"Your Drakhaoul is indeed gone. But you are not entirely free, are you, Gavril Nagarian? It has left you a legacy of memories, spanning many human lifetimes . . . and maybe more, besides."

"More?" Gavril felt a tremor of unease, even though the Magus's diagnosis was ambiguously phrased.

"I cannot tell." Linnaius's pale eyes seemed to grow more translucent as Gavril gazed at him. Silver eyes-seer's eyes-probing deep beneath the surface of the everyday world. Time slowed as he found himself unable to look away.

Dazzled, Gavril blinked.

And found he was alone in the cell. Alone-and filled with the anguish of bitterly remembered loss.

Why had Linnaius committed this cruel act? What had he wanted him to remember? And how would he use it against him-and all he held dear?

CHAPTER 12.

"What do you make of these, highness?" Linnaius gestured to a sheaf of watercolors that spilled out from an open portfolio, their imagery dark-drenched with blood and shadows. "They are all the work of Gavril Nagarian."

Eugene lifted sheet after sheet from the desk. His eyes ached from looking at the vivid swirls of violent color as he tried to make some sense of the chaotic images of nightmare and madness.

"So this is what Drakhaoul-possession does to a man's mind," he murmured. Snakes coiled and writhed around a tall archway; glittering daemon-eyes glowered from the smoke-wreathed cone of an erupting volcano. "The incoherent daubings of a madman." He cast them down on the desk. "There's nothing of use to us here, Linnaius."

"On the contrary." Linnaius drifted closer to the Emperor and, with one spindle finger, began to outline certain images. "We see here an island-or isthmus-dominated by a single volcano. This crescent-shaped group of stars in the sky looks more than a little like the constellation we call the Sickle in Francia. And look, highness, at this gateway. It stands within an ancient temple, a portal enwreathed in winged serpents, daemons or minor gods. One crowned serpent dominates the gate and in its eye socket burns a sacred flame, red as volcanic fire."

"You think these images are clues to the daemon's origins?"

The Magus raised one gossamer eyebrow. "I am certain that Gavril Nagarian knows more than he has revealed in these paintings. He resisted my attempt to probe his mind with considerable force."

Eugene picked up the watercolor and stared at it, tilting it from side to side, trying to make better sense of it.

"Then if he will not talk to us . . . he might open his heart to a friend?"

"There was one I glimpsed close to his heart-before he countered my intrusion. A young woman in Azhkendir. The name I caught was 'Kiukiu.' "

"Kiukiu? That's a woman's name?"

"Azhkendi names can sound crude to more refined sensibilities," said Linnaius fastidiously.

"Let's contact the garrison commander in Azhkendir by Vox Aethyria and see if he can find anyone of that name."

Linnaius was looking at him, his pale eyes veiled. Eugene sighed.

"You disapprove of my plan."

"I merely ask your imperial highness to consider what your true motives are."

"You know-" Eugene checked himself, unwilling to speak his darkest obsession aloud. "You know my wishes on that subject."

"And you know my advice, highness."

"But if it is true that the Drakhaoul can heal its host . . . Look at me, Linnaius." Eugene gestured with his burned hand to his damaged face. "Is it any wonder Astasia still shrinks from me?"

"Highness," Linnaius said, the slightest glimmer of a smile illuminating his pale eyes, "we both know that it is not only the Drakhaoul's healing powers you desire."

Now that Linnaius had called his bluff, Eugene felt a certain relief. He could speak freely.

"How can I keep the empire together if others wield greater power?"

A frown passed as fleetingly as a distant cloud across the Magus's face.

"Ask yourself, highness. If the Drakhaoul's power is so great, why are the Nagarians not rulers of the world?"

It was a question that had kept Eugene awake at nights. "Unnatural lusts and desires . . ." "Unnatural lusts and desires . . ." Gavril Nagarian had said. Gavril Nagarian had said.

"There is always a price to be paid," the Magus said, as if reading his thoughts.

Kaspar Linnaius threw a veil of concealing shadowsilk over his sky craft. He had deflated the canvas balloon sail, wrapped it up, and placed it in the wooden hull. No one would notice it now in the shadowy forest glade; a passing monk or charcoal-burner would see nothing but the lichened trunks of the great firs of Kerjhenezh.

He set out to walk the last quarter-mile to the monastery. His progress was slow; today he felt the damp of spring rain in his bones. He would need to concoct another phial of the life-preserving elixir that sustained him.

At last the whitewashed walls of the Monastery of Saint Sergius could be glimpsed ahead through the trees.

