He stood up and paced the council chamber a couple of times, stopping to stare up at the starry night sky through one of the jagged holes in the roof.

He could hear the sound of drunken singing drifting up from the taverns outside. The Smarnans were celebrating their victory. Celebrating far too soon. He knew all too well what the Emperor's response would be. Eugene's troops would be back. And when they least expected them.

He rubbed his tired eyes, blinking to try to keep them open.

"Well, Pavel Velemir?"

He turned around, startled, to see Nina Vashteli. The minister was dressed in a gown of dark green brocade and she wore emerald feathers in her neatly arranged hair; she must have been out to dinner.

"No answer from Tielen, Minister," he said with a regretful smile.

"You didn't expect one, did you?" she said, peeling off her long satin gloves, finger by finger.

"Frankly, no."

"Neither did I. Tell me, Pavel, does your device send messages to places other than Tielen?"

"Not yet, Madame Minister."

"A pity. It would be useful to communicate directly with our allies. We will just have to rely on more traditional methods."

"Allies?" Pavel, tired as he was, remembered the direct threat she had made to Eugene. Had the council already summoned help from overseas? It might not be so easy to find out who had secretly allied themselves with Smarna without giving himself away.

"How long do you think we can hold out against Eugene's troops? Tell me truthfully." Her dark eyes fixed on his; he felt uncomfortable, as if he were being tested.

"If he attacks by land and sea? It would depend on how close his forces are to the border. He overran Azhkendir in a matter of days."

The strains of singing came swelling up from outside again; to Pavel's ears it sounded much like a rousing marching song.

She sighed. "How can I convince these hotheads to be patient, to wait for support? Their blood is up. I hope to God that our request for assistance will get through before Eugene's armies come marching across the mountains."

It is a dream and yet not a dream. Gavril slowly rises through layers of sleep to find himself enmeshed in a dark cloud shot through with jewel-bright lights that shiver through him like little lightning bolts. It is as if he has been drawn deep into the daemon's consciousness.

"Can I trust you?" whispers the Drakhaoul. whispers the Drakhaoul. "Can I really trust you, Gavril Nagarian?" "Can I really trust you, Gavril Nagarian?" Every emotion is a shimmer of vivid color. For now Gavril can feel the daemon's doubt and desire, a deep desire for something long unobtainable; the colors flicker from a pale, uncertain violet to a deep, rich crimson. Every emotion is a shimmer of vivid color. For now Gavril can feel the daemon's doubt and desire, a deep desire for something long unobtainable; the colors flicker from a pale, uncertain violet to a deep, rich crimson.

"You talk of trust. Yet you told me you would die if we were separated. I believed you dead, Drakhaoul; so why are you still alive?"

Another shimmer of colors, changing from the dark thunder blue of anger to softer, more conciliatory hues.

"I found another who needed me."

"You took another host? I thought you could only meld with those of Nagarian blood." Had the daemon not been entirely truthful with him?

"This one also has the blood of Artamon's sons in his veins. But then I heard you calling to me. Your need was greater. And so I returned to you."

"Did this new fusion not work so well, then?" Gavril is curious, wondering who this other host, this far-distant blood relative might be.

"You had to want me to be part of you once more, Gavril."

"And I would have died if you had not come when you did." He cannot hide the truth from the Drakhaoul: He feels more grateful for his life and his freedom than mere words can express.

"There is a journey I must undertake. But I cannot do it without your help. And you are not strong enough yet . . ."

"A journey? Where do you want to go?"

When it speaks again, its voice is deep-hued with longing. "I want to find a way home." "I want to find a way home."

Gavril wandered around his room, picking up his possessions and putting them down again. Here were his poetry books and the abstruse volumes of philosophy Lukan had given him when he was a student. And here were his paints and pastels, all neatly tidied away. Next to them lay his brushes, from the slender squirrel hair he used for picking out the finest details to the big, rough-bristled ones used for applying large quantities of oil paint for the background of a portrait. Each brush had been carefully cleaned and wrapped in cloth. Elysia had obviously been busy since she returned from Azhkendir.

Azhkendir. He sat down on the bed. All this time he had been so obsessed with his own struggle to survive that he had put Azhkendir out of his mind. He had even chosen to revert to using his Smarnan name: Andar.

Soon he would have to face his responsibilities. But it was one thing to help liberate Smarna, and quite another to try to put things to rights in Azhkendir. Would his druzhina druzhina even want him back? In their eyes, he had betrayed their trust. He had denied them the chance to die gloriously, defending their lord. even want him back? In their eyes, he had betrayed their trust. He had denied them the chance to die gloriously, defending their lord.

