"First my fleet. My Rogned Rogned sunk. Now Froding and his brave men seared to ashes-" Eugene could hardly contain his fury. He looked up from the latest communication from Smarna and saw Gustave watching him warily. He had even retreated a step or two, as if fearful of his master's temper. sunk. Now Froding and his brave men seared to ashes-" Eugene could hardly contain his fury. He looked up from the latest communication from Smarna and saw Gustave watching him warily. He had even retreated a step or two, as if fearful of his master's temper.

"Is this Gavril Nagarian's revenge?" