"And he resides here at Swanholm?"

"He has his own laboratory in a wing of the palace. The Emperor had it built especially for him."

"The Emperor is such a generous patron to the arts and sciences."

Yes, Astasia thought, Astasia thought, I suppose he is, whatever other faults he may have. My husband encourages those with talents to make the most of their gifts, even if he doesn't appreciate or understand them himself. Perhaps he will dance with me at the ball. . . . I suppose he is, whatever other faults he may have. My husband encourages those with talents to make the most of their gifts, even if he doesn't appreciate or understand them himself. Perhaps he will dance with me at the ball. . . .

Kaspar Linnaius made certain that the invisible wards protecting his laboratory were doubly secure before he entered his rooms.

Abrissard . . .

He took down a red-bound ledger and checked the list of names inscribed on its age-stained pages. There was no mention of a Fabien d'Abrissard in this dossier recording the movements of his few surviving enemies in Francia, painstakingly compiled over the years from Eugene's sources abroad. Surely the Commanderie would not dare to strike at him here in Tielen, under the Emperor's protection? And yet . . . had he risked too much in performing the forbidden rite of soul-stealing?

The Magus unlocked the door to his bedchamber.

There she lay, on his simple bed, the Guslyar Kiukirilya-or at least her body, for her life-spirit was trapped in the crystal soul-glass he wore on a chain close to his heart. How pale her skin had become, almost translucent.

He bent a little closer to his prisoner, to ensure that she still breathed. Yes, there was the faintest sound of respiration.

A strand of wheat-fair hair had strayed loose from her braids; he stretched out to brush it off her forehead. And the fact that she did not even stir as his fingertips touched her brow set his troubled mind at rest. She, at least, was no threat.

He padded softly from the room, securing the door with a simple lock ward that would respond only to his voice. Then he unrolled the chart he had been working on, based on his studies of Zakhar Nagarian's books and Serzhei of Azhkendir's hidden star chart.

It was a map of the seas and lands that lay far to the south, beyond the shores of Djihan-Djihar. An archipelago had been charted by Tielen explorers on a perilous journey in search of new lands to colonize, early in Prince Karl's reign. Volcanoes dominated the islands of the archipelago, and the partial eruption of one of the smaller cones had sunk one of the ships and sent the others scurrying away. But not before the explorers had noted the existence of ruins on several islands, that hinted at some past great civilization.

"It has to be Ty Nagar," he muttered.

Karila was dreaming. . . .

The priests from the Sacred Island stand on the shore, tall, lean, their shaven heads gleaming in the sun. They are wearing robes of white and each has the emblem of the god painted on his forehead and shoulder in dark red dye: a winged serpent.

"Tell your children we bring gifts; gifts from the Sacred Isle."

The people of the village gather in twos and threes; the men have left their fishing and their net-mending, the women their hearths.

"Gifts?" She is curious in spite of herself. Other children creep out from their hiding places as one of the priests spreads a woven cloth on the sand and places on it honey cakes, strings of beads, and little painted animals fired from clay. A bird catches her eye: Its colors are as fresh and bright as her fire-feather. She cannot stop herself; she has to have it for herself. As her fingers close around her treasure, her mother arrives, carrying her little brother.

"Tilua? Come away!"

"Look," she says, proud and happy to show her mother the beautiful toy. But her mother stares at it as if it were a poisonous snake.

"Put it back-quick, now!" she hisses.

One of the priests blocks her way. He is old and hunched, like her grandfather. "Show me what you have chosen, little one." He takes her hand and gently uncurls her clenched fingers. When he sees the firebird, he holds it aloft with a shout of triumph.

Now the priests move toward her. She gazes up at them as they slowly encircle her, and feels herself begin to shake with fear.

"It is an honor, Tilua. Nagar has chosen you to serve him."

She begins to cry. "I don't want to be chosen." She doesn't want to go with these horrible men. She doesn't want to leave her mother. She clings to her. "Don't make me go!" Her little brother starts to cry too.

"You must go, Tilua. The god has chosen you."

