"Whatever was here just now seems to bear little resemblance to my father."

"Didn't I warn you?" Kostya said with a laconic shrug. "The wraith is out of control. Fury drives it, makes it strong. Soon it will not even remember its name, only its hunger for revenge-and ultimate oblivion."

Gavril caught sight among the snow-wet papers in Kostya's hands of his sketches of Astasia. He sprang up from the chair.

"Give me those," he said, grabbing them from Kostya's hands. They were all but ruined. The inks had run and blotched, distorting the image of her face to a nightmare caricature, a leering succubus with eyes weirdly blurred and shadowed, mouth dribbling leaks of dark liquid. Choked, he cast them down on the desk. Even his most cherished memories had been violated.

"Lord Drakhaon! Bogatyr!" Now there were more voices outside. One of the druzhina druzhina came running up the stairs. "Visitors. From Azhgorod." came running up the stairs. "Visitors. From Azhgorod."

"In this weather?" Kostya said.

"It's Lord Stoyan," the man stammered. "There's news. Bad news."

"The Drakhaon!" barked Kostya as Gavril came into the hall.

A richly dressed man, in robes of jewel-dark brocades trimmed with fur, stood with his retainers, who were stamping snow from their boots and warming their hands at the fire. There was a rancid smell of snow-wet fur drying. When they saw Gavril, all went down on one knee, clutching their fur-rimmed hats to their breasts.

"Lord Boris Stoyan," Kostya announced. "Head of the Council of Boyars in Azhgorod."

Lord Stoyan, a heavyset man with a flowing brown beard, came forward and bowed, the heavy gold chain about his neck clinking as he lowered his head.

"My lord, we had hoped to welcome you to the council in Azhgorod after the mourning for your father was over," the boyar said. His voice was deep, rich as a good vintage wine. "But we have been forced to intrude by events . . . very grave events."

"You must be chilled to the bone, my lord, after such a journey," Gavril said. "Spiced ale for our guests," he called to Sosia.

Kostya conducted Lord Stoyan to the great polished table on the dais and pulled back the carved chair beneath Lord Volkh's portrait for Gavril.

"Well?" Kostya demanded brusquely, taking his place at Gavril's right hand.

"There's been what I can only describe as . . . a massacre."

"What d'you mean, a massacre?" Kostya said, suddenly all attention.

"Last night. In the stronghold of Kharsk-which has always been loyal to your House, Lord Drakhaon."

"Are you implying there's an Arkhel connection?" said Kostya, leaning forward, his eyes bright and fierce.

Lord Stoyan shrugged expansively, his gold chain clinking as he moved.

"Some say it was a pack of wolves, others say it was mercenaries, secret Arkhel sympathizers, maybe. I think you should come and see for yourself, my lord. If there's a band of renegades at large, we need to find and destroy them."

"Casualties?" Kostya asked.

"Too many to count. Mostly women and children."

Gavril had sat listening in silence, wondering what was expected of him.

"Hot spiced ale, my lords," announced Sosia. She approached the dais, Ninusha following. Distracted, Gavril watched Ninusha silently flirt with Lord Stoyan's retainers as she poured ale for them, darting little provocative glances at them from under thick, black lashes.

"So where is Kharsk?" he asked as the men drank.

One of the retainers unrolled a creased vellum map on the table before him. It was crudely painted in faded inks, with childlike kastels drawn to represent towns. It showed none of the artistry of his father's map in the Kalika Tower.

"A day's journey from here to the east of Azhgorod." Lord Stoyan pointed. "Across the shores of Lake Ilmin."

There lay the city of Azhgorod, bristling with spires and towers. And at the far end of long Lake Ilmin, Gavril saw clearly outlined the southern mountain pass that led down into Muscobar.

"The people of Kharsk have begged for your protection, my lord."

Gavril turned to Kostya.

"Then we must go to Kharsk-and straightaway."

Gavril went racing up the stairs. After last night's vigil, he had felt weary and dispirited but the thought of freedom-of a kind-had given him new energy.

He flung open the doors of his bedchamber.

"My lord," a voice whispered.

"Kiukiu?" He stopped on the threshold, puzzled. The room looked empty.

The great hunting tapestry that concealed the secret door moved, and Kiukiu crept out. Her hair was disheveled, escaping in wisps from her plaits, and her eyes were huge, dark-shadowed in a wan face. She looked as if she too had not slept all night.

"What were you doing behind the tapestry?"

"Keeping you safe, my lord." She stumbled a little and he caught hold of her arm, guiding her toward a chair.

"Or hiding from Kostya?"

"He told you?"

"You saw an intruder in the grounds. The druzhina druzhina searched till dawn. They found no one." searched till dawn. They found no one."

"But were they looking in the right places?" she asked, distractedly trying to weave the escaping wisps of hair back in place.

"Kiukiu, you disrupted the ceremony." He knelt beside her. "Why? Why did you do it?"

"Because there was was an intruder." She gripped the sides of the chair. "He was in the summerhouse. With Lilias." an intruder." She gripped the sides of the chair. "He was in the summerhouse. With Lilias."

"Why didn't you say so?"

"Because she mustn't know I overheard."

He could see now she was shaking. He went to the table where Sosia had left his breakfast tray and poured her some ale. She took the mug with trembling hands and drank a little in short, shuddering sips.

