Seven, They Were Seven, the Dark Angels of Destruction

Sardion, Arkhan of Enhirre, stared up at the watch fires burning on the battlements of the ancient fortress of Ondhessar. For centuries it had towered over the desert, his country’s strongest bastion against invaders, concealing a priceless treasure in its vaults: the shrine dedicated to Azilis, the Eternal Singer. For centuries it had been his family’s sacred duty to protect the sacred Lodestar that housed her spirit, aided by the secret sect of the magi of Ondhessar, his Emissaries.

But he had failed. After a bitter and bloody siege in which many of his magi had fallen, the Francian Commanderie had seized the fortress. His first attempt to take back Ondhessar had cost him dear; his beloved eldest son Alarion had died in the conflict and the Francians had beaten back his forces. The next attempt to take back the fortress, by stealth and magic, would have succeeded, had it not been for the untimely arrival of the Allegondan Commanderie, the Rosecoeurs. And now the hated banner of the rose fluttered from every turret of the fortress.

He had sent a mage-assassin to exact his revenge against the Francian royal family. First the Crown Prince, Aubrey, had died — and then his father, King Gobain. But it was not enough, not nearly enough to sate the grief or the emptiness in his soul.

A dry, cold wind suddenly gusted across the desert and the Arkhan pulled his burnous up to cover his nose and mouth as granules of choking sand swirled into the night air. Above him, the stars burned with pitiless brilliance in a black sky.

“I must take Ondhessar back,” he murmured to the stars, “by whatever means I can, no matter how high the cost.” His generals had failed him. Even his magi had failed him.

“My lord Arkhan? You have a visitor. A most… unexpected visitor.”

Sardion turned, startled out of his dreams of revenge, to see Lord Estael, the commander of his few surviving magi, standing behind him.

“Who is it?”

“Lord Volkh Nagarian. The Drakhaon of Azhkendir.”

*

So the legends are true, Estael thought, as he gazed at the Arkhan’s unexpected guest.

Lord Volkh was tall, broad-shouldered, his black hair and beard sprinkled with the first threads of silver. Yet it was the darkness of his aura that compelled Estael’s attention; the instant the stranger entered the Arkhan’s audience chamber, the elder magus felt a shiver of warning.

We’re in the presence of a powerful and ancient daemon. Is this why Sardion asked me to stay? To protect him? I fear my powers are no match for the creature of darkness that has concealed itself within this man.

“This is an unexpected honor, Lord Drakhaon,” Sardion said guardedly.

“I’ve traveled a long way to see you, Lord Arkhan.” The Drakhaon turned to stare at Estael and Estael saw that the Drakhaon’s eyes were piercingly, luminously blue. Unlike the magi of Ondhessar, Lord Volkh did not hide the evidence of his daemon blood behind thick spectacle lenses. “This is a matter of the utmost confidentiality; I’d prefer it if we could talk in private.”

“This is Estael, the eldest of the magi of Ondhessar; he has knowledge that may be of use to you.”

“If he stays, then Bogatyr Kostya stays too.” Behind the Drakhaon stood a single retainer, scarred arms folded, his iron-grey hair braided, Azhkendi-style. He had been obliged to hand over his weapons before being admitted to the Arkhan’s presence, but his aggressive, menacing stance was enough to instill respect as he moved closer to his master, glaring suspiciously at Estael.

“What brings you so far from Azhkendir?” Sardion gestured to Lord Volkh to sit opposite him.

“I want to be rid of the Drakhaoul.”

“To be rid of it?” Sardion repeated and Estael heard the astonishment in his voice. “You inherited the powers of a Drakhaoul — and you want to be rid of it?”

“Have you no idea what it means to use these daemonic powers?” Lord Volkh cried. “Or what becomes of a mortal man’s body when it is forced to host a Drakhaoul? Look at me. Look more closely.” He lifted his hands to reveal sharp talons where the nails should have been, each one a dark cobalt. “And my hair.” In the muted light filtering from behind the linen blinds drawn to shade the chamber from the fierce sun, Estael could just make out now that the Drakhaon’s hair was more dark blue than black.

“Surely a small price to pay?” Sardion seemed unimpressed. “I heard that you defeated Stavyomir Arkhel’s men and laid waste to his lands single-handed.”

“This is merely the outward manifestation of its presence.” Lord Volkh’s voice grew so quiet that Estael had to lean forward to catch his words. “There is a legend in my country. It tells of the Drakhaoul’s Brides, young women who were given to my ancestors… and were never seen alive again. It is no legend. Using the Drakhaoul’s powers takes a terrible toll on a mortal body. It creates a terrible hunger that can only be assuaged by… ” The Drakhaon’s powerful voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “By drinking fresh human blood.”

So those hooked talons had torn innocent flesh…

“The priests of Nagazdiel summoned the Drakhaouls by blood sacrifice,” Estael said. “The only way to bring a daemon into our world from the Realm of Shadows is to dispatch another soul to take its place.”

Lord Volkh turned to him, and his eyes burned so piercingly blue that Estael could not hold his gaze and looked swiftly away. “How do you know all this, Magus?”

“It’s one of the Seven Arcane Secrets of Ondhessar that have been handed down from one elder magus to another since our order was founded.”

“I don’t suppose that such knowledge would have helped my father.” Lord Volkh no longer gazed at Estael but through him at some far-distant point. “The hunger eventually drives us mad. He grew so desperate that he abandoned me and my mother and sailed far into unchartered waters, searching for the lost island of Ty Nagar.”

“Estael, have you ever heard of this Ty Nagar?” The Arkhan asked the question idly enough, but Estael, who knew his master well, sensed that he was taking far too keen an interest in the matter.

“Is that where the portal to the Realm of Shadows is said to be?” Estael said guardedly. “The place known as the Serpent Gate?”

Lord Volkh gave a brusque nod. “My father’s last wish was to send the Drakhaoul back to the Realm of Shadows and end the curse on our family. But he died, far from home, before he could fulfill his quest and the Drakhaoul returned, passing the curse on to me. The truth is, Lord Arkhan, that I don’t know how much longer I can endure this burden.”

Estael heard the weary desperation in Lord Volkh’s deep voice. It must have taken a great deal of courage for such a proud warlord to bare his soul to two strangers.

“And why, my lord, do you believe that I can help you?” asked Sardion.

“I’ve spent many years researching the history of the Drakhaouls” — Lord Volkh turned his burning blue gaze on Sardion — “and I discovered that your ancestors, Lord Arkhan, were once priests of Nagazdiel, the prince of the Drakhaouls. I believe that you and your magi may possess the lost knowledge that I’m seeking.”

Estael realized that both men were staring expectantly at him. As elder magus, he had guarded the secrets of the Rift that lay hidden below Ondhessar for many years and he was not prepared to reveal them so freely to a stranger.

“It was the priests of Nagazdiel who first brought the Drakhaouls from the Realm of Shadows through the Serpent Gate to serve the sons of the Emperor Artamon,” continued Lord Volkh. “So you must know of a way to send the Drakhaoul back.”

“What other means have you tried, my lord? Exorcism?”

Lord Volkh let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, the monks at Saint Sergius’s Monastery tried — to their cost. It was far too powerful for them.”

“And what will become of this Drakhaoul, Lord Volkh, when you die?” The Arkhan’s question sounded innocent enough, but Estael, to his alarm, detected an underlying hint of interest.

“It will seek out my son, Gavril. It attaches itself only to the male bloodline. I’d do anything to save my son from inheriting this curse. Gavril is a gentle, artistic boy who’s studying to be a painter.” To Estael’s surprise, a sad, almost wistful look entered Lord Volkh’s blue eyes. “He knows nothing of me… or the Drakhaoul.”

“And if you had no son?”

Bogatyr Kostya, who had stood listening, as still and silent as a statue, unfolded his scarred arms and took a step forward.

“Is that a threat, Lord Arkhan?” He stared challengingly at Sardion.

“Stand down, Kostya,” Lord Volkh growled, as if addressing a disobedient mastiff.

“Join with me, Lord Volkh,” said Sardion suddenly. “Help me drive the Allegondans out of my lands. Lend me your powers.”

Lord Volkh’s fist came down on the table like a thunderclap, making Estael jump. “Have you any idea what you’re asking?” In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Estael saw his master’s gaze harden. Sardion’s moods were unpredictable and Estael inwardly prayed that the Arkhan would not provoke the Drakhaon into transforming into his Drakhaoul-form. But then, to Estael’s surprise, the blue fire faded from Lord Volkh’s eyes and his expression became distant, almost sad. “I had hoped that you would understand, Lord Arkhan. But I see I was mistaken.”

“All I know,” volunteered Estael bravely, “is that the Serpent Gate was sealed by Saint Sergius and the key to opening it, the fabled ruby known as Nagar’s Eye, was divided up centuries ago by Artamon’s sons. Even if we discovered where Ty Nagar lies, Lord Volkh, there is no way to reopen the Gate — unless the divided shards of ruby could somehow be found and reunited… ”

Lord Volkh let out a harsh sigh. “So even you are unable to help me.”

“I fear you have had a wasted journey, my lord.” Sardion smiled, yet there was no warmth in his expression. “But please stay with us tonight and let us entertain you. The sun will soon be setting and the desert nights are cold.”

“I’ll not prevail upon your hospitality any longer.” Lord Volkh rose abruptly. “Come, Kostya.”

*

Estael still sat at the table, unable to move. He realized that his hands were shaking. So even without revealing the daemon sleeping within him, the Drakhaon could induce this deep, visceral fear in everyone he encountered.

“He possesses the power of the last of the Seven,” he heard Sardion mutter, “and he wants to be rid of it?”

A sudden burst of daemonic energy rippled through the air. Heart thudding with apprehension, Estael got up, knocking over his chair, and ran out onto the balcony. Surely Lord Volkh would not attack the palace?

“What is it, Estael?” Sardion cried, following him.

“My lord, look. Look up!”

Darker than the night itself, a great dragon wheeled overhead, the glittering scales on its body shedding a fine trail, like powdered stardust. As it winged away, Estael saw it gaze back down at them, and he recognized the proud, bitter look in its moon-blue, slanting eyes.

“Volkh is a fool.” Sardion was still muttering under his breath as he followed the Drakhaon’s flight across the moonlit desert until the dragon could no longer be seen against the stars. “He could rule the quadrant.” The Arkhan swung round and gripped Estael by the shoulder. “Do you give me your word never to reveal anything of what I’m going to show you? On pain of death?”

Estael saw the crazed gleam in Sardion’s eyes and knew that it would be madness to refuse his master’s request.

“Follow me, Estael.”

*

“Sentient stone?” Estael murmured, watching as the Arkhan made a cut with his dagger in his palm and smeared a little of his blood on the wall. A hidden carving appeared, sigils and the arcane hieroglyphs of Ancient Enhirran. So the hidden door could only be opened by a drop of the Arkhan’s blood.

“Now you. Or else the chamber will never let you out again. And you wouldn’t want to end your days walled in belowground, would you?”

Estael silently offered his palm to the Arkhan’s blade and let a drop or two of his blood trickle down the dark, worn stone. A grinding, groaning noise began and a small doorway opened. Sardion led the way, the magus following down the dark passageway until they came to a second door where the same blood ritual was repeated.

The chamber beyond was lined in black marble: even in lanternlight, the atmosphere was somber and stifling.

“My father first brought me down here when I was eight,” said Sardion. “I was terrified. I thought it was a tomb. I imagined there would be dead bodies.”

Estael was gazing around him. “No bodies… but there are carvings in an ancient script. He began to translate. “‘Seven, they were Seven, the Dark Angels of Destruction.’” He broke off. “What is this place?”

“It’s a shrine to Nagazdiel, the Prince of the Realm of Shadows,” said Sardion. He drew aside a curtain that concealed a mosaic portraying a winged man, fashioned from chips of obsidian, garnet, and ruby. “The most powerful of the Drakhaouls.”

“And this door?” Estael began to feel apprehensive. What was the Arkhan’s true motive in revealing these ancient secrets to him?

“It leads into the Rift. My ancestors believed that it also led to the Realm of Shadows. And that anyone who could find his way into the Shadows could summon Nagazdiel to do his bidding.”

“Did any of your ancestors ever attempt such a rash act?”

“We cannot enter the Rift. Those who tried, perished. In agony. Only those with mage blood can survive in the unstable atmosphere of the Rift.” Sardion gazed pointedly at Estael.

“You don’t mean me, Lord Arkhan?” Estael stared back at him, aghast. “Surely one of the younger Emissaries would be a better choice… ”

“Rieuk Mordiern, then. He’s the most powerful of you all.”

“Rieuk is still recovering from his injuries. But I beg you to reconsider. If you set Nagazdiel free, can you be sure that such a powerful Drakhaoul would obey you? After all, he — ”

“Are you daring to suggest that I am not as strong as Lord Nagarian? That I’m not capable of controlling a daemon from the Realm of Shadows?”

“No, Lord Arkhan, but I was reminding you that the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir was merely one of Nagazdiel’s warriors. Nagazdiel himself — ”

Sardion quelled his objections with a single look. “Test this doorway for me, Estael.”

*

Estael steeled himself and passed through the doorway. If the Arkhan was wrong, he would suffocate in the unstable atmosphere. Veil upon veil of shadows parted, like gauzy spiderwebs, as he reluctantly moved forward, not wanting to leave the safety of the doorway. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw a dreary wasteland stretching away into the far distance. Everything was the color of dust. From time to time a chill wind gusted across the emptiness but otherwise nothing stirred.

“What a terrible place,” Estael murmured aloud.

And then he sensed it. A mighty power, darker than a stormcloud, was approaching. He shrank back. His sole instinct was to flee, to get away before it discovered him. Two stars had appeared in the dun light, crimson as fire. No, not stars — eyes, slanted, cruel eyes. And they were coming toward him, bearing down on him, relentless and swift. Estael turned to run back toward the doorway.

“What are you doing here, Magus?” The voice pierced him like an icy spear. Trembling, Estael dropped to his knees. “Have you come to set me free?”

Estael dared to look up. The Drakhaoul towered over him, its crimson eyes burning into him, reading him to the most secret recesses of his soul. Its powerful body was sheathed in scales of black jet that shimmered in the dull light. A mane of charcoal-black hair streamed down its back.

“You’re not strong enough to host me, old man,” it said scornfully. Estael felt its hold over him relax and he fell forward into the dust. And as it strode away into the darkness, he heard it murmur, “Am I never to escape?”

Chapter 1

The Aethyr Vox stood on Magister Linnaius’s desk collecting dust. It had stood there for many weeks, awaiting its inventor’s return. And Rieuk Mordiern, Linnaius’s apprentice, had been assigned to cleaning duties again. With a feather duster, he began to clean the delicate mechanism.