"But I want to stay here."

"If Nagar is angry, he will make the fire-mountain spit out flame and rocks; the sea will boil and wash away your village." The oldest priest kneels beside her and points to the distant trace of drifting grey smoke on the horizon. "You don't want to make the god angry, do you, Tilua?"

"Don't make me . . ."

"Whatever is the matter, Princess?" Marta, in nightgown, her hair in curling papers, held up the night-light. "Crying out like that in your sleep, you'll wake the whole palace!"

Karila blinked away the tears that had filled her eyes. The sunlight in her dream had been so bright, so hot . . .

"Don't make me go. Go where?" Marta set the night-light on the bedside table and felt Karila's forehead. "Are you cooking up another fever?"

"I don't know," Karila said. Her heart was still brimming with a fear and grief that was so vivid it felt as if it were her own. How could a mere dream cause her so much pain?

"Tilua," she whispered.

CHAPTER 26.

"Am I dead?" Kiukiu wondered. If so, this was unlike any part of the Ways Beyond she had ever experienced before. It was cold here-the kind of cold that slowly numbs the consciousness until a dull stupor overcomes the senses. It felt as if she had been encased in ice, ice so opaque she could not see through it to what lay beyond.

"Could I be up in the Kharzhgylls? Trapped in an ice cave?" Had Magus Linnaius imprisoned her in ice and left her to die? Had she become no more than a nuisance to him and Emperor Eugene? Had she seen and heard too much in the mausoleum to be allowed to live? She had certainly understood that Lord Gavril was a direct descendant of Artamon the Great. And didn't that mean he had as much a right, if not more, to the throne of New Rossiya as Eugene?

And then she remembered.

Gavril was dead.

The shimmering ice dulled, darkened until it was black as obsidian. Black as her grief, as the pain in her broken heart.

Odd . . .

What kind of ice could change color to match her moods, her emotions?

I must be dreaming. . . .

Time must have passed, but she had no idea whether it was minutes, hours, days. She was still lying, as before, encased in ice. But how could it be ice? Surely she would have frozen to death by now. Unless- "A coffin? A glass coffin?" Panic began to rise, clouding her thoughts. "Did they think I was dead? And yet I'm still alive? Buried alive?" She tried to beat her fists against the imprisoning glass and found she was powerless to move. She seemed to be paralyzed from head to foot.

"Help me. Help! Help!" she called with all her strength, but as much as she strained, no sound issued from her mouth.

This is one of those horrible smothering dawn dreams. Any moment now, I'll wake up.

But she didn't.

As they approached his rooms, the Magus suddenly stopped, one hand raised. He glanced all around, sniffing like one of Eugene's hunting hounds, as though scenting the air.

"What is it?" Eugene had never seen him so agitated before.

"Someone has tried to break into my laboratory." Linnaius, hand still raised, appeared to be testing certain invisible seals and wards that should respond only to his command. "It seems they were unsuccessful."

"Do you have any idea who?"

Linnaius slowly shook his head.

"First Abrissard, now this. I will set a guard on this stair, day and night."

"My wards have worked perfectly well-"

"Your research is of vital importance to the empire. This is a matter of national security."

Linnaius gave a little shrug and opened the door. But in spite of his protestations, Eugene observed him checking outside one more time, his wispy brows furrowed in a puzzled frown.

The Magus had assembled an elaborate construction of pipes, filters, and alembics. A small refining furnace burned brightly in one corner. The air smelled hot and dry, with the slightest hint of some chymical taint that made Eugene's eyes smart.

"The Drakhaon may have unwittingly given you what you seek, highness," said Linnaius obliquely. "Nils Lindgren has made a vital discovery in Azhkendir."

"Mineral deposits? Yes, I am aware of his mining activities." Eugene wiped the perspiration from his brow. "How can you stand to work in this infernal heat, Linnaius?"

"At my age, when the blood thins, one is glad of a little extra warmth." Linnaius picked up a glass dish containing some dark granules and handed it to Eugene. "Has your highness ever seen any mineral deposits like these?"

