And then she forgets her fear as the two priests bring out a young man, supporting him between them. His legs drag awkwardly beneath him, as though they have been broken and not mended right. His skin is pale, his hair golden-brown-and as he turns his head to look curiously at her, she sees that his eyes are blue as the sky. Who can he be, this stranger? And what do the priests intend to do with him-or with her?
"Nagar, accept this child."
As the incense smoke swirls and clears, she sees a slab of stone beneath the archway. On the slab of stone lies a metal bowl and beside it, a curved knife of black, polished stone.
The priests move swiftly. They lift her and place her, struggling wildly, on the stone slab. The gong-drums din louder.
"No!" she screams. "I want to go home!"
The blue-eyed stranger cries out in some strange tongue she does not understand. He lurches forward, arms outstretched, as if trying to stop the priests, falling to his knees beneath the archway.
The priest who held her hand lifts the black-bladed knife.
"You are blessed, Tilua," he says, smiling. The knife gleams like lightning in the smoke and sunlight as it descends.
She opens her mouth to cry aloud her terror and rage. But the jagged lightning slices into her throat-and her voice is silenced.
I want to live. I want my life. I want- A crimson light washes over her vision, staining everything red, then dwindles to a single point of flame.
The world begins to fall apart. A rushing sound, like diving into deep, chill water, fills her ears. The priest's face, the beating of the drums, the bright daylight, all are fading fast. Only the archway remains, looming over her, vast and dark. And a single point of red light still burns at its heart. It draws her in and she cannot resist.
And then she sees it. Its luminous body glittering blue like a star, it comes hurtling toward her through the whirling darkness.
Toward her, right through her, and as it passes through she feels it drain her of her life force, leaving nothing but a shadow, a sad, keening little ghost . . .
"Wake up. Wake up, up, Karila!" Someone was shaking her, insistently calling her name. And she jerked awake with a cry, sitting up, staring around her in utter terror. Marta was bending over her, holding an oil lamp. Then relief overwhelmed her and she clung tightly to Marta as if she would never let go. Karila!" Someone was shaking her, insistently calling her name. And she jerked awake with a cry, sitting up, staring around her in utter terror. Marta was bending over her, holding an oil lamp. Then relief overwhelmed her and she clung tightly to Marta as if she would never let go.
"Not another nightmare," said Marta. "There now, it was only a silly dream." She patted Karila soothingly. "Heavens, child, you're soaked through. We must get you into a dry nightgown. What can be giving you these bad dreams?" She tugged the damp garment over Karila's head, hurting her ears. "What have you been reading? Is it that book of old legends Duchess Greta gave you? It's not suitable for a child your age."
Karila badly wanted to unburden herself of her dreams. But she knew Marta would dismiss her fears and blame the toasted cheese she had eaten for her supper. Yet as Marta buttoned her clean nightgown up to the neck, she could still feel little shivers of terror.
"Screaming out like that, waking the whole palace," Marta went on, briskly tucking her back into bed. "What will people say?"
"Don't take the lamp away," Karila begged. "Don't leave me in the dark." She wanted Marta to stay. She wanted light and familiar, comforting things. Most of all, she wanted her father. "Can't you fetch Papa?"
"Great heavens, no, you can't disturb your father's sleep! I'll leave the lamp. Just settle down now and think of your little pets in the menagerie. That'll give you pleasant dreams."
Karila huddled under the sheets, her heart still pattering wildly.
"Think of Pippi," she whispered, trying to imagine playing with her favorite deer, with its soft coat and delicate legs. But the terrors of her nightmare kept invading her thoughts, driving away the comforting images.
And the luminous spirit-creature in the darkness beyond the archway-she knew it now.
"Drakhaoul," she whispered into the pillow. "Tilua's Drakhaoul. My My Drakhaoul." Drakhaoul."
"Die. You must die, Tilua, so that the dragon can live."
Astasia hesitated in the antechamber to Karila's bedroom. She had come to read a bedtime story-but from what she could hear, it sounded as if Kari was reading a story, a violent and unsuitable story, out loud to herself.
She crept a little closer and peered around the door.
Karila knelt on the floor beside her bed, with dolls lying around her.
"No, no, I don't want to die!" Kari cried in a high, frightened voice, making one of her dolls, a raven-haired porcelain beauty, tremble as though begging for her life.
"The Serpent God is going to devour you!" This was said in a deep growl as she made the doll in her right hand advance menacingly on the other.
