"My lord," Piotr said quietly to Gavril as he reached the horses, "things don't look too good. Steppe wolves, blizzards . . . don't raise your hopes."

As they rode out of the village, some of the children ran alongside, waving to the search party as they trudged along behind the druzhina druzhina's horses.

"Go back!" Piotr shouted to them. "Stay in the village. Stay where it's safe!"

On the brow of the hill, the wind scythed in again, cold enough to take the breath away. Gavril gazed about him at the glittering snowfields. He wondered how anyone would know how to find their way to Klim when all landmarks except the distant jagged range of mountains were covered in snow.

"Is there anywhere she could have found shelter between Klim and the mountains?" Gavril asked, shading his eyes.

"Only the old witch's place," Piotr said. One of the men made a sign with his fingers and spat in the snow.

"Witch?" Gavril echoed.

"Wisewoman. Mad as a bat. Lives on her own on the edge of the Arkhel waste."

"But still-"

"Here. Here!" shouted out one of the search party.

Gavril jumped down from his horse and went running over to look. The man was digging in the snow. Under the light surface powder, Gavril saw the sodden folds of a piece of material appear. He knelt down to help dig, all the time fearing that beneath the drift a frozen human face would appear.

But all that lay beneath the drift was a crumpled square of material, an old threadbare sheet, that spilled a few objects as they pulled it out, brushing away the snow.

Gavril picked up the contents. And as he touched them, a sick, desolate feeling numbed him. So few possessions. So little to leave behind. Thick socks darned and redarned with gypsy-bright wools, an ivory comb with broken teeth, the remains of a half-chewed piece of black bread, blue ribbons . . .

Blue, her favorite color. Gavril began to dig in the snow with gloved hands.

"These are her things. Where is is she?" he said between gritted teeth. she?" he said between gritted teeth.

"This looks bad," Piotr said.

"Help me dig!" Gavril cried. The men from the search party looked down at their feet, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"There's no point, my lord," Piotr said bluntly.

"But there's no body. Without a body, how can we be sure?" insisted Gavril.

"You heard what was said, my lord. Steppe wolves."

"But there's no remains." Gavril had begun to sense an unfamiliar pulsing in his temples, dull as the thud of a heartbeat but faster, more insistent. "We should search for evidence." Irritated by their complacency, he went farther away, scuffing up the snow, forcing himself to look for what he most dreaded to find: bloodstained scraps of clothing, a hank of fair hair, fragments of bone. . . .

"We're wasting our time," broke in Michailo. "She'd never have survived this long out here in the snows."

"Michailo's right, my lord," broke in Piotr. "The sun'll set soon. We should turn back now."

The dull pulsing intensified. "But if Michailo had waited for my return," Gavril said in a low voice, "this would never have happened."

"I was placed in command," Michailo said self-righteously.

"You know how treacherous the weather is in winter. You sent her to her death." A voice at the back of his mind was urging self-control-and yet the bitter grief that had come rolling up like a dark fog almost obliterated it.

"My lord, look at the sky. We can't stay out here-or we'll risk the same fate."

Gavril glanced up. The clouds fast-scudding from the mountains had an eerie yellow cast to them. A distant, low moan shivered across the snowflats-and was answered by another closer by. The sound, eerily inhuman, made Gavril's flesh crawl. Wolf howl.

"That wasn't the wind." His horse gave a nervous whinny and tossed its head, pawing restlessly at the snow. "Was it?"

"Your horse can scent them," Piotr said uneasily.

"We're more than a match for any wolf pack," one of the younger druzhina druzhina boasted. "Our horses can easily outrun them." boasted. "Our horses can easily outrun them."

"Oh, yes?" Piotr said. "So you'd ride off and leave us to fend for ourselves?"

"Give me her things," Gavril said. He crammed Kiukiu's few possessions into his saddle bag. "Now let's be on our way."

As he remounted, another howl quivered through the air. The men on foot shouldered their weapons and stolidly began to trudge back, following their footprints in the thick snow.

One lone girl, stumbling exhaustedly through the snow, had proved easy prey for a pack of marauding wolves. But a band of armed men . . . Gavril put the thought from his mind. He could only think of Kiukiu. He gazed out over the bleak landscape as he rode. He could not forget what Michailo had done. Michailo would pay.

He looked up at Michailo, riding ahead, nonchalant and relaxed in the saddle. His eyes narrowed against the glare of the snow. He hated the man. Hated his arrogant manner, his sullen comments, the way he tossed his flax-fair braids . . .

The pulsing in his temples had begun again. The more he thought how much he hated Michailo, the more the blood burned in his head.

He could not remember ever hating anyone so vehemently before. Disliking, maybe, the odd difference of opinions, but hate hate?

A lurid snowlight suddenly lit the far-distant mountain peaks, briefly gilding them a sulfurous yellow. Flakes of snow began to drift down, a few chill white petals from the ash-gray sky. The last sunlight suddenly disappeared, and the moors were swathed in gloom.

A long, low howl trembled through the air. Other voices answered, eerily close.

"The village!" cried Piotr, his voice sharp with alarm. He began to run. Michailo and the others kicked their heels into their horses' sides, urging them back. "The children!"

Gavril followed.

The druzhina druzhina reached the ridge above the village, reining in their horses, hooves scuffing up showers of powder snow. reached the ridge above the village, reining in their horses, hooves scuffing up showers of powder snow.