“Apprentice alchymist? Unpaid servant, more like,” he muttered to the empty laboratory.

In his master’s absence, Rieuk had been kept busy assisting Magister de Maunoir, but he was still charged with the task of keeping Linnaius’s laboratory clean, in readiness for his return.

The Aethyr Vox had been developed by the two alchymists, Linnaius and Hervé de Maunoir. The device was designed to convey the voice through the aethyr by setting up resonances, using crystals that had been alchymically charged. A second Vox had been installed in Magister de Maunoir’s cottage beyond the college walls, and the two magisters had spent many long hours trying to communicate with each other. But to their frustration, it still did not work.

Next to the Vox stood a tray glittering with quartz crystals of varying shapes and types; each one had already been tested in the Vox as a conductor and discarded. Rieuk set down the duster and lifted one, balancing it in the palm of his hand.

He could sense a faint resonance emanating from the heart of the crystal. This natural connection between his flesh and blood and the rock was intoxicating. It was if he was listening to the heartbeat of the earth itself. He had begun of late to realize that the other students did not share this ability. If he closed his eyes and let his mind become fully attuned to the pulse, he could sometimes glimpse the aethyr stream; a fast-flowing current moving between worlds and dimensions.

The crystal vibrations flowed through Rieuk’s body. This one sang like a high, reedy flute, emitting little pulses of citrine light. Entranced by the purity of its cleansing tone, he stood there, his tasks forgotten, listening intently.

The door burst open. Startled, Rieuk almost dropped the crystal. But it was only Deniel, Magister de Rhuys’s apprentice.

“Magister Gonery needs you. It’s urgent.”

Rieuk slipped the crystal into his jacket pocket for safe keeping. “What’s so urgent it can’t wait till I’ve done my chores?” he asked as he followed Deniel out into the corridor.

“Important visitors from the capital. Asking for your master. Hurry!”

The Vox. It must be about the Vox.

Rieuk ran all the way from Magister Linnaius’s tower to the principal’s study, almost sliding down the spiral stair. He arrived out of breath.

“Ah, here is Rieuk Mordiern, Magister Linnaius’s apprentice,” said Magister Gonery, beckoning him inside. “Close the door, Rieuk. We don’t want to be interrupted.”

Two strangers turned to stare at him. Both wore long and travel-stained coats, yet there was something about their haughty bearing that spoke of power and influence. These must be the government officials, come to check on the invention that they had funded. One had a grizzled, neatly-trimmed beard; the other, smooth-shaven, hovered behind, holding a despatch case.

“Well?” asked the elder of the two, seating himself opposite Magister Gonery. “Is the device ready?”

Rieuk shot an anguished look at the old alchymist.

“There have been a few… minor problems,” said Gonery in level tones.

“Unfortunate for my masters… but rather more unfortunate for you and the college.” The government official’s voice was smooth and pleasantly modulated but Rieuk heard an unmistakable hint of warning and shivered. “Magister Linnaius made us a promise. He assured us that the Vox would be finished by early summer. And now, when Francia has its greatest need, you tell me that he’s encountered a ‘few problems’?”

“Where is he?” demanded the other. “Why is he not here, as we arranged? Does he intend to insult us by sending a mere apprentice in his stead? Or is he too ashamed to show his face?”

A mere apprentice. That stung.

“Rieuk, tell our visitors where your master has gone.”

Rieuk felt as if a hand had tightened around his vocal chords. “My – my master has gone overseas to find a special kind of crystal for the Vox.”

The elder of the two let out an impatient sigh. “This is unacceptable. The Ministry has paid the college a considerable sum of money to finance this project.”

“Exactly when was your master planning on returning?” said the other, rounding on Rieuk. Rieuk took a step back.

“If the Admiralty could just grant us another week or so… ” put in Magister Gonery. Rieuk had never heard Magister Gonery speak so deferentially before.

“In my opinion, too much is riding on the success of Magister Linnaius’s invention,” said the elder official to his colleague. He leaned on Magister Gonery’s desk, confronting the old alchymist. “Have you any idea what’s happening outside the peaceful confines of your little college, Magister?”

Gonery shook his head.

“Francia is under threat. War with Tielen is almost inevitable. We need the Vox now.”

War? Rieuk’s eyes widened at the thought. Were the Tielens about to launch an invasion?

“Heaven knows, it’s been hard enough trying to keep the Inquisition away from your doors. And now there’s a new Inquisitor who is more than eager to prove himself to the king.”

“A new Inquisitor?” Magister Gonery repeated slowly, as though digesting this information.

“Alois Visant. And he has his eye on this college. It seems that there have been complaints in the town. Accusations. At the first whisper of forbidden practices, he will shut you down and put you all on trial.”

“We have nothing to hide,” said Gonery mildly.

This news only increased Rieuk’s apprehension; if the Admiralty officials went away empty-handed, they would withdraw their protection and the college would be in danger from the religious fanatics running the Inquisition. They were suspicious of alchymy, regarding it as little different from the forbidden Dark Arts.

“We’re busy men, Magister, we can’t waste any more time here,” said the elder.

“If you were to return tomorrow, gentlemen, I’m sure that – ”

“We’re on our way to the naval dockyards at Fenez-Tyr. If there’s a breakthrough, send word to us there, at the manager’s house.” The younger official placed a paper on Gonery’s desk and snapped his case shut.

“If we hear nothing from you by the end of the week, then your funding will be stopped and the project cancelled.” The elder official stopped at the door, then turned back as if a thought had just occurred to him. “And if that happens, we can no longer protect you from investigation by the Inquisition.”

Magister Gonery nodded.

“We’ll show ourselves out. Good-day to you, Magister Gonery.”

When the visitors had gone, Magister Gonery sank back down into his chair. Rieuk glanced at the elderly alchymist, uncertain what to do. The official’s ominous last words kept repeating in his head. An Inquisition investigation.

“This is serious, isn’t it, Magister?”

“What?” Gonery looked up, blinking, as if he had forgotten Rieuk was there. “Events have overtaken us, Rieuk. It seems that the Tielens have taken our ministers by surprise.”

“But if we could make the Vox work – it would save the college from closure.” Rieuk’s hand slid into his pocket where the citrine crystal lay, and felt a little tingle of energy tickle his fingertips. “Magister, let me try. You know I have some skill with crystals. If it’s to save the college – ”

“And has Magister Linnaius given you permission to work on his invention?”

Rieuk hesitated. “Well, not exactly… ”

“If I were you, I would not attempt anything that would make Magister Linnaius angry,” said Gonery, regarding him severely over the top of his spectacles.
* * *

“So what was all that about?” Deniel met Rieuk as he approached the laboratory. “Oh, come on, you can tell me. I won’t blab. Was it about the Vox?”

Rieuk recovered enough to nod.

“Can’t you ask to be transferred to Maistre de Rhuys? He’s much more easy-going.”

“But he already has you and Madoc.”

“And we split the work between us. Which leaves time for fun.”

Deniel reached out and tousled his hair. “When was the last time you came out into Karantec with us?”

Rieuk gave a little shrug.

“Madoc and I are off to the tavern after dinner. There’s a new girl working there, Jenovefa.” Deniel outlined a voluptuous silhouette with both hands.

“I’ve got to work.”

“Poor Rieuk. Nearly eighteen and never been kissed. I’m getting worried about you.” Rieuk winced and ducked out of Deniel’s range. “Always studying. There’s more to life than alchymy.”

But Rieuk had sensed a breath of winter’s wind shiver along the passageway. Deniel must have felt it too because he turned instinctively, just as Magister Linnaius appeared behind him.

“M – Magister!” stammered Rieuk. “You’ve just missed the Admiralty officials.”

“Unfortunate.” Linnaius loomed over Rieuk, his eyes burning cold as ice. “Where is Magister de Maunoir?”

“I – I heard that his wife was sick,” offered Deniel. “He’s looking after little Klervie.”

Magister Linnaius let out a short sigh of exasperation. “I have urgent news for Maistre Gonery. Rieuk, take this down to Magister de Maunoir.” He thrust a small wooden box into Rieuk’s hands.

“N – now?” It was nearly six in the evening and the dinner bell would soon be ringing out over the college towers.

“Must I repeat myself?” Magister Linnaius gave him a look of such chill disdain that Rieuk abandoned any hope of eating. “And Deniel, what are you doing idling outside my laboratory? Magister de Rhuys is looking for you.” With that, Magister Linnaius swept on down the passageway.

“So no dinner for you tonight?” Deniel called back over his shoulder. “Shall I ask the kitchen to save some for you? It’s fish stew – with mussels.”
* * *

“Why couldn’t you have got back a quarter hour earlier?” Rieuk muttered. But at least he had the chance to put the citrine crystal back before Magister Linnaius noticed it was missing. He reached into his pocket and drew it out, feeling again the pulse of its crystalline heartbeat.

But now he could sense another faint pulsation nearby. The crystal that nestled in his cupped hands must have set off a sympathetic resonance in another. And wasn’t that precisely what Magister Linnaius had been trying to do, find two crystals that were ‘in tune’ with each other?

Rieuk cast around for the source of the answering vibrations. The sound grew stronger as he moved toward the plain wooden box that his master had told him to take to Magister de Maunoir. With shaking fingers, Rieuk undid the metal catch, and opened the lid.

Inside, cushioned on midnight-black silk, lay a crystal. It was clear, except for a single vein of milky white at its heart. “So beautiful,” Rieuk murmured, hardly daring to touch it for fear of sullying its purity. “Like a fallen star.”

Surely it wouldn’t hurt to try? He lifted the glass cover and carefully inserted the still-vibrating citrine quartz in the Vox on the desk and adjusted the voice receptor. Then he closed the box lid on the crystal and set out. He could just imagine the magisters’ astonished comments when the Vox Aethyria began to transmit his voice. “So young Rieuk Mordiern solved the problem that had you foxed, Kaspar!”

Clutching the box, Rieuk ran down the winding lane that led toward the river and Magister de Maunoir’s cottage. A fair-haired little girl was teasing an indolent grey tabby cat on the doorstep, waving an aspen twig over its whiskers and giggling delightedly whenever the cat opened one sleepy eye to bat the twig away.

“Hallo, m’sieur Rieuk!”

The little girl was smiling up at him, her eyes blue as the summer sky. He recognized the sweet face of Klervie, Hervé’s daughter.

“Klervie, is your father at home?”

Klervie banged on the front door. “Papa!”

Magister de Maunoir appeared on the step with one finger pressed to his lips. “Ssh, Klervie. Maman still has a bad headache. Play quietly with Mewen.” The cat rolled off the step and made a sudden dash toward the back garden with Klervie dancing after it. “I’m sorry, Rieuk.” Magister de Maunoir looked even more careworn and bemused than usual. “Have you brought a message from the college?”

“It’s about the Vox,” Rieuk said in a loud whisper. “I think I’ve found two crystals with a sympathetic resonance.”

Hervé de Maunoir’s tired expression vanished. “You’d better come in!”

He led Rieuk to his study which, unlike Magister Linnaius’s spotless laboratory, was crammed with precariously piled stacks of books, jars of gruesome specimens pickled in cloudy alcohol, and cases of dried insects. On the desk, amidst all the clutter, gleamed the second Vox, twin to the one in college.

“I don’t recall ever seeing a stone like this before,” said de Maunoir in puzzled tones. He picked it up and examined it. “Where did you find it?”

Rieuk hesitated a moment. “Magister Linnaius brought it back with him.”

“So he’s returned at last! And he told you to use it in the Vox? ”

Rieuk made a vague gesture. “He told me to bring it to you… ”

“Well, I don’t suppose it can hurt to try.”
* * *

“It worked in the laboratory.” Rieuk refused to let himself be defeated. Yet the crystal remained silent, and every attempt to make it sing as it had before failed.

“Perhaps we should try again tomorrow.”

“Hervé,” called a woman’s voice weakly. “Has Klervie had her supper?”

Hervé leapt up. “Is that the time already?” he called back. “I’m on my way, dear.” He returned a minute or so later. “She’s not in the garden’ she must have gone to her friend Youna’s.” Rieuk did not miss the flustered look in his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Let me try once more, Magister.” His future as an alchymist might rest on this one act. If he succeeded, the Admiralty would get their invention and the college would be saved from closure.

“By all means… ” Hervé was already hurrying out of the door.

Rieuk took the crystal out of the Vox and pressed it to his forehead, seeking again for that elusive voice. For a second he felt a tremor of energy, like a distant flicker of lightning. Hastily, he replaced it, and waited.

And waited.

Tired and dejected, Rieuk leaned forward on the desk beside the Vox and let his head rest on his outstretched arms. He closed his eyes. So close to success and yet still so far…

“So you really think this will lead to war?”

War? Who was talking of war? The voice had been faint but utterly distinct.

“Francia laid claim to the islands first. Yet the Arkhan of Enhirre has just signed a trade treaty with Prince Karl of Tielen.” That dry tone sounded just like his master’s. But how could it be? “He’s granted Tielen exclusive rights to the spice trade. And now it’s stalemate…” The voice faded out. Rieuk raised his head, wondering if he had caught fragments of a conversation drifting in as people passed by the cottage.

“Are you being entirely frank with me, Kaspar?”

Rieuk sat bolt upright. Few people were permitted to call Magister Linnaius by his first name, Kaspar.

“You’ve a distracted look about you.” The voice was issuing from the receiver of the Aethyr Vox. “You haven’t been doing any meddling yourself, have you?”

“I may have stirred up a little trouble, yes, but nothing that I can’t take care of.”

Rieuk gripped the edge of the desk, rigid with concentration. The voices faded in and out, almost as if the two speakers were pacing to and fro in front of the Vox.

“Yes, but trouble may follow you here to Karantec and bring misfortune on us all,” came Gonery’s voice, suddenly clear, as though he were bending close to the speaker, making Rieuk jump.

“What’s this?” demanded Magister Linnaius. “Who placed this crystal in the transmitter, Gonery? Has Hervé been working on the Vox?” Rieuk shrank back. Even though logic told him that neither alchymist could see him, he felt as if he had caught red-handed.

“I haven’t seen Hervé today.”

“Then who’s been in my rooms?” The question was asked in such a menacing tone that Rieuk felt a sick, sinking sensation in his stomach. Magister Linnaius did not sound in the least pleased.

“Only your apprentice.”

“Rieuk? Could he have tampered with – ”

A thin, high whining sound began to emanate from the Vox.

“What is that infernal racket?”

The sound set Rieuk’s teeth on edge. It was like chalk rasped over a blackboard, a knife blade scraped against glass. And it went on and on, growing ever more piercing.

“It’s coming from the Vox!”

“I’ll remove the cryst – ” The voices ceased abruptly as the connection was broken. But the excruciating sound continued, drilling through all the cavities of his skull. Pressing a hand to one aching ear, Rieuk reached out to prise out the throbbing stone from its setting.

