An Extract from Children of the Serpent Gate

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.'

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