He needed time to come to terms with what had been done to him. Healing time. He knew that somewhere, deep inside, he was still damaged. The Drakhaoul had mended the wounds inflicted by Director Baltzar-had even miraculously repaired most of the botched surgery done to his brain. But he still felt wrong wrong.

His easel stood in a corner, an empty canvas propped on it, already prepared for use. He walked past it a number of times. The blank canvas mocked him. Could he still paint? Or had Baltzar's scalpel destroyed his gift?

"Gavril!"

He heard Elysia calling his name from the hall. Reluctantly, he opened his bedroom door.

"Minister Vashteli is here to see you."

"Palmyre has just made some barley water . . ."

"Nothing for me, thank you, Elysia," Nina Vashteli said as Gavril entered the salon. She looked directly at him. "There have been reports coming in since yesterday of large numbers of dead fish washed up on the shore. Dead gulls too."

He saw Elysia's hands tremble violently, spilling the barley water she had been pouring for herself.

"Can you explain this, Gavril Andar?"

He could remember little of the attack now, save the utter exhilaration as the power tore from his body in one terrifying burst of brilliant light. There had been smoke afterward . . . yet as far as he could recall, the sea breeze had gusted it away from land, toward the Tielen fleet and beyond.

"Gavril?" said Elysia. He could hear consternation in her voice. He had not thought of the damage it could do to the very people he was trying to save. And no one in Smarna, except Elysia, was protected against the deadly aftereffects of Drakhaon's Fire.

"Well?" Nina Vashteli said, her voice stern. "Is this your doing? Is this anything to do with the weapon you used to defeat the Tielens?"

For a moment Gavril could only stand there dumbly, his mind whirling with unspeakable possibilities.

"Gavril?" said Elysia again, more gently this time.

"The beach could be polluted," he said at last. "Let no one go there until I can be sure it is safe."

"Polluted with what, precisely?"

"Minister." Gavril moved closer to her. "Have there been any reports of sickness among those who were on the citadel ramparts yesterday?"

Nina Vashteli gave him a searching look. But all she said was, "I take it you have seen these aftereffects before?"

Gavril lowered his eyes.

"And I also take it that you know how to treat them?"

How could he reply to that? The only protection against Drakhaon's Fire that he knew of was the ritual bloodbond. Was it possible it could also work as a remedy?

"Well, Gavril Andar?"

"I might. But I can't guarantee it will work."

Gavril hurried out into the villa gardens and followed the winding path down to the beach. Now the soft scents of pink tamarisk and lilac were nothing but a torment, reminding him of what he had done. The last part of the path was rocky, overgrown by burgeoning weeds and mean-toothed brambles that caught and clawed at his legs as he ran. He reached the sands and stared out to sea, shading his eyes as he scanned for fishing boats in the bay. But even as he looked at the glittering blue water and the pale gold of the sands, another landscape kept superimposing itself: a stark, empty, grey desolation. The Arkhel Waste in Azhkendir, blasted with Drakhaon's Fire by his father Volkh.

He set out across the damp sands, making toward the citadel. Here, not far from the path that led up to the Villa Orlova, was where he had swooped down on the Tielen troops and seared them all to oblivion in his fury. And in spite of the lapping tide that had risen and fallen several times since his attack, he could plainly see the ash clogging the sands, the residue of charred bone and melted metal, the last remains of Eugene's invasion force. The cinders would have washed into the bay, polluting the waters for miles around.

He sank slowly to his knees in the sand.

"Damn you, Eugene," he said, his voice choked with bitterness. "Look what you've driven me to now."

CHAPTER 25.

Eugene shut the door to his study and leaned his back against the paneled wood as if to keep the disorder that reigned outside from bursting in.

"Never again," he muttered. "Never again."

The corridors were filled with servants, all running to and fro in confusion. Hammering and sawing could be heard in every room. It was as noisy as if they were rebuilding the whole palace. There was nowhere to hide from the din.

"All this for one Dievona's Night Ball? Why did I ever agree? . . ."

He had ridden back to Swanholm from Artamon's Mausoleum, buzzing with plans for a journey to find Ty Nagar. And in his excitement, he had forgotten all about the ball.

On his desk lay a letter; it was from Malherbe, the celebrated landscape gardener from Allegonde, who had been working on a special commission in the grounds.

. . . and I most humbly invite your imperial highness to inspect the works, now at last complete . . .

Anything was preferable to enduring this cacophony. Eugene went to the stables and was soon on horseback again.

Outside on the lawns, the Imperial Household Cavalry had been pressed into helping erect the giant marquees. At least their campaign experience means the job will be done efficiently, At least their campaign experience means the job will be done efficiently, Eugene reflected, watching the guardsmen-uniform jackets discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up-pulling and tugging at ropes in the warmth of the spring sun. Eugene reflected, watching the guardsmen-uniform jackets discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up-pulling and tugging at ropes in the warmth of the spring sun.

