Lord of Snow and Shadows (28 page)

The man’s pace hastened to catch up with her.

The path divided into two ahead; she grabbed her skirts and broke into a run, taking the left fork.

Mustn’t panic. Try to retrace steps . . . find the Pavilion . . . be safe there.

She had lost all sense of direction now, but she could see the glow of a lamp up ahead. She began to hurry toward it—and ran straight into the arms of the shadow pursuing her.

“Steady there,” he said. The dim lamplight illuminated the warm brown eyes of Feodor Velemir.

“Count Velemir?” she cried. And then anger replaced relief and she shook herself free of his steadying grip. “What were you doing? Following me?”

“Protecting you, madame,” he said with a wry smile.

“Am I so important that the spymaster of all Muscobar must devote his valuable time to following me?”

“Ah. So Kazimir told you.”

“I wonder why you never thought to do so yourself.” To her annoyance she found she was trembling like a frightened schoolgirl.
Pull yourself together!
she told herself. Was she trembling with fear—or anger? “But was it really me you were protecting? Or were you trailing someone else?”

He did not answer.

“I came to you for help, count. I have answered all your questions with complete candor. And in return I have received nothing but evasions.”

Still he said nothing. The fog seemed to grow more dense around them. Then he said, “Tell me what it is you want, Elysia.”

“I want to return to Vermeille. My work here is done. It’s obvious to me that no one here can—or will—do anything to help Gavril. Perhaps one of your agents, count, could send word to my housekeeper, Palmyre, to tell her I am coming home?” And, pulling her hood closer about her head, she set out again along the path.

Velemir hurried after her, blocking her way again.

“Do you doubt me, Elysia? I made you a promise—and I always keep my word.” He spoke in a low, intense voice that sent a shiver through her. “But these matters take time. And there have been distractions. Unwanted distractions.”

“What do you mean, distractions?” she said, exasperated. “If you mean what happened to Stepan—”

“Stepan?”

Shadows loomed up out of the fog, people coming toward them from the Pavilion.

Suddenly he swept his arm around her, pulling her close as if about to kiss her. His breath was warm on her cheek, faintly sweet with anise. Too surprised to twist away, she heard him whisper, “Forgive me, Elysia.”

The men walked on past—and when the sound of their footsteps had died away, he took her arm and began to hurry her along the path.

“Isn’t it customary for the woman to slap the man’s face in these circumstances?” Elysia said breathlessly.

“It was unpardonable of me to take such a liberty.” He spoke to her in a quiet, intimate voice, more the tone a confidant or lover might use. “It was essential that I should not be recognized. Here, of all places.” He stopped, his hands still enclosing hers. “Listen to me, Elysia. I don’t know what you’ve heard or who told you. But I beg you, do not condemn me until you have learned all the facts.”

“Facts!”

“My carriage is waiting at the gates of the Gardens. The fog is growing thicker by the minute. At least let me take you back to the palace in comfort.”

Elysia sat in silence as Count Velemir’s carriage rolled away from the Water Gardens into the drifting fog.

“You met our friend the doctor again?” Velemir said.

“Since you know everything about my comings and goings,” she began, “it is hardly necessary for me to confirm or—”

“What’s that noise?” Velemir raised the carriage blinds, leaning out.

Elysia listened. It was the same roar of shouting she had heard outside Saint Simeon’s, the roar of an angry crowd.

“The street’s blocked ahead,” the carriage driver called down. The carriage slowed to a standstill. “Hundreds of people.”

Elysia looked out from her side of the carriage. The foggy darkness had turned from black to flickering red and gold. Torches. They had run into a torchlit procession.

“They’ve filled the Palace Square, excellency. We may not get through.”

“Drive on, coachman!” Velemir ordered. “I want to see what this is about.”

The shouting was louder now, the glow of torches brighter. Elysia thought she could identify words and a name.

“Stepan! Stepan!”

“Stepan the Cobbler?” she said. “The one who died in your custody?”

“Stepan the assassin,” Velemir said coldly. “Remember? He tried to stab the Grand Duke.”

The street wound down toward the Winter Palace. The coach slowed to a crawl as they reached the square in front of the palace. People pushed around them, past them. From the coach window Elysia could see that the square was filled with a vast crowd, many bearing flaming torches whose glare cast red shadows on the white stucco walls of the palace. More ominous still, behind the high palace railings—behind the elaborate ironwork grilles with their spread-winged sea-eagles—the White Guard was ranged. The shouting of the crowd had become deafening.