He passed fishponds, murkily green and still, and then came to an orchard of apple trees, their branches covered with a snowfall of blossoms. At the far end of the orchard he could see bee skeps tended by an elderly monk.

"Good-day to you, Brother Beekeeper. Where can I find the abbot?"

The white-bearded monk replaced the lid on the skep and straightened slowly.

So the damp is affecting your old bones too, Brother, Linnaius thought. Linnaius thought. I'd offer you a draught of my elixir-but if you knew what went into its preparation, you'd be sure to refuse. I'd offer you a draught of my elixir-but if you knew what went into its preparation, you'd be sure to refuse.

"He's in his study; I'll take you to him. . . ."

"You'll understand, Magister Linnaius," said Abbot Yephimy, "that the brothers and I permit only the most devout and learned of scholars access to our precious archive." He gazed severely at Linnaius, who sensed he was being assessed and found wanting. "But since you come on the Emperor's business, I cannot deny you. Though I must insist you wear these archivist's gloves at all times when you handle the ancient parchments."

"Thank you, Abbot." Linnaius took the thin, white silk gloves and eased them onto his gnarled fingers. "The Emperor was confident that you would help in our researches."

"Please follow me."

Yephimy led Linnaius into the monastery library. It had a deep barrel-vaulted roof, with a gallery beneath lined with bound volumes. On the ground floor several of the monks were busy copying manuscripts, sitting at high, sloping desks surrounded by pots of ink and pens. Each desk was placed in a window embrasure to take advantage of the natural light of day, which was filtered by diamond-paned glass. Some of the copyists glanced up as they walked quietly past, and nodded to the abbot. The only sound was the scratching of nibs and the occasional dry cough.

At the farthest end of the library was a little nail-studded door; unlocking it, the abbot showed Linnaius into a room so small it was scarcely bigger than a monk's cell. No windows let in the daylight here; Yephimy used a taper to light the lanterns.

Every book on the dark-stained shelves was chained. And every book was an ancient volume, the leather bindings faded and stained. Yephimy selected one bound in dark leather, red as dried blood, and laid it on the desk with a clinking of the chain that secured it.

"I think this is what you're looking for, Magus," he said. "I believe this volume is unique. The only surviving copy, and we hold it here at Saint Sergius."

Linnaius waited until the abbot had withdrawn and closed the door before lifting his white-gloved hands to the precious book.

This hand-scribed copy of the Rossiyan Chronicles, entitled The Glorious Life and Martyr's Death of the Blessed Serzhei of Kerjhenezh The Glorious Life and Martyr's Death of the Blessed Serzhei of Kerjhenezh was quite unlike any of the others he had researched so far. For one, it was written in the obscure Old Church Azhkendi, not the common tongue, and it would take all his considerable philological skills to make sense of the ancient language: was quite unlike any of the others he had researched so far. For one, it was written in the obscure Old Church Azhkendi, not the common tongue, and it would take all his considerable philological skills to make sense of the ancient language: And so it came to pass in the eleventh year of the glorious reign of Artamon the Great that Volkhar, the fifth and youngest son of the Emperor, was shipwrecked off the southern coast of Djihan-Djihar and thought to have drowned. The Emperor and all his court mourned the young prince for three months, and none were seen to grieve more than his elder brothers-although it had been whispered by malicious tongues that, being jealous of Artamon's fondness for Volkhar, they had caused his ship to founder.But a year almost to the day that the prince's ship went down, a merchantman put into port at Mirom and among its passengers was none other than Prince Volkhar. The Great Artamon ordered a week of celebrations to be held throughout his empire in honor of the prince's return. And he was even more delighted when Volkhar presented his father with a magnificent ruby as large as a goose egg, which he had discovered during his travels.The Emperor showered the young prince with so many favors that his brothers looked on him with suspicion, fearing he would supplant them in their father's affections.Such was the envy of the older princes that they fell to bitter feuding among themselves. In his despair and fury, Emperor Artamon declared the ruby must be accursed and bade Prince Volkhar return it whence he had found it.The prince set out to do his father's bidding. But his jealous brothers waylaid him and took the stone from him by force . . .

Linnaius read on, turning the leathery pages with care. Thus far he had not seen any great variation from the other versions of the Rossiyan Chronicles he had consulted. The warlike exploits of Artamon were enumerated. The violent feuding between the princes was described in stilted archaic terms. And then the text reverted to the life of Saint Sergius, which the title had promised. After pages of pious deeds, Linnaius began to wonder if this manuscript would offer any new insights after all.

