compliments and invites my lady to make her way to the port in readiness for her passage to Smarna.”
“So the thaw has really begun at last?” Gavril asked. The news was not entirely welcome. Not just because it meant Elysia would leave him and the parting would prove difficult for them both, but also because, if ice-breakers could sail out of Arkhelskoye, other ships—Tielen men-o’-war—could sail in. He must summon the boyars to discuss ways of protecting the harbors from unfriendly foreign powers.
“The thaw is well under way, my lord.”
“I’ll go and tell my mother.”
Gavril came upon Elysia at work on the portrait of his father, painstakingly cleaning away the dust and grime, watched by old Guaram.
“The port’s open,” he said.
“Mmm. Good . . .” She seemed to only half-hear him, concentrating all her attention on the painting.
“You can go home, Mother.”
“Then all the more reason I should finish this.” She smiled at him and continued with her work.
One fact about the canvas had been bothering Gavril. Now that it had been cleaned of its shroud of dust and cobwebs, it was even more obvious.
“My father was Drakhaon, wasn’t he, when he came to Smarna?”
“He was,” said Elysia distractedly, picking at a loose chip of oil paint with a fingernail.
“Then why is there no sign of it?”
She turned to face him, her auburn brows drawn together in a frown.
“The Drakhaoul only leaves the Drakhaon’s body at the moment of death to seek out his heir. Isn’t that right?”
“I painted him as I saw him,” Elysia said, gazing at the portrait. Her voice softened, her hand, still holding the fine brush, moved almost caressingly over the dark, painted locks of hair.
“But look. His eyes, his hair, his skin—all normal. Not even a glint of Drakhaoul blue—”
She sighed. “Volkh told me that in his case, it was different. The
druzhina
made him Drakhaon when his father, Zakhar, disappeared.”
“My grandfather disappeared?” This was new territory. But then, there was so much about the Nagarians she had kept from him.
“Lord Zakhar set out on a voyage.” Old Guaram now spoke up. “My father went with him. They never returned.” The old man’s voice quavered. “But years later, a black thundercloud came speeding over the mountains, swift as an eagle, seeking out Lord Volkh. It was the Drakhaoul. We knew then that Lord Zakhar was dead, and my own father with him.”
“But why? Why did my grandfather leave Azhkendir?”
Guaram gave a rheumatic little shrug. “That question always haunted your father, my lord. He spent hours in the Kalika Tower going through Lord Zakhar’s books, searching for clues.”
“The books belonged to Lord Zakhar?” Gavril had puzzled over the books left open in his father’s study at the time of his murder. The turbulent events of the past weeks had pushed them out of his mind.
Now he knew he must find them and examine again the cryptic scribblings in the margins.
“Mother, don’t forget to pack,” he called back over his shoulder as he hurried away.
“What is there to pack?” Her voice was dry. “I only have the clothes I’m wearing, remember? We left Swanholm in quite a hurry.”
“Good morning, Lord Gavril!” A cheerful voice hailed him from high above. He looked up to see Semyon’s freckled face grinning down from a rickety platform.
“Morning, Semyon.” Gavril continued on beneath the scaffolding toward the doorway to the Kalika Tower.
“Drakhaon! The repairs aren’t finished. . . .” Semyon came sliding down the ladder at breakneck speed.
“I’ll be careful.” The lower door had been blown off its hinges so Gavril had to clamber over shattered timbers to reach the spiral stair. A cold blast of air reminded him that one ragged hole in the tower wall still gaped open to the elements. He made his way slowly up the ruined stair, testing one step at a time.
As he opened the door to his
“So the thaw has really begun at last?” Gavril asked. The news was not entirely welcome. Not just because it meant Elysia would leave him and the parting would prove difficult for them both, but also because, if ice-breakers could sail out of Arkhelskoye, other ships—Tielen men-o’-war—could sail in. He must summon the boyars to discuss ways of protecting the harbors from unfriendly foreign powers.
“The thaw is well under way, my lord.”
“I’ll go and tell my mother.”
Gavril came upon Elysia at work on the portrait of his father, painstakingly cleaning away the dust and grime, watched by old Guaram.
“The port’s open,” he said.
“Mmm. Good . . .” She seemed to only half-hear him, concentrating all her attention on the painting.
“You can go home, Mother.”
“Then all the more reason I should finish this.” She smiled at him and continued with her work.
One fact about the canvas had been bothering Gavril. Now that it had been cleaned of its shroud of dust and cobwebs, it was even more obvious.
“My father was Drakhaon, wasn’t he, when he came to Smarna?”
“He was,” said Elysia distractedly, picking at a loose chip of oil paint with a fingernail.
“Then why is there no sign of it?”
She turned to face him, her auburn brows drawn together in a frown.
“The Drakhaoul only leaves the Drakhaon’s body at the moment of death to seek out his heir. Isn’t that right?”
“I painted him as I saw him,” Elysia said, gazing at the portrait. Her voice softened, her hand, still holding the fine brush, moved almost caressingly over the dark, painted locks of hair.
“But look. His eyes, his hair, his skin—all normal. Not even a glint of Drakhaoul blue—”
She sighed. “Volkh told me that in his case, it was different. The
druzhina
made him Drakhaon when his father, Zakhar, disappeared.”
“My grandfather disappeared?” This was new territory. But then, there was so much about the Nagarians she had kept from him.
“Lord Zakhar set out on a voyage.” Old Guaram now spoke up. “My father went with him. They never returned.” The old man’s voice quavered. “But years later, a black thundercloud came speeding over the mountains, swift as an eagle, seeking out Lord Volkh. It was the Drakhaoul. We knew then that Lord Zakhar was dead, and my own father with him.”
“But why? Why did my grandfather leave Azhkendir?”
Guaram gave a rheumatic little shrug. “That question always haunted your father, my lord. He spent hours in the Kalika Tower going through Lord Zakhar’s books, searching for clues.”
“The books belonged to Lord Zakhar?” Gavril had puzzled over the books left open in his father’s study at the time of his murder. The turbulent events of the past weeks had pushed them out of his mind.
Now he knew he must find them and examine again the cryptic scribblings in the margins.
“Mother, don’t forget to pack,” he called back over his shoulder as he hurried away.
“What is there to pack?” Her voice was dry. “I only have the clothes I’m wearing, remember? We left Swanholm in quite a hurry.”
“Good morning, Lord Gavril!” A cheerful voice hailed him from high above. He looked up to see Semyon’s freckled face grinning down from a rickety platform.
“Morning, Semyon.” Gavril continued on beneath the scaffolding toward the doorway to the Kalika Tower.
“Drakhaon! The repairs aren’t finished. . . .” Semyon came sliding down the ladder at breakneck speed.
“I’ll be careful.” The lower door had been blown off its hinges so Gavril had to clamber over shattered timbers to reach the spiral stair. A cold blast of air reminded him that one ragged hole in the tower wall still gaped open to the elements. He made his way slowly up the ruined stair, testing one step at a time.
As he opened the door to his
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