“We shouldn’t go any farther,” Elysia whispered.

“Look.” He had not heard her. “There’s the ringleader.”

As she followed his gaze she saw a man climbing up to stand on a herring barrel outside the main gates, immediately beneath the gilded Orlov crest. The shouting slowly stilled as he raised his arms, and some of his words carried to them across the square.

“Our brother Stepan dared to strike a blow for his comrades.”

“Stepan!” roared back the crowd.

“Now we must strike a blow for him. To honor his memory.” The rough, strident tones were familiar. She recognized him.

“Matyev,” she said under her breath. So this was their “philosophical society” meeting. What had Kazimir gotten himself mixed up in? Was this the reason for Velemir’s interest in the scientist? The fact that he kept company with insurgents? Or was soft-spoken, short-sighted Kazimir one of the rebels behind this uprising?

“You know this man?” demanded Velemir.

She could have bitten her tongue. Why had she spoken his name aloud? But his attention was already diverted.

“What’s going on?” he muttered. “What’s Roskovski playing at?”

“Who is Roskovski?” Elysia asked, noticing a ripple of movement along the line of the White Guard behind the palace railings.

“He’s giving the order to load and prime,” Velemir said, craning out of the window.

“To fire on the crowd?” Elysia said, horrified. “It’ll be a massacre.”

“You’re right. Something has to be done.”

Suddenly he threw open the carriage door and jumped out, clambering up onto the driver’s seat, seizing the whip and reins from the driver.

“Feodor!” she cried.

“It’s all right, Elysia, I’ll take care of you.” The next moment, Elysia felt the carriage jerk forward.

“Way! Make way!” Velemir shouted.

Elysia sat, tightly clutching hold of the strap as the carriage gathered speed. People in the crowd, taken by surprise, hastily jumped out of the way.

What was Velemir planning to do? Ram the gates? The carriage rolled from side to side, jolting and bumping over the cobbles. She could hear the outraged cries of the people in the crowd, could feel the thumps and thuds of stones and missiles hurled at the moving carriage.

“Hold your fire!” Velemir’s voice rang out above the din.

The carriage swerved round in a tight arc, rocking wildly. Elysia’s head cracked against the backseat. Dizzied, she realized that they had come to a standstill right in front of the railings. And then she heard Velemir’s voice ring out again above the crowd’s jeering, clear and strong as a brazen bell.

“Colonel Roskovski.
Hold your fire!
”

Elysia peered out of the little front window. Velemir was standing up on the driver’s seat right above her head, facing the crowd.

“Who the hell are you?” barked a voice from behind the railings.

“Feodor Velemir!” Velemir replied. The name went rippling through the crowd on a low whisper, brushwood catching alight. “And you can charge me with insubordination later, Colonel. But I will not let you fire on these good people. If they have grievances, we should listen to them.”

“I have my orders. Get out of the way, Velemir.”

“Feodor! They’re going to fire,” Elysia cried.

“The Grand Duke cares about these people, Roskovski.
His
people. If one—just one of this crowd—is harmed, it will go ill with the soldier who fired the shot. I give you my word.”

“There he stands, Feodor Velemir, in his fine clothes!” Matyev cried to the crowd. His face, in the flaring torchlight, was contorted with fury. “Why should you listen to him? All the Orlovs have given you is lies—and more gilded lies!”

“Stand clear, count!” ordered Roskovski.

Velemir clambered down from the coach. Elysia watched in astonishment as he walked up to the railings as nonchalantly as if he were out for an evening stroll.

“Shoot if you must, Roskovski,” Velemir called out. He swung around, his arms flung wide as if embracing the crowd. The gesture was sublimely theatrical—and impossibly gallant. “But you’ll have to shoot me, too.”

“Down with the House of Orlov!”

“Justice! Justice for Stepan!”

What am I doing here?
Elysia wondered.
Why did I ever come to Mirom?
She was almost beyond terror, possessed by a strangely detached sense of calm.

“Justice!” Velemir cried. “I promise you justice!”

“Feodor, they’ll tear you to pieces,” she whispered.

A stone whistled through the air, striking him a glancing blow on the temple. He staggered, then righted himself again.

She held her breath, fearing a hail of stones, fearing to see him tumble to the ground, bloodied and battered.

