A viscous slime came up, vile, black and stinking of pitch.

What had he been drinking? He flopped over on his back, exhausted. And when had this drinking bout occurred? His mind was still blank. Why couldn't he remember what had happened? Had there been some kind of celebration? The waves of nausea still surged. The foul taste still tainted his mouth and throat. It was as if he were trying to expel some noxious poison from his body.

Poison.

Terrified, he tried to open his mouth to cry for help. Had someone slipped him the same poison that had paralyzed his father, leaving him helpless?

Where were the druzhina druzhina when he needed them? when he needed them?

He rolled over onto his stomach and began to squirm his way across the floor like a serpent, mired in his own slime.

"Help . . . me . . ." His voice sounded as if from far away, a pathetic whisper.

If only he could remember what had happened to him, if only his memory were not a blank. All he could see was mist, clouds of black, drifting moor mist. . . .

It was as if he had contracted some deadly wasting sickness, as if his whole body were corroding away. He half-expected to look down and see his skin flaking off and noisome pus-filled fluids leaking through beneath. . . .

Not black mist . . . but smoke, billowing smoke.

"Help me . . . Kostya . . ."

His throat burned now from the retching, as if he had vomited up some caustic liquid. His voice, when he tried to call out again for help, was seared to a smoke-dry whisper.

"Thirsty . . ."

His body was all burned up, a charred shell. He craved water.

Why did no one hear him? Why did no one come?

He managed to drag himself forward another foot or so, only to collapse again. His hand clawed uselessly at the floor.

He found himself staring at his own hand as it scrabbled ineffectually to grab hold of something-anything-for support. The nails gleamed blue-black like chips of coal, hard and ridged as talons.

Now he could only stare at his hand, mesmerized. Had there been a fire? Was that why he could only remember clouds of billowing smoke? Was that why his whole body felt so alien to him? Had he been burned in the fire?

Hangover, poison, fire . . . none of it added up or made any sense.

All he knew was that he would die of thirst if no one came soon.

But now the thirst whispered to him of other liquids, delicious beyond imagining. He had never known thirst or hunger like this before in his whole life.

The pounding in his head had become a thunder of drums. All he wanted now was for the black smoke to envelop him, to smother the last breath from him and put him out of his misery. . . .

"My lord?" A head appeared above his, warrior braids swinging about a weather-beaten, grizzled face. It was a face he had never thought he would feel glad to see. Until now.

"Kostya?" His lips felt parched dry, his tongue swollen. The name came out in a croaking whisper. "What's . . . happened . . . to me?"

"You must drink, my lord. And plenty."

Gavril felt someone raise his head, and the rim of a cup was pressed against his sore mouth. A cool liquid splashed in; he tried to gulp it down, trickles leaking down his chin, onto his neck and chest.

"Enough." He turned his head away. "Where . . . am I?"

"Klim," Kostya said. "In the tavern."

"Feel . . . so . . . ill."

Kostya stroked the hair from his forehead. Even so gentle a touch from the old warrior made a shiver of nausea ripple through Gavril's body.

"This is a proud day for us." Kostya's voice was unsteady, and when Gavril tried to focus on his face, he saw that Kostya's eyes were glistening with tears. "Now you have shown them. Shown the doubters you are truly your father's son. Now no one will dare oppose you."

The old man's words came and went like wisps of half-heard music drifting from an open window. Gavril could only see darkness and smoke, could only feel the next dark surge rising to engulf him.

"It will pass, lad," he heard Kostya saying from beyond the darkness. "And then we will talk of the future."

He walks through a drifting smoke of dreams, searching in vain for water to quench his burning thirst.

A pool glimmers in the smoke. Dropping to his knees, he bends toward its glassy surface, hands extended to scoop up the cool water.

And sees eyes, blue as lightning, staring at him.

"Water alone will not quench our thirst, Gavril."

Gavril halts, staring. The dry, subtle voice has spoken quite clearly-but all he can see is the reflection of the glittering blue eyes, blue as distant starlight in the dull pool.

"Who's there?"

"You woke me, Gavril Nagarian."

"Who are you?" Gavril whispers.

"I am your guardian. You are my host."

"I don't understand."

"Look into the pool. This is how I once was-and how you will become when I have refashioned you in my likeness."

The image ripples, slowly clearing. A creature stares back at Gavril, dark-winged, hook-clawed, its muscular body covered with the dull glitter of sapphire scales. A tumble of wild hair, blue-black, frames a strangely elongated face dominated by the gleam of those watchful, inhuman eyes. A creature of air and darkness, a winged daemon-lord, cruel and powerful. Gavril shakes his head. "I'm dreaming."

"Soon your dreams will become reality. Soon, Gavril."

Gavril opened his eyes to a cold dawn. He was lying in fresh linen on a bed in a bare room. Open shutters let in a gray snowlight, crisp and clean. He blinked. His head no longer pounded, his stomach had stopped churning. He felt cleansed-and empty.

Someone must have bathed him, washed the vomit from his hair, the shitslime from his body.

And he could remember nothing of it, nothing at all.

There was no taint of sickness in the room; the chill air smelled faintly of pine logs and snow. His breath, when he exhaled, made a little puff of steam.

He swung his legs out of bed.

"Feeling better, Lord Drakhaon?" Kostya appeared with a bowl of porridge. "Now you must eat to build up your strength again. Hot porridge and honey. Honey for strength, oats for stamina."

Gavril nodded. He wished Kostya didn't sound as if he were talking to one of his horses. But he was ravenous, and bolted down the porridge.