But the excruciating sound did not stop. The crystal lay in his sweating palms, still emanating its shrill vibrating cry, almost as if it were alive. His whole body began to judder in sympathy. And now the crystal began to glow with a cloudy white light, so that its brightness made his flesh seem transparent.

The door was flung open and Hervé de Maunoir ran in. “What’s happening?” he shouted, his voice barely audible above the din.

“The Vox works. But it’s – tearing me apart!” Someone – something – was trapped inside. Its agony possessed Rieuk until he felt himself sucked helplessly into its frenzy of despair.

“Where are you?” he cried, his voice barely audible above the wailing cry.

A slender, translucent figure appeared, sealed within a column of milky-white light. The light was so dazzling that he could not see the figure clearly, he could only hear its anguished cry – a cry that seared all thoughts from his brain but one: set me free.

Chapter 1

‘I’m old.’ Kiukiu stared in disbelief at her reflection. ‘I’m an old woman.’ Her fingertips moved over her lined face, lifting her wild, dry locks of greying hair, searching in vain for a thread of gold. She was so shocked she could only stare at the ageing stranger in the mirror glass. ‘How long was I gone?’

‘Many days, my dear.’ Malusha had never called her ‘my dear’ before. That in itself made Kiukiu even more fearful. ‘Too many days.’

‘There’s a remedy, isn’t there, Grandma?’ She turned to Malusha. ‘Tell me what to do, I’ll do it. No matter what it is.’

Malusha sat a moment, thinking. ‘I’ll go put the kettle on,’ she said, easing herself up from Kiukiu’s side. Making tea was Malusha’s remedy for all ills, great and small.

‘Grandma, what do you know?’ Kiukiu persisted.

‘I know that you wouldn’t be still in this world at all if Lord Gavril hadn’t flown to Swanholm to rescue you.’

‘Lord Gavril?’ The glass dropped from her fingers. She looked up and found herself staring into the deep blue of Gavril’s eyes.

‘You’re alive?’ She forgot her own distress and just gazed up at him. ‘But they said you were dead. They showed me the tower, they showed me where the lightning struck – ‘

And then she realized that he must be able to see every wrinkle, each strand of dull grey hair. She covered her face with her hands, turning away from him, not wanting him to see her like this.

‘Kiukiu?’ he said. He said her name so gently – and yet she could detect the bewilderment in his tone.

‘Don’t look at me. Please don’t look at me.’ This was the reunion she had dreamed of for so long. But in her dreams, she had been unchanged by the Ways Beyond, she had run to greet him, her arms outstretched, her golden hair loose about her shoulders. ‘That evil old man,’ she muttered. ‘He lied to me, he made me think you were dead, and all to trick me into his trap.’

‘What old man?’

‘Kaspar Linnaius. He sent me into the Ways Beyond to look for you. And then, when I couldn’t find you, he spun me some foolish story. And I believed him! Why didn’t I trust my own instincts?’She was so angry with herself that she began to shake, an uncontrollable trembling that juddered through her whole body. ‘Why did I let him use me?’ she cried.

‘So you got lost in the Ways Beyond, searching for me?’

She nodded. Though even as she did so, she was aware that this was not the whole tale. There was more, much more, and she could not remember what it was, only that it made her shudder to think of it.

‘Don’t cry, Kiukiu.’ He put his arms around her and held her close, stroking her hair.

‘I’m not crying!’ How could he bear to hold her, to touch those dry, faded locks? Tears spurted, hot against her fingers. She wanted to bury her face in his shoulder and feel safe, comforted and cherished, in his arms. But all she could think of was the haggard, faded creature she had seen reflected in the mirror.

‘It wasn’t lightning that struck the Ironsea Tower, Kiukiu. It was the Drakhaoul.’

Her sobs subsided a little. So he also had something to confess.

‘I was dying. And it rescued me.’ His lips hardly moved against her hair, as if he were whispering to prevent the Drakhaoul hearing what he said.

‘Dying? So the story was in part true?’ She felt a shiver run through her. He had suffered, she could sense it now, and he was not entirely healed. And there was something different, disturbing, about him, almost as if the Drakhaoul had begun to leach its darkness into his soul.

‘In part.’

‘Oh, Gavril,’ she whispered. One hand, wet with her own tears, crept out to touch his face. What cruel things had they done to him in that asylum? What damage had they inflicted?

‘Tea’s ready,’ announced Malusha, bringing over three brimming mugs. ‘You get this hot drink down you, my girl.’

Kiukiu tried to take a sip of the fragrant liquid but her hands were shaking so much that she could hardly raise the mug to her lips. She managed a little but then felt the sides of her mouth begin to sag as the sense of loss began to well up from deep within her again. Old. I’m old before I’ve lived my life. She sobbed helplessly into her tea, unable to stop herself, even though she knew that Gavril and her grandmother were watching her.

‘Drink your tea.’ Even though Malusha spoke quietly, Kiukiu heard a note of brisk command in her grandmother’s voice. She shakily lifted the mug again, slopping tea over the top. She still couldn’t stop the tears and now she no longer knew who she was crying for: for Gavril, damaged by the asylum, for herself, for their uncertain future… The tea tasted salty – though even the taint of her tears could not disguise another richer flavour. There was a potency in the dark, sweet liquid that spread heat throughout her whole body, right to the tips of her fingers.

‘What’s in this?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Something to restore you,’ said Malusha. ‘You’re all skin and bone. There’s moorland honey from my bees, for one.’

‘Honey, Grandma?’ Kiukiu said muzzily. ‘It tastes like mead to me.’

Malusha shrugged. ‘Mead’s made from honey.’

The warmth of the heather mead spread into Kiukiu’s mind, seeping through the bitter thoughts, numbing the pain. She yawned. She felt drowsy. She tried to force her lids to stay open. She mustn’t drift back into sleep. If she fell asleep, she could find herself back wandering those vast halls amongst the wan, confused spirits of the Newly Dead – or, worse still, gusted far from those she loved by the whirlwinds into that nightmare realm of dust and shadows.

‘That’s right,’ Malusha whispered, gently prising the mug from her fingers. ‘Just lie back. You’re safe here.’

‘How can I be sure?’ Kiukiu murmured.

‘Be sure of what?’ Drakhaoul-blue eyes gazed piercingly into hers.

‘That this isn’t a dream?’

She felt his hand close around hers, his grip firm and warm. ‘Does this feel like a dream, Kiukiu?’

‘No…’ The orange glow of the firelight was receding as her eyelids drooped but still she could see the intense blue of his eyes burning into hers through the gathering mists of sleep.

Kiukiu’s eyes closed at last and her breathing came slowly, regularly. Gavril let go of her hand and rose to his feet.

‘She should sleep soundly now,’ Malusha said. ‘Safe and sound.’ She shook her head as she watched over her granddaughter, her wild locks wispy as old man’s beard against the glow of firelight.

A burning shiver of nausea speared through Gavril’s whole body. He tried to conceal it, turning away from Malusha so that she should not see it in his face.

He had overspent himself. He had used up the last of his strength in his desperation to save Kiukiu and now the terrible cravings had begun in earnest. He crouched by the fireside, hugging the hunger in, hoping he could try to stave off the worst of the pangs for a little longer.

‘It’s never been done. Not without cost. High cost.’ Malusha seemed to be talking to herself, shaking her head and twisting a tassel of her brightly coloured shawl between her fingers.

Gavril glanced over at Kiukiu – at the faded, shrunken shadow of the girl he loved so much – and felt another tremor of anger throb through him. He was not used to feeling helpless.

‘Malusha.’ He took hold of the old woman by the shoulders, forcing her to look into his face. ‘Tell me all you know.’

‘Is that you or your daemon talking?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘First you will let go of me, Drakhaon,’ Malusha said in an icy voice.

His hands fell away. ‘Forgive me. I forgot myself.’

‘Yes,’ she said, staring searchingly into his face. ‘It is growing stronger. I am not sure that I could cast it out now as I did before. It has meshed itself far deeper into you, Drakhaon. And it is drawing strength from some distant source of power. I sense others of its kin at large in our world.’

He could hide nothing from those disapproving dark eyes. ‘Eugene and the Magus set them free. There are five – and now the Serpent Gate has been breached, more could follow.’

‘”Only the Emperor’s Tears will unlock the Gate…”‘ Malusha muttered.

‘I don’t know how they did it. Only that they used your grand-daughter.’

‘Kaspar Linnaius.’ Malusha swore and spat onto the flagstone floor. ‘Do you know how old he is?’

Gavril shrugged. Did it matter how old the Magus was? ‘He looks about eighty…maybe eighty-five.’

‘Guess again.’

‘Ninety?’ he snapped.

‘Kaspar Linnaius was born one hundred and sixty years ago.’

Was Malusha playing games with him? He had never heard of anyone living beyond a hundred years, let alone a hundred and sixty. ‘But how – ?’

‘An elixir.’ Malusha tapped the side of her nose. ‘An alchymical elixir. A little dose of that could do my poor Kiukiu a world of good right now.’

‘Then I’ll go back to Swanholm and find Linnaius and his elixir.’

Malusha tapped his arm. ‘You’ve already flown far. A journey to Tielen and back will use up the last of your resources. How long before you need to feed again, Drakhaon?’

Another shiver of nausea burned through his body. He bit back a groan, hoping she had not noticed.

‘Is there any alternative?’ The words came out in a snarl. What choice was there? ‘Or would you prefer to fly there yourself?’

‘The alternatives?’ She ignored his jibe. ‘I’ve heard tales of shamans in Khitari, north over the mountains. It’s just as far, if not farther.’

‘Khitari?’ The name made him think of the exotic, dusty scent of black and green tea in the kitchen at the Villa Andara and the black and gold lacquer boxes his mother kept her precious teas in, decorated with pictures of dragons and lion dogs. ‘What’s so unique about these Khitari shamans?’

‘They’re said to live very long lives. There’s a legend of a secret healing spring.’

Gavril shook his head impatiently. ‘I haven’t time to search all Khitari for some legendary spring.’ His throat and mouth were so dry now it was becoming hard to speak, in spite of the tea he had drunk. And the cravings had begun to affect his mind. The coolness of pure water, miraculous healing water, rushed through his fevered thoughts, promising a cure for the waves of nausea. As a stronger pang racked his body, he dropped to his knees, hugging his burning stomach, trying not to cry out.

Malusha just stood there, looking down at him.

‘You’re no use to her like this,’ she said.

‘Why – is there – no other – way?’ Each word came out on a gasp of pain.

‘Because mortal men are too weak to bear such a powerful daemon for long,’ she said dispassionately. ‘It’s killing you, Gavril Nagarian, just as it killed your forebears.’

‘It – told me – I could set it free by sending it home through the Serpent Gate. But it lied. It tricked me,’ he whispered, between pangs. ‘It used me.’ Now he remembered, and the bitterness of remembering enhanced the sense of betrayal that had haunted him since he left Ty Nagar.

‘And how long can you last in this condition? Before you attack some defenceless child?’

He shook his head, no longer able to speak. He had expended too much of his power in the duel with the Emperor.

‘There’s fresh water in the well outside,’ said Malusha.

Outside, the eerie twilight of the long summer evenings had crept over the moors. In the courtyard, he began to wind the bucket down into the well, only to double up again with the griping pain. He let go of the handle and slid down, his back against the mossy stones of the well wall. The bucket splashed into the water far below with a hollow clank. Next moment, he was retching and a dark slime came up. He lay back when the first spasm was over, feeling the heave and ache of his tortured ribcage. He had used up the last of his strength bringing Kiukiu from Swanholm. Flying back over the Saltyk Sea that lapped the desolate shores of northern Azhkendir, he had seen no sign of life below but the seabirds that nested in the cliffs and the grey seals basking on the empty sands.

‘There is nothing to restore you here.’ The Drakhaoul Khezef spoke through the receding waves of nausea. ‘You must hunt while you still have the strength.’

Gavril heard the Drakhaoul’s words as if through dark, drifting smoke. ‘Don’t make me,’ he begged, his voice hoarse with retching.

‘The summer nights are short in Azhkendir. And you are far from the nearest village.’

Gavril closed his eyes, seeing little flickers like firesparks fizzing across the darkness. ‘No,’ he said.

‘What use will you be to Kiukiu if you die?’

Gavril felt a wry, mirthless smile curling his lips. The Drakhaoul always knew how to compel him to do what it wished, at the same time making him believe he was acting in his own interests.

‘And you will die, Gavril, if you don’t feed soon. Listen to the beat of your heart. Feel how it strains and judders.’

‘At least let me take a drink of water.’ Gavril pulled himself up and set about drawing a fresh bucket of water. He plunged his head into the cold, peaty moorland water, as if he could drown out the daemon-voice in his head. Then he gulped down as much liquid as he could before the vomiting began again.

A soft flutter of wings startled him. On the crooked tiles of the roof perched a row of Arkhel’s Owls, white as ghosts against the dusky sky. Fierce golden eyes stared curiously at him. Malusha’s lords and ladies were preparing to flit off across the darkening banks of heather to hunt for their prey.

‘I’m not so different from you now, am I, my lords and ladies?’ he whispered. ‘A predator of the night…’

‘Gone, what d’you mean gone?’ Kiukiu cried.

‘Well, there was little point in him staying moping about here, was there?’

Kiukiu felt a stab of anguish, cold as a splinter of ice in her heart. ‘You’ve driven him away. You and your plain-speaking, Grandma!’

‘He’s gone where he can be of some use to you. Nothing salves a guilty conscience better than a little productive activity.’

‘And if he fails?’ Dire possibilities began to occur to Kiukiu. ‘Am I to be* this way for the rest of my life?

‘Now, now.’ Malusha took hold of Kiukiu’s hands in her own and pressed them hard between her gnarled fingers. ‘Let’s have none of that kind of talk.’

‘But why couldn’t he stay a little longer? Was it that he couldn’t bear to look at me?’ Kiukiu had sustained herself for the long months they were parted with the hope that somehow everything would eventually turn out for the better and they would be happily reunited. But all that had happened only served to drive them further apart.

Suppose we’re not meant to be together? For the first time she glimpsed quite another future from the one she had so often imagined, the drab prospect of a life lived apart from Lord Gavril. What hope is there for us now? Every time he looks at me, he’ll see the old woman I’ve become and know that somehow it was his fault.

‘Child, I need to ask you some questions.’

‘Child, grandma?’ Kiukiu said. She could not hide the rankling bitterness in her voice. ‘I look as old as you.’

For once, Malusha did not rise to her barbed response. ‘Your memory’s still hazy. But I want you to try to remember what errand the Magus had sent you on when you strayed into…you know where.’ ‘Why? Will it help?’ Kiukiu said doubtfully.