Then the history of Archimandrite Sergius seemed to leap forward suddenly: And so the Blessed Serzhei wrestled with the daemons all that night and day. At last, feeling his strength waning, he called in his mortal agony upon the heavenly warriors whose names must not be uttered except by the pure of heart. whose names must not be uttered except by the pure of heart. Armed with the might of the Righteous Ones, Serzhei banished the daemons from Rossiya, and bound them in a place of torment for all eternity. Yet there was one who still defied him and all the hosts of heaven. Armed with the might of the Righteous Ones, Serzhei banished the daemons from Rossiya, and bound them in a place of torment for all eternity. Yet there was one who still defied him and all the hosts of heaven.

Linnaius leaned closer. "Ah," he said softly. "Just as I suspected."

A secret text had been hidden behind the intricately hand-scribed words. He was well-practiced in prizing ancient scholars' secrets from arcane manuscripts, but it gave him a special satisfaction to unravel this one, which had been so cunningly concealed.

Some hidden texts could only be read by moonlight, others were revealed by a sudden shaft of lightning. Others still required the concocting of alchymical solutions that, when applied with the greatest care to the vellum, would force them to disclose their secrets-although one had to be careful that they did not also release a breath of lethal poison at the same time, to ensure that their innermost treasures were never revealed.

Yet this incunabulum was different. It was embedded within the words themselves, like a cypher. Linnaius had only to apply a sprinkling of mirror-dust (an old mages' trick) and the hidden text appeared, glimmering in the lamplight.

And as Linnaius leaned closer, he thought he heard a far-distant murmur of deep voices that sent a shiver through his body. It was a curse and a very powerful one too; centuries after it had been pronounced, the resonances still lingered, a warning to the unwary: "Seven. They were Seven, the Dark Angels of Destruction.

"Accursed be the barbarous priests of Ty Nagar who first summoned these dread warriors to do their bidding. And thrice accursed be the sons of Artamon who sought the powers of the Seven for their own selfish ends and brought down their father's mighty empire.

"And blessed be Serzhei of Kerjhenezh, who called upon the Heavenly Guardians to help defeat the evil ones. With his holy staff, he bound them until the very end of time.

"Accursed be he who seeks to release them from their eternal imprisonment."

But now, to Linnaius's surprise-and he had thought that nothing could surprise him still-what looked unmistakably like the contours of a map, glowed faintly beneath the text.

Little phosphorescent stars appeared as the map slowly revealed itself. And brighter than the rest glimmered six stars of cobalt-blue.

Linnaius, entranced by the sorcerous artistry of the device, realized that he was looking at a chart of the heavens.

He began to sketch furiously, trying to set down as accurately as he could the position of each star. But fast as he worked, the map faded faster, almost as if it had guessed his intent.

Soon, to his frustration, it vanished, hidden once again behind the chronicles of Serzhei's life. And even though he sprinkled more precious mirror-dust onto the manuscript, nothing happened.

He looked at his hasty sketch. The chart he had copied had been drawn centuries ago; there was little to suggest any familiar constellations. Except that the six blue stars looked remarkably similar to the Silver Sickle.

He leafed on through the manuscript, doubly wary now, in case it concealed some powerful ward to protect its contents. But there was no further hint of thaumaturgy until he came to the final page. Here a laconic motto concluded the life of the saint: Though death stills my earthly voice, through her songs will I tell my tale to those yet unborn.

The first letter of the motto was illuminated with the most exquisite draftsmanship. It showed a woman seated, playing a many-stringed zither. A dark doorway yawned behind her, and emanating from the doorway the illuminator had drawn insubstantial shapes, some with human faces and weirdly beautiful, others grotesque and frightening: death-daemons whose hollow eyes and mouths were contorted into writhing grimaces of pain and terror.

"A Spirit Singer," Linnaius murmured.

Kaspar Linnaius scudded on in his sky craft above the moorlands of Azhkendir. Where there had been nothing but the bleak whiteness of snow, he now saw a vivid blur of different greens; reeds and rushes hemmed the boggy pools, and great banks of gorse were about to burst into fountains of yellow blooms.

All the moor beneath him was fresh green until he spotted the dark scar of the burned escarpment, the charred bank of earth where hundreds of Tielen soldiers had perished, incinerated by Drakhaon's Fire. Even if he had not known that this was the place of such terrible carnage, he would have sensed the grim aura emanating from it, the lingering taint of daemonic breath. Nothing would grow there for years.

