"Lord Gavril?" Kostya's hand reached out and gripped his. His eyes opened, but they were unfocused. "She's gone. I tried to stop them. . . ."

"Don't try to talk," Gavril said. "Save your strength." His voice trembled; he made an effort to steady it. "And that's an order, Bogatyr." Now he could see that blood was oozing from a hole in Kostya's side, the ruined fabric scorched and burned. Whoever had fired had done so at close range.

The surgeon came hurrying up, shooing the crowd out of the way.

"What's this, Bogatyr?" he said briskly. "A pistol wound?" He began to peel away the layers of bloodstained clothing.

"Never held with all those newfangled gunpowder contraptions," grumbled Kostya weakly. "No honor in them. Weapons for cowards . . ."

"Who brought pistols into Kastel Drakhaon?" Gavril turned to the watching servants. As he looked up at them, he saw the apprehension in their faces, saw them draw back. They were afraid of him.

"That . . . cursed . . . Muscobar whore . . ." Kostya said from between clenched teeth.

"Lilias shot you?" shot you?"

"We'll have to move him, my lord," the surgeon said, keeping one hand on Kostya's pulse. "He's losing blood too fast."

"Not Lilias . . ." Kostya's voice was fading. "Michailo . . . betrayed me . . . divided the druzhina druzhina . . . broke the bloodbond. . . ." . . . broke the bloodbond. . . ."

"Easy now, Kostya," Gavril said, squeezing his hand.

"Shameful . . . way to die . . ." Kostya whispered.

"No talk of dying here!" the surgeon said. "And no more talking, Bogatyr. Save your strength."

Four of the druzhina druzhina lifted Kostya and carried him away. lifted Kostya and carried him away.

Gavril stood watching them, his heart chill and cold. First Kiukiu, now Kostya. Lilias had worked a subtle kind of destructive mischief in his household, attacking those closest to him. Now whom was there left to trust?

A smothered sniffling sound distracted him. In a doorway, he saw Ilsi weeping into her apron.

"Don't cry; the Bogatyr is strong, he'll pull through," he said, trying to sound reassuring.

"I'm not crying for Kostya, I'm crying for Michailo, the deceiving, two-timing bastard!"

"Stop sniveling, Ilsi!" Sosia came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of steaming water in which pungent wound-herbs were steeping. "Take this to the Bogatyr's chamber-and don't spill it."

"Lord Drakhaon." It was Jushko; his usually impassive face was twisted into a scowl. "We've failed you, my lord. He's given us the slip. Got away. In the confusion."

"The prisoner?"

"The gold-haired Arkhel. The one she called Jaromir."

"You let him go?"

"When the Bogatyr was shot, my lord-"

"There are other casualties?"

"We've two druzhina druzhina dead, that's Nicolai and young Boris; both cut down in the stables. Three others wounded, not counting the Bogatyr. I reckon that about twenty or so have followed Michailo." dead, that's Nicolai and young Boris; both cut down in the stables. Three others wounded, not counting the Bogatyr. I reckon that about twenty or so have followed Michailo."

Two dead. So it had been their deaths that had flared bloodred through his mind, disorienting him, bringing him to the brink of the abyss.

"We'll track them down," Jushko said grimly. "They'll pay the price. And after we've done with them, no one in Azhkendir will ever dare betray the clan again."

"And this Jaromir Arkhel went with them?"

"No, my lord. We're searching the grounds for him now. Though we did find this." He held out a little pistol, exquisitely fashioned for so lethal a weapon, the handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the muzzle stained black with burned powder.

Gavril took it and examined it. Michailo would never have thrown it away if he had fresh powder or shot. Perhaps, in his ignorance of firearms, he had neglected to bring fresh supplies with him?

He hurried back to Lilias' rooms and began to search, pulling out drawers, throwing open chests, tossing their contents on the floor. In vain. Until he remembered the baby's crib. The last place anyone would think to look . . .

Concealed beneath two soft down mattresses he found the box, rosewood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver. And inside, nestling in the gray velvet lining, a little phial of gunpowder and one single bullet.

As he loaded the little pistol, his mind moved on one matter alone.

The druzhina druzhina had failed to find Jaromir Arkhel the first time. But they had been searching the grounds and outhouses. Any fugitive who knew the hidden passageways could lie low in any of the ruined rooms in the East Wing, deep inside the bowels of the kastel, until the search was called off. had failed to find Jaromir Arkhel the first time. But they had been searching the grounds and outhouses. Any fugitive who knew the hidden passageways could lie low in any of the ruined rooms in the East Wing, deep inside the bowels of the kastel, until the search was called off.