‘What were you doing? Think, Kiukiu, think hard.’

Kiukiu screwed her eyes tight shut and tried to concentrate. But every time she remembered the desolation of the place of whirling winds and dust, she could only shudder and clutch her arms to herself.

‘After all the training I’ve given you, it was very careless of you to let yourself wander that way.’

The criticism stung. ‘I didn’t go there on purpose! I would never have – ‘

‘And yet, there you were. And there you would have stayed if Lady Iceflower and I – ‘

‘Yes and I’m very grateful, thank you,’ snapped Kiukiu. ‘I’m not so gullible as to go marching into the Realm of Shadows just for my own amusement.’

Kaspar Linnaius lay in darkness, feeling the bed on which he lay swaying to and fro.

From the slapping sound of water outside, he guessed he must be on board a ship. He tried to raise his head and found he was bound securely to the bed with ropes securing him at wrists, waist and ankles. And he, who had never experienced seasickness in his whole life, now felt queasy and faint as the vessel pitched, his heart thudding erratically against his ribs, and a vile, bilious taste fouling his dry mouth and throat.

How could he have been so foolish as to let his guard down? He had underestimated Celestine de Maunoir’s cunning – and her desire for revenge. The ship crested a wave and he groaned as the motion shuddered through his whole body.

Celestine must be taking him back to Francia to stand trial. Though he was as good as condemned to burn at the stake already; the trial would be a sham, a warning to others who dared to pursue the study of alchymy, or other darker arts. He must escape them. He knew the Emperor would do all he could to free him; but even Eugene had never had to face the Inquisitors of the Francian Commanderie.

Hervé de Maunoir, Celestine’s father, had been Linnaius’s most promising student at the Thaumaturgical College in Francia, before the Commanderie had begun its ruthless campaign of persecution. The youngest Magus in the College, Hervé had been assisting him with the development of the Vox Aethyria, when the agents of the Commanderie had raided his house, carried off documents and plans, and encouraged his God-fearing neighbour to publicly accuse him of communing with evil spirits. She had heard them, she said, speaking to him through magic crystals.

Linnaius had escaped with the crystals; Hervé had not been so fortunate.

The ship split a great wave, sending another shudder through Linnaius’s body. He must warn Eugene. Here he was at sea, close to the one elementhe could control without recourse to books or alchymical potions: the wind. He struggled to move his hands, straining against the rough cords that bound his wrists. The effort all but exhausted him and he groaned aloud again, ashamed that he should prove so weak in adversity.

‘My powers. My powers…’ He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds outside the ship’s creaking hull, seeking with his sixth mage-sense for the currents of air that filled the ship’s sails, moving it across the sea towards the shores of Francia. But he was so enfeebled that he could scarcely detect the wild breath that drove them onward.

‘I’m too old…too weak.’ A faint spark of resistance still burned in his mind. He was damned if he would let himself be beaten by a woman, even if she was de Maunoir’s child. He could almost smell the wind gusting outside, a strong briny scent, charged with rain and grey cloud: a storm-wind. Another effort of will would bring it under his control; his mind sought it, merged with it, was one.

Linnaius felt the wind surge straight through his body and twirl out again through his fingertips.

The timbers of the ship trembled. Distant cries came from up on deck. Linnaius lay back, his heart pounding. He had broken out in a cold, clammy sweat. He had no idea how long he could control this wind; he wanted to turn the ship back toward Haeven but the wind had ideas of its own and he was too weak to fight it.

Drenching rain blew in gusts across the deck of the beleaguered Francian ship. The wind battered her sails and whipped the waves up into great rolling breakers so that she pitched and tossed helplessly. Up on deck the sailors battled to regain control of the vessel.

Below, Celestine struggled towards the Magus’s cabin. Every lurch of the vessel flung her against the wooden walls. Bruised, she fought on until she reached the cabin door and unlocked it. The door flew open and she stumbled inside.

The Magus lay bound to the bunk as they had left him. But one finger, his right index finger, was moving slowly. And though his eyes were closed, she saw a smile, a faint smile on his pallid lips by the light of the flickering lantern.

‘This is your doing.’ Another great wave threw her against the wall of the cabin. She gripped hold of the bunkhead to try to steady herself. ‘Make it stop!’

‘Release me,’ he murmured, his voice barely audible above the roar of the storm, ‘and I will do as you ask.’

‘But what good will it do if you sink the ship?’

‘Release me…and no-one will be harmed.’

Celestine had dedicated her life to tracking down Kaspar Linnaius and bringing him to justice. She was not prepared to let him go now.

A sound of splitting, rending timber came from above deck – followed by a great shout and a terrifying crash.

There was a spell she had read in her father’s grimoire, a binding spell. She would risk her own reputation as a member of the Commanderie in using such a powerful trick of the forbidden art. But as the ship shuddered, helpless in the blast of the storm, she had little alternative but to try. She closed her eyes, concentrating with all her heart and will, seeking deep within her for the gift she had inherited from her dead father, the mage-sense. Now she shuddered too as she sought and found its source and raised one hand, pointing at the Magus.

‘In chains invisible, I bind thee,’ she whispered. She could feel the coils of power slowly unravelling and rolling down the length of her arm into her wreathing fingertips and wrapping themselves about him. And she sensed that Linnaius could feel them too. She heard him whisper,

‘No!’ even against the groaning and creaking of the timbers of the ship.

‘Now, sleep.’ She dipped into the little bag of dustlike granules she had found in his laboratory, and softly blew on her fingertips, sending the dust to settle over him in a powdery cloud.

‘No…’ His lids began to close and his finger ceased to move as the protest died on his lips. The wind suddenly dropped and the waves stilled. The sickening pitching and rolling stopped and the ship lay becalmed.

Celestine let out a long, slow breath. She had meshed him in a web of his own making; the sleepdust had worked on him, just as it had when he had used it on her at Swanholm. She had feared he might have made himself immune to his own devices. Just as long as no-one from the Commanderie had witnessed what she had done…

It was only then that she realized the cabin door hung open and Jagu was standing in the doorway.

‘How could you, Celestine?’ Jagu’s eyes burned dark in his pale face. He was soaked, wet locks of black hair plastered across his forehead. ‘Our order is dedicated to the eradication of the occult arts.’

Jagu had been her loyal partner and companion in the hunt for Kaspar Linnaius. Now she saw the unspoken accusation in his face. How could you keep your powers a secret from me?

‘You took a vow to abjure all such practices. A holy vow.’

She gave a little shrug. ‘There was no other way to subdue him. If I hadn’t stopped him then, we could all have drowned.’

‘But if Maistre de Lanvaux hears what you have done – ‘ Jagu broke off, as if searching for a reason that might sway her to his point of view. ‘Remember what they did to your father, Celestine.’

‘No-one will know if you say nothing, Jagu,’ she said lightly. Could she trust him still? Were his allegiances stronger to the Commanderie than to her? ‘No-one knows what happened here but you.’

The Emperor of New Rossiya adjusted the collar of his uniform. Then he turned to check his appearance in the mirror, and caught his breath. He had forgotten in the heat of the moment the changes wrought in him by the Drakhaoul Belberith. The face that gazed back at him was that of his younger self, smooth-skinned, clear-eyed, with not a trace of scar tissue. And his hair had regrown, regaining its original texture soft, with a wayward wave if not kept short and tamed in a regular military trim. Even the colour had returned, a rich shade of gold, just as it had been when he was a boy.

‘The Francian ambassador’s here, highness.’ Gustave hurried in (and when did he not appear out of breath, to impart some new setback these days?).

Eugene caught, as he turned away from the mirror, the hint of a grim smile of satisfaction on his own lips. ‘Good. I hope he’s ready to grovel. Or that he has a plausible explanation for the appearance of the Francian war fleet in the Straits so close to our shores.’ He set out at his usual brisk stride, Gustave at his heels.

‘He doesn’t have the air of a chastened man. And he’s brought his own bodyguard, this time. They’re waiting in the courtyard, armed to the teeth.’

‘Now, isn’t that revealing?’ Eugene halted. This was a diplomatic slight. ‘They anticipate a hostile response.’ Although it would not be productive to be moved to anger by anything the ambassador might do or say in the encounter to come, Eugene was forced to admit to himself that he felt insulted. ‘Do they think me little better than some savage tyrant? Do they think us incapable of negotiating like rational men?’

The Francian ambassador, Fabien d’Abrissard, was waiting in the library, attended by two plain-suited men carrying despatch bags; all three bowed as Eugene entered. As the Francian raised his head, Eugene noted with silent delight, an expression of utter astonishment flicker across the ambassador’s dark eyes. If nothing else, his altered appearance had momentarily distracted Abrissard from his mission and given him something new to wonder about.

‘Who are these gentlemen?’ Eugene gestured to the attendants. ‘I understood this to be a private meeting.’

‘To which I see you have brought your secretary,’ Abrissard said, all traces of his earlier astonishment expertly concealed.

‘So you have come, ambassador, to explain to me the presence of the Francian war fleet off our shores?’

They sat either side of a vast and ornate marble-topped desk, the attendants standing silently behind Abrissard’s chair.

‘How do you justify this?’ Eugene pushed Enguerrand’s letter across the desk to the ambassador who cast a cursory glance over its contents.

“Know also that we have in our possession the five rubies known as the Tears of Artamon. Ancient law decrees that whosoever holds all five stones is entitled to govern all five princedoms of Rossiya. We therefore assert our right to be called Emperor and impose our holy law upon all five princedoms as well as Francia.”

‘What is there to explain?’ Abrissard’s slight curl of the lip could have been interpreted as a smile of condescension.

‘I left the Tears of Artamon in Kaspar Linnaius’s keeping. Kaspar Linnaius who was forcibly abducted from this palace by your agents.’ Eugene leaned back in his chair, not for once taking his eyes from Abrissard’s face. ‘It follows, therefore, that your agents stole my rubies from Linnaius. I would appreciate it if they could be returned to me. And then I could find it in my heart to forget the whole unfortunate incident.’

‘Your rubies, imperial highness?’ Abrissard said haughtily. ‘The Smarnans maintain that they never made Tielen a gift of the Smarnan Tear.’

‘I had no idea you were here to represent Smarna as well as Francia, Seigneur d’Abrissard.’ Eugene allowed himself a slight raise of one eyebrow at Abrissard’s allegation. He was damned if he was going to let the Francians distract him with such petty insinuations. The time for politesse was over. He leaned forward suddenly across the desk. ‘The rubies belong to me, Abrissard. I want them back. If your master returns them, I am willing to forget that this whole sorry incident ever occurred.’

Abrissard, (to his credit, Eugene grudgingly allowed,) did not falter.

‘That,’ he said, ‘is out of the question.’

‘I see.’ Eugene said. ‘So this means war.’

‘Why incur such an unnecessary loss of life? King Enguerrand is ready to talk terms.’

‘Terms?’ Eugene echoed, unable to keep the contempt he felt from colouring his voice. ‘You mean my capitulation? Does Enguerrand truly believe I will sign my empire over to him so easily?’

Gustave leaned forward and murmured in his ear, ‘Chancellor Maltheus is standing by to enter into negotiations with the Francians to buy you a little more time.’

Eugene nodded. He had absolute faith in Maltheus. ‘I understand that Chancellor Maltheus is prepared to meet with your First Minister to discuss the situation.’

Abrissard frowned. ‘His majesty the king wishes to talk with you, face to face.’

‘I will not talk with King Enguerrand until the Francian war fleet withdraws to neutral waters.’ Eugene rose, knowing that this would oblige the ambassador to rise too. He had heard all he needed to hear for now.

‘And that is your imperial highness’s final word?’

‘Good-day to you, Ambassador.’

Fabien d’Abrissard and his bodyguards bowed stiffly, and withdrew. Eugene sat down again and unrolled a map of the western hemisphere on the desk, securing the outer corners with the heavy inkwells of gold and agate and a paperweight in the shape of the Swan of Tielen.

‘So much for diplomacy,’ he said with a sigh. He had played his next move in this game of empire Enguerrand had initiated. It was a gamble, one calculated to call Enguerrand’s bluff. He moved one of the inkwells, placing it at the opening of the River Tilälven, then another swan paperweight at Haeven, opposing it.

‘Why were we not made aware of Enguerrand’s ambitions sooner?’ he muttered. ‘Or was I so obsessed with Gavril Nagarian that I ignored the warnings?’

Marta, Karila’s governess and Lieutenant Petter stood before Eugene, their eyes downcast, as though expecting an imperial reprimand. Eugene saw Marta steal a glance at the young lieutenant, then colour and look swiftly away. So the chaste Marta had fallen for dashing Fredrik Petter? He could think of worse matches. And the strength of their feelings for each other could work to his advantage in the current unsettled situation.

‘At ease, Lieutenant. I don’t know what you imagined I had summoned you here to explain,’ he said, ‘but as long as it didn’t endanger my daughter, then I have no interest in it.’

The little sigh of relief that issued from Marta’s lips did not escape him. And Petter’s stiff shoulders relaxed.

‘There are difficult times ahead,’ Eugene said, ‘and I think in the circumstances, it would be better to send my daughter farther north to stay with her great-aunt as Rosenholm.’

Another glance, questioning this time, flew between the two.

‘Marta; you must travel swiftly, so please select only those members of our household here who are essential to her well-being to accompany you. And, Lieutenant Petter, I’m placing you in charge of the princess’s security. I want you to take a small platoon of the Imperial Household Cavalry with you to defend Grand Duchess Greta’s castle, if need be.’

‘Can I select the men, highness?’ asked Petter eagerly.

‘I trust you to choose the very best men for this assignment. It will ease my mind to know that my daughter is safe.’ Safe as far away from the Francian fleet as possible – and from Belberith’s hunger for innocent blood…

‘And the Empress?’ asked Marta.

He winced, then steeled himself to answer the question with as little emotion as possible.

‘My wife will remain with her parents at Erinaskoe. The Francians appear to be on amicable terms with Muscobar.’ It was a fiction to preserve his dignity, but even so, he hated to lie to his own household. He had already been obliged to weave an elaborate story involving the masked ball to explain away* his daemonic appearance when he returned from Ty Nagar. If the truth of Astasia’s flight leaked out, yet more invention would become a necessity to cover the humiliating fact that his wife had left him.

At the first news of the Francian threat, Eugene had ordered that the Vox Aethyriae and the trained staff who manned them should be moved to a suite of rooms in the very heart of the palace. Now he hurried there to check on one or two points that were puzzling him.

‘Get me Chancellor Maltheus.’

The pastoral tapestries in their soft shades of gold and summer green had been covered with unrolled maps of the empire. And the room was filled with the murmur of voices and the dry scratch of pen nibs.

‘The Chancellor, highness.’ The secretary operating the Vox linked to Tielborg and the Tielen Council rose from his place in front of the device so that Eugene could speak with Maltheus.

