to her. . . .

“Kiukiu!” Malusha awoke, sitting bolt upright in her chair. Lady Iceflower, who had been roosting on the back of the chair, gave a squawk of surprise and flew straight up into the air.

“She’s in trouble,” Malusha said to Lady Iceflower. “I can sense it. Fond, foolish girl, just like her father. Drawn to that cursed House of Nagarian against all her grandmother’s warnings . . .” All the while she was muttering to the owl, she was busying herself, pulling a thick shawl about her shoulders, forcing her calloused feet into her walking boots, picking up the gusly in its embroidered bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

The white dove struggles in the coils of a glittering serpent, its torn feathers strewn about the dark, dank leaves like snow. Its wings flutter feebly as it struggles for life. . . .

“If he’s laid one finger on my grandchild, I’ll send him and his daemon straight to hell!”

Gavril laid Kiukiu gently down on his bed. The embroidered bedspread was covered in a film of plaster dust, but he slid it away from underneath her, pulling out the fine linen sheet beneath to cover her.

All the glass had been shattered in the diamond windowpanes, and the bedchamber was freezing cold.

He knelt beside her, at a loss to know what to do, uselessly stroking her limp hand, talking, as if talking could bring her back.

“Why didn’t you listen to me, Kiukiu? I told you to get out. Why did you stay?”

Her skin was so white it looked almost translucent. White as death.

Tears welled in his eyes, tears hot with grief and guilt.

I’ve killed her.

The sight of her pale, still face blurred as the tears spilled over, trickling down his cheeks.

He leaned forward, blinded by his tears, and gently kissed her chill mouth.

Was that a faint breath escaping her lips, so faint it was hardly even a sigh?

“Kiukiu.” He called her name, his voice tremulous with hope. “Oh, Kiukiu, please open your eyes—”

Suddenly he knew there was one thing only to be done. No matter what the cost to himself, he must see it through.

“If this is what it means to be Drakhaon, then I want no more of it!”

But first he must make his mind a blank, for if
it
once sensed his intention, it would seek to prevent him with all its guile and power.

He hastily pulled on a jacket and breeches and then wrapped the sheet gently, tenderly around Kiukiu.

Then, gathering her up in his arms, he climbed the broken stair to the roof of the Kalika Tower.

Below, he became vaguely aware of distant shouts, of people pointing upward.

Malusha. He was taking her to Malusha the swiftest way he knew how.

He walked to the edge, feeling the wind cold on his face.

Don’t fail me now, Drakhaoul.

Closing his eyes, holding Kiukiu tightly to him, he drew in a deep breath.

And stepped off into the void.

“Malusha?” The abbot peered down at her in the dreary early-morning light.

Malusha cursed under her breath. Why did Yephimy have to interfere? She was sure he’d try to stop her.

“Where are you going so early?”

“To Kastel Drakhaon. Kiukiu needs me.”

“Let us take you there in the cart. It’s a long walk.”

Malusha gave a snort. “I can’t wait for the cart to be made ready. She needs me now!” And then she stopped, sensing an unfamiliar presence approaching, faster than a stormwind. She shivered, feeling a sudden unmistakable tingle of warning in her bones.

“What’s wrong?” the abbot asked, bending down to steady her.

The sky grew dark.

“Too late now, abbot!” Malusha gazed up into the turbulent sky. “He’s here.”

The Drakhaon circled the white cluster of monastery buildings, searching for somewhere to alight. Below, monks appeared, running around, pointing up at him. Faint voices and cries of alarm carried up to him as he swooped lower.

Holding the unconscious girl close, he came to a halt in front of Saint Sergius’ chapel, claws scraping over the frozen ground.

Monks surrounded him. Some threw holy water at him, others brandished spades, axes, hoes, and improvised weapons snatched from their daily chores to defend the holy shrine.

“Fools.”
The dry voice of the Drakhaoul echoed faintly through Gavril’s mind.
“Do they think they can defeat us with gardening tools?”

“Don’t attack!” Yephimy came striding through the throng, staff in hand. “Can’t you see it’s got the girl?”

“Kiukiu!” A little old woman pushed past the abbot and planted herself in front of him, arms akimbo. Her eyes glittered with fury in her wrinkled face; she alone was not afraid of him. “Give me my grandchild, Drakhaon!”

“Destroy the old woman.”

“No.” Gavril struggled to regain control of his mind. His thoughts were clouded in smoke and shadow. Yet he knew there was a reason he had come this far. His salvation, his immortal soul depended upon it. “I must talk with her.”

“The old woman is dangerous. Powerful. She seeks to harm us.”

“Ma . . . Malusha. Help me,” Gavril gasped aloud. “Help me rid myself of this daemon—”

“Gavril!”
The Drakhaoul let out a roar of warning that seared his mind like a lightning spear. It knew now what he intended. It would fight him all the way.

“Give me my grandchild,” repeated Malusha, standing before him, arms outstretched.

Kiukiu. He still held her in his arms. White and gold, her aura, gold and white, a pale flame burning so faintly . . .

He knew then there was a chance, but he must hazard all to save her life.

“Destroy her.”

“No.” With all his strength, Gavril locked his mind to the voice of the Drakhaoul. He willed himself to shrug off the dark-winged daemon-body that imprisoned him. He must slough it off as if he were a snake shedding its skin, a dragonfly emerging from its larval case.

