Astasia hurried into her dressing room and locked the door behind her. She stood, back pressed up against the door, angrily sniffing away tears. She poured cold water into a bowl and splashed her face, dabbing at her reddened eyes with the corner of a dampened handkerchief.

What's the matter with me? Why do I cry at every little slight, every insignificant upset? I knew this was not going to be easy.

She untied her cloak and sat down at her dressing table.

Eugene had not come after her. But what had she expected? He probably thought she was being petty and childish, and he had far weightier matters on his mind. Why should he notice if his wife's feelings were wounded?

Besides, it was not so surprising that Marta had acted coldly toward her. Hadn't she cared for Karila since her mother died? And she suspected Marta had never forgiven her for sneaking Karila out of the palace on that illicit sleigh ride- Marta's protective feelings toward Karila were understandable. But Eugene's reaction- Astasia's fingers strayed to a pot of sugared almonds: vanilla, rose, and violet. She selected one and popped it in her mouth.

When the news of Karila's collapse had come, Eugene had abandoned everything. They had traveled day and night to reach Swanholm as fast as possible.

At least he cares for someone. She looked up and caught the shadow of a wry grimace in her reflection. She looked up and caught the shadow of a wry grimace in her reflection.

"Yes. He cares for her her daughter," she whispered. daughter," she whispered.

The flower-perfumed sugar coating the almond, usually her favorite sweet, tasted odd. Sickly. She spat the almond out into her palm.

A horrible thought entered her mind. Suppose someone was trying to poison her?

"No, no . . . I mustn't think this way. I'm just tired after all the traveling." Why would anyone hate her so viciously as to want her dead?

Drakhaoul's child? Eugene hurried toward Linnaius's laboratory, not even seeing the salutes of the guards he passed at each doorway. His thoughts were in ferment. Was she just in the grip of a vivid fever dream? Or was she still linked in some inexplicable way with the Drakhaoul? Eugene hurried toward Linnaius's laboratory, not even seeing the salutes of the guards he passed at each doorway. His thoughts were in ferment. Was she just in the grip of a vivid fever dream? Or was she still linked in some inexplicable way with the Drakhaoul?

"Oh Kari, Kari," he muttered as he crossed the outer courtyard. "What did you mean?"

As he approached the Magus's apartments, the lanternflames suddenly glowed with an intense brightness and the outer door swung slowly open to admit him.

A large telescope was positioned at an open casement window. On the desk, star charts had been unrolled: maps of the heavens, with the constellations marked out in silver and gold on a background of rich cobalt-blue.

"Welcome home, imperial highness." The Magus appeared from behind the telescope.

"Gavril Nagarian swore to me that the Drakhaoul was dead!" Eugene cried.

The Magus nodded.

"And Director Baltzar reported that Gavril Nagarian was killed in a freak storm that struck the Iron Tower last week. So how is it that our fleet has been destroyed by something that-judging by the reports-is the Drakhaoul? What's happening, Linnaius?"

Linnaius gazed at him, his expression disquietingly calm.

"Has Baltzar furnished you with any physical proof that Gavril Nagarian is dead? Surely there must have been some fragments of charred flesh, bone . . ."

Eugene leaned over the star charts toward Linnaius. "You said the Drakhaoul could not survive without a human host."

"I still know too little about this aethyric daemon that calls itself Drakhaoul. Karila said it was dying when it passed over Swanholm. I can only conjecture that it may have bonded with a new host."

Did Linnaius not understand what was at stake here? The pride of his navy had been destroyed. He felt the defeat as acutely as if a limb had been blown off in battle.

"And if my Southern Fleet had not been decimated, I could have let matters rest. But hundreds of men-good men-have died in Smarna. It has to be the Drakhaoul. Karila said so herself, tonight."

The Magus looked at him, all attention now. "What precisely did she say?"

"She said it called to her. It called her its-" he stumbled over the word, not knowing until then how much it had disturbed him, "its child. What in God's name does she mean? My own daughter!"

"So she is still in communication with it?" The Magus stroked his chin with spindle fingers. "Then who better to tell us who is behind this Smarnan business? Let me search her mind-"

"She has a high fever!" This plan had already occurred to Eugene and he had dismissed it. He could still feel Karila's hand clinging trustingly to his; it would be unpardonable to force a sick child to use her nascent powers while she was so weak. "There must be another way to determine if Gavril Nagarian is dead."

"Then there is no alternative but to look in the Ways Beyond," said Linnaius.