‘It doesn’t look good, Maltheus. Our friends seem very determined to press their case. I’ve called Enguerrand’s bluff. Now all we can do is wait.’

There was a pause and then Maltheus’s bluff voice came through, crackling and indistinct. ‘There’s some concern here about the current state of our munitions.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The council urgently request your presence at the Fastness, highness. It seems we are not as well-prepared to repel an attack as we would wish.’

Maltheus’s words puzzled Eugene. The armed forces of New Rossiya had no equal; they were better fed, better clothed and better equipped than any others in the quadrant. He could only assume that the councillors had been thrown into panic by this unanticipated threat from the Francians.

‘Please reassure the council that I’ll be with them as soon as all is made secure here at Swanholm.’

Gustave placed a leather folder on the desk beside him. ‘The dossier on Enguerrand of Francia that you requested, highness.’

Eugene leafed through the carefully scribed pages.

“Enguerrand, second son of Gobain II…sickly child, much influenced by his mentor and confessor Ruaud de Lanvaux, Grand Maistre of the Commanderie. Raised to dedicate his life to the church, he found himself heir to the throne when his older and more vigorous brother, Aubry died unexpectedly in a hunting accident. Enguerrand was anointed king three years later on the death of his father.”

Eugene remembered Prince Aubry, a tall, well-favoured young man, with the strong chin and straightforward manner of his father, Gobain. But Enguerrand? Had Enguerrand been the pale, bespectacled boy he had at firsttaken for a young cleric or confessor, hovering shyly behind his confident brother? And what had wrought this extraordinary change in him?

Eugene closed the folder and beckoned Gustave to his side.

‘If there is no further communication from the Francians by the morning, then we must stand ready to defend the Empire. After meeting with the council, I will ride to Haeven and join the Northern Fleet there.’

‘I will see that the appropriate arrangements are made,’ said Gustave, as matter-of-factly as if Eugene had told him he was going hunting.

‘And,’ Eugene lowered his voice, ‘is there any news on that other matter of significance we spoke of?’

Gustave slowly shook his head.

So there was still no word of Astasia.

Eugene found himself back in her rooms, obsessively searching for any clues amongst her abandoned possessions, any little scrap of note or scribbling that might hint at where she had gone.

As yet the news of her disappearance had skilfully been suppressed. The official story he had put out to explain her disappearance was that she had gone to Erinaskoe to visit her ailing father. Thus far, no one had questioned or checked the truth of the tale. The scandal that would inevitably follow when the news broke had merely been postponed, if not prevented. There would be whispers of illicit affairs and secret lovers, trysts and betrayals. The fact that Lieutenant Valery Vassian had deserted his post at the same time had not yet been commented upon but it would not be long before some court gossip began to circulate. Ironic, then, that the appearance of the Francian fleet had proved a distraction.

A frown creased Eugene’s brow. He had put young Vassian in a position of trust and responsibility at Astasia’s request. Damn it all, he had even grown to like the young man, had begun to look for ways to promote him. And now he had betrayed his trust. Was it possible that there had been some illicit liaison between the two? They had known each other since childhood. They had danced together at Astasia’s first ball. The frown deepened.

Eugene went to the window and gazed out over the gardens, as she must have done many times when he had neglected to return as promised to take supper with her. The green of the parterres, the pleasant gravel walks amongst beds of scented roses and herbs stretched out below, all bathed in the milky evening radiance of the White Nights.

How desperately lonely she must have felt to be driven to flee the summer delights of Swanholm. Was it loneliness that had made her spend so much time in the company of the Francian singer, Celestine de Joyeuse? Far too much time, Lovisa had commented disapprovingly. Then he had merely been pleased to hear that Astasia was amusing herself making music, one of her greatest pleasures. Preoccupied as he was with his search for Ty Nagar, he had brushed aside Lovisa’s concerns. Now he began to wonder if the singer had been sent on another mission to spy on the court, or worse, to poison his young wife’s affection for him, to fill her impressionable mind with rumours and slander.

But as he stood in her bedchamber, surrounded by her discarded clothes, her romantic novels, even the pretty little shoes of powder blue leather that she loved to wear even though they pinched her feet, he felt an aching emptiness sweep through him. This was not injured pride, as he had tried to pretend to himself when he first learned of her flight. He had not realized how much she meant to him until now.

‘And I never knew,’ he murmured. ‘I never knew how much I loved you, Tasia.’

He had not meant to fall in love with her. Now he began to think of all he wanted to show her in Tielen, the secret places he had played in as a boy when Swanholm was just a royal hunting lodge: the little trout stream beyond the northern birch woods; the heathlands where the sweetest, juiciest cloudberries grew in summer; the goatkeeper’s hut, where old Anneke would give visitors crumbly, creamy goat’s cheese to eat. There was so much to share with her, all the little pleasures he should have made time for but had told himself he would attend to later, when he had defeated Gavril Nagarian and tamed the Smarnan rebels.

And now she was gone.

Eugene sat on the bed and let his head sink into his hands.

Was it too late now to persuade her back? Would there be anything to come back to, if the Francians defeated the Northern Fleet and took Tielborg? Would Enguerrand force him to abdicate – or worse?

Even when he held the dying Jaromir in his arms, even when he crawled, horribly injured, from the charred remains of his army outside Kastel Drakhaon, he had not once given into despair or doubted himself. But now, faced with the very real possibility of defeat, he felt all the certainties on which he had built his life melt away. He knew for the first time in his life how vulnerable he was, and the weight of responsibility for his people weighed so heavily on him that he sat slumped, crushed by the enormity of the burden.

‘You can easily defeat Enguerrand’s fleet.’

He started, glancing around as if the voice had come from someone in the room, not his own head. Belberith had not spoken for a long while – and now the shock of hearing the Drakhaoul whisper deep within him left him speechless.

‘Use my powers, Eugene. Protect your empire, make your people safe.’

It was a temptation that he had resolved to resist.

‘No. Do you think I have forgotten what such an attack would do to me?’

‘A small price to pay for the security of your empire.’

Seductive words, seductive promises. For a moment he saw the Francian fleet in flames, sinking in the Straits as he swooped low overhead, breathing lethal fire on his enemies.

‘How many men are you prepared to lose before you change your mind? I have seen how much you care for the warriors who serve you.’

‘No!’ Eugene said again. The temptation was strong, but so was his command of strategy. He and his generals had fought many successful campaigns together. Only when all else fails…

‘Then why did you summon me, Emperor? I am the most powerful weapon you possess in your armoury.’

Something in Belberith’s persuasive tone made Eugene remember Gavril Nagarian’s warning. It winds itself into your will, your consciousness, until you no longer know who is in control.’

Prologue

Gavril Nagarian, Lord Drakhaon of Azhkendir, entered Saint Sergius’s shrine and closed the door softly behind him. Flames from ochre beeswax candles shimmered in the gloom. The air smelled of bitter incense and honeyed candlesmoke.

The radiant figure of the Blessed Sergius dominated the ancient mural, staff upraised to defend his flock from the dark Drakhaon. Even the saint’s face had been covered with gold leaf by the artist. In contrast, only the Drakhaon’s eyes glinted in the candlelight, jewelled with chips of blue glass. The rest of his winged daemon-form had been painted black as shadow.

‘Now it is finally gone, and I am alone.’ Gavril’s words went echoing up into the shadows of the vaulted roof, where the angelic hosts stared down at him with their painted eyes. The strength suddenly drained out of him and he sank to his knees before the saint’s stone tomb.

The heavy nail-studded door to the shrine was flung open with such force that it crashed into the stone wall. Candleflames wavered in the fierce draught and some blew out, guttering trails of smoke. Warriors of his druzhina stood in the doorway. Foremost amongst them was Bogatyr Askold, first officer and commander of his bodyguard, who came striding down the aisle toward him.

‘What have you done to yourself, my lord?’ Askold’s voice was harsh with grief and accusation. ‘What have you done?’

The others crowded around, so close he could smell the pungent damp of their fur cloaks and the sweat of their bodies.

Askold seized hold of Gavril.

Gavril tried to wrench himself free but, his strength exhausted, he could not break away.

‘Forgive me, my lord, but it’s the only way to be certain,’ muttered Askold, twisting one arm behind his back. Gavril heard the whisper of steel against leather as Askold drew a knife from his boot.

A flash of fear flickered through his mind. Did they mean to kill him? In this dangerous mood, his own men could turn against him. And then he winced as Askold drew the knifeblade across his wrist in one small, expert stroke.

The warriors crowded closer, staring as blood began to well up from the shallow incision, and dripped onto the flagstones.

Gavril stared too.

Red blood. Crimson-red. Human-red. Without a trace of daemon-purple.

A shuddering sigh echoed around the shrine.

Askold let go of him. ‘So the Drakhaoul is gone. And with it, all your powers.’

‘You broke the bond! You broke the bloodbond that binds us to you!’ cried out scarred Gorian.

‘You betrayed us!’

‘I did what I had to,’ Gavril said wearily. ‘I did what should have been done centuries ago.’

‘Azhkendir was safe,’ said Barsuk Badger-Beard, his gruff voice unsteady. ‘No-one dared attack us. But now that it’s gone, who knows what will happen?’

‘You call yourselves my druzhina?’ Gavril raised his head and stared at them, challenging. ‘Then act like warriors!’

Eyes stared back at him, dark with hostility. He could see the glint of their unsheathed sabres in the guttering candlelight. If he did not win back their allegiance now, he was as good as dead.

‘We’ve driven Eugene of Tielen out of Azhkendir. Now we must learn to fight without daemonic powers to protect us. To fight like men.’

‘Didn’t you hear what Lord Gavril said?’ A younger voice rang out, passionate with anger. Gavril saw Semyon, the newest member of the druzhina, his freckled face flushed red. ‘I swore to defend you, my lord. I haven’t forgotten how you saved my life in the siege. My oath still holds.’

‘Aye, and mine too,’ said Askold. He knelt at Gavril’s feet. ‘Forgive us, my lord.’

Gavril knelt down too and placed his hands on Askold’s shoulders, raising him to his feet. ‘We’ve much to do,’ he said. ‘Kastel Drakhaon is in ruins. Will you work with me to rebuild it?’

It was not until he left the shrine to walk across the monastery courtyard with Semyon and Askold at his side that he heard again the far-distant echo of the Drakhaoul’s dying voice, each word etched in fire on his mind:

‘Why do you betray me? Divide us and you’ll go insane…’

***

The old fisherman Kuzko and his wife found him lying on the seashore, so battered by the waves and the rocks that his clothes were torn to shreds. For days he wandered between life and death – and when he returned to himself, he no longer knew who he was. The sea had stolen his memories from him. The only distinguishing feature was a signet ring on his broken right hand…but the device had been worn so smooth by the sea and the rocks that it was impossible to tell with any certainty what it had been. So they called him Tikhon after their own lost son, drowned years before in another night of terrible storms, and they nursed him slowly back to health. Many weeks later, when he could walk again, he began to help with a task or two: mending nets, carrying wood for the fire.

Everything had to be relearned, even speech; he was like a great child, limping slowly after Kuzko, speaking awkwardly, as if his tongue would not obey his brain. Yet he seemed cheerful enough in spite of his deficiencies, although sometimes he was suddenly overcome with a terrible wordless raging that could not be assuaged.

Tikhon was helping old Kuzko mend the boat, caulking a leak in the storm-battered hull with a stinking mess of oakum and pitch that Kuzko had boiled up over a driftwood fire. The wind blew keen and raw across the bleak island shore. There was nothing to be seen here for miles but sea and rocks. The sky was pale with scudding clouds. Then Kuzko noticed one cloud blowing toward them, darker than the rest, moving faster than the others.

‘Storm coming,’ he shouted to Tikhon. ‘Best find shelter till it passes.’ He gazed up into the sky. This was no ordinary stormcloud; it was moving too fast, its course erratic and unpredictable. And as it tumbled nearer, the light began to fade from the sky and the shoreline turned black as night. Tikhon stumbled after his adoptive father – but his damaged body betrayed him and, with a gargling cry, he fell on his face on the pebbled beach.

The old fisherman started back toward him. ‘Come on, lad!’

The dark cloud hovered overhead. Lightning crackled, and Kuzko dropped to his knees, covering his eyes.

Tikhon let out another cry of terror as he cowered in the lightning’s beam.

Kuzko watched, helpless, as with a sudden, sinuous movement, the cloud dropped like a dark shroud around Tikhon. The lad convulsed, his body wracked by violent shudders, twisting this way and that as though struggling with some invisible shadow-creature.

And then the struggle ceased. The darkness had disappeared, and the sun’s pale winter light pierced the scudding clouds.

Kuzko slowly picked himself up. ‘T – Tikhon,’ he stammered. The lad lay unmoving. Tears welled in the old fisherman’s eyes. He had seen ason taken from him once – was he to have to endure it all again?

‘Tikhon?’ he said, extending a shaking hand to touch the boy’s shoulder.

Tikhon’s eyes opened. He sat up. Each movement was lithe, precise, controlled. He looked at Kuzko and said, ‘Where am I?’ His voice was no longer slurred.

‘Are you all right?’ quavered Kuzko.

The young man looked down at himself, frowning. ‘I think so.’

‘You’re cured. It’s a m – miracle.’ Kuzko felt weak now. ‘Come, Tikhon, let’s go and tell Mother – ‘

‘Tikhon?’ The young man slowly shook his head. ‘I fear you must have me confused with someone else. My name is Andrei.’
Chapter 1

Astasia Orlova leaned on the rail of the Tielen ship that was carrying her back home to Muscobar across the Straits. Cold seaspray blew into her face, her hair, but she did not care.

She was bearing Count Velemir’s ashes back to Mirom. It was Feodor Velemir who had brought her to Tielen on the pretense that wreckage from her brother Andrei’s command, the Sirin, had been washed up on the shore. She had gone, eager that there might be/for the faintest glimmer of hope that Andrei was not drowned but lying injured in some remote fisherman’s hut, only to find that it had all been a ruse to display her charms to the Tielen court and council, to persuade them that she would make a suitable bride for Prince Eugene.

Well, Count, she thought, gazing into the rolling sea mist that hid the coastline of Muscobar from view, you have paid the ultimate price for your treachery. You used me heartlessly. You lied, you twisted the truth to further your own ends, and now you are dead.

But even now she was not sure she believed the evidence of her own eyes. What she had witnessed in the snowy palace yard had shaken her to the very core.

There crouched a dark-winged creature, veiled in a blue shimmer of heat. And – most horrible of all – the burning remains of something that had once been Feodor Velemir, Muscobar’s ambassador to Tielen, lay in a charred, smoking heap at its feet.

Drakhaon.

In that one moment all certainties had been seared away.