The crowd’s shouting slowly subsided until she could hear nothing but the crackle and spit of the burning pitch on the torches.

And in the silence there came another order, roared from behind the railings. The line of glowing matches went out, one by one.

“Tell your men to stand down, colonel!” Velemir commanded. “It’s over. These good people will go home in peace—and I will personally hold an investigation into Stepan’s death. I give you my word.”

“Your word!” Matyev echoed. He spat. “Word of the Orlovs’ spymaster. Worthless. No, worse than worthless.”

“You have grievances,” Velemir said, ignoring Matyev. “We will meet and you can tell me your grievances. Together we can work to put them right. We can work together to build a new understanding. A new Mirom.”

Another man had appeared beside Matyev and was whispering urgently in his ear. There was something familiar about him. Elysia craned her head to try to see if she recognized him—and caught a glint of torchlight on the glass lenses of spectacles. Altan Kazimir? She prayed it was not, but the likeness was undeniable.

“Tomorrow, at ten in the Senate, I will meet with you and your representatives.”

Behind Matyev, the great iron gates of the palace swung slowly open.

The carriage began to move forward. Elysia saw the silent line of the White Guard standing behind the railings. She waited, tensed, for the first stone to crash onto the carriage, for the first protester to break from the cover of the crowd and launch himself toward them. But no one moved.

When she looked back to catch sight of Matyev, he—and his accomplice—had vanished into the crowd.

CHAPTER 22

Gavril’s head hurt. Ahhh, “hurt” came nowhere near; it throbbed, pounded, hammered. . . . The pain flared purple and black like a thunder-filled sky. He couldn’t remember so bad a hangover since his graduation night at the College of Arts . . . and he could remember little enough of that uproarious student riot of drinking.

He tried to open his eyes. Daylight flooded in, cruel, bright daylight, sharp as citrus juice. He shut his eyes again. Now he felt sick. A terrible, gut-aching sickness.

He retched, wincing and groaning as each heave only made his head pound more.

A viscous slime came up, vile, black and stinking of pitch.

What had he been drinking? He flopped over on his back, exhausted. And when had this drinking bout occurred? His mind was still blank. Why couldn’t he remember what had happened? Had there been some kind of celebration? The waves of nausea still surged. The foul taste still tainted his mouth and throat. It was as if he were trying to expel some noxious poison from his body.

Poison.

Terrified, he tried to open his mouth to cry for help. Had someone slipped him the same poison that had paralyzed his father, leaving him helpless?

Where were the
druzhina
when he needed them?

He rolled over onto his stomach and began to squirm his way across the floor like a serpent, mired in his own slime.

“Help . . . me . . .” His voice sounded as if from far away, a pathetic whisper.

If only he could remember what had happened to him, if only his memory were not a blank. All he could see was mist, clouds of black, drifting moor mist. . . .

It was as if he had contracted some deadly wasting sickness, as if his whole body were corroding away. He half-expected to look down and see his skin flaking off and noisome pus-filled fluids leaking through beneath. . . .

Not black mist . . . but smoke, billowing smoke.

“Help me . . . Kostya . . .”

His throat burned now from the retching, as if he had vomited up some caustic liquid. His voice, when he tried to call out again for help, was seared to a smoke-dry whisper.

“Thirsty . . .”

His body was all burned up, a charred shell. He craved water.

Why did no one hear him? Why did no one come?

He managed to drag himself forward another foot or so, only to collapse again. His hand clawed uselessly at the floor.

He found himself staring at his own hand as it scrabbled ineffectually to grab hold of something—anything—for support. The nails gleamed blue-black like chips of coal, hard and ridged as talons.

Now he could only stare at his hand, mesmerized. Had there been a fire? Was that why he could only remember clouds of billowing smoke? Was that why his whole body felt so alien to him? Had he been burned in the fire?

Hangover, poison, fire . . . none of it added up or made any sense.

All he knew was that he would die of thirst if no one came soon.

But now the thirst whispered to him of other liquids, delicious beyond imagining. He had never known thirst or hunger like this before in his whole life.

The pounding in his head had become a thunder of drums. All he wanted now was for the black smoke to envelop him, to smother the last breath from him and put him out of his misery. . . .

“My lord?” A head appeared above his, warrior braids swinging about a weather-beaten, grizzled face. It was a face he had never thought he would feel glad to see. Until now.