"This looks much like common garden soil," said Eugene impatiently. He was not in the mood to indulge the Magus and his latest experiments; there were weightier matters to attend to.

"Hold it to the light, highness."

Eugene lifted the dish until the daylight from the window shone directly onto its contents. Only then did he detect a faint bluish glitter emanating from the earth. "It's very pretty, but-"

"Indulge me a moment, highness." Linnaius picked up a second dish, which he set down on an empty laboratory table. Eugene squinted to see what this dish contained. It seemed to be but a few grains of a dark powder.

"Now, please hold this protective visor to cover your face. And stand well back."

The metal visor contained a thick ochre-tinted strip of glass to look through. Eugene held it up and watched Linnaius light a little fuse that led to the dish. As Linnaius hurried out of the way, there came a flash of blinding light and a rending sound that bruised Eugene's ears. The whole contents of the laboratory trembled and one or two glass phials shattered.

"Impressive," said Eugene, his ears still ringing.

Linnaius opened a window and began to fan bluish smoke out into the air.

"So what goes into this new type of gunpowder you've developed?"

"I've merely refined the latest earth samples from Azhkendir that Captain Lindgren gave me."

"Azhkendi soil?" Eugene went to look at the dish; there was nothing left of it but a charred stain on the top of the table.

"From the escarpment at Kastel Drakhaon."

"Where my men died."

"Burned by Drakhaon's Fire."

"And you're saying that Drakhaon's Fire has caused the soil to crystallize into this lethally explosive powder?"

"And the Azhkendi have no idea of its potential." Linnaius seemed thoroughly pleased with himself; he kept rubbing his thin hands together.

"Even so . . ." Eugene felt a strange reluctance to approve the development of this potentially powerful weapon. Many men had died, their bodies vaporized by the infernal heat of the Drakhaon's lethal breath. There had been no trace of his beloved Jaromir's body after the conflagration. And this dark crystalline deposit had been dug from the escarpment. It seemed, in some way, like the violation of a grave, disturbing the mortal remains of the fallen.

And then he sighed. There was the security of the empire to consider now. He must put personal feelings aside and give his permission for Linnaius to start a series of experiments.

"Very well. I'll make sure Captain Lindgren puts all his efforts into mining the escarpment."

"Not just the escarpment, highness. Remember the Arkhel Waste, the site of Lord Stavyor's kastel and estate?" Linnaius's eyes gleamed with unconcealed greed. "Azhkendir must be rich in these crystal deposits indeed."

They have made her bathe in a deep stone bath, in water scented with flower oil and sprinkled with flower petals. Her hair hangs in wet tendrils about her shoulders. They have dressed her in a clean white robe. They have painted the mark of the god on her forehead.

She can hear the insistent beat of the gong-drums again, the deepest notes thrumming like the pulsing of a heart. Her own heart begins to pound in rhythm with the drumbeats.

One of the priests approaches her with a bowl.

"Drink," he says, smiling. "It will do you good."

She sniffs the dark liquid cautiously; it smells sweet, like crushed fruit. The priest nods encouragingly. She takes a sip and then another; it tastes good; it makes her feel happy and very peaceful.

The pounding of the gong-drums grows louder. She can hear the priests chanting now, a deep, sonorous drone.

"Come with me," says the priest, beckoning. When she stands, she feels dizzy and light-headed; when she starts to walk, it seems as if she is floating over the ground.

"Where are we going?" she asks, holding back.

The priest reaches out and takes her hand in his. "You are honored, Tilua. You are going to meet Nagar."

Nagar, the devourer of children. She shrinks back, trying to jerk her hand from his. But now he grips it tightly and pulls her along. She cannot escape.

"No, no," she cries out.

The air is hazy with incense smoke as he pulls her onward, past the musicians beating the gong-drums, past ranks of chanting white-robed priests, up steep wide steps, up until she stands beneath a great archway. A winged serpent of stone snorts clouds of smoke at her from the top of the arch through flared nostrils and fanged jaws so lifelike that, for a moment, she cannot breathe for fear.