‘Altessa!’ Nadezhda, her maid, came up to her, carrying a woollenshawl. ‘You’ll catch a chill up here in this bitter wind.’

‘Don’t fuss, Nadezhda. I’m fine.’

Nadezhda took no notice and draped the shawl over Astasia’s shoulders. ‘Please come below and warm yourself.’

‘Not yet,’ Astasia said distantly. ‘In a while…’

The cloudy sky and the choppy sea mirrored her mood. She felt numbed. Whenever she tried to sleep, she saw the Drakhaon of Azhkendir rear up out of the darkness and then, oh then -

The one moment she could not forget, the moment when the dragon-winged daemon had turned its piercing blue gaze on her and she had recognized Gavril Andar.

Elysia Andar had tried to warn her, but she had refused to listen. Yet now she knew it to be true. Gavril, the one man she had ever allowed to hold her, to kiss her, was possessed by a dragon-daemon -

‘Altessa.’

She turned to see that one of the Tielen officers had come up on deck.

‘We have received an urgent message from Mirom, altessa, that concerns you. Will you please come below?’

Reluctantly, Astasia followed him below decks to the captain’s anteroom. Chancellor Maltheus had sent an escort of the household guard to protect her… or to prevent her from running away?

A group of officers were gathered around the table; they bowed as she entered.

‘Is there a storm coming?’ she asked, taking off the shawl. The fine mist of seaspray still clung to her hair. ‘Should we seek harbour and sit it out?’

‘The message comes from Field Marshal Karonen, altessa. He reports there is rioting in Mirom. It seems that your parents have been trapped in the Winter Palace by a mob of dissidents who are threatening to torch the palace and all inside.’

Astasia gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. ‘Dissidents?’ she repeated.

‘Your father has requested our help. It seems the situation is quite desperate.’

‘My father is asking for help?’ Astasia said. As nothing else could, this brought home to her the severity of the situation. Her father never asked for help.

‘The Field Marshal is ready to lead a rescue force into the city, altessa. Just give the word and he will liberate the Palace.’

Astasia gazed warily around at all the Tielen officers. She could not help noticing the detailed map of Mirom that lay outspread on the table. They seemed so well-prepared…

‘We understand there has been unrest in the city for some months,’ said one.

‘Well, yes – ‘ she began, then broke off. How could she have been so blind? Maltheus had sent the soldiers with her as part of the invasion force. What better way to infiltrate Tielen soldiers into the heart of the city? Dissidents or no, Muscobar was about to be swallowed up into the growing Tielen empire.

‘Prince Eugene is determined to quell any last stirrings of rebellion before your wedding takes place.’

‘Of course,’ she said coldly. They were still looking at her expectantly, and she realized that they were waiting for her command.

‘Tell the Field Marshal,’ she said, knowing she had no choice, ‘to put down the rebellion – and with my blessing.’

***

Astasia struggled up on deck against the prevailing wind, into a raw, red dawn. As the ship sailed up the broad Nieva, she noticed that the gilded dome of the Senate House had been reduced to a smouldering shell. And while at first she had believed the red glare in the sky to be the rising sun, surely no dawn could glow so brightly?

No, the West Wing of the palace was on fire.

She heard the crackle of the flames, the tinkle of breaking glass as panes burst in the heat; she saw the haze of smoke sullying the freshness of the dawn.

They were burning her home.

‘No!’ she cried aloud, gripping the rail to steady herself.

Now she could hear shouts from the shore; a confusion of people was swarming over the neatly clipped boxes and yews. Guards leaned from the windows, aiming muskets at the rabble, firing. A ragged rat-a-tat of fusillades answered.

‘You must go below decks, altessa!’ One of the Tielen officers came toward her, pistol in hand. ‘It’s not safe up here!’

Screams carried on the wind, shrill above the rattle of gunfire. There were running silhouettes at the West Wing windows, dark against the blaze of the flames. Where were Mama and Papa? Where was her governess, poor, dear Eupraxia? She would be so flustered by the panic and the fire -

‘There are people trapped in there!’ she said to the officer, grabbing his arm and stabbing her finger at the burning building. ‘We must get them out!’

A musket ball whizzed over their heads, grazing the nearest mast, showering them with sharp splinters of wood.

‘We’re doing all we can,’ he said, hurrying her toward the hatch.

***

The battle for the Winter Palace lasted little more than an hour. Astasia crept back up on deck and watched as more and more Tielen soldiers swarmed into the gardens, driving the rebels before them, rounding them up at musket-point.

By now the West Wing was well alight, and she saw looters risking the Tielen guns to carry away brocade curtains, pictures, fine porcelain… Too late, some servants formed a bucket-chain, while others pumped water from the river. Flames burst through the roof. Rafters cracked and the whole structure collapsed inward with a crash like rolling thunder.

Shocked beyond speech, she stood with her hands clutched to her mouth. The smell of burning overwhelmed her.

‘I’ve made some tea, altessa.’ She had not noticed that Nadezhda had emerged from below decks. ‘You’ve eaten nothing for hours. You need to keep up your strength.’

‘Mama,’ Astasia whispered into the billowing smoke. ‘Papa…’

‘Tea with a drop of brandy, that’ll warm you up.’ Nadezhda took her by the arm and steered her back below.

***

At about four in the afternoon, a party of Muscobar officers came on board and asked to speak with her. Sick with worry, she hurried to meet them.

‘Colonel Roskovski!’ she cried, so glad to see a familiar face that she wanted to run up and hug him.

‘Altessa,’ he said, clicking his heels and saluting her. He looked haggard; he was unshaven and his immaculate white uniform jacket was covered in smears of soot. ‘Thank God you’re safe.’

‘Is there…is there any news of my parents?’

‘They are under the protection of Field Marshal Karonen,’ he said stiffly.

‘But they’re alive?’

‘I believe so. Altessa…’ He hesitated. ‘I have been obliged to surrender control of the city to the Field Marshal.’ She saw now that not only was he exhausted but there were tears in his smoke-reddened eyes – tears of humiliation and defeat. ‘I am dishonoured. I have failed your father.’

‘Not surrender, Colonel,’ she said, dismayed that such a proud and experienced soldier should openly weep with shame in front of her. ‘I’m sure you and your men did everything you could to save the city. But the odds were overwhelming. Without Tielen’s help – ‘

‘Altessa Astasia!’ One of the Tielen officers came running up. ‘The Field Marshal requests a meeting.’

Her heart began to beat over-fast, a butterfly trapped in her breast. This was to do with her parents, she was sure of it. How would she find them? Even if they were physically unharmed, the last few days would have taken a terrible toll on Mama’s nerves. And Papa…

‘Colonel,’ she said, ‘please accompany me.’

***

It seemed that there were Tielen soldiers everywhere: lining the quay as Astasia disembarked, guarding the Water Gate, and patrolling the outer walls where the rebels had smashed down the iron railings as they stormed the palace.

Even though the officers steered a carefully chosen path, Astasia saw soldiers carrying out bodies from the courtyards and piling them onto carts. Through an archway she glimpsed some of Roskovski’s men cutting down a palace guard who was hanging from a lamppost, his white uniform red with his own blood.

‘Were many killed?’ she asked, determined that she should not be treated like a child.

‘Enough,’ Roskovski said tersely.

She wanted to avert her gaze from the bodies but found she could not look away. One bright head of hair, as fiery as a fox’s pelt, caught her eye. One of her mother’s maids, Biata, had hair of just that unusual shade…

The woman’s head lolled at an unnatural angle over the edge of the cart, eyes fixed, staring out from a wax-pale face. A trickle of blood from both nostrils darkened her lips, her chin.

‘Biata?’ But what point was there in calling her name when she was beyond hearing? And even as Astasia watched, the Tielens unceremoniously flung another body onto the cart, right on top of her. They were not distinguishing rioters from palace servants; they were just clearing away corpses.

Astasia started forward, outraged, and felt a firm touch on her shoulder.

‘These men mean no disrespect,’ said Roskovski. ‘They’re merely following orders.’

‘But it’s Biata!’ Astasia was ashamed to hear how high and tremulous her own voice sounded. She was trying to behave as the heir to the Orlov dynasty should. And yet all she felt was a cold, sick sense of dread. They had wanted to kill anyone who was associated with her family. It could have been her own body slung like an animal’s carcass into that cart.

‘I would have preferred to spare you such sights.’ Roskovski shot a disapproving glance at the Tielen officer leading them.

The city now lay muffled in the winter dusk, eerily quiet after the din of the riot. Smoke still rose from the ruins of the West Wing; the choking smell of ash and cinders singed the evening air.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked the officer as they passed through the inner courtyard and entered the palace by an obscure door. A stone stair led into a dank subterranean passageway, lit by links set in the wall.

‘This is no place to bring the altessa,’ protested Roskovski.

A smell of mould pervaded the air and the floor was puddled with water; Astasia lifted her skirts high, wondering uneasily whether she had walked into some Tielen trap.

‘Is this part of the servants’ quarters?’ she asked, glancing at Roskovski for reassurance. ‘I don’t remember ever coming here before.’

Roskovski cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘This leads to the rooms used by your father’s agents to detain and question those suspected of crimes against the state.’

Astasia stopped. ‘The old dungeons from my great-grandfather’s time? But my father had them converted to wine cellars. He wouldn’t condone the use of such ancient, unsanitary conditions for – ‘ She stopped. How naïve she sounded. There was so much she did not know about her father’s rule as Grand Duke. Now she began to wonder what cruel tortures had been inflicted down here in the interests of the state, while, unknowing, she had danced at her first ball in the palace above. There was so much she had been shielded from. Had the rioters imprisoned her parents down here? Had they put them to the question? The sick feeling in her stomach grew stronger, as did the unwholesome smell. It was as if the dank water glistening on the walls and pooling on the floor were oozing in from the Nieva, bringing with it the city’s stinking effluent.

At the end of the tunnel they came out into a small room. A tall, broad-shouldered man in Tielen uniform sat behind a desk, poring over dispatches by lanternlight. When he stood up to greet her, he had to stoop, the ceiling was so low.

‘Karonen at your service, altessa.’

‘My parents,’ Astasia burst out. ‘Where are they?’

Field Marshal Karonen cleared his throat, evidently uncomfortable. ‘That is why I requested your presence in this wretched place, altessa. This is where the insurgents imprisoned them. Now they are reluctant to come out, fearing further ill-treatment. I am hoping you might persuade them that the insurrection is at an end.’

***

They sat, side by side, on a wooden bench in a cramped, windowless cell, blinking in the lantern-light. There was an unmistakably fetid odour of stale urine and unwashed flesh. How long had they been imprisoned here? At first Astasia did not even recognize her mother in the lank-haired, listless woman who stared blankly at her.

‘Mama, Papa,’ she said, her voice trembling, her arms outstretched.

The Grand Duke half rose from the bench.

‘Tasia? Little Tasia?’ he said, his voice trembling too.

‘Yes, Papa, it’s really me.’ Astasia flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

‘Look, Sofie, it’s Tasia,’ the Grand Duke said.

The Grand Duchess gazed at her, her face still expressionless.

‘Mama,’ Astasia said, kneeling beside her mother, ‘we’re all safe now.’

‘Safe?’ the Grand Duchess said with a little shiver. ‘Did they molest you, Tasia? Did they lay hands on you?’

‘No, Mama. I’m fine. But you’re not. You must come out of this cold, damp place and warm yourself.’

The Grand Duchess shrank back, cowering behind her husband. ‘No, no, it’s not safe. They’re in the palace. They’re everywhere. They want to kill us.’

‘Mama, look who’s with me.’ Astasia took her mother’s chill hand and pressed it between her own. ‘It’s Field Marshal Karonen of Tielen. He has taken the city from the rebels. He has rescued us all.’

‘Tielen?’ said the Grand Duchess distantly. ‘Now I remember. You were betrothed to Eugene of Tielen, weren’t you, child?’

‘Come, Mama,’ coaxed Astasia. ‘Come with me. Wouldn’t you like some hot bouillon? And clean clothes?’

The Grand Duchess glanced nervously at the officers standing in the doorway to the cell. Then she clasped Astasia’s hand. ‘All right, my dear,’ she said in a wavering voice, ‘but only if you’re certain it’s safe.’

Safe? Astasia thought as her mother ventured out of the cell, leaning heavily on her arm. Poor, foolish Mama. If I’ve learned one thing in the past weeks, it’s that nowhere is safe any more.

***

Astasia stood in an anteroom in the East Wing, gazing around her. Slander – hateful, obscene slander – had been daubed in red paint across the pale blue and white walls. The window panes had been smashed. And she did not want to look too closely at what had been smeared over the polished floors. The rioters had slashed or defaced everything in their path that they had been unable to carry away; everywhere she saw the evidence of their hatred. But at least theEast Wing was intact and her parents were being warmed, cosseted, and fed by the few faithful servants who had not fled.

She was not in any mood to be comforted. Her home had been violated. She hugged her arms around herself, chilled by an all-pervading feeling of desolation.

Feodor Velemir had foreseen all this. Had she judged him too harshly? Had he anticipated the coming storm and sought to prevent it?

‘Altessa.’

She swung round to see the broad-shouldered bulk of Field Marshal Karonen filling the doorway.

‘I have news of his highness for you, from Azhkendir.’ He came in, followed by several of his senior officers. The winter-grey and blue colours of the Tielen army filled the antechamber.

‘News?’

‘Prince Eugene has been gravely wounded,’ said Karonen brusquely, ‘in a battle with the Drakhaon.’

The daemon-shadow of the Drakhaon suddenly billowed up, dark as smoke, in her mind.

‘Ah,’ she said carefully, aware they were all watching for her reaction. ‘Wounded – but not killed?’

‘We’ve lost many men, but the prince is alive. Magus Linnaius is tending to his injuries. The prince was most anxious to ensure that you were unharmed. He would like to speak with you.’

‘With me?’ Astasia looked at him, uncomprehending. ‘But how?’

‘It is called a Vox Aethyria.’

When he showed her, she wondered if the Field Marshal had taken leave of his senses. She saw only an exquisite crystal flower – a rose, perhaps – encased in an elaborate tracery of precious metals and glass.

‘It’s very pretty, Field Marshal, but – ‘

‘You must approach the device and speak very slowly and clearly. The crystal array will transmit your voice through the air to his highness.’

‘What should I say?’

‘I believe his highness has a question he is most eager to ask you.’

‘Altessa Astasia.’

Astasia, startled, took a step back from the crystal. A man’s voice had addressed her from the heart of the rose. ‘What kind of trickery is this?’

‘No trickery, altessa, I assure you,’ said Karonen, his dour expression relaxing into a smile. He turned the Vox toward him and spoke into it. ‘The altessa is unused to our Tielen scientific artistry, highness. She is recovering from her surprise at hearing your voice from so far away.’ He beckoned Astasia to his side.

