But if he had hoped to find some further connection with the father he could not remember, he had found none. There was nothing here but a void.

He must escape. As soon as it was light he would begin to make his plans, observing, watching for any weakness, no matter how small, in the defenses Kostya had set up "for his own safety."

Gavril slowly undid the buttons on his jacket and shrugged it off, letting it lie on the floor where it fell. Then he snuffed out the oil lamp and crawled onto the bed. The flickering fireshadows gradually dimmed as the glowing coals crumbled to ash, and he slept.

The diamond-paned windows of the Drakhaon's bedchamber looked out not over the inner courtyards of the kastel, but over swathes of moorland and brooding forest stretching far into the hazy distance where the horizon was crowned by jagged mountains, half-wreathed in swirling cloud. Beneath the fast-scudding cloud, Gavril caught a shimmer of fresh snow on the peaks.

He unhooked the catch. Opening one window, he felt the fresh air cold on his face, faintly tinged with the aromatic fragrance of oozing pine sap.

No way of escape here; there was a sheer drop of twenty feet or more to the yard below. Stories of prisoners knotting sheets together to improvise a way of escape came to mind. He might reach the ground, but at the entrance of the courtyard he could see guards patrolling the walls; he would never get past his own bodyguard.

There came a sharp rap at the door.

"Lord Gavril? Are you awake?" Bogatyr Kostya's voice was powerful enough to carry across a parade ground. Gavril hastily closed the window.

A key turned in the lock and servants came in, bowing and murmuring greetings, one bearing a bowl of hot water, another a tray of food.

"Lord Volkh always took his first meal here," Kostya said, "while we discussed the day's arrangements."

Gavril looked at the breakfast tray: a bowl of a thick porridge; a pewter mug filled with strong spiced ale; and a hunk of coarse bread with a slice of hard-rinded, pungent yellow cheese. Soldiers' rations. He was used to croissants and a bowl of hot chocolate, with maybe a fresh apricot or two picked from the espaliered trees in the villa gardens. His stomach had still not recovered from the unfamiliar food last night. He turned away from the tray.

"I sent word to Azhgorod of your arrival last night," said Kostya. "The lawyers are on their way here for the reading of your father's will. As soon as you are ready, my lord, you must authorize the reopening of the Great Hall."

The walls leading to the Great Hall were lined with hunting tapestries. Gavril saw scene after gory scene of blood and slaughter: the lolling heads of butchered stags, bears, and wolves filled each stitched canvas.

Kostya halted before a pillared doorway. The way was barred with planks of wood nailed across the doors. Two of the druzhina druzhina stood on guard outside. stood on guard outside.

"Open the doors," said Kostya.

The warriors glanced at each other-the first time Gavril had seen any of the druzhina druzhina hesitate to execute a command-then took their axes to the planks, levering and hacking until, with a splintering crack, the wood came away and the doors swung open. hesitate to execute a command-then took their axes to the planks, levering and hacking until, with a splintering crack, the wood came away and the doors swung open.

"Now the shutters," Kostya said.

Gavril watched with a growing sense of unease. That queasy feeling of dread had returned, like a cold, sick fever. He did not want to cross the threshold. He wanted to turn and run, to find the crisp brightness of the autumn day outside.

"Come, my lord," Kostya said, ushering him over the threshold.

No torches lit the Great Hall, guttering their smoke into the shadows. But beneath his feet Gavril saw the same black and ocher patterned tiles which, in his vision, had been slimed with blood.

He was standing only a few feet from where his father had lain dying.

If he closed his eyes, he could see again the flash of spangled light that seared the eyes, could smell again the reek of burning flesh, could feel the dying man's last, agonized gasps as his consciousness faded. . . .

"Remember."

He opened his eyes. Etched against the daylight a figure of shadow wavered, tall, broad-shouldered.

The air breathed cold as winter fog; there was an unpleasant, moldering taint to it, like decaying leaves and chill earth.

"Gavril."

"Father?" Gavril whispered.

"My son." The revenant's voice shuddered through him, each word a sliver of ice. Then the revenant suddenly crumpled to the floor, a figure sprawled in the ungainly attitude of death, dark blood leaking like ink onto the tiles from the slack mouth. The revenant's voice shuddered through him, each word a sliver of ice. Then the revenant suddenly crumpled to the floor, a figure sprawled in the ungainly attitude of death, dark blood leaking like ink onto the tiles from the slack mouth.

A second shadow came billowing like curling smoke from Lord Volkh's breast until it towered above Gavril, blotting out the daylight, the shadow of a great daemon-serpent, hooked wings outspread, darker than a thundercloud.

Sick and faint, Gavril felt himself swaying, falling. . . .

Strong hands gripped his shoulders, supporting him.

"Steady, lad," muttered Kostya's voice in his ear.

Gavril blinked. There's nothing there. Look. There's nothing there. Look. In the daylight, he could see that the tiles had been washed clean. But Kostya and the young guard who had let them in were staring at the same spot, transfixed. In the daylight, he could see that the tiles had been washed clean. But Kostya and the young guard who had let them in were staring at the same spot, transfixed.

"This is where he died, isn't it?" Gavril said shakily.

"Aquavit for Lord Gavril!" barked Kostya, recovering. "Hurry, Michailo!"

The young guard went running out, returning with a metal flask that Kostya thrust into Gavril's hands.

"Drink."

Gavril put the flask to his lips and took a mouthful. The aquavit burned his throat like fire. Cleansing fire. Coughing, eyes watering, he handed the flask back to Kostya, who took a long swig himself before passing it to the young guard who had brought it.

"This is bad, very bad," Kostya muttered. It was the first time Gavril had seen him disconcerted.

"You saw it too?"

"I saw what I saw. And you, Michailo?"

The young man started; beneath his sunburned cheeks, Gavril noticed that he had turned as pale as whey.

"I saw my lord Volkh as he was when he was alive. May the Blessed Sergius preserve me from such a sight again. The dead should not walk with the living."

"My father's ghost?" Gavril said softly. He did not believe in ghosts. But there had been something here in this room for which he could find no other name.

"Once a spirit-wraith has been called back into our world, it is very hard to persuade it to return," Kostya said.

"And who could have summoned it?" said Michailo.

"I aim to find out," Kostya said darkly.

Gavril's eyes kept returning to the distinctive patterns on the tiles, the black serpent, wings spread against the ocher background. How could he have dreamed all this so accurately? And the painted panels and beams, the wreathing carved friezes of ivy in which bright-beaked wooden birds nested?

Why? he silently asked his dead father. he silently asked his dead father. Why have you laid this burden on me? I didn't ask to be born your son. I didn't ask to be Lord of Azhkendir. Why must I inherit your feuds, your hatreds, your vendettas? Why have you laid this burden on me? I didn't ask to be born your son. I didn't ask to be Lord of Azhkendir. Why must I inherit your feuds, your hatreds, your vendettas?

The wall behind the dining table was hung with spiked oval shields, each one painted with the black and silver device Gavril had first seen darkening the barque's mainsail: the winged serpent. And beneath the shields hung a gold-framed portrait draped with black funeral cloths and crowned with dried sprigs of rosemary and rue. No flowers for a dead Clan Lord. Only his weapons, polished to lethal brilliance, laid reverently in tribute.

"Lift the cloth," Kostya said, gently pushing Gavril forward.

Gavril pulled the cloth to one side and, mouth dry with apprehension, gazed upward.

The portrait showed a man in the prime of life, dark-haired, dark-browed, gazing back at Gavril with eyes of the same brooding intense blue as his own. But there the resemblance ended: the Drakhaon's long, curling hair and beard were of a black so glossily dark the painter had picked out the little highlights in cobalt, an artist's trick Gavril had learned from Elysia. But this was not Elysia's work. Everything about this portrait of Lord Volkh Nagarian spoke of power and control: the proud gaze, the unyielding stance, the grim, firm-set mouth. The Drakhaon was somberly dressed in black; his only concession to ornament was a blue-stoned signet ring on his gloved left hand and the embroidered device of the winged serpent in silver and sapphire threads on the left sleeve of his jacket. On his head he wore a hat trimmed with sable fur. Behind him, the artist had detailed a wintry landscape: a snow-covered vista of forests and mountains stretching into infinity, implying that the Drakhaon's domains were too vast to portray.

"This is not the picture my mother painted," Gavril said, unable to take his eyes from the likeness. "What happened to her portrait?"

Kostya gave a little shrug. "In an attic, a cellar . . . There was a time when your father could not bear to have anything near him that reminded him of her."

