An Extract from Lord of Snow and Shadows
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.'