"What's happening?" She pushed forward. "Let me through. Let me see for myself-"

And then she spotted Karila. A child, vulnerable and alone, gazing up at the daemon of darkness, which gazed back at her with all the madness of its flame-blue eyes.

"Karila!" she cried, starting out toward her.

"Altessa, no!" The officer tried to hold her back but, long used to chase games with Andrei, she ducked nimbly under his outstretched arms and emerged in the yard.

Slowly the creature swiveled its head, wisps of smoke, blue as indigo, issuing from its wild-flared nostrils.

It saw her.

Astasia.

How often he had sketched her beloved face from memory, trying to recall accurately every last detail. And now those liquid, dark eyes which had haunted his dreams stared at him in shock and disbelief.

He saw her pale lips open, framing a word, a name.

"Gavril," she said in the stillness.

She knew him. Even though he was clothed in this monstrous form, she had recognized him.

The part of the Drakhaon that was still Gavril remembered who he was and felt a shudder of remorse shake his great daemon-body.

That she should see him like this . . .

A burning pain seared through his heart. The dreams of their love, dreams that had sustained him through the long desperate winter in Azhkendir, all fizzled to dust and smoke in that one brief moment of recognition. He saw stretching ahead a loveless, lonely future. . . .

"Gavril." He heard his mother's voice, low and urgent, close to his ear. "They're aiming cannons at us."

The smell of immediate danger brought him back to himself. Tired, injured as he was, he must get Elysia safely away from Tielen. A myriad little flames glinted under the arches. Cannon fuses.

And then the girl-child turned to the soldiers cowering beneath the arches behind their great guns.

"You must let them go," she said in her small, clear voice. "You must hold your fire." She came closer to him with her twisted, limping gait and stared imploringly into his eyes.

"Stay back, Kari," called Astasia, her voice trembling.

"Take me with you, Drakhaoul," the child said. "I want to fly like you. I want to be free."

Elysia reached out one shaking hand, placing it on the burning scales of the creature that was and yet was not her son, hoping her touch, her voice would reach him, steady him. Her own safety forgotten, she only wanted to ensure he did not harm little Kari.

"Gavril," she murmured, "don't touch the child. Don't even let her near. You're not in your right mind, you don't want to do anything you might regret. . . ."

The Drakhaon Gavril did not answer her. She could sense how troubled he was, how unpredictable; the least distraction might spark him into another violent reaction.

Beyond Kari and Astasia, the fuses gleamed brighter in the shadows, the waiting soldiers hovering nervously, waiting for the command to fire. To blast them both to eternity.

"Let's go, Gavril. We must flee for our lives while we can."

Still no response. Had he even heard her? And if he had, would he pay any attention to her words? He seemed mesmerized by the little princess, his burning blue eyes fixed on Karila as she drew nearer.

"Gavril," Elysia said, desperation making her voice crack. She grabbed hold of the creature's broad, bony shoulders, hoisted her skirts about her knees, and clambered awkwardly up onto its scaly back. "We must go!"

And only now did she see that another spectator had joined the terrified crowd. Silent, still, the Magus Linnaius stood at an open window watching Gavril with eyes gray as shadows. She saw him slowly raise his hands, the skin so translucent that the finger bones could be seen beneath, skeletal hands concentrating an energy so intense she could see the air around him tremble.

Her heart began to flutter in her breast with fear. They were so close to freedom- "Gavril!" she cried. "Now!" "Now!"

Astasia stood, helpless, speechless, as Karila walked toward the Drakhaon.

Emotions tumbled through her mind: fear, disbelief, betrayal.

Why had no one warned her that Gavril was no longer human? She had never imagined that Elysia's veiled references to "changing" could mean this hideous metamorphosis.

She watched, as if in a dream, Elysia climb on the creature's glittering back, saw Karila limp toward it, arms outstretched, heard Elysia cry out, "Now!" "Now!"

The Drakhaon seemed to gather itself and, unfurling its wings, leapt into the air.

Karila let out a cry. "Don't go!"

Pulsations of light glittered across the scaly sheen of its skin: blue, green, oil-black, as it rose into the sky.

The beat of its great wings fanned gusts of burning air across the yard.

Arms still yearningly outstretched, Karila spun around to watch as the Drakhaon circled upward into the blue sky.

And then Astasia saw her freeze, stabbing her finger at an upper window.

"Linnaius!" the child screamed out, her voice raw. An old man was standing at the open window, gnarled hands raised toward the Drakhaon. "No! I forbid you!" I forbid you!"

The old man paused. A look passed between them. And then slowly he lowered his hands.

"I will come back for you, Karila," the Drakhaon's voice drifted back, dark as drifting smoke, "one day."

"I know." Suddenly Karila collapsed to her knees on the cobbles, sobbing bitterly. Astasia hurried to her and flung her arms about her, holding her close, feeling her cling to her tightly.

"There, there, Kari, it's all right, the horrid dragon has gone. It's not going to hurt you, I'll never let it hurt you-"

"No," Karila gasped, raising her tear-stained face to Astasia's, "you don't understand. None of you understand!"

"I will come back for you." Astasia had heard the Drakhaon's dark words roll around the yard. Was it a threat or a promise? Why had it spoken only to Kari with no word for her? Astasia had heard the Drakhaon's dark words roll around the yard. Was it a threat or a promise? Why had it spoken only to Kari with no word for her?

"I-I want to go with them," sobbed Karila, inconsolable. "I want to fly."

CHAPTER 41.

Dazed and disoriented, Kiukiu wandered aimlessly through the ruined halls of Kastel Drakhaon.

