These are my countrymen . . . and they are behaving no better than the Tielen invaders. What's happened to us? Gavril closed his eyes, sickened at what he had seen, sickened by his own weakness. Gavril closed his eyes, sickened at what he had seen, sickened by his own weakness.
"Stop, Iovan! That's enough."
It was the girl, Raisa, who had found him last night on the beach. She would help him. If only he could muster the strength to call to her.
"Raisa. Water . . ."
The next moment, someone thrust a tin cup of water into his hands.
"Here."
He drank, water streaming down his chin, soaking into his tattered shirt. He didn't care. Yet the more water he gulped down, the more his body craved. "More." This burning thirst seemed unquenchable. She refilled his cup.
"The citadel is crawling with Eugene's spies," Iovan was saying loudly. "Put them all up against the wall and shoot them. That's the only form of negotiation Eugene understands."
"Minister Vashteli is ready to interrogate the prisoners," announced one of the militia.
"The one who says he's Smarnan first." Iovan came and stood over Gavril. "Unshackle him."
The militiaman knelt to unlock the shackles around Gavril's wrists, leaving his ankles chained together.
"You. On your feet."
Still dripping, Gavril got unsteadily to his feet.
"Look at him! He's too weak to plead his case," Raisa hissed to Iovan.
Iovan shrugged.
"At least give him something to restore his strength."
"And then you'll stop nagging me?" Iovan pulled a metal flask from inside his jacket. "Here. Smarnan brandy."
Gavril took a quick swig from the flask and winced as the brandy scorched his parched throat. His senses sharpened a little. "My name," he said slowly, "is Gavril Andar. Rafael Lukan will vouch for me." There was no point complicating matters further by giving his Azhkendi name and title.
"Andar?" Raisa echoed. "But Gavril Andar disappeared last year."
"I told you not to trust him," Iovan muttered.
"Lukan's with the Minister now." Raisa turned to her brother. "Let Lukan decide the matter, Iovan."
"Bring him to the council chamber, then." Iovan kicked out at the water pitcher, sending it rolling into a corner.
The council chamber, high in the Old Citadel, had been hit in the bombardment. Tarpaulins had been draped to cover a gaping hole in the roof, and piles of debris, tile shards, shattered beams, and plaster had been swept to the side of the chamber.
A tall man and a woman were talking together in low voices; they turned as, ankle-chains chinking, Gavril shuffled into the chamber.
"Lukan!" whispered Gavril, unable to restrain his emotion at the sight of a familiar face after so long in prison. "Lukan, it's me."
Lukan stared at him, a frown of puzzlement creasing his face. "Gavril?" he said. He came closer. "Gavril?" "Gavril?" Then he gave a shout that echoed around the broken rafters and hurried up to Gavril, flinging his arms about him and hugging him. "Welcome home!" He held him at arm's length. "But-dear God, what have they done to you?" Gavril saw concern in Lukan's dark eyes. "I hardly recognized you at first, with your head shaved-" Then he gave a shout that echoed around the broken rafters and hurried up to Gavril, flinging his arms about him and hugging him. "Welcome home!" He held him at arm's length. "But-dear God, what have they done to you?" Gavril saw concern in Lukan's dark eyes. "I hardly recognized you at first, with your head shaved-"
This was in no way the happy homecoming he had dreamed of so often in the bitter cold of Azhkendir. He was too aware of Iovan standing close by, stroking the barrel of his pistol.
"How shall we tell your mother?" Lukan was saying. "We don't want it to come as too much of a shock-"
"My mother?"
"Yes, she's up at the villa right now."
Elysia was here, in Smarna? A red haze swirled before Gavril's eyes. He swayed on his feet. Pride alone had kept him standing to face his captors, and he was not sure how long he could sustain the effort.
Lukan caught hold of him and steadied him, both hands resting on his shoulders.
"So who is this young man, Lukan?" asked the woman, coming forward.
"You know his mother well, Minister. This is Elysia Andar's son, Gavril."
"Then why is he chained like a prisoner?"
"Iovan?" Lukan turned to Iovan Korneli, smiling. "Would you like to explain to Minister Vashteli why Gavril is in chains?"
"Because," Iovan said, scowling, "we were ordered to round up anyone found on the beaches. And we found him-his clothes wringing wet-as if he'd just swam ashore from one of the sinking ships."
"I see." Minister Vashteli gazed searchingly at Gavril. "Gavril Andar, can you explain why you were found in such suspicious circumstances?"
It was time for the truth. "I came to help you."
One of the minister's elegantly plucked brows quirked in a look of surprise. "To help us?"
"You?" burst out Iovan, his voice hot with scorn.
"I have a . . . weapon," Gavril said, choosing his words with care. "A lethal weapon. Yesterday I unleashed it on the Tielens in the bay. But in using it, I almost drowned. If Raisa had not found me . . ."
"Tell us about this weapon," said Minister Vashteli, her eyes fixed on his. "Is it some kind of explosive device? Those who watched from the citadel were half-blinded by the brightness."
"And what of this dark-winged creature?" said Iovan. "Many witnesses insist they saw a winged creature sweep across the bay just before the attack on the Tielen fleet. How do you explain that?"
Gavril closed his eyes a moment. He was still so depleted by the effects of Baltzar's clumsy surgery that he feared he might blab too much and give himself away. Even the use of the word "weapon" now seemed ill-judged; Iovan, for one, would not let the matter rest.
"Why did you not confer with us first?" said Minister Vashteli. "We could have stood together as allies against the Tielens."
"And from where exactly did you launch this weapon?" broke in Iovan. "From the sea or the land? Is it some kind of fire-rocket?"
Gavril was losing patience with Iovan's constant goading. "Isn't it enough that I came to your aid? Does it matter where I launched the attack? The Tielens are gone!"
Minister Vashteli exchanged a long look with Lukan. Then she nodded. "You are free to go home, Gavril Andar. Please send my regards to your mother; she has supported us wholeheartedly throughout this ordeal."
"You'd better call in at my house first," Lukan said, flashing Gavril a conspiratorial smile. "For a bath and a change of clothes."
Free to go home. Those four simple words meant so much. Not home to an empty villa, but home to his mother, his paints, and his own bed. And was it too much to hope that Kiukiu might have accompanied Elysia to Smarna and was waiting for him even now? Those four simple words meant so much. Not home to an empty villa, but home to his mother, his paints, and his own bed. And was it too much to hope that Kiukiu might have accompanied Elysia to Smarna and was waiting for him even now?
As he turned to follow Lukan from the council chamber, the minister came up to him, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "And thank you. On behalf of us all. You saved us."
"This time, maybe," Gavril said, managing a wry smile.
Elysia looked down in puzzlement at the note that had just been delivered into her hands. It read: I've found him and he will be with you very soon. But this is to warn you, dear Elysia, to be prepared for what you will see. He has suffered much at the hands of his captors. Try not to be too upset, for his sake.Your loving friend, R.L.
Elysia clutched the letter tightly.
"Thank you, dear friend, for the warning," she whispered. Then she hurried back inside the house, calling out, "Palmyre! Gavril's coming!"
Suddenly she was all in a tizzy, ideas skittering through her head like windblown petals. What should she do first? Check that there was clean, lavender-scented linen on his bed and that the room was well-aired, with garden flowers spilling from a bowl on the windowsill? Or should she lay out some clothes for him-for all his clothes were still here, freshly laundered and pressed, waiting, against all hope, for his return.
"Is the kettle on? He may want tea." She almost collided with Palmyre in the hall; she seemed to be on a similar route. "Or maybe he may just want to be alone for a while, to rest-"
"Elysia," Palmyre said, patting her hand reassuringly, "it will be all right."
"And I won't weep when I see him; I mustn't weep. It won't do any good to either of us if I do-" Elysia broke off, hearing the sound of hooves and carriage wheels on the gravel drive. She clutched at Palmyre's hand. "Is that-?"
Palmyre seemed speechless with excitement.
"Look at us," Elysia said, breaking into laughter. "A couple of silly women, too flustered to go to the door to greet him! What will he think?" And she ran to fling open the front door, hurrying out into the drive, just as the door of the barouche opened and Gavril stepped down.
She stared a moment, shocked to see his shaven head, his gaunt face, and sunken eyes. Then, joy and relief overwhelmed all other feelings and she rushed to embrace him. But although he hugged her back, she could sense a change in him, a wariness, and something else that she could not yet define-something darker, more ominous.
What have they done to you in that terrible prison, child? her heart cried out. But all she did was wind her arm around him and lead him toward the open door where Palmyre stood, so overcome with emotion that she could only nod speechlessly and smile. her heart cried out. But all she did was wind her arm around him and lead him toward the open door where Palmyre stood, so overcome with emotion that she could only nod speechlessly and smile.