Astasia felt her cheeks tingle with indignation. She was not going to be shown up as an unsophisticated schoolgirl. She was an Orlov. What would her father have done on such an occasion? She approached the Vox Aethyria with determination and said loudly and clearly, ‘I must thank your highness, on behalf of our city, for sending your men to quell the riots and rescue my family. I – I trust you are making a good recovery from your injuries?’

Field Marshal Karonen nodded his approval and adjusted the Vox so that she could hear Prince Eugene’s reply.

It was faint at first, so that she had to bend closer to the crystal to hear.

‘Indeed; and I am in much better spirits already for hearing your voice, and knowing you are safe.’ Formal as his words were, she thought she detected – to her surprise – an undertone of genuine concern. Did he care about her a little, then? ‘I had fully intended to lead my men to free the city myself, but fate decreed otherwise. Now I want nothing more than to meet you. I’ve had to wait far too long and, charming though your portrait is, it’s a poor substitute.’

Astasia’s throat had gone dry. She could sense what was coming next. Was she ready for this?

‘We must meet, altessa, and soon. I have plans, great plans, for our two countries, but unless you are at my side they will all be meaningless. Will you marry me, Astasia?’

***

‘The altessa will not be disappointed, highness.’ The valet straightened the blue ribbon of the Order of the Swan on Eugene’s breast, gave one final tweak to the fine linen collar, a last spray of cologne, and withdrew from the prince’s bedchamber, bowing.

Eugene of Tielen forced himself to confront his reflection in the cheval glass.

At first he had ordered all mirrors in the palace at Swanholm to be covered, unable to bear the ravages that his encounter with the Drakhaon had wrought. Now that he was almost recovered, he forced himself to look every day. After all, he reasoned, his courtiers were obliged to put up with the sight of his disfigurement, so why shouldn’t he?

He had never been vain. He had known himself to be strong-featured -certainly no handsome fairy-tale prince from one of Karila’s stories. But it still pained him to see the legacy of the Drakhaon’s Fire: the scarred and reddened skin that pitted one hand and one whole side of his face and head. And his hair had not yet grown back as he had hoped, though there were signs of a soft, pale ashen fuzz, all the rich golden hues bleached away.

How would Astasia react? Would she shrink from him, forced by court protocol to make a public show of tolerating what, in her heart, she looked on with revulsion? Or was she made of stronger stuff, prepared to search beneath superficial appearances?

He squared his shoulders, bracing himself. He had conquered a whole continent; what had he to fear from one young woman?

He pushed open the double doors and went to meet his betrothed for the first time.

***

The music room in the east Wing had escaped the worst of the attack. Built for intimate concerts and recitals, it was crammed to overflowing with the military dignitaries of the Tielen royal household, leaving little room for the Orlov family and their court.

Astasia sat on a dais between her parents; a fourth gilt chair stood empty beside hers. First Minister Vassian stood silently behind her. Still in mourning for her drowned brother Andrei, her family and the court were sombrely dressed in black and violet. A tense silence filled the room; the Mirom courtiers seemed too bewildered by the rapid succession of events that had led to the annexation of Muscobareven to whisper behind their black-gloved hands.

A blaze of military trumpets shattered the air.

‘His imperial highness, Eugene of Tielen!’ announced a martial voice.

The Tielen household guard came marching in, spurs clanking. Astasia felt her mother shrink in her seat.

‘It’s all right, Mama,’ she whispered, patting her hand, trying to suppress her own nervousness. Then she saw all the heads in the room bowing, the women sinking into low curtseys

He was here.

She rose to her feet, pressing her hands together to stop them from shaking.

Prince Eugene came in, accompanied by Field Marshal Karonen. She noted that he too wore a black velvet mourning band. Was it as a sign of respect for their loss, or had he too lost someone dear to him in the fighting?

They had warned her about his injuries. She did not think herself squeamish, but she steeled herself nevertheless, hoping she would not let anything of what she might feel show on her face.

He stood before her, but still she stared at the golden Order of the Swan glittering on his breast, unwilling to meet his eyes.

‘Welcome, your highness,’ she said, dropping into a full court curtsey, one hand extended in formal greeting.

She sensed a slight hesitation, then a gloved hand took hers in a firm grip, raising her to her feet. Still she did not dare to look at him, even as she felt him lift her hand to his lips.

Look, you must look, she willed herself, aware that everyone in the room was watching them with bated breath.

‘You are every bit as beautiful as your portrait, altessa.’ His voice was strong, confident, coloured by a slight Tielen accent. He still held her hand in his.

She could no longer keep her gaze lowered. She looked at him then, forcing herself to concentrate on his eyes. Blue-grey eyes, clear and cold as a winter’s morning, gazed steadily back. But all the skin around them was red, blistered and damaged. She was looking into the ruin of a face.

Gavril did this. She was so shocked she could not speak for a moment. How cruel.

‘You flatter me, your highness,’ she answered, forcing firmness into her voice. She must not forget that this was also the man who had ruthlessly ordered Elysia’s execution. ‘Please…’ She gestured to the gilt chair that had been set for him beside hers.

He stepped up onto the dais, towering above her. He bowed to the Grand Duke and Duchess, and to Vassian, then sat down.

Astasia cleared her throat. This was the part of the ceremony she had been dreading the most, because it signalled to the world the end of the Orlov dynasty.

Her father rose from his chair and took her hand in his.

‘My – my daughter has a gift for you, your highness,’ he said. His voice faltered. ‘A gift from the heart of Muscobar. Accept it – and with it, her hand in marriage, freely given, so that our two countries may be united as one.’

Astasia took the jewelled casket her father was holding toward her, and knelt before Prince Eugene, offering it with both hands raised.

The prince opened the casket. The Mirom Ruby glowed in his fingers like a flame as he held it aloft: a victory trophy.

‘The last of Artamon’s Tears!’ His voice throbbed now with an intensity of emotion that startled Astasia. ‘Now the imperial crown is complete.’ He helped her to rise and took her hand, closing it over the ancient ruby clutched in his fingers.

‘Today a new empire rises from the ashes of Artamon’s dreams. Altessa, from the day we are married in the Cathedral of Saint Simeon, you will be known as Astasia, Empress of New Rossiya.’

He drew her close and she felt – as if in a waking dream – the pressure of his burned lips hot and dry on her forehead, and then her mouth.

Field Marshal Karonen turned to the astonished court.

‘Long live the Emperor Eugene – and Empress Astasia!’

After a short, startled silence, the cheers began. Astasia, her hand still in Eugene’s, glanced at her father, and saw the Grand Duke surreptitiously wiping away a tear.

Prologue

The Clan Lord lies dying, his eyes wandering, glazing over as he reaches out blindly to grasp his lieutenant’s arm.

‘Over…at last…old friend…’ The hand falls away, his grizzled head lolls sideways, sightless eyes sliding upwards, clear at last, as if a dark veil has melted away.

And as his faithful friend watches, his sight dimmed with tears, he sees -

A shadow, black as a stormcloud, slowly rise from the still body of his master, lift and gather itself until it hovers over him: a great winged daemon-serpent, terrible and puissant.

‘Drakhaoul,’ he whispers, in awe and terror.

Now all the warriors and servants have fallen silent, watching or covering their faces in fear.

‘Lead me, Drakhaoul,’ the old soldier cries aloud, ‘show me where he is to be found. And I will follow you, no matter how far. Take me to our new lord. Our new Drakhaon.’

Chapter One

‘Shall I sit over here, Maistre Andar?’

Gavril Andar looked up from unpacking his oil paints and saw Altessa Astasia Orlova in the doorway. She was dressed for her portrait in a plain muslin dress of eggshell blue, her cloud of dark hair tied back with a single blue ribbon.

He glanced around.

‘Where’s your governess, altessa?’

‘Eupraxia? Oh, she’s still sleeping off the effects of the fruit punch at last night’s reception.’ Astasia began to laugh. ‘You mean – is it seemly for me to be here alone with you, unchaperoned? But this is Smarna, Maistre Andar! Surely one may relax the strict rules of Muscobar court protocol when on holiday?’

Her laughter was infectious and Gavril found himself smiling back at her.

‘Was I facing this way? Or that?’ She fidgeted around in the chair. ‘I can’t remember.’

He went over to her. ‘Your head was inclined a little more to the left.’

‘Like this? You’ll have to help me.’

Gently he tipped her chin to the correct angle. Now her shoulders were awry. Carefully he placed his hands on her shoulders to alter the position. As he moved her, he became aware that she was gazing intently up at him. He could feel the sweet warmth of her breath on his face. Heat flooded through him. If anyone came in and saw them in such a compromising position -

‘And my hair?’

Gavril consulted his sketches.

‘No ribbon. Loose over your shoulders.’

‘But if I pull out the ribbon, I’ll lose the pose,’ she said with that little smile again, grave yet oddly provocative.

As he undid the ribbon he felt the dark curls against his fingertips, soft as the strands of sable in his water colour brushes.

‘How long must I sit still?’

‘Long enough…’ Gavril was concentrating on his palette, blending and mixing. The luminous dark of her eyes – so difficult to match the shade exactly. It was almost the intense purple of viola petals…

‘If the conversation is diverting enough, I can sit for hours. Yesterday you told me all about Vermeille. That was very diverting. But you said nothing about you. Tell me about Gavril Andar.’

‘I was hoping,’ he said, ‘that you would tell me about the Grand Duchess’s reception last night.’

‘Mama’s reception?’ A slight flush suffused her pale face. Had she met someone special last night? ‘Well, my brother Andrei flirted outrageously with all the prettiest women, especially the married ones. He has no shame!’

‘And,’ he ventured, ‘was your fiancé at the reception?’

‘Oh, heavens forbid, no!’ The dark eyes blazed. He must have touched a sensitive nerve to have produced such a vehement reply.

‘I beg your pardon, altessa, but when I was commissioned to paint a betrothal portrait, I assumed – ‘

‘A natural assumption to make. It’s just that there is no fiancé as yet; this portrait is to sell my charms to the highest bidder,’ she said bitterly. ‘Papa sees my betrothal as a way to bring an end to a difficult diplomatic situation. He’s looking for a rich and powerful ally.’

Gavril looked at her blankly.

‘Haven’t you heard? Eugene of Tielen has invaded Khitari. And now his warships are in the Straits. Things are looking a little…tricky for Muscobar. That’s why Papa has stayed in Mirom.’

‘I had no idea.’ Gavril, like most Smarnans, paid scant attention to international politics. Smarna was a sunny summer retreat for the rich aristocracy from the northern countries, too small and unimportant to play a major part in world affairs.

‘And of course, my feelings are not to be taken into consideration, oh no!’

All trace of laughter had vanished; he saw how miserable she was at the prospect of this marriage of obligation.

She glanced around guiltily. ‘But you must never let slip you heard me say such a disrespectful thing. Papa would be so angry.’

‘Portrait painters are trained to be discreet.’

‘I feel I could tell you anything.’

‘Anything?’ he echoed, blushing in spite of himself.

For a moment her gaze rested on him and he felt a delicious shiver of danger. Hadn’t his mother warned him? Never become involved. The gulf between a Grand Duke’s daughter and a young, impoverished artist was so great that he knew must never dare to think of her as anything more than a wealthy patroness -

And then she began to chatter again, affecting the charmingly light, idle tone of their earlier conversations.

‘My dancing partners from last night. Lieutenant Valery Vassian for one. The First Minister’s son. Very good-looking, but a terrible dancer.’ She smothered a giggle. ‘My poor toes are still bruised. And then there was Count Velemir’s nephew, Pavel. He’s been abroad on some kind of diplomatic mission about which he would say nothing of interest. I suspect he may be one of Papa’s secret agents! I don’t think I could marry a spy. One would never know if he were telling the truth…’

Even as she chattered on, Gavril painted as he had never painted before. Her freshness, her utter lack of self-consciousness, inspired and enchanted him. In repose, he noticed a wistful expression darkening her eyes as she gazed out of the window, beyond the breeze-blown gauze curtains, to the blue haze of the sea beyond.

‘Ahh. I’m stiffening up.’

‘Time to take a break then,’ he said, laying down his brush.

She came around to his side of the canvas.

‘Well?’ he said, rather more tensely than he had intended.

‘I think you’ve flattered me, Maistre Andar,’ she said after a while. ‘I always thought myself a pale shadow of Mama. She is such a beauty. But you’ve made me look almost pretty.’

‘But you are – ‘ he began, only to be interrupted as the double doors opened and a stout woman hurried in.

‘Altessa! How long have you been here – alone – with this man?’ The governess was so out-of-breath she could hardly speak.

‘Oh, don’t be such a prude, Eupraxia.’

‘If the Grand Duchess were to hear of this – ‘

‘But she won’t, Praxia, will she?’ Astasia wound her arm around Eupraxia’s ample waist.

‘And if some impropriety had taken place – ‘

‘You’ve been reading too many romances,’ Astasia teased.

‘That’s quite enough portrait-painting for today, Maistre Andar,’ Eupraxia said, ignoring Astasia. ‘When the arrangement was made, I was told your mother Elysia was to accept the commission. I had not expected a young man. If I had known, I would have made my objections clear at the time – ‘

‘Yes, yes,’ Astasia said, ‘but Maistre Andar is doing such a good job. Do take a look, Praxia. See? Isn’t it coming along well?’

Eupraxia grudgingly admitted that it was a fair likeness.

‘So we shall expect you at the same time tomorrow morning, Maistre Andar?’ Astasia gave him a smile of such bewitching charm that he could only nod in reply.

He turned back to the canvas in a daze, still intoxicated by her fresh hyacinth scent, her smile…

Gavril painted until the light faded; the sun was setting and the last dying rays deepened the misty blue of the sea to lilac. He had been so absorbed in his work that he had not noticed till now that his back and arm ached. He stood back from the canvas, looking at it critically in the twilight. Yes, he had captured something of her elusively wistful expression, even though it was not yet as perfect as he could wish.

Music came floating on the drowsy summer night. Carriages were drawing up, wheels crunching over the gravel on the broad drive. Gavril took out a cloth to wipe his brush and started to pack away his paints.

Coloured lanterns glowed like little jewels on the terraces. The guests were arriving, the women dressed in bright spangled muslins of primrose, coral and turquoise, diamonds and sapphires sparkling around their throats. The men wore uniforms stiff with gold brocade and brass buttons. The night gleamed with golden candlelight, trembled with the babble of conversation and the frothy dance melodies, light as foam on the waves in the Bay.

It was time to leave. And yet he could not go, not yet, not without seeing her one more time.

Servants, resplendent in the blue liveries of the Duke’s household, hurried past them with golden punchbowls, silver trays of petit-fours and crystal dishes filled to the brim with sugar-dusted berries.

