"He knew the risks," Anckstrom said. "He chose to go. Nothing you said would have kept him here. Once we had that particular piece of intelligence, he knew it was time to make his move."

Eugene nodded, only half-hearing.

"So we call off the invasion?" Anckstrom, thick brows knotted in a frown of concentration, was gazing down at the desk on which a map of the whole continent lay outspread.

"No." The military strategist in Eugene reawoke. He walked swiftly over to Anckstrom's side. "We're going to destroy this young Drakhaon-and put Jaromir in his place. Who then will stand between us and Muscobar? But we must move fast or winter will confound all our plans."

"So you're willing to risk a direct confrontation?" Anckstrom said, still frowning.

"What did you tell me? 'He's just a boy.' If he's just a boy, he won't have come into his full powers yet. And with our Marauders, we're easily a match for his druzhina. druzhina."

"But the Marauders are still unproven, unreliable. Look what happened this morning-"

"This morning was an unfortunate error." And then, seeing no change in Anckstrom's dour expression, "Anckstrom, I want a message sent to all our troops on the Azhkendi borders: 'Stand ready.' As for the Marauders . . . I'll go consult Linnaius."

Magus Kaspar Linnaius, Court Alchymist and Royal Artificier, had recently taken up residence in his new rooms adjacent to the library in the West Wing. Eugene's father, Karl the Navigator, had tempted the scholar to Tielen from the Thaumaturgical College in Francia with the promise of alchymical laboratories, a high-ranking position at court, and-perhaps, most significant of all-no interference. There had been growing hostility to the work of the alchymists in Francia and, not long after Linnaius left for Tielen, a surge of religious bigotry had closed the college and seen the magisters tried in ecclesiastical courts-then executed for heresy. A more enlightened attitude prevailed in the colder climes of Tielen: the princes had long encouraged the arts and sciences in equal measure.

For the last six months, Linnaius had been working with Eugene on a unique military experiment, the Marauders: a company of warriors from the northern steppes of Tielen transformed by skills Linnaius had learned and adapted from a tribal shaman.

To create the Marauders, Linnaius had visited jails and barracks prisons, assembling a group of convicts, all young and fit. Faced with the choice of the gallows or Linnaius' experiment, all had readily agreed to take part.

At first, the Marauders had been comfortably housed in the new palace barracks. Well fed and clothed, they submitted daily to Linnaius' thaumaturgical procedures. Early on, two broke their contract; both had been shot as they tried to sneak away through the parklands with a sack of palace silver. After that, no one else rebelled. But of late, a change had come over them. The Marauders had begun to snarl and snap at their keepers, almost as if the lupine nature of their transformation was beginning to overmaster their human traits. Eugene had been forced to order them confined.

As Eugene climbed the wide stone stair that led to the Magus' rooms, his mind was still in turmoil. Had they created a team of uncontrollable monsters, too wild to respond to commands? Now he feared that the whole experiment had been proven a failure, and that he would be forced to destroy them.

Linnaius' door swung silently open as Eugene reached the top of the stairs. He saw the Magus, his long wisps of silvered hair tied back with a black silk ribbon, standing on the threshold.

"You assured me, Magus, that the Marauders were responding to your commands," Eugene said as the door silently closed behind him. He had almost grown used to Linnaius' ability to anticipate his visits. "You assured me they were ready for active service. And now-"

"Now another has absconded," the Magus said, nodding.

"Absconded? It attacked Karila!" Eugene was still shaken by the encounter-and even more disturbed by his own reaction. "How can we send them into Azhkendir when they don't respond to our commands?"

"So, you still plan to infiltrate Azhkendir," said Linnaius, steepling his fingers. His voice was soft and contemplative, colorless as drifting ash.

"There is a new Drakhaon," Eugene said.

"Ah . . ."

For a moment, Eugene wondered if he was right to place so much trust in the Magus' powers. Was the elderly scholar losing his faculties? No one had any idea of Linnaius' exact age. He was tall, lean, and clean-shaven, the skin stretched so tautly on his face that his skull protruded, as if countless years devoted to the rigorous study of the science of magic had honed away all softness of flesh, leaving only smooth, sculpted bone.

"And there is still no news of Jaromir."

"Jaromir . . ." A veil descended across the Magus' eyes, thin as spidersilk. Eugene tried to suppress a shudder; he had seen this trick before when the Magus withdrew into his own thoughts. Experience had taught him to be patient.

Suddenly Linnaius blinked and focused his gaze on the prince again. He rose and beckoned Eugene toward his laboratory. He paused at the open doorway and snapped his fingers. Eugene sensed, rather than saw, the air ripple as an invisible barrier was drawn aside. Passing through, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle-a disconcerting sensation-as though they were brushed by unseen fingers.