As they reached the doorway, Elysia glanced back over her shoulder to see Lukan waiting, watching from inside the barouche.
Thank you. Her lips framed the words as she inclined her head gratefully to him. Her lips framed the words as she inclined her head gratefully to him. Thank you, dear friend. Thank you, dear friend.
Footsteps on the landing. Keys jangling in the lock of his cell. Skar's lean face in the lanternlight, eyes chill in their lack of expression, as he bent over him- Gavril woke with a start. He was breathing fast, pulse racing, terrified that Skar had come to take him back to Director Baltzar and his razor-sharp scalpels. And then he heard it. The sound of the sea, but not the crash of the storm tides raging against the rocks below Arnskammar. This was the gentle, reassuring wash of summer tides lapping against the pale sands of Vermeille Bay. The sound that had lulled him to sleep in childhood and whispered through his dreams.
He lay back, staring at the half-open window, the gauze curtains drifting a little with the night breeze off the bay. The faint scent of jasmine wafted in from the terrace below.
No, he was not dreaming. He was here in his own bed, in the Villa Andara. After months of enduring the deprivations of Baltzar's asylum, he was no longer a number to be maltreated and experimented upon. He was Gavril again.
He let his fingers run over the clean linen of the sheets. Crisp, clean sheets, scented with lavender from the villa gardens. He had forgotten how good it was to enjoy this simple comfort.
At peace, he drifted off to sleep, and did not wake again until morning.
Elysia tapped on Gavril's bedroom door and went in, carrying a cup of chamomile tea, a plate with fresh-baked rolls, and Palmyre's apricot and almond conserve. The windows were wide-open and the curtains billowed and flapped in the morning breeze. Her son stood on the balcony, gazing out across the blue bay.
"Breakfast, Gavril," she called.
He looked back over his shoulder. "Thank you."
She set down the cup and plate and went out to join him. For a while they stood side by side in silence. Then he said, still gazing out to sea, "Don't be surprised if there are strands of blue in my hair when it regrows."
She nodded. So it was true.
"I guessed as much." She wanted to ask him so many questions: What really happened to you? Who inflicted these terrible injuries? Yet she knew she must let him tell her in his own time, in his own way.
"If it hadn't come back to me when it did, I would have died." His voice was distant, his eyes still rested on the misty horizon. "Its first act of compassion. Who would have thought it possible?"
"It rescued you?"
He turned to face her. The sight of his scarred head still made her stomach lurch, but she must not let him see her distress, for fear it might break his courage.
"I still don't know how it knew. But it came back and healed me. Now I begin to wonder. Are we destined to be one until I die?"
She saw the shadow-glitter in his eyes, as she had seen it in Volkh's eyes too. And she felt bleak despair chill her heart. He had come back to her. But he was no longer her son; he was Drakhaoul. And she, better than anyone, knew that doomed his chances for any hope of true happiness.
Then, smitten with guilt at such thoughts, she reached out and folded her arms around her daemon-possessed son, hugging him tight.
"Drink your tea before it goes cold," she whispered.
CHAPTER 23.
Kiukiu rubbed her eyes. She was standing beside the Magus, high up on the windswept top of a steep, rocky hill. Far below, a broad green river wound through the center of a great city: a city full of spires and towers and the rising smoke from innumerable chimneys. She had never seen so many houses crammed together before-or so many ships crowding the river.
"Where are we?" she asked in amazement.
"That is Tielborg, capital city of Tielen," said Linnaius.
"But why have you brought me here?" She was still sleepy, her mind not yet fully awake.
"Look behind you."
She turned and saw a ruin dominating the crown of the hill. A great hall of ancient stone, its broken walls towered above them, guarded by weatherworn statues of tall warriors, helmed for battle. The Magus beckoned her toward it. The sun was sinking westward, gilding the ancient stones with a rich, warm light. But as she came closer, she saw only the lengthening shadows cast by the giant warriors.
Gazing up as they passed underneath the arched gateway, she noticed that the worn stone had once been painted, and that little traces of blue and ochre still remained. Now she saw the stern-faced warriors were winged, each wing-feather carved with exquisite artistry.
"Heavenly Guardians?" she murmured. And then she found herself in a courtyard, where another unexpected sight awaited. Tielen soldiers lounged around, their horses cropping the grass growing up between the cracked flagstones. On seeing the Magus, the soldiers straightened up and a young officer came to meet them, saluting with alacrity.