Snowlight filtered into Doctor Kazimir's abandoned laboratory, turning the dust to glittering powder frost.

Gavril moved noiselessly through the empty rooms, examining the dusty floor for any traces of an intruder. Finding nothing, he hurried on toward the hall.

The blizzard had blown snow through chinks in the boarded windows to lie in little drifts on the floor.

From the upper gallery he leaned over the rail and saw-with bitter satisfaction-the unmistakable pattern of footprints leading away below the ruined stair.

Carefully edging his way down the precarious sweep of the broken staircase, he checked again for prints in the chill light. Bending down, he saw the marks of a man's boots in the wet snow. Fresh marks. His hand crept to check the little pistol, which he had concealed in his jacket pocket. Lilias had-unwittingly-given him one significant advantage over his quarry.

The wet trail of prints led him to a low doorway so obscure he had completely missed it on his last exploration. He would have to go mole-blind into the darkness, with no lantern to give his quarry warning.

He squared his shoulders and drew out the pistol, gripping the handle with sweating fingers.

The tunnel wound on into earthy blackness. Doggedly he moved onward, one hand feeling his way along the rough wall, the other clutching the pistol.

And then a glimmer, faint as a daystar, wavered far ahead. He began to hurry, moving gladly toward it without thought of anything but escape from this claustrophobic tomb.

Daylight pierced the darkness like a shard of ice. This tunnel, unlike the one that ended so abruptly beneath the summerhouse, had been more subtly engineered, and wound gradually upward until he could see a grating-the source of the light overhead.

Gavril moved warily now, placing one foot before the other as stealthily as he could, listening for the slightest sound.

His adversary could be waiting for him in the darkness. It could all end here in one swift, assassin's blow.

Metal rungs in the wall led up to a trapdoor. It required all his strength to lift it, putting his shoulder into the task. Emerging from the tunnel headfirst, he felt a rush of cold air, snowchilled.

He was in what looked at first glance to be an abandoned watchpost, an old tower whose mossy stones were smothered with ivies and old-man's beard.

Gavril pulled himself up out of the tunnel and heaved the rotting wooden trapdoor back in place. Close to the trapdoor, he noticed a rusting brazier choked with fresh cinders. When he tested them, some were still warm to the touch.

Someone had been hiding out in here, sheltering from the blizzard.

Heart beating fast, he hurried to the doorway.

The tunnel had brought him to a ridge on the edge of the forest. He was gazing down at the sprawl of buildings that was Kastel Drakhaon. Below he could see sentries patrolling the boundary walls, the watchtowers, the black pennants fluttering on the weather vanes, smoke rising from the chimneys.

He wanted to shout aloud in sheer frustration at the fate that had doomed him to find an escape only when it was too late to be of any use to him.

Snow had covered the forest, muffling it in a white winter's cloak. Gavril's breath clouded the cold, still air as he searched for prints. The birds were silent; only the meandering trails of tiny claw marks in the snow hinted that they had been out scavenging for food.

Soon he found what he had been searching for: fresh boot prints winding away from the watchpost deep into the forest.

For a moment, he hesitated. He was in the forest alone, and with only a single bullet for self-defense.

And then that chill, weary voice sighed again through his mind: "So . . . cold . . . So . . . very . . . tired . . . Help me, Gavril. Help me end it. Set me free."

Gavril buttoned the collar of his fur-lined jacket against the cold and set off in among the trees, eyes fixed on the trail of prints.

The snow was so thin here, beneath the thick canopy of the branches of the great trees, that the trail of prints was petering out, difficult to distinguish in a carpet of old pine needles, dry leaves, and moss. And for the last hour or so the trail had led upward, a slow ascent through mountain firs and whispering pines.

Frustrated, Gavril halted and leaned his aching back against a knotted pine trunk. He was thirsty now, and his feet were sore from tramping through the forest over tree roots and pinecones.

To have come this far, only to lose the trail . . .

Disheartened, he sank down, back sliding against the rough trunk until he was sitting on one of its gnarled roots. He had not taken as much trouble as he should to mark his way. Now the light was beginning to fade.

He began to suspect that Jaromir Arkhel had purposely led him on this wild-goose chase to shake him off his trail. Jaromir had been born in this wild country; he must know it as intimately as Gavril knew the coves and cliffs around Vermeille Bay.