“Kostya?” His lips felt parched dry, his tongue swollen. The name came out in a croaking whisper. “What’s . . . happened . . . to me?”

“You must drink, my lord. And plenty.”

Gavril felt someone raise his head, and the rim of a cup was pressed against his sore mouth. A cool liquid splashed in; he tried to gulp it down, trickles leaking down his chin, onto his neck and chest.

“Enough.” He turned his head away. “Where . . . am I?”

“Klim,” Kostya said. “In the tavern.”

“Feel . . . so . . . ill.”

Kostya stroked the hair from his forehead. Even so gentle a touch from the old warrior made a shiver of nausea ripple through Gavril’s body.

“This is a proud day for us.” Kostya’s voice was unsteady, and when Gavril tried to focus on his face, he saw that Kostya’s eyes were glistening with tears. “Now you have shown them. Shown the doubters you are truly your father’s son. Now no one will dare oppose you.”

The old man’s words came and went like wisps of half-heard music drifting from an open window. Gavril could only see darkness and smoke, could only feel the next dark surge rising to engulf him.

“It will pass, lad,” he heard Kostya saying from beyond the darkness. “And then we will talk of the future.”

He walks through a drifting smoke of dreams, searching in vain for water to quench his burning thirst.

A pool glimmers in the smoke. Dropping to his knees, he bends toward its glassy surface, hands extended to scoop up the cool water.

And sees eyes, blue as lightning, staring at him.

“Water alone will not quench our thirst, Gavril.”

Gavril halts, staring. The dry, subtle voice has spoken quite clearly—but all he can see is the reflection of the glittering blue eyes, blue as distant starlight in the dull pool.

“Who’s there?”

“You woke me, Gavril Nagarian.”

“Who are you?” Gavril whispers.

“I am your guardian. You are my host.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look into the pool. This is how I once was—and how you will become when I have refashioned you in my likeness.”

The image ripples, slowly clearing. A creature stares back at Gavril, dark-winged, hook-clawed, its muscular body covered with the dull glitter of sapphire scales. A tumble of wild hair, blue-black, frames a strangely elongated face dominated by the gleam of those watchful, inhuman eyes. A creature of air and darkness, a winged daemon-lord, cruel and powerful. Gavril shakes his head. “I’m dreaming.”

“Soon your dreams will become reality. Soon, Gavril.”

Gavril opened his eyes to a cold dawn. He was lying in fresh linen on a bed in a bare room. Open shutters let in a gray snowlight, crisp and clean. He blinked. His head no longer pounded, his stomach had stopped churning. He felt cleansed—and empty.

Someone must have bathed him, washed the vomit from his hair, the shitslime from his body.

And he could remember nothing of it, nothing at all.

There was no taint of sickness in the room; the chill air smelled faintly of pine logs and snow. His breath, when he exhaled, made a little puff of steam.

He swung his legs out of bed.

“Feeling better, Lord Drakhaon?” Kostya appeared with a bowl of porridge. “Now you must eat to build up your strength again. Hot porridge and honey. Honey for strength, oats for stamina.”

Gavril nodded. He wished Kostya didn’t sound as if he were talking to one of his horses. But he was ravenous, and bolted down the porridge.

“Now tell me what I am doing here,” he said, setting the empty bowl aside. He still felt a gnawing emptiness, although the porridge had filled his belly. More of a craving than an emptiness . . .

“You remember nothing?” Kostya said. “Nothing of the steppe wolves?”

“Wolves?” Gavril said uneasily. Something nagged in his memory. A vivid flash of fur, claws, and gnashing teeth.

“You and the search party were attacked on the moors. A pack of steppe wolves. You used your powers, my lord.” Kostya’s voice trembled. He seemed almost overcome with emotion. “You destroyed the wolves.”

“
I
did?” Fragments of memory spun in his brain, little firesparks that fizzled to smoke. Nothing made sense still.

“Even in Kastel Drakhaon we saw the flare light up the sky, felt the earth tremble. And so I came here straightaway, knowing you would need me.”

“I used my powers?” Gavril had gone cold and faint. What was it his father had written in the secret will?

“No matter what pressures and persuasions my people may use upon you, you must resist the urge to use your powers with all your strength.”

“You destroyed the wolves.” Kostya put his hand on Gavril’s shoulder. “Now no one dares question your right to rule Azhkendir, Lord Gavril.”