"Are there no more recent portraits than this?"

Kostya did not reply. Gavril turned around and saw that the old man was evidently struggling to find an answer to his question.

"Well, Kostya?"

"Lord Volkh took a dislike to having his portrait painted."

"But why?" Gavril asked, puzzled. "Was there some reason? You said there was a war, a bitter clan war. Was he scarred in the fighting? Disfigured?"

"He was . . . not the same," Kostya said obliquely. "It . . . altered him."

"What do you mean?"

"My lord, there are many people waiting to meet you. There will be time in plenty to talk of your father later."

It was as blatant a change of subject as Gavril had heard since he arrived. Looking at the old warrior's face he saw that Kostya was not going to answer his question.

"Indeed, Kostya, you are right. I have been impatiently waiting to meet you, Lord Gavril."

A woman's voice, sweet as lavender honey, made Gavril start.

"Who gave permission for you you to be admitted?" Kostya said gruffly. to be admitted?" Kostya said gruffly.

All Gavril saw at first was green eyes, green as forest glades, and the sheen of glossy chestnut hair. Then the woman moved slowly toward him through the shaft of bright daylight and he saw that she was pregnant, heavily pregnant.

"Aren't you going to present me, Kostya?" the woman said, smiling.

Kostya cleared his throat.

"Lord Gavril, this is Madame Lilias Arbelian."

Gavril came down from the dais, his hand extended. To his surprise, Lilias dropped to one knee and instead of shaking his hand, kissed it, the pressure of her lips warm on his skin.

"Please. There's no need . . ." Embarrassed, Gavril leaned forward and raised her to her feet.

"So you're his son," Lilias said, gazing intently into his face. "Elysia's boy." Although she still smiled, Gavril saw that her bewitching green eyes had filled with tears. As she straightened up, he noticed she wore a black mourning ribbon about the pale porcelain column of her neck. Who was she, what was her place in the household? Gavril glanced at Kostya for help but Kostya had turned away, his back stiff with disdain.

"You-you have the advantage over me, madame," Gavril stammered.

"Oh, Kostya," said Lilias, her tone sweetly chiding, "did you forget to tell Lord Gavril about me? I was your father's mistress, Gavril."

"Whore," Kostya muttered through his moustache.

Gavril stared at her, tongue-tied. He should have known there would be other women in his father's life; who could expect a Clan Lord to stay celibate for so many years? If only Kostya had warned him.

"Your journey must have been tiring, Lord Gavril," Lilias said. "When I first came to Azhkendir from Mirom, the voyage took eight days. Such terrible storms! I was utterly exhausted-"

"Shouldn't you be resting?" Kostya interrupted.

"Such concern over my welfare! I'm touched, Bogatyr," said Lilias in her sweetly honeyed voice. "I merely came to invite Lord Gavril to take a dish of tea with me. I thought we should get to know each other better, my lord. There is so much to talk about."

"Thank you," Gavril said warily.

"Tomorrow afternoon, then? About four?"

"Four." Gavril heard himself accepting her invitation even though Kostya was frowning at him and shaking his head.

"I look forward to our meeting, my lord. I want to get to know all about you." Lilias gathered her full skirts and curtsied to him before turning to leave.

"So you've seen nothing unusual, Lilias?" Kostya said.

She stopped. "What should I have seen?"

"Lord Volkh."

Lilias' serene smile faded. "Don't play word games with me, Kostya. Say what you mean."

"My meaning is," Kostya said with some savagery, "that his ghost appeared here in this hall today. In the very place where he died. A foot or so from where you are standing."

Gavril saw Lilias delicately flick the hem of her gown away from the place which Kostya was pointing at.

"Why should that concern me?" She looked up at Kostya, staring at him as though challenging him to answer her question directly. "I don't believe in ghosts."

She turned away and went sweeping from the Great Hall.

Kostya muttered something under his breath.

"Kostya," Gavril said. "Why didn't you tell me? She's carrying my father's child, isn't she?"

Kostya muttered again, inaudibly.

"Kostya! Tell me the truth."

"The truth?" Kostya shook his battle-scarred head. "When it comes to my lady Lilias, no one knows the truth. But I ask you, Lord Gavril, does she look like a woman in mourning? Oh, she made a fine fuss the night of your father's murder, shrieking and wailing like a madwoman. But she'll put off her mourning clothes soon enough."