The laboratory beyond was scrupulously neat, glass phials and jars arrayed in ranks on the shelves.

"Is he still alive?"

Linnaius took a gold key from about his neck and unlocked a little ebony cabinet. The laboratory grew dim, as if clouds had suddenly drifted across the sun, and a soft humming vibration began to emanate from within the black depths of the cabinet. A dark light glowed within.

Taking care not to reveal what was inside, Eugene noted, the artificier carefully removed a tiny glass phial in the shape of a lotus flower, cupping it in between his spindly fingers. A faint gleam-dark, tenderly red as heart's blood-lit his hands.

"Our last link," Linnaius said softly. "And the only one of the enchantments I placed upon him that has remained untouched by Azhkendir's malevolent atmosphere."

Eugene, overcome with yearning, found himself stretching out his hand toward the little glass, as if touching it could restore something of lost Jaromir. But Linnaius slowly shook his head.

"As long as this flame still burns, you will know he is alive."

"It burns so faintly," Eugene said, his voice trembling. "What does it mean?"

"It is best not to conjecture. Conjecture can lead to false hopes-or delusions of despair." Linnaius replaced the lotus glass in the ebony cabinet and, as he locked it, the darkness slowly bleached from the room and the low hum died to silence. Eugene found himself narrowing his eyes against the daylight, which now seemed piercingly bright. Etched on his sight was Jaromir's faint life flame; wherever he looked, he saw its crimson shadow.

Eugene was at dinner with his chiefs of staff and Chancellor Maltheus when Marta appeared.

"Highness." She bobbed a curtsy. "The little one is not well. She's asking to see you."

"The prince is busy with matters of state," Chancellor Maltheus said coldly. "He will come when he can."

"I wouldn't have disturbed the prince," Marta insisted, face flushing a bright pink, "but his daughter is very sick."

Eugene felt a sharp stab of anxiety. Karila ill again. And just at the time he was planning to leave Tielen.

"I'll go see Karila," he said, rising from the table. "Excuse me, gentlemen."

He followed the nurse out into the candlelit corridor, soon outstripping her in his haste.

"Has the doctor seen her? What does he say?"

"Another sweating fever." She was out of breath from hurrying to keep up with him.

"She was playing near the lake again. It's too damp there; she must have caught a chill. You must keep her in the orangery in the cold months."

"I try, highness. But the sunlight is also good for her. I do my best, but-"

He dashed up the wide curving stair that led to the nursery wing, taking two steps at a time.

Karila's bedroom was painted cerulean blue pricked out with little gold stars and moons. But in spite of the scented candles burning to perfume the sickroom air, he noticed the all too familiar smell of illness again. In the bed, beneath the gold coronet and lace hangings, lay his daughter, all curled up under her mussed sheets like a drowsing kitten. He put out one hand to stroke her brow and felt the fever heat and tendrils of hair damp and lank with sweat. At his touch, Karila murmured in her sleep.

"She's burning up. Are you sponging her down with cool water?"

"Oh yes." Marta bobbed another curtsy. "And giving her two sips of willow water every half hour. Just as Doctor Amandel said."

"Papa." A little croaking voice issued from his daughter's throat. Eyes, overbright with fever, glistened in her flushed face.

"How do you feel, Kari?"

"My throat hurts." She held out one hand to him and-after hesitating-he leaned over and took it, feeling the hot, sticky fingers curl about his. "And my head feels funny. All wrong."

"You must sleep. When you wake tomorrow, you'll feel much better." How he hated to hear himself speaking words of reassurance in calm, measured tones when inside he felt such turmoil.

"I dreamed there were shadows in the bedroom. There. At the foot of the bed." The fever-bright eyes widened in fear. "Winged. Like dark dragons with fiery eyes. They burned me with their breath. If I sleep again, they'll be there, waiting for me."

Dragon shadows. He shivered. What did she mean? What had she seen?

"It was just a dream," the nurse said, smoothing the rumpled sheets.

"Stay with me, Papa." The pressure on his hand increased. "Tell me a story. The Swanmaiden . . ."

"My dear, I have guests. Important guests." Such a weak excuse. But the longer he stayed, the more the buried memories of Margret's last illness began to surface.

"His highness is a busy man, Karila," Marta said briskly. "Say good-night to your father and settle down. I'll tell you the Swanmaiden's tale."

He glanced gratefully up at her.

"Good-night, Kari. Sleep sound." He leaned over and briefly brushed her hot forehead with his lips.

"'Night . . ." she murmured, lids fluttering closed.

Maltheus had conducted the chiefs of staff from the dining table to the Walnut Anteroom, where digestifs were being served. Eugene accepted a little glass of clear aquavit from a servant and swallowed it down.

"Well?" Maltheus said.