Astasia watched from the doorway, wondering what bizarre ritual Karila was enacting. And then she saw Kari take a silver fruit knife and attack the raven-haired doll, stabbing it again and again, making little cries and screams as she did so, until the stuffing began to come out and the porcelain head was nearly severed. Then the child daubed red paint over the doll's broken body.
Appalled, Astasia could watch no longer. "Whatever are you doing, Kari?"
Karila looked up at her and said matter-of-factly, "It's not real blood. Tilua bled real blood till she died. This is only paint."
Astasia knelt down beside her and picked up the broken doll, shuddering as she did so. She had heard of dark witchcraft rites that involved such acts. Surely Karila had no malicious intent?
"Why did you hurt your doll, Kari?"
"It's only a doll; it can't be hurt," Karila said, taking it back.
"What's her name?"
"Tilua." Karila absently stroked the dark hair on the broken doll's head.
"That's a pretty name." Astasia cast around in her memory, wondering if there could be a Tilua in Karila's life who had wronged her so cruelly as to provoke this violent revenge.
Marta came in, carrying a tray with a cup of warm cinnamon milk and a plate of biscuits. When she saw what Karila had done, she set the tray down with a bang.
"You'll have no dolls left if you carry on like this, Princess. And no one will buy you new ones, just for you to break them."
Karila appeared not to hear what Marta had said.
"Would you like me to read you a story, Karila?" Astasia reached for the gold-tooled book, searching for a calming, reassuring tale with a happy ending.
"More stories, highness? Is that wise?" said Marta. "Exciting an overactive imagination just before bedtime? I think we've had quite enough, thank you."
Astasia closed the book with a snap. Another snub from Marta. Though she had to admit that Marta looked harassed and tired, with dark circles under her eyes.
"Has the princess been suffering from restless nights?" she asked in what she hoped would sound like a sympathetic tone.
Marta raised her eyes heavenward. "We haven't had an unbroken night in weeks! I've told Doctor Amandel, but he just dismisses it. I've asked him for a sleep draft to calm her down. He says it's unnecessary."
"Would you like me to stay with her tonight?" Astasia offered. "So that you can get some rest?"
Marta glanced at her suspiciously.
"I'd be happy to. She is my stepdaughter, after all."
"I'd like that, Tasia," said Karila, letting the broken doll drop.
"I'll be in the chamber next door if you need me," said Marta. But something in her manner had altered; Astasia even detected a softening of the sharp, defensive tone she usually adopted in their exchanges.
As Karila snuggled under the sheets, she suddenly looked at Astasia and said, "I feel safe with you here, Tasia."
"No stories, Marta said," Astasia whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "but shall I tell you about some of the games I used to play with my brother Andrei when we were your age?"
"A brother," Karila said with a wistful sigh. "I'd like a brother to play with."
"Oh brothers can be very annoying! Once Andrei tied my hair to the back of the chair when I wasn't paying attention, so that when I tried to get up, the chair came too."
Karila let out a little giggle, which she smothered with her hand. "We mustn't disturb Marta!" she whispered. "What did you do?"
"I waited to pay him back," said Astasia. "I sewed up the bottoms of his cadet uniform's breeches and the cuffs of his shirt, just before he had to go to the Military Academy for the first time. He was furious! And late."
"I'd like to have seen him hopping about, trying to put his foot through," said Karila, breaking into laughter. Her laughter was infectious and Astasia found herself joining in, glad to see Karila looking less anxious.
"Tell me more about you and Andrei!" demanded Karila.
"Not tonight, Kari." Astasia bent forward and kissed her. "But I will place my own special ward around your bed so that you can sleep soundly." She twitched her fingers twice at each corner of the swan bed. "There," she said, settling herself in the chair beside the fire. "Now you're safe."
Astasia had almost dozed off in front of the dying fire when she thought she heard a door click open. Taking up the lamp, she went over to the swan bed, only to see it was empty, the covers thrown back. Yet the bedchamber door was shut.
Karila must have left by the secret passage.
Where can she have gone all alone at this late hour?
Astasia felt along the wall until she found the catch in the paneling that Karila had shown her once before. The concealed door slid open, letting a draft into the bedchamber that set the lamp flame flickering.
Astasia was not as adept at navigating the secret passages in the palace as Karila. She gathered her skirts in one hand and squeezed through the little doorway. But her only consolation was that Karila would make slow progress because of her twisted body.