"What did you overhear?"

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear.

"Lilias. Telling him to come here by the secret passageway-and kill you."

"Kill me?" The news confounded him; he didn't know what to say. "Who was this man?"

"I-I don't know for sure. She called him Jaro."

"Jaromir." All Gavril's elation vanished, as if stormclouds had come scudding up again to blot out the pale sun. "Jaromir Arkhel here."

"Arkhel?" Kiukiu repeated in a hushed voice.

Dark eyes, staring at him from a pale face, staring with a singularly intense, unreadable expression.

"I don't think he planned to kill you," Kiukiu's words broke in on the darkness of his thoughts. "He said he had only come back because he wanted to see her her again." again."

Lilias: the assassin's unseen accomplice, the low voice calling from the secret panel in the Great Hall . . .

"I think he's in love with her, my lord."

"And so you came up here to try to stop him." Gavril looked at Kiukiu with new respect. "That was a brave thing to do."

"I had to hide from the druzhina druzhina." Kiukiu took another shaky sip from the mug. Her voice was stronger now. "Besides, I wasn't certain he would come."

Gavril sat back on his heels, trying to make sense of Kiukiu's information. So Lilias and Jaromir were lovers. What had they hoped to achieve from the assassination? To be joint rulers of Azhkendir? And what child was she carrying-Arkhel or Nagarian?

"Lilias," he muttered, "always Lilias." His past conversations with Lilias flashed through his mind; he saw again the delicate cups of scented tea, the perfumed flavor so strong it could easily have concealed the bitter taste of poison. To know that she wanted him dead clarified matters. But how could he prove her guilt? Or that of Doctor Kazimir?

"We need evidence," he said to Kiukiu. "If you accuse her, she'll just laugh in your face and call you a liar. And after that your life won't be worth a fig."

"Evidence?" she said, crestfallen. "What kind of evidence?"

"Kiukiu," he said. "I have to go away for a day or two. With Lord Stoyan."

He saw her eyes widen with alarm.

"But suppose Jaromir Arkhel is in hiding out there, lying in wait for you?"

He found her concern for his safety touching. He put one hand on hers.

"I want you to be my eyes and ears while I'm away. Don't endanger yourself needlessly, but listen out for anything unusual."

"You can count on me, my lord." She smiled up at him bravely, her gray-blue eyes warm, almost . . . adoring.

"What's happened to Snowcloud?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"He's not flown yet." She got up from the chair to place the empty mug back on the tray. "I was going to feed him when I-when I heard the voices."

She seemed to have no concerns about her own safety.

"You must be careful, Kiukiu," he said. "While I'm away, there'll be nobody to protect you."

"I'll be careful."

A flake or two of snow still spiraled down from the lowering sky as they set out along the forest trail.

Gavril rode with Lord Stoyan and Kostya; the boyar's retainers and ten druzhina druzhina completed the party. Kostya had left Michailo in command of the kastel, bringing his older, more experienced warriors to protect his master. completed the party. Kostya had left Michailo in command of the kastel, bringing his older, more experienced warriors to protect his master.

Branches gray with hoarfrost brushed their heads; Gavril leaned low in the saddle to avoid them. Beyond the lane that skirted the kastel there seemed to be a pale haze, lying low like driftfog over the moors.

The trail slowly wound upward through the last, sparse pines straggling along the rim of Kerjhenezh.

The moorlands were blank with snow. Where there had been purple heathers and coppery bracken, there was nothing but whiteness.

There was a kind of an irony, Gavril thought bitterly, that the first time he escaped the confines of Kastel Drakhaon, Azhkendir was choked with snow, the ways barely passable. There seemed little hope now of making a bid for freedom over the mountains. His father's spirit-wraith had seen to that.

He was trapped in winter's prison.

They weathered the night in Lord Stoyan's kastel while fresh blizzards battered the walls.

In the morning, Lord Stoyan led them to a frozen lake where the green-gray ice was so thick, the horses walked across as safely as if it were firm ground.

On the far side of Lake Ilmin, Gavril saw wisps of smoke rising into the still air. As they rode nearer, he saw a little fishing village of wooden huts behind beds of frozen reeds.

"No one to greet us?" Kostya said, rising in the saddle to scan the shore. "Hello, there!" he cried. His voice echoed across the desolate landscape. A few birds flew squawking from the reed beds, the flap of their wings sharp as gunshots on the chill air, but no one called back.

"Is this Kharsk?" Gavril asked.

"Another few leagues eastward to the stronghold at Kharsk, my lord. This is Ilmin. And something's not right here, not right at all. . . ."

Wooden boats lay abandoned on the shore, draped with nets and floats. Only the wind sighed through the reeds, rattling the ice-dry stems.

"Hello!" cried Kostya again. He turned to the druzhina druzhina. "Search the huts."

The whine of the wind chilled Gavril to the bone; he pulled his coat closer, gazing uneasily at the empty village.

"Here! Over here!" The shout came from behind the huts.

Kostya swung down from his horse and, drawn saber in hand, hurried away. Gavril followed.

He was unprepared for the sight that met his eyes. Bodies. Women and children, little children, lying sprawled and still in frozen snow stained rust-red with blood.

And as he drew reluctantly closer, he could see that they bore terrible wounds, bloody, ragged wounds to the limbs and throat . . . almost as if their attackers had savaged them.