The dancers spilled out onto the terrace and Gavril strolled out into the gardens to watch, leaning against the pillared balustrade from which the wide, dark lawns rolled down to the sea beneath. The warm night air tasted of sparkling wine, headily effervescent. Little trails of white moths fluttered around the flickering lanterns.

No-one challenged him. No-one seemed to notice that he was not wearing military uniform or evening dress.

And then he saw her, one hand resting on her older brother Andrei’s arm, gazing gravely at the spinning dancers. In her gown of white organdie, trimmed with green silk ribbons, she reminded Gavril of a snow-flower, clean and pure amongst the garish costumes of the guests.

Suddenly he realised that she had seen him and was gazing at him with an intensity that made him shiver.

She moved away from Andrei, rapidly fanning herself with her white feather fan. He caught a few snatches of words as she came closer, smilingly shaking her head as attentive young men offered her ices, sherbets, fruit punch.

‘So hot…fresh air…maybe later…’

He watched as she drifted down the marble steps onto the darkened lawns and followed.

‘Altessa,’ he said softly.

She turned to him. ‘Gavril,’ she said.

His heart beat faster to hear her pronounce his name without the formality of ‘Maistre Andar’ – it had a wonderfully intimate quality, as if they were equals, as if he could hope – against all hopes – that a poor painter could…

‘Do you believe in fate, Gavril?’ she said, softer still. ‘It’s as if we were meant to meet. As if we were meant to be together.’

The strains of a waltz drifted out from the ballroom.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘they’re playing “White Nights”, my favourite tune…’

Before he knew what he was doing, she was in his arms, her head close to his and they were dancing slowly, circling on the dew-wet grass, in a pool of moonlight.

He leaned towards her – he could not help himself – and kissed her. Her lips tasted cool and fresh as her hyacinth scent but her mouth was warm. His hands touched her bare shoulders, caressing the soft silk of her skin -

Suddenly he felt her shiver in his arms.

‘What is it?’ he asked. Astasia was looking up at the sky.

‘Can’t you feel it?’ she said. ‘Like a storm coming. Far out to sea. Look…’

Gavril gazed out across the Bay. The moon had dimmed, as if covered by thin clouds, and the stars seemed less bright.

‘Odd,’ he said. He knew the moods and humours of the Bay well. And this was not the way a summer storm began.

A strange, chill little breeze ruffled the sea-pines and cedars. It seemed as if the thin veil of dark cloud was scudding along too fast for the breeze to carry it, moving almost of its own accord. A feeling of dread clouded his mind.

‘You should go in,’ he said suddenly.

‘Altessa!’

They turned – but too late. The Orlov Guards, led by Andrei Orlov, were running across the lawns towards them, sabres drawn.

‘Arrest that intruder!’

Two burly guardsmen threw themselves onto Gavril and bore him to the ground.

‘Are you all right, Tasia?’ Andrei demanded. ‘Has he hurt you?’

‘I’m perfectly all right!’ Astasia blazed back. ‘He was here by my invitation. Let him go!’

Gavril struggled against the restraining arms of the two guards. Andrei came closer and, placing the razor-tip of his sabre beneath Gavril’s chin, peered down in the moonlight.

‘So, it’s the portrait painter.’ He sheathed his blade. ‘You little fool, Tasia. If you must create a scandal, at least try to choose someone of our own class.’ He turned to the guardsmen. ‘Throw him out. And you, painter, don’t even think of coming back – or asking for your fee. Your commission’s cancelled.’

‘No!’ cried Astasia. ‘It’s all my fault – ‘

Gavril was hauled to his feet. In spite of all his attempts to break free, the Guards began to drag him towards the gravel drive.

‘Mama is making a terrible fuss. She thinks you’ve been abducted – or molested by some Smarnan peasant.’

‘Gavril, I’m so sorry – ‘ Astasia cried.

‘Come inside, Tasia.’ Andrei hurried his sister away across the lawn.

At the villa gates, the Guards flung Gavril out onto the rough gravel.

Bruised and shaken, he picked himself up, brushing the dirt from his clothes – only to find the heavy iron gates clanged shut in his face and locked.

‘Hey! What about my paints?’ he yelled, grabbing hold of the bars of the gates and shaking them till they clanged noisily.

One of the Guards came back and Gavril found himself staring into the muzzle of a carbine.

‘Get out,’ the man said in heavily-accented Smarnan.

For a moment, Gavril felt a dangerous flicker of anger. Was it always to be like this? Was he always to be excluded, always the poor painter, on the outside looking in?

And then he heard a click as the Guard primed the carbine and pulled back the trigger.

‘All right, all right, I’m going.’ He let go of the bars and backed away.

The unlit lane which wound down the cliffside through pines and brambles to the beach far below was wide enough to accommodate the carriages of the Orlov’s wealthy visitors – and dark enough to suit his mood. Humiliated and angry, he stumbled blindly on.

How could he begin to explain to his mother that he had ruined his first prestigious commission?

The beach was deserted and silent, save for the soft lapping of the tide on the pale sands. The cloud-shadow that had scudded across the moon had gone and the waters of wide Vermeille Bay shimmered in the moon’s clear light.

Gavril walked slowly along the beach. It was a magical night, a night for lovers…

He turned and gazed back at the Villa Orlova, gleaming high up on the cliffs above. Torchlight and lanternlight still lit the white stucco of the villa; there would be dancing till dawn.

In whose arms was she dancing now? The clumsy young officer who had bruised her toes? Or had she been sent to her room in disgrace? Was she thinking of him now? Would she remember his name when she had returned to distant Mirom? Would she remember how they had moved together in the dance as one? Or would he just be a fading memory of a sunlit summer?

Bitter resentment burned through him like a flame. He was as good as the Mirom aristocracy, no – better! How dare they humiliate him in this way?

‘Astasia!’ he cried aloud over the waves’ soft rise and fall.

Suddenly the beach went black. Glancing up, he saw a darkness blotting out the stars, and a thin, cold wind sighed across the waves.

Must be a storm coming after all…

He hastened his steps, hurrying towards the path that led up to his home, the Villa Andara, at the opposite end of the Bay.

But as he moved, the darkness moved too, shifting faster than any wind-driven cloud, racing across the night-sky towards him, pursuing him like a hawk wheeling over its prey.

The feeling of dread overwhelmed him, cold as a fever-sweat. He clambered up the sandy cliff-path, stumbling over the tangled blackberry briars and tree roots. Breathless and sweating, he reached the old rose garden, his mother’s favourite place -

High above the villa the shadow-cloud hovered, black like choking smoke, leaching all the stars’ brightness from the night.

What in God’s name was it? And why had it pursued him so relentlessly?

He launched himself towards the safety of the villa, tearing across the dew-wet lawns as though his life depended on it, hurling himself at the side door which his mother left unlocked for him.

Inside, he leaned against the door, gasping for breath. Then he shot the heavy bolts and locked the door with the key.

Now that he was inside the villa, the whole episode began to seem not only bizarre but absurd. He must have imagined it. His mind, already inflamed with anger and desire, had distorted what was nothing but a rising sea-mist into something far more sinister.

What a fool I’ve been…

He went along the passageway towards the stairs, tiptoeing so as not to disturb Elysia or their housekeeper Palmyre. But the feeling of dread still haunted him, as though the dark shadow-mist had smothered the whole house, extinguishing the light of the stars.

He reached his room and, exhausted, flung himself down on his bed, closing his eyes.

The balmy evening air suddenly breathed cold and chill.

Gavril opened one eye.

The chimney! He had not thought to block the chimney! And now the darkness had entered his room, rolling out of the open fireplace in swathes like smoke, gathering itself in great coils like a daemon-serpent, rearing up over his bed to swallow him in its gaping maw.

Gavril gave a cry, tried to roll away – and found himself drowning in swathes of shadow.

He felt his consciousness suddenly wrenched free from the body that lay on the bed, hurled out into the wild night, flung far from the warm Smarnan night into a whirling chaos of cloud and stars -

He is in a torch-lit hall. The smoky air reeks of burned pitch and worse: the stench of spilled blood, vomit, and something else – a raw, acrid, chemical stink that makes the eyes water and the throat burn.

As the swirling smoke clears, Gavril sees a figure slumped on the tiled floor of the chamber, a figure that strives slowly, painfully, to drag itself over the patterned tiles towards the door. A dark liquid smears the tiles, staining them, steadily leaking from the slow-moving figure. Gavril can do nothing; a voiceless, helpless observer, he can only watch the dying man’s agonised progress.

‘Why? Why have you brought me here?‘

‘Look.’ The hoarse command reverberates in his mind, a brazen funeral bell relentlessly tolling. ‘Look!’

His gaze is forced up, away from the dying man – and he finds himself staring directly into the eyes of a golden-haired young man, eyes dark with terror and exultation as he stands over his victim, blood-stained sabre in one hand, a jewelled goblet in the other.

‘This,’ cries the young man, emptying the contents of the goblet on the other, ‘for my mother.’ His voice is choked with emotion, a hatred and grief so bitter Gavril can almost taste it in the rank, death-tainted air. ‘This for my sisters.’

His victim writhes around, hands upraised, fingers clawing. For one moment, in the paroxysmal shudder that twists his body, Gavril sees a column of smoke arising, a spark-filled, cobalt smoke that goes rushing towards the rafters. Flames shoot out from the writhing column and the young man drops, screaming, to his knees. His arm, his hand that holds the goblet is burning, bright with blue fire. He hurls the goblet at his adversary.

‘This,’ he screams, ‘for my father – ‘

The column disperses into shreds and tatters of snaking, wisping smoke. In its midst, the older man crumples, crashing back to the floor, the last of his strength exhausted. ‘Who let you in?’ His words rasp out on a dying whisper but Gavril recognises the voice. It is an echo, a fast-failing echo of the stern voice in his head. ‘Who betrayed me?’

But the young man has doubled up, hugging his seared arm to his chest, too choked with pain to reply.

‘No more.’ Gavril tries to close his mind, to shut out the pain and terror.

A loud hammering shakes the door timbers. Now there are voices shouting, clamouring to be let in.

The young man staggers to his feet. Gavril sees the revulsion – revulsion and raw fear – in his eyes. The exultation has faded. He has never killed before.

‘Here! Over here!’

Someone else is in the room. An urgent voice, low and husky, is calling from the smoke. An accomplice. The murderer is not alone.

The thuds at the door grow louder, more insistent; Gavril hears the creak of rending timbers.

‘Hurry!’

The young man stumbles away from his victim, slipping on the blood-smeared tiles.

Gavril strains to make out where the third person is hiding – yet all he sees is a wooden panel sliding open in the painted wall.

The locked door bursts inwards in an explosion of splinters and armed men come tumbling into the room.

‘Too late…’ There is a mocking, ironic taint to the whispered words of the dying man.

And, as if glimpsed through his fast-dimming sight, Gavril’s vision begins to break up – streaked, distorted, fading like the last shreds of the dispersing smoke.

‘Gavril.’ The voice burns through his brain, a last, desperate plea, as if dragged from the fiery depths of the abyss.

‘Remember…’

Gavril opened his eyes. Watery dawn light spilled down into his room.

Yet he could only lie staring into nothing, rigid, paralysed with the horror of the vision, wanting to wish it away as ‘only a dream’. But how could anything so immediate, so real, have been a mere dream?

‘Remember…’

The aftertaste of the vision suddenly gripped Gavril’s stomach; he rolled off the bed and staggered queasily towards the dressing-room, pitching forwards over the sink, heaving and retching.

And then he heard the distant clatter of hoofbeats.

Through the receding surges of nausea, Gavril raised his head, eyes watering. He wondered if Andrei Orlov was up early with his fellow officers for a day’s hunting. And if Astasia was with her brother…

He stuck his head under the water tap and let the ice-cold water flow until his skin tingled with the shock of it.

The sound of horses’ hooves grew louder. They were coming this way, along the upper Bay road, towards the cliffs.

He could hear shouts now, men’s voices, calling to each other. Puzzled, he staggered to his feet. There came a knocking on the front door. Who was it and what could they want at this early hour?

Head pounding, Gavril made for the hall. The knocking was more insistent now. Ahead of him, Palmyre, their housekeeper, was slowly crossing the hall, yawning and wiping the sleep from her eyes.

‘Palmyre!’ He heard his mother’s voice cry out from the upper floor of the villa. ‘Don’t open!’

But Palmyre had already pulled back the bolts. The door was thrown open and a group of men pushed their way past her into the hall. They were tall, tattooed with clan marks and ritual scars, their long hair braided.

‘No!’ Elysia screamed from the top of the stairs.

Gavril stopped where he was, staring, open-mouthed. Were they thieves come to rob them?

But the foremost amongst the intruders came forwards and flung himself on his knees before Gavril.

‘Drakhaon,’ he said. His deep voice trembled with emotion. ‘I bring bad news. Your father – ‘ Tears channelled down the deep-graven lines of his weatherburned face. ‘Your father is dead.’

‘My father?’ Gavril stared down at the kneeling man in astonishment. And as he stood staring, the other men dropped to their knees too.

He turned to Elysia who stood pale and silent at the foot of the stairs. ‘Mother?’

‘So,’ she said, in a numbed, toneless voice, ‘Volkh is dead.’

‘Mother,’ Gavril said again, pleadingly. ‘Who is Volkh? Who are these men?’

‘Lord Drakhaon,’ the barbarian warrior said, still on his knees. Gavril saw now that, for all his rings and tattoos, he was an old man, and his braided hair was grey as iron. ‘We have come to take you home.’ He used the common tongue, yet so strangely inflected that Gavril wondered if he had understood him correctly.

‘Home?’ he repeated, utterly confused. ‘This is my home.’

‘Not Smarna, lord. To your rightful inheritance. To Azhkendir.’

‘Azhkendir? Surely there’s been some mistake. This is my home, here in Smarna – ‘

‘No mistake.’ Tears still ran down the old warrior’s cheeks; he seemed unashamed to weep in front of strangers. ‘Don’t you remember me, Lord Gavril? Kostya, Bogatyr Kostya Torzianin, your father’s right-hand man?’

Gavril shook his head. This was all happening too fast. Maybe he was still dreaming -

Dreaming.

For dizzying moment, Gavril found himself plunged back into the bloodstained hall of his nightmare, staring down at the sprawled figure, re-living those last agonising death throes -

‘How did my father die?’ he heard himself asking in a cold, distant voice.

Kostya’s expression darkened; though tears still glistened in his eyes, Gavril saw now a glimmer of implacable hatred and despair.

‘I failed your father, Lord Gavril. I fell into a trap. I was not at his side to defend him when he needed me. For that I can never forgive myself: that I still live when my lord and master is dead.’

‘But how? How did he die?’

‘He – ‘ The old man seemed shamed to even say the words aloud, ‘he was betrayed. Betrayed – and murdered.’