Soon she spotted a pale little figure in the drafty darkness ahead. Astasia hastened onward just as Karila opened another doorway and disappeared from her view.
"Wait for me, Kari!" she called. The doorway opened into an inner courtyard lit by lanterns; Astasia emerged into the starry night to see Karila limping away from her. "No wonder the child is always ill, if she's wandering outside late at night," she muttered as she hurried after her. "Is she going to her menagerie, to feed her little deer?" And then she stopped abruptly, seeing where Karila was going. "Or to the Magus? Is he working some spell on her?"
"Halt! Who goes there!"
Astasia heard a sentry bark out a warning. Karila had turned left, before the archway that led to the Magus's laboratory. Catching up at last, she came upon an extraordinary sight. Karila stood, blinking confusedly in the torchlight, on the steps that led down to the Palace Treasury. Massive doors of timber and iron were guarded day and night by four sentries. And there was Karila, confronted by these tall, broad-shouldered soldiers.
"Kari!" Astasia reached her and knelt to put her arms around her. "What are you doing here?" Karila looked at her blankly from eyes that were opaque as shadow in the torchlight. She must have been walking in her sleep.
"Imperial highness!" The sentries saluted her.
"Where am I?" Karila seemed to be still half-asleep.
"Outside, catching your death of cold. Come with me." Astasia took hold of her hand firmly and led her back toward the nearest entrance to the palace.
"Your daughter has been sleepwalking, Eugene." Astasia sat down opposite Eugene at the little table in their private morning room. "Our daughter," she corrected herself.
"What's that?" Eugene was drinking coffee as he read the morning's dispatches; he seemed preoccupied and was obviously not listening to what she said.
"I'm worried about her," said Astasia. "She's been having nightmares. She's playing violent, horrible games with her dolls. And the servants have heard her talking to an imaginary friend. I think she's lonely; she needs friends."
"Children play strange games," said Eugene, glancing up a moment as he turned over a page. "And it's hard to choose friends for her. She can't join in their games and it makes her sad."
"Even so, there must be some nice, quiet little girls among the courtiers' children," persisted Astasia.
Eugene set down his coffee cup and picked up his papers. He looked as if he was mulling over important matters of state and her interruption was disturbing his train of thought. "How long have these episodes been going on now?"
"Marta thinks they began the night before the coronation. Just after-"
"The night of the beacon." Now she had caught his attention. "She had just disembarked." He leaned over and kissed the top of her head, almost absentmindedly. "I'll consult the Magus. He must know some way to put a stop to bad dreams."
"Kiukirilya," said the Magus.
"Surely a Spirit Singer can only work with the spirits of the dead?" Eugene stared down at Kiukiu's body, fascinated that, while her breast rose and fell gently as though she were asleep, there was no other sign of life.
"Precisely so," said Linnaius. "Your daughter may be possessed. And until the spirit that has possessed her is exorcised, the princess will continue to wander the night like a revenant, endangering her health."
"You know I do not hold with any of this talk of spirits." Eugene clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the Magus's room. It went against everything he believed in. After what had occurred in Artamon's Mausoleum, he had vowed there would be no more summonings. And now, Linnaius was suggesting Karila should be subjected to some barbaric Azhkendi rite . . . But if Kiukirilya's arts could ease Astasia's mind and stop Karila from wandering the palace at night, then perhaps spirit-singing might work where Doctor Amandel's physic had failed.
"Shall I restore her soul to her body?" asked Linnaius, carefully lifting the soul-glass on its chain from around his neck.
"Yes," said Eugene, curious to watch this forbidden procedure. "Do it, Linnaius."
The Magus unstoppered the crystal phial and set it against the girl's lips. He breathed words in a tongue Eugene had never heard before.
And as Eugene watched, the translucent shimmer in the phial slowly poured out, melting into Kiukirilya's mouth until the phial was empty.
"And now?" Eugene whispered, bending close, searching for signs of life.
Linnaius brushed the girl's closed lids once, twice, thrice with his index finger.
Gold-lashed lids fluttered a little. Kiukirilya muttered, shifted a little on the couch, but did not wake.
"Has it worked?" Eugene did not want to find they had a living corpse to dispose of.
"It may take some while for her to wake. I shall keep watch and inform you of any progress."
The girl was courageous; she had extraordinary talents and she had served him well.