From time to time she passed other kastel people, faces white with plaster dust and shock, sitting amid the rubble staring into nothingness. No one seemed able to help anyone else.

The merciless bombardment had ceased at the moment the Drakhaon had attacked the Tielen army.

And then she had felt them die. So many living souls extinguished in that one deadly breath of flame, so many human hopes, fears, aspirations. The rolling tide of blue fire seared the skies blinding white, and then black as starry night with glittering smoke.

Drowning, dragged into the undertow by the dying, she was washed to the very portals of the Ways Beyond. Floundering in the choking black tide, she had been forced to use all her strength to strike back toward the light.

She had opened her eyes and found it was night. Bitter-chill night. A thin wind whined through the broken walls. Her cheeks were stiff and cold with dried tears.

She must have been out of her body for many hours.

Out on the blackened hillside, she saw lantern flames flickering like corpse-candles. Drawn against her better judgment, Kiukiu found herself picking her way over rubble and broken beams toward the lanterns.

Far to the east, there was a glimmer of light on the horizon. Dawn was breaking over the battlefield. Monks from Saint Sergius moved among the ashes, searching for survivors.

Incense censers swung, burning cleansing angelsmoke; the monks sprinkled holy water over the remains, muttering prayers as they went about their task.

But in spite of the sweetly aromatic tang of angelsmoke, the lingering smell of burned flesh made her eyes water, making her want to gag. She wound her headscarf across nostrils and mouth and went doggedly on, forcing herself to look on the worst of the damage Lord Gavril had inflicted on the enemy. Every now and then she caught a glimpse of some charred remnant on the edge of the firestrike, just recognizably human: blackened toes protruding from a boot, a clenched fist burned almost to the bone.

Gavril, Gavril, she whispered in her aching heart, she whispered in her aching heart, how could you have done such a terrible thing? how could you have done such a terrible thing?

"You're alive, Kiukiu!" Yephimy, leaning on his abbot's crook, hailed her. "We feared we'd lost you."

"I came to help," she said, "but . . ."

"There's nothing to be done for these wretched souls but pray."

"Here, Lord Abbot!" The cry came from farther up the hillside.

Yephimy turned and strode upward through the last dispersing wisps of smoke. Kiukiu hitched up her skirts and followed, hurrying to keep up with the abbot's brisk pace.

On the top of the ridge she saw the scorched canvas of a cluster of military tents, the ragged shreds of a Tielen standard still fluttering above the largest. It seemed as if the Drakhaon's lethal breath had only singed those farthest from the cannons; all his rage had been concentrated on the heavy artillery on the lower slopes.

As she approached she saw a huddle of monks, all gathered together, murmuring in low, awed voices. Impossible, surely, that they had found any survivors from that cataclysmic firestorm?

And then she heard a groan: faint, agonized, but recognizably human.

"Ease him onto the stretcher," Brother Hospitaler was urging. "Careful, now-"

Kiukiu crept closer.

"Water . . ." The voice was parched, barely a whisper.

She peeped between the monks as they dripped drinking water into the injured man's mouth-and closed her eyes in horror at what the lantern light revealed. Drakhaon's Fire had seared his face and neck. His hair was all burned away-and half his face was a red, weeping weal, as was the hand that he raised shakily as the abbot approached.

"Look," said Brother Hospitaler in an undertone, nudging the brother at his side. "The ring. The signet ring." Kiukiu saw them exchange glances. "What do you think, Lord Abbot?"

Yephimy gazed down at the burned man on the stretcher.

"Is it really he?" Brother Hospitaler whispered.

Yephimy did not reply, but knelt down beside the stretcher. Kiukiu saw the burned hand reach out feebly toward him.

"Yephimy." The burned lips moved, struggling to pronounce the abbot's name.

"Your highness," the abbot said, "this is a sad day for Azhkendir."

"And . . . for Tielen . . ." The words were barely audible.

"If you permit, highness, we will take you to Saint Sergius. Brother Hospitaler has salves that will relieve your pain."

As the monks gently lifted the stretcher, the man let out an involuntary moan. Kiukiu bit her lip, trying not to imagine how intense his suffering must be as they carried him away toward a waiting cart.

"I don't understand," Yephimy was saying, shaking his head. "Everyone else has perished . . . save the prince. How did he survive?"

"That man is Prince Eugene?" Kiukiu said, forgetting that she was not supposed to be listening. "You're going to heal him? After what he did to us?"

Yephimy turned to her, his eyes stern beneath bristling iron brows.

"He is a man, like any other. He needs our help. God will judge him."

A horseman had appeared at the top of the ridge; he sat very still, scanning the desolation. The rising sun gleamed on his polished buttons, epaulettes, and boot buckles. A Tielen scout.

"Look," Kiukiu breathed. "They've sent reinforcements!"

Far below she glimpsed Askold trying to muster his meager forces in the kastel yard. He too had spotted the horseman on the ridge. The few remaining druzhina druzhina stood shoulder to shoulder, brandishing what weapons they could lay their hands on: pitchforks, axes, mallets. stood shoulder to shoulder, brandishing what weapons they could lay their hands on: pitchforks, axes, mallets.

The horseman dismounted and walked slowly toward the monks. Kiukiu glared at him, at his clean, shaven face, his spotless uniform.

"Where is the prince?" the horseman asked in the common tongue.

"Here," she said sullenly, pointing.

She watched the young man remove his tricorn and kneel down beside the prince's stretcher. To her surprise, his face registered no emotion; he seemed as stiff and formal as if he were on parade. Could he not see how badly injured his master was?

"An urgent message from Field Marshal Karonen, highness."

"Read it . . . to me . . . lieutenant . . ." came the faint answer.