“Kiukiu,” he said aloud. He strove to keep her brightness of spirit illuminating his mind, forcing the cloaking shadows to melt away from him, the great wings to fold into his body. The dark haze of heat clouding his vision dispersed.

He collapsed to his knees—a man again, still holding Kiukiu close.

“Quick!” he gasped. “I haven’t long.”

Yephimy dropped his staff and bent to take Kiukiu from him, gathering her up in his strong arms.

“Bring Lord Gavril to the shrine,” Malusha said to the monks, “and tie him down. The daemon will fight us every inch of the way.”

A thunderclap resounded through Gavril’s mind. Pain stars of blue and black glittered in his brain. Gavril clapped his hands to his head, fighting to keep the Drakhaoul from regaining control.

“Why do you betray me, Gavril?”
Each dark word was etched on his mind in fire.
“We are one now. Divide us and you will go insane.”

“That . . .” Gavril managed to rasp out, “is . . . a risk . . . I gladly take . . . to be finally rid of you!”

Malusha watched as the monks threw themselves upon Lord Gavril, wrestling to secure him with ropes. Daemon-possessed, he fought back, snarling, tearing at them with his taloned hands and bared teeth. But in the end they bore him down and bound his wrists and legs securely. Yet still he lashed his head frenziedly from side to side.

They dragged him into Saint Sergius’ shrine and she followed, drawing the gusly from her shoulder bag.

She looked dispassionately down at the young Drakhaon as the monks bound him to a stone slab.

Had she misjudged him?

He had come of his own free will—and at unimaginable risk to his own life—to beg her help to exorcise the Drakhaoul. He was voluntarily giving up his powers, powers so great that other men would kill to possess them.

Maybe Kiukiu had been right and this one was different from all the other Nagarians before him.

She struck a jagged jangle of notes on the gusly, hearing them echo and reecho round the candlelit shrine.

Gavril felt his consciousness fading far from the shrine. The glimmer of the candles slowly receded, and he found himself floating on a soft fluff of snowclouds: white, shot through with winter gold, suspended in a moment beyond time.

Malusha stood opposite him—only she was no longer a shrunken old woman, but young, tall, and strong, her brown hair blown by the soft breeze of this other plane beyond the world of the living.

“I can only control it a little while,” she said. “Do what you must, and be quick.”

Gavril gazed down and even as she spoke it seemed as if his body melted to translucence. . . .

There it lay, coiled tightly around his heart like a serpent. Slender filaments, pulsing bright star blue, extended throughout his whole body and into his brain, a delicate tracery, thin as spidersilk. It had insinuated itself into every part of his being, inextricably intermingling itself.

Gavril steeled himself, and plunged his hands into his own breast, clutching hold of the Drakhaoul.

It was like clawing himself apart, rending, tearing his own flesh and sinew. And as his fingers took hold of the creature, he felt a shock sizzle through his whole body. Searing pain burned across his mind, white-blue as Drakhaoul’s Fire.

“Don’t let go!” Malusha cried.

“Gavril.”
The Drakhaoul spoke to him now, its soft voice riven with agony.
“Why are you destroying me? I am the last of my kind. Can you live with my death on your conscience?”

“Don’t listen to it.”

“I made you strong. I made you powerful. Without me you are nothing!”

“I would rather . . . be . . . nothing.” Gavril clung on, tugging, feeling the slender filaments snap, one by one, as it slowly relinquished its stranglehold.

“You think you can live without me, but without me you’ll go mad. Insane.”

Gavril gritted his teeth and tugged with all his strength. Suddenly he felt the Drakhaoul slither out of him and he fell, wrestling with a vast shadow-daemon, enmeshed in its serpentine coils.

“Malusha!” he cried, his voice half-stifled.
“Now!”

Malusha gazed at the Drakhaoul.

She saw it in all its alien glamor: terrible yet possessed of a glittering beauty, a spirit creature from the Ways Beyond, a stranger alone, abandoned in her world, unimaginably far from its own kind. For a moment she stood, pierced by sadness at its plight.

And then she remembered. This was the daemon that had ruined her life, destroying her lord and his household. This was the daemon that had ruled Azhkendir for centuries by fear.

She opened her mouth and a strong, dark note emerged from deep within her throat, an earsplitting resonance that tolled with the crackling intensity of rolling thunder.

In a flicker of darkness, the Drakhaoul reared round, like a snake about to strike. Eyes of blue and gold scanned her. She flinched. It was as if it had clawed through her mind, exposing her deepest, most intimate thoughts.

“Can’t . . . control it much longer . . .” Gavril still clung on.

And then she found it. The pitch at which its very being, its essence, vibrated. Suddenly she was in tune with it, suddenly
she
was in control.

Light was sucked from the air. Buzzing darkness smothered Gavril. Glimmers of blue phosphorescence lit the shadows. He could no longer breathe, he was suffocating. . . .

A convulsive shudder rippled through the strangling coils of the Drakhaoul.

He felt it cry out.

“Ahh, Gavril—”

The cry scored across his mind, a terrifying ululation of fury and loss.

He was flung down as the creature lifted from him, spinning helpless in a vortex of cloud and starshadow.

“Begone.” Malusha stood over him, one arm raised.

And the glittering shadow-vortex blew away across the heavens, shredding clouds like dark feathers in its wake.