"Another chill." Eugene beckoned the servant to refill his glass; the clean taste of the aquavit cleared his head of the lingering taint of the sickroom.

"There's nothing for it. You must marry again."

"Must I?"

"Karila is sickly. A sweet child, but hardly one capable of ruling Tielen. You need an heir, highness."

"Yes, yes. All in good time." Eugene set the glass down. "At this moment we have other concerns. What news from the Straits?"

"Admiral Janssen reports no significant losses," said Maltheus, helping himself to more sloe brandy. "The Helda Helda lost her mainsail in the most recent exchange of fire. But we sank two of the Muscobar fleet and holed a third." lost her mainsail in the most recent exchange of fire. But we sank two of the Muscobar fleet and holed a third."

"That'll make the Grand Duke sweat!" said Anckstrom with a chuckle.

"Indeed," Maltheus said drily. "And to that end, I suspect, we have a visitor. The Muscobar ambassador is waiting to see your highness."

"Count Velemir?" Eugene said. Was there news at last from Azhkendir?

"He says he has come with a proposition. He's waiting for you in the Malachite Room."

A fire burned in the marble fireplace of the Malachite Room, casting warm shadows on the dark sea-green brocaded walls.

Count Velemir was standing before a great naval battle canvas depicting the triumphant defeat of the Francians by the Tielen fleet commanded by Prince Karl off the Saltyk Peninsula. The sea boiled with fire, and the red-streaked sky was dark with the smoke of the Tielen cannons.

He turned as Eugene entered and bowed.

"An impressive piece of work, highness." He spoke the Tielen language with just the slightest hint of a Muscobar accent. "Designed, no doubt, to strike fear into the hearts of the enemies of Tielen."

"Commissioned to celebrate my father's first naval victory," Eugene said, affecting a careless tone. In spite of his lifelong schooling in self-restraint and fortitude, he longed to cry out, "You've brought news of Jaromir at last?" Instead he merely gestured to the count to come to sit opposite him beside the fire. "This room is full of mementos of his life. I like to think of him watching over me, approving what I have done with his old hunting lodge."

"And what a magnificent achievement Swanholm has turned out to be, highness. Such refined taste. Such elegance." In all their meetings Eugene had never once been deceived by the ambassador's urbane manner. He saw beneath Velemir's cultured facade a sharp and devious mind, always ready to turn a difficult situation to his own advantage.

"So what is this proposition you have come to make me?"

"Marriage. The Grand Duke proposes a match between your highness and his daughter, the Altessa Astasia."

"Marriage?" Eugene echoed. This was not at all what he had expected, and for a moment he found himself thrown completely off course. Could this be the duke's admission of defeat in the Straits? Or just another stalling tactic?

"A delightful girl, just nineteen summers old, strong, healthy-and very attractive."

"Nineteen." Margret had been just eighteen when they married, he a dozen years her senior. There would be a greater gap between Astasia and himself. Damn it all, he was old enough to be her father. "Another child bride."

"A portrait is nearing completion, highness. I think you will not be disappointed."

Eugene nodded absently. He had more troubling matters on his mind.

"A union between the royal houses of Muscobar and Tielen. What better way to bring peace to the continent? What better way to put the unpleasantness over the herring grounds behind us?" Velemir was still the consummate courtier, ever ready to charm. But Eugene was in no mood to be charmed. He had been patient long enough.

"News," he said, leaning forward into the glare of the flames. "You promised me news."

Velemir's pleasant expression faded. "Of our mutual friend? No further news. All we know is he never reached the council in Azhgorod to make his claim to the throne. Neither did he make it to Arkhelskoye in time to catch the last boat out."

"You promised me your agent in Azhkendir would keep us informed," Eugene said, voice dangerously quiet. "You gave me your word, Velemir."

"My agent has been unable to keep contact with the young man in question. And, I might add, recent circumstances have placed my agent in a very delicate situation. Communication is . . . difficult."

"Even though Magus Linnaius entrusted you and your agent with his most sophisticated intelligence artifice." Frustration-and the certainty that Velemir was not being as open with him as he should-hardened Eugene's voice. "You underestimated the druzhina druzhina's cunning, Velemir. I'm disappointed in you. If we had known-"

"You wouldn't have let Jaromir go?" There was the slightest tinge of irony in the count's voice.

Eugene let a sigh of frustration escape. "Who am I trying to fool? Nothing I could say or do would have prevented him going to seek out Volkh. He was like a caged bird, beating at the bars of his gilded cage, burned up with grief and frustration. Now I fear-"

"That the druzhina druzhina have captured him?" have captured him?"

Jaromir interrogated, tortured, left to die in chains in some vile Azhkendi dungeon . . . The fear flared again in Eugene's breast.