“Every time you let the Drakhaoul within you take possession, you become less human. Poisons are released into your blood, poisons that will change you, both in body and soul.”

If only he had had the self-control to contain his anger, to fight the wolves with fire and man-made weapons. . . .

“For now you must rest, my lord. When you are feeling better, we will return to Kastel Drakhaon.” Kostya pulled the blanket around Gavril, tucking him in as if he were a child. Then he rose to his feet. “I had the girl’s things placed in here. Piotr said you wanted to return them to Sosia.”

The girl’s things? Now Gavril remembered what the whole wretched expedition had been about. He looked where Kostya was pointing and saw the pitiful heap of Kiukiu’s abandoned possessions.

Kiukiu, his one true friend and ally in all Azhkendir, was dead. He was alone now.

He lay back staring at the beamed ceiling. Tears leaked from his eyes.

He had to get away. He had to find Doctor Kazimir before this Drakhaoul within him burned away the last of his humanity.

The snow wind whispered like wraith pipes, thin and reedy, about Gavril’s head as he and Kostya rode back onto the moors. Fresh snow had fallen in the night, and the search party’s tracks had been covered with new, soft, white flakes.

“You have no need to do this, my lord,” Kostya said.

“I have to see where it happened.” Gavril was gazing around the bleak snowflats, looking in vain for some landmark to trigger a memory of the attack. Though the sky lowered a pale, dismal gray overhead, the reflected light off the snow hurt his eyes. He still felt drained and ill. He still craved . . . if only he could identify what it was his body demanded. Wine and aquavit had made his sensitive stomach cramp. Warmed milk had only made him sick again.

The damp snow wind seemed to penetrate even the thick fur of his cloak, sending his body into little fever chills. He pulled the cloak closer, shivering and miserable.

“Here, my lord!” Kostya had ridden ahead, up toward the brow of the little ridge.

Gavril’s horse seemed reluctant to go any farther, stamping the ground and shaking its head, snorting its refusal in gusts of steam from flared nostrils.

“He can still smell the wolves,” Kostya said, dismounting.

Gavril followed him on foot through the fresh snow to the top of the ridge. There he stopped, staring. Beneath the fine white granules of powdery snow, there was a bare crater. The ground was charred, bushes seared to stubs and stumps, bracken and heather burned to ashes. And in the snow-dusted ashes Gavril could just make out the blackened bones of wolf carcasses. Yet when he bent down to examine them, he saw not the long jawbones of a wolfish predator, but an unmistakably human skull.

“
I
did all this?”

Now that he stood here, jagged fragments of memory returned: the glint of snarling fangs, the hot, fetid stink of feral breath. He saw himself thrown from his horse, sprawling headlong in the snow as the wolf paused to spring. He tasted the rank savor of fear again at the back of his mouth.

And then came the recollection—oh, so brief but so intense—of a moment of transformation, mind and body melded into one paroxysmal burst of energy.

After that, there was nothing but a searing dazzle of blue in his mind and a chaos of shouting voices.

“You destroyed the whole wolf pack,” Kostya said, clapping his arm about Gavril’s shoulders.

Gavril looked dazedly at him out of the chaos of smoke and voices.

“These were not wolves, but men.” He turned to Kostya. “How can that be?”

“There’s been some Tielen shape-shifting mischief at work here.” Kostya spat into the snow. “Someone must have sent these to find you, my lord.”

“You mean to . . . assassinate me?”

“That’s very much how it looks.” Kostya kicked at a rib cage and it crumbled away into sooty cinders.

“But who would have done such a thing?”

Kostya shrugged.

A group of women and children waited in the cold, to wave them farewell.

A small boy ran up to Gavril, cheeks burnished apple red by the wind.

“Drakhaon,” he piped.

Gavril recognized Danilo, the child he had saved from the wolves.

“Thank you for rescuing me.”

So close to Danilo, Gavril suddenly became aware that there was an extraordinarily luminous bloom to the child, a gilded aura that seemed to breathe from every pore. A delicious freshness emanated from the boy’s body. Gavril could see the blood coursing in the child’s delicate veins, could smell its life-giving fragrance. Before he knew what he was doing, he had begun to stretch out one blue-clawed hand toward the child’s slender neck to draw him closer. . . .

Brown eyes stared trustingly up at him, wide and innocent.

What in God’s name was he doing! Trembling, Gavril hastily withdrew his hand.