Circling lower, he identified the pale blue and grey of the many New Rossiyan flags fluttering from the towers of Kastel Drakhaon and caught the sound of picks and shovels.

"Ahh," muttered Linnaius. "Lindgren's mine."

Captain Nils Lindgren had written to the Emperor, sending samples of minerals and salts he had discovered while exploring the Drakhaon's confiscated estates. The Emperor had passed the samples to his Royal Artificier for analysis, and Linnaius had been pleased to report the results of his findings: Azhkendir was rich in untapped mineral resources. The Emperor had then given the order to open up mines to exploit this new discovery to the fullest.

Far below, men were excavating, digging a tunnel deep into the hillside. A cart appeared, laden with stones and earth. Workers heaved on ropes, putting all their strength to shifting the cart. Even from this height he could see that their ankles and wrists were shackled together. Armed Tielen soldiers stood around, directing the work. These prisoners, he guessed, must be the surviving members of Gavril Nagarian's bodyguard, the barbarous druzhina, druzhina, condemned to hard labor for their part in the recent troubles. condemned to hard labor for their part in the recent troubles.

The wind carrying his craft whined and squalled above the earthworks. One of the druzhina druzhina glanced up, eyes squinting against the light. All he would have glimpsed was a cloud, scudding low across the sky. But Linnaius, reluctant to risk being seen, began a slow descent at the edge of the forest, beyond the mine-workings. glanced up, eyes squinting against the light. All he would have glimpsed was a cloud, scudding low across the sky. But Linnaius, reluctant to risk being seen, began a slow descent at the edge of the forest, beyond the mine-workings.

He concealed the craft in a shroud of shadowsilk, making sure it blended into the background of rough bark and damp moss. Then he followed a winding path down toward the kastel. It was not long before he was challenged by Tielen sentries. Lindgren had the grounds well-guarded, Linnaius reflected, as one of the soldiers led him to find the captain.

Nils Lindgren was in the Great Hall with one of his subordinates, correcting plans with rule and pencils. "Magus," he said, straightening up as Linnaius appeared, "you honor us." He laid down his tools and, clicking his heels together, saluted smartly. "Have you come to check on our progress?" He gestured to the plans laid out on the table. "As you can see, my engineers have been busy. This first seam is already yielding good results. We're going to blast a second tunnel later this week. I could give you a tour later, when you've rested from your journey. And I think you might be intrigued by these samples I've taken from the escarpment. They're unlike anything I've ever seen before." He held out a small stoppered phial containing a dark, crumbling substance that emitted a faint phosphorescent glow.

"Thank you," said Linnaius, giving the phial a cursory glance before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. "I'll submit the contents to a full alchymical analysis." The young man's eagerness to develop the mining project showed in his eyes and the healthy, wind-burned glow of his complexion. And these resources could certainly be used to increase the new empire's military resources. "But that is not the prime reason for my visit. I've come to ask you if there is a certain young Azhkendi woman working in the kastel. She goes by the name of Kiukiu."

He saw a look of puzzlement cross Lindgren's face; the young captain had evidently not yet learned to conceal his feelings very successfully.

"I would like to speak with this young woman alone, you understand?"

Lindgren found his tongue. "But she's a scullery maid, just a peasant girl-"

"She is the one," Linnaius insisted calmly. "Bring her to me."

CHAPTER 13.

"If I never see another turnip again, it'll be too soon," sighed Ninusha, scraping away one by one at an earthy pile of root vegetables.

"What rubbish you talk sometimes, Ninny." Ilsi flounced past and slammed down a pile of greasy pots in front of Kiukiu without a word. " 'Never see another turnip again,' " " 'Never see another turnip again,' " she mimicked in a singsong voice. "You should listen to yourself!" she mimicked in a singsong voice. "You should listen to yourself!"

"Look at my hands. My nails are always chipped and dirty. Why can't those Tielens give us some decent food to cook?"

Kiukiu glanced at her hands as she plunged the pots into the water. Her nails, so carefully hardened for playing the gusly, had become soft with all this washing and scrubbing.

"You're lucky there's any food to eat at all," came Sosia's reply from the pantry. "If it weren't for the Tielens bringing their army supplies, we'd have starved by now."

"But Tielen army rations-" Ninusha pulled a face. "Pigs eat better."

"Not Kastel Drakhaon pigs." Sosia came out and pulled up a handful of peelings from the floor and examined them critically. "You're wasting too much, Ninusha. Cut finer, girl."

"I am-ow!" Ninusha dropped the knife and sucked her finger. "Now see what you've made me do, Sosia. I'm bleeding!"