"Now tell me what I am doing here," he said, setting the empty bowl aside. He still felt a gnawing emptiness, although the porridge had filled his belly. More of a craving than an emptiness . . .

"You remember nothing?" Kostya said. "Nothing of the steppe wolves?"

"Wolves?" Gavril said uneasily. Something nagged in his memory. A vivid flash of fur, claws, and gnashing teeth.

"You and the search party were attacked on the moors. A pack of steppe wolves. You used your powers, my lord." Kostya's voice trembled. He seemed almost overcome with emotion. "You destroyed the wolves."

"I did?" Fragments of memory spun in his brain, little firesparks that fizzled to smoke. Nothing made sense still. did?" Fragments of memory spun in his brain, little firesparks that fizzled to smoke. Nothing made sense still.

"Even in Kastel Drakhaon we saw the flare light up the sky, felt the earth tremble. And so I came here straightaway, knowing you would need me."

"I used my powers?" Gavril had gone cold and faint. What was it his father had written in the secret will?

"No matter what pressures and persuasions my people may use upon you, you must resist the urge to use your powers with all your strength."

"You destroyed the wolves." Kostya put his hand on Gavril's shoulder. "Now no one dares question your right to rule Azhkendir, Lord Gavril."

"Every time you let the Drakhaoul within you take possession, you become less human. Poisons are released into your blood, poisons that will change you, both in body and soul."

If only he had had the self-control to contain his anger, to fight the wolves with fire and man-made weapons. . . .

"For now you must rest, my lord. When you are feeling better, we will return to Kastel Drakhaon." Kostya pulled the blanket around Gavril, tucking him in as if he were a child. Then he rose to his feet. "I had the girl's things placed in here. Piotr said you wanted to return them to Sosia."

The girl's things? Now Gavril remembered what the whole wretched expedition had been about. He looked where Kostya was pointing and saw the pitiful heap of Kiukiu's abandoned possessions.

Kiukiu, his one true friend and ally in all Azhkendir, was dead. He was alone now.

He lay back staring at the beamed ceiling. Tears leaked from his eyes.

He had to get away. He had to find Doctor Kazimir before this Drakhaoul within him burned away the last of his humanity.

The snow wind whispered like wraith pipes, thin and reedy, about Gavril's head as he and Kostya rode back onto the moors. Fresh snow had fallen in the night, and the search party's tracks had been covered with new, soft, white flakes.

"You have no need to do this, my lord," Kostya said.

"I have to see where it happened." Gavril was gazing around the bleak snowflats, looking in vain for some landmark to trigger a memory of the attack. Though the sky lowered a pale, dismal gray overhead, the reflected light off the snow hurt his eyes. He still felt drained and ill. He still craved . . . if only he could identify what it was his body demanded. Wine and aquavit had made his sensitive stomach cramp. Warmed milk had only made him sick again.

The damp snow wind seemed to penetrate even the thick fur of his cloak, sending his body into little fever chills. He pulled the cloak closer, shivering and miserable.

"Here, my lord!" Kostya had ridden ahead, up toward the brow of the little ridge.

Gavril's horse seemed reluctant to go any farther, stamping the ground and shaking its head, snorting its refusal in gusts of steam from flared nostrils.

"He can still smell the wolves," Kostya said, dismounting.

Gavril followed him on foot through the fresh snow to the top of the ridge. There he stopped, staring. Beneath the fine white granules of powdery snow, there was a bare crater. The ground was charred, bushes seared to stubs and stumps, bracken and heather burned to ashes. And in the snow-dusted ashes Gavril could just make out the blackened bones of wolf carcasses. Yet when he bent down to examine them, he saw not the long jawbones of a wolfish predator, but an unmistakably human skull.

"I did all this?" did all this?"

Now that he stood here, jagged fragments of memory returned: the glint of snarling fangs, the hot, fetid stink of feral breath. He saw himself thrown from his horse, sprawling headlong in the snow as the wolf paused to spring. He tasted the rank savor of fear again at the back of his mouth.

And then came the recollection-oh, so brief but so intense-of a moment of transformation, mind and body melded into one paroxysmal burst of energy.

After that, there was nothing but a searing dazzle of blue in his mind and a chaos of shouting voices.

"You destroyed the whole wolf pack," Kostya said, clapping his arm about Gavril's shoulders.

Gavril looked dazedly at him out of the chaos of smoke and voices.

"These were not wolves, but men." He turned to Kostya. "How can that be?"

"There's been some Tielen shape-shifting mischief at work here." Kostya spat into the snow. "Someone must have sent these to find you, my lord."

"You mean to . . . assassinate me?"

"That's very much how it looks." Kostya kicked at a rib cage and it crumbled away into sooty cinders.

"But who would have done such a thing?"

Kostya shrugged.

A group of women and children waited in the cold, to wave them farewell.

A small boy ran up to Gavril, cheeks burnished apple red by the wind.

"Drakhaon," he piped.

Gavril recognized Danilo, the child he had saved from the wolves.

"Thank you for rescuing me."

So close to Danilo, Gavril suddenly became aware that there was an extraordinarily luminous bloom to the child, a gilded aura that seemed to breathe from every pore. A delicious freshness emanated from the boy's body. Gavril could see the blood coursing in the child's delicate veins, could smell its life-giving fragrance. Before he knew what he was doing, he had begun to stretch out one blue-clawed hand toward the child's slender neck to draw him closer. . . .

Brown eyes stared trustingly up at him, wide and innocent.