Damn it all! Gavril struck his fist against the pine trunk. He had not come this far to be Jaromir Arkhel's dupe.

Somewhere on the borders of his mind he could sense a dull confusion of voices; the druzhina druzhina were still at large, searching the snowbound moorlands for Lilias and Michailo. were still at large, searching the snowbound moorlands for Lilias and Michailo.

"We will always know where you are . . ."

Did they know precisely where he was now?

And if he needed them, would they come to his rescue in time?

Gavril tramped on toward the fading light until he saw that what he had thought to be the brow of the incline he had labored up was the rim of a steep escarpment.

Above and beyond loomed the grim shadow of a jagged mountain peak, half-hidden in snowclouds. He stood on the brim of a deep drop; the land fell away beneath the ridge in gullies and gray screefall. Behind him the dark green of the forest went rolling away into the distance-but immediately below lay an endless expanse of bleak moorland, powdered white with snow. And on the far western horizon, the angry flames of the setting sun pierced the lowering pall of gray.

The prospect was at once so desolate, yet so starkly beautiful, that Gavril stood staring down at Azhkendir, all fatigue and frustration forgotten.

He was alone. There was no sign or sound of life in this still mountainscape, not even the cawing of crows or mountain choughs.

Was this where the Arkhel lands began? Was this the wasteland his father had created in his devastating quest for revenge?

And then he heard the sound of a distant bell tolling from deep in the forest below. Puzzled, he gazed back over the forest trees, searching in vain for a sign of a bell tower or spire. If it were the sound of the monastery bells, the buildings must be hidden close by in the heart of the forest.

Better to make his way toward the sound of the bell and ask the abbot to give him refuge for the night. But how far could he trust Yephimy, knowing he had sheltered the very man who was now his quarry? For all he knew, this could be another plot to lure him to his death. . . .

He turned back to the drab mountainside, scanning the rocks for one last time.

He looked and then looked again, blinking, in case his eyes had betrayed him in the failing light.

Something-no, someone-was moving against the sheen of snow, slowly, steadily progressing upward.

Gavril let out a shout.

The figure paused a moment, glancing back over its shoulder. And then it continued its unhurried ascent, as if ignoring the fact that he was in pursuit, confident that it would elude him.

Gavril forgot that his legs and back ached, forgot the brooding despair that had haunted his progress through the forest.

So Jaromir Arkhel thought he could best him! Did he think he was some soft southerner, too scared to save his own skin to venture into mountainous terrain?

And then the need to concentrate on finding a firm foothold amid the treacherous shale drove all other thoughts from his head. Now as the gully narrowed, it became a matter of clinging to the jagged rocks to pull himself up, hand over hand.

Even though the last rays of the sinking sun still lit the western sky with a flare of fire, night began to darken this side of the mountain. And with the night came the cold, intense and penetrating. Gavril struggled up to the top of the gully to find that the snowfield above and overhanging rock buttresses were glistening with fast-freezing ice crystals.

And yet, in spite of nightfall, Jaromir Arkhel still toiled on upward across the snow.

Gavril's labored breath gusted in puffs of steam on the chill air. His ribs were sore. He stared at his quarry, now little more than a blurred shadow against the dull sparkle of snow. Jaromir Arkhel must be making for a hut, a mountain refuge, hidden high above the snow line. Why else would he be trudging on upward into the night?

At this moment, he was aware that Gavril Andar the painter would have shrugged, turned away, and gone home. But this new Gavril could not go back. He could only go on.

The snow was not as thick here as it had looked from the forest ridge; it had settled in crevices, sheening the rocks with a glistening of white. As night's cold intensified, it was rapidly freezing underfoot. Now he began to understand why Jaromir had been moving so slowly. But Gavril was used to climbing slippery rocks. Even though those in Vermeille Bay were treacherous with the slime of seaweed and algae, they were no less difficult to negotiate.

As he moved doggedly on, teeth clenched against the burning cold of the night air, he realized he was gaining on Jaromir. His quarry was slowing, tiring. The distance between them had halved.

He stumbled, clutching at an overhanging rock to steady himself.

One foot slid out over the edge.

His heart thudded as dislodged stones went spinning away from beneath his dangling foot into the gully below, rattling far down into the darkness.

He forced all his strength into pulling his whole body back onto the rock. He slumped there, cheek against the rough granite, clutching the contours of the rock.

Narrow escape.

The air seemed thinner here. His head was spinning. When he gazed back down at the darkening moorlands, the dizziness increased.

Steady there, steady . . .