The little gaggle of children were still playing, engrossed in a game of catch. They glanced up as the men came riding back.

"What are you doing out here?" shouted Piotr. "The wolves are coming! Go in, go in!"

The children spilled down the ridge toward the village, shrieking in fear.

"Go get torches!" Michailo ordered, following them.

Gavril heard a shrill little scream. One of the children, the little boy Danilo, had gone sprawling headlong in the snow.

A dark, snarling creature leapt out of the shadows, teeth bared, right in front of the child.

Gavril spurred his horse down the hill toward Danilo, intending to scoop him up onto his saddle. But the horse shied, rearing up into the air. Gavril lost his grip on the reins and fell off into the snow.

Winded by the fall, he struggled to his feet. He could hear the child whimpering.

"Danilo!" he cried. "Get behind me!" But Danilo just lay where he had fallen, paralyzed with fear.

A wolf crouched, yellow teeth bared, poised to attack.

Eyes gleamed in the twilight, orange, feral eyes. Wolf voices bayed and yelped. Not one wolf-but a whole pack of them.

This is how she died. The wolves killed her, tore her apart. . . .

Gavril flung himself in front of Danilo.

The young girl stumbles in the snow. The beasts encircle her, leap on her, pull her down. And then there is nothing but the sound of screaming and the gobbling, growling sounds of the beasts as they ravage her living flesh, slobbering over the fresh carcass.

Now Gavril no longer felt afraid. He felt himself possessed by a terrible, burning anger. Anger for Kiukiu, his Kiukiu, dying alone and in such terror. The anger caught fire in his mind. Flames flickered across his sight: red, orange, white. Blue.

Blue, phosphorescent blue of starfire on freezing winter nights, starblaze of burning, brilliant blue . . .

Through the shimmering blur of fire, he saw the creature gather itself to spring.

The wolf leapt into the air. Instinctively, Gavril raised his arm to protect himself.

He heard the snap of ragged fangs, sharp as daggers, smelled the hot, rank stink of its carnivore's breath.

Flames shot from his outstretched fingers, glittering blue as cobalt.

The twilight exploded into a dazzle of shattered stars.

The wolf's shaggy coat caught fire.

Blinding blueflare, brighter than lightning.

Burning, the wolf dropped into the snow, writhing and making horrible whining sounds. And in the flames, Gavril saw for a moment-but how could it be?-the black shadow of a burning man, clawing and twisting in agony. Then the dazzle of the flames dimmed. Slowly the blackened paws moved aimlessly . . . and stilled.

Now there was only choking smoke and a vile smell of burning fur.

What had he done? For a moment his whole body had convulsed in that one cataclysmic burst of power. Now he felt utterly drained. His knees buckled.

"My lord, my lord-" Voices were calling his name.

He toppled forward into the snow, and the last sparks of Drakhaon's Fire were extinguished in a black tide that overwhelmed him, dragging him down to oblivion in its lightless depths.

CHAPTER 20.

Kiukiu woke with a start.

A cold snowlight filtered in from slit windows set high in the rough walls of the hut.

At first she had no idea where she was-and then, seeing Malusha stooped over the fire, stoking it with fresh wood, she began to remember.

"Snow's stopped for a while," Malusha said without turning around. "I've made porridge. Want some, child?"

Porridge. Kiukiu's empty stomach rumbled; embarrassed, she pressed her hands on it to silence it.

"Yes, please. I'm starving."

Malusha brought over a bowl filled with steaming barley porridge and a spoon.

"Eat it from the outside in or you'll burn your tongue. I've stirred in a spoonful of heather honey to give you strength."

Kiukiu breathed in the honey-scented steam hungrily. She was so ravenous she didn't care if she burned her tongue to swallow down some of the delicious porridge.

She looked up into Malusha's face-and her dream came back to her so vividly it seemed as if it had been more than a dream. She set down the porridge bowl and reached out for the old woman's hand.

"I-I had a dream last night," she said.

"Ah." Malusha sat down beside her. She did not withdraw her hand.

"You were in my dream. You asked me who my parents were. You said-you said Malkh, my father, was your son."

The old woman's bright eyes clouded suddenly with tears.

"You remember the dream," she said, squeezing Kiukiu's hand. "You remember!"

"Are you my grandmother?" Kiukiu stammered.

"If Malkh was your father, then I am, child."

"How can it be?" Kiukiu was wary now. "They told us all the Arkhel household were killed."

"All but me, Kiukiu, all but me." Kiukiu saw the shadow of the bleak years of solitude and suffering darkening her grandmother's eyes. "All but me and my lords and ladies. Someone had to care for them."

"The owls."

"When I first saw you, there was something familiar about you, child." Malusha gently stroked Kiukiu's cheek, gazing at her face as if she could not stop looking at her. "Now, in the daylight, I can see it. You have your father's eyes . . . and something of his chin, his cheekbones. Strong features, strong personality."

"But the dream. How did you-how did I-"

"You have the gift," Malusha said. She laid her gnarled hand on Kiukiu's forehead. "That was what finally convinced me. I thought the gift would die with me, the last of our line. Our little Lord Snowcloud must have sensed it. . . ."

"You are my grandmother," Kiukiu said wonderingly. This should have been such a sublimely happy moment-and suddenly there were tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Hush now, child." The old woman leaned forward and hugged her. "Dry your eyes and eat your porridge; it'll go cold and there's nothing worse than cold porridge."