Chiefs of staff were waiting for Eugene in the Walnut Anteroom. Spread out on the desk was a detailed map of the continent. An old map, Eugene noted wryly, showing each country in a different color: Tielen pale blue, Muscobar mustard yellow, and Smarna, rebellious Smarna, in an inappropriately innocuous shade of rose pink.

Little lead models of battle tents and ships marked the positions of the New Rossiyan armies and fleets deployed around the empire. Colonel Soderham, a silver-haired veteran who had lost a leg in Prince Karl's Francian campaigns, was moving the models about the map.

"What are these forces here?" Eugene pointed to two model tents close to the border between Smarna and Muscobar. One was painted with the Tielen swan, the other with Muscobar's two-headed sea eagle.

"That's General Froding's Light Infantry, imperial highness," said Soderham.

"Froding?" Eugene looked puzzled. "What's he doing in Muscobar? I thought he was supposed to be down in Southern Tielen on maneuvers."

"Ah, but if you recall, highness, Colonel Roskovski asked if we might hold a joint exercise on Muscobar territory. To get the men used to working together."

Eugene remembered Roskovski's reputation rather too well; when the Tielen army invaded Mirom, the irascible Muscobar commander had put up a disastrously ill-planned defense. He suspected that a man of Roskovski's arrogance would not listen to advice, even from the experienced and genial Froding.

"Pull Froding's men out of there. Leave Roskovski guarding the border, if he must, but send one of our dragoon regiments garrisoned in Mirom to keep an eye on him."

"Straightaway, highness." Soderham saluted and murmured to one of his adjutants, who immediately sped off.

"And Froding?" Soderham asked, leaning over the map, ready to move the Tielen tent on Eugene's command.

It was time to test his theory. If he had learned one thing about Gavril Nagarian in their last conflict, it was that his instincts to defend his people would override any concerns about his own safety.

"Let's give the Smarnans something to keep them busy. Little forays and retreats-take a town here, a village there." Eugene felt a sudden yearning to be back in the field with his men. He relished this kind of cat-and-mouse strategy, keeping the enemy guessing where he would strike next. "Tell Froding to split his men up into raiding parties. And keep them on the move."

Astasia was still staring at the bowl of sugared almonds when there came a discreet tap at the the door. She hastily dried her eyes.

"Come in."

A Tielen lady-in-waiting appeared. She had the translucent complexion and ice-blond hair of those born in the far north, and her eyes were of the palest grey-blue.

"Where is Nadezhda?" Astasia asked, surprised not to see her own maid.

"His imperial highness has asked me to attend to you while you are at Swanholm," answered the woman. "I have assigned Nadezhda tasks more appropriate to a lady's maid." Even though her manner was polite, there was a frostiness about her that did not endear her to Astasia in the least.

It would have been considerate to have consulted me about this first, Eugene, thought Astasia, as the tears threatened to flow again. thought Astasia, as the tears threatened to flow again.

"And your name?" She tried to stop her voice from wobbling.

"Countess Lovisa. I am cousin to his imperial highness on his late father's side." Her tone of voice grew frostier still. "I was presented to you at the coronation."

"Of-of course." But there had been so many Tielen courtiers presented to her that day, she could not possibly be expected to remember them all!

"I've come to tell you that the musicians from Francia have arrived, highness."

"Musicians?" Karila's sudden illness had completely put the musicians from Astasia's mind. She had, in a moment of presumptuousness, it now seemed, taken it upon herself to invite them to Swanholm to perform for Kari's birthday. She had been planning to tell Eugene of her little surprise, and now events had overtaken her.

"Where are they to be accommodated?"

"Accommodated?" She blinked her tears away, determined not to show any weakness in front of the countess. "Surely the lodging of our visitors is not my responsibility."

"Indeed, no. But for Fredrik, our majordomo, to make appropriate arrangements, it is essential for him to know who is expected and when."

Now her abilities to manage a great house were being openly criticized!

"And Demoiselle de Joyeuse asks if she might be granted a few moments of your time to discuss which of the various programs they have prepared you think would be most suitable." Countess Lovisa handed her a paper sealed with an ivory ribbon.

Astasia opened the paper and saw not the expected list of songs, but a brief message: If your imperial highness could vouchsafe me a minute or two in private, I have some news of personal significance to impart.

Astasia closed the letter before the countess could steal a glance at it.

"Have her shown to the Music Room, please. I will meet her there in a few minutes."

News? Astasia felt a sudden conspiratorial thrill. She went into her dressing room and dabbed cold water on her lids to try to disguise the signs that she had been weeping.

Celestine de Joyeuse was standing at the window in the Music Room, one hand resting on the exquisite marquetry of the fortepiano lid, gazing out at the park beyond. On seeing Astasia, she sank into a deep curtsy.

"What a charming room. If the acoustics are as pleasing as the decorations, this should prove a delightful musical experience."

"Please rise, demoiselle," Astasia said, smiling.

"I am so sorry to hear of your stepdaughter's indisposition, highness. Would you prefer to postpone the recital?"

Astasia was only too aware that Countess Lovisa was still hovering behind her.

"You can leave us now, countess," she said pointedly.

The countess bowed and slowly withdrew.

Astasia waited until she heard the double doors click shut. Then she hurried over to the fortepiano.

"You said you had something to impart to me," she said, keeping her voice low. "Something of personal significance."

The singer nodded her head. "Great personal significance."

"So what is it, Demoiselle de Joyeuse?" Astasia felt even more uneasy now.

Celestine looked at her from clear, cool blue eyes. "Is there nowhere more private?"

Astasia looked back at her uncertainly. Never allow yourself to be alone with anyone, no matter how well you think you know them. Never allow yourself to be alone with anyone, no matter how well you think you know them. Eugene had warned her. Eugene had warned her. There are some fanatical individuals who would not hesitate to harm you or Karila if they thought it would influence me. There are some fanatical individuals who would not hesitate to harm you or Karila if they thought it would influence me.

Celestine seemed to notice her hesitation. "And you are right to be wary. You have no reason to trust me, Empress. For all you know, I could be an assassin sent by the Francian court to seek revenge on the House of Tielen for past defeats." She gave Astasia a radiant smile. "But I assure you, when you hear the news I bring, you will feel quite differently toward me. That, at least, is my hope."

Celestine's angelic blue gaze promised startling revelations. And Astasia found herself desperate to know what Celestine had to tell her.

"I have little skill at the keyboard," she confessed, "but if I were to attempt to accompany you, perhaps you could tell me the news you bring between verses?"

Celestine shot her a shrewd little look. "An ingenious idea." She lifted a book of songs from the top of the fortepiano and began to leaf through the pages. "Do you know 'The Waterfall'?"

Astasia settled herself on the seat and took a look at the music. She pulled a wry face. "Too hard. All those running notes in the left-hand . . ."

"This one is just right. 'Summer Evenings.' A beautifully simple melody, a deceptively simple accompaniment. And in my native tongue, which is not so familiar to the Tielens, I believe," she added with a mischievous little smile.

"I've never played this one before," Astasia stared at the notes, biting her lower lip in concentration, "so not too fast, demoiselle, I beg you."

"Don't forget the key signature," whispered the singer after her first attempt faltered on a clumsy dissonance.

Astasia felt herself blushing. "I wish I'd devoted more time to practicing my sight-reading," she said, ashamed. This time, the opening phrase flowed more smoothly and Celestine began to sing.

"In summer . . . when the swallows swoop overhead . . ."

At first Astasia could only think about placing her fingers correctly on the keys. And then she thought with a sudden thrill: I'm making music with this gloriously gifted singer! I'm making music with this gloriously gifted singer!

"Empress," sang Celestine, "your brother is alive."

Astasia's fingers stumbled. She stopped playing. She stared at Celestine. "Andrei-alive?"

"Shall we keep the song going?" suggested Celestine gently.

Astasia tried to focus on the notes in front of her, but all she could see was a blur. Wrong notes and slips proliferated. Andrei is alive. Andrei is alive. Her fingers skittered wildly over the keys until, in an agony of excitement, she played a crashing chord and sprang up from the keyboard. Her fingers skittered wildly over the keys until, in an agony of excitement, she played a crashing chord and sprang up from the keyboard.

"Where is he? In Francia?" She could not hold the questions back any longer. "How is he? And how do you know?"

"He is in remarkably good health, all things considered," Celestine said. Her expression was serious now. "He lost his memory after his ship went down."

"He was badly hurt?" Astasia could not keep the distress from her voice. Even though she was Empress now and knew she must act with composure, this was her brother they were discussing, her brother whose death had made her cry herself to sleep night after night. "Tell me the truth!"

"We rescued a man from the wreck of a fishing boat. It was your brother. It seems that he was washed ashore nearly dead, and was nursed back to health by an old fisherman. The old man had no idea who he was, and renamed him Tikhon."

"My poor Andrei." Astasia felt sick and cold. Andrei, barely alive, clinging to life on some desolate wintry shore. "He must think we abandoned him." The thought was almost too hard to bear. "I must see him. Where is he?"

Celestine did not speak straightaway. She gazed earnestly into Astasia's face.