Sunlight glittered on the green waters of the lake. Eugene turned Cinnamor's head toward the deer park and rode off along the gravel path to inspect the new works.

He had learned that to preserve his sanity there were times when it was necessary to put the worries of state aside. And he had built Swanholm as a retreat for just such occasions.

Soon Eugene heard the gentle sound of wind chimes borne on the breeze. Dismounting, he led Cinnamor down into a little grassy dell, sheltered from view.

As a birthday surprise for Karila, he had commissioned a Khitari dragon pavilion from Malherbe. He had imported stone dragons, one for each of the four corners, and another smaller one to top the roof. Inside the pavilion, the walls were hung with green and blue Khitari silks to complement the glossy black lacquer furniture exquisitely painted in gold and scarlet. He hoped it would provide the princess with her own private retreat from the rigors of court life in the palace.

As an extra delight, he had created a private menagerie for her. Fluting birds with colorful feathers and bright golden eyes hopped about a gilded aviary built in the same exotic style as the pavilion. Little bells hung from every corner and chimed sweetly in the breeze. A pair of tiny deer, no higher than his knee, came to nuzzle against his leg, gazing expectantly at him with their mild, dark eyes. He reached into his pocket and held out some oats garnered from the stables on the palm of his hand for them to nibble, feeling the brush of their quick, rough tongues on his skin.

Karila would fall in love with this secret little kingdom he had created for her. He couldn't wait for her to recover her strength so he could bring her here and watch the expression on her face as the dell revealed its treasures.

Why did the sweet air and green valley of Swanholm always put him into a good humor, whereas the Winter Palace in Mirom induced nothing but feelings of tension?

Grooms came running out to greet him as he rode back into the stables. Eugene jumped down from Cinnamor's back and patted her flank affectionately before handing over the reins. He was exhilarated by the fine weather and by the sheer pleasure of riding. He walked away from the stables, pulling off his riding gloves, finger by finger. He was planning on taking a bath-a good hot steam-followed by an invigorating plunge into the ice-cold pool. But he had not even reached the main stair before Gustave appeared. He seemed uncharacteristically agitated.

"You have a visitor, highness."

"The visitor can wait, Gustave." Damn it, what was the point in being Emperor of all New Rossiya, if he couldn't take a bath when he wished?

"It's the Francian ambassador, highness. He says it's extremely urgent."

Eugene let out a snort of exasperation. "Well, if it's that urgent, damn protocol! He'll have to put up with me as I am: hot, sweaty, and in need of a bath!"

"I took the precaution of showing him into the Willow Room, highness," Gustave said in a low voice, "rather than the Malachite Room with your father's favorite painting."

" 'The Defeat of the Francian Fleet'?" Eugene said loudly. "Why so sensitive, Gustave? Our nations are on the best of terms now. I'm sure the ambassador won't be offended by a reminder of his country's past disappointments."

Gustave, wincing at Eugene's deliberate jibe, opened the door to the Willow Room and announced, "His Imperial Highness."

The Willow Room was one of Eugene's favorite rooms in the whole palace; the walls were hung with Khitari brocades woven with a pattern of willow leaves in the subtlest shades of silver-grey and green. The willow green had been picked up in the buttoned silk upholstery of the chairs and the elegant fringes of the swagged curtains.

Fabien d'Abrissard stood gazing out of the window at the newly planted Water Garden.

"Ah, Ambassador." Eugene strode in briskly. "The matter is urgent, I understand?"

Abrissard turned and bowed formally but with no great reverence. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored black coat with a dazzlingly white starched shirt beneath; his sole concession to ornamentation was the dark blue ribbon and medallion of the Francian Order of the Golden Salamander. His impeccable appearance only served to remind Eugene how hot and disheveled he was.

"There is, I understand, one named Kaspar Linnaius here at Swanholm?"

"Magus Linnaius is one of the most respected members of my household, Ambassador." All Eugene's instincts warned him that Abrissard's seemingly innocuous question was the prelude to some far more complicated negotiation.

"Are you aware that he is a wanted man in Francia, highness? I have here a warrant for his extradition."

Eugene had taken a dislike to Abrissard at their very first meeting in Mirom, and now the ambassador's haughty tone irritated him even more. "I regret to inform you that your journey here has been in vain. Kaspar Linnaius is away from Swanholm at present. And I have no idea when he will return."

"You're protecting a dangerous man, highness. Are you aware that he is accused of the most heinous of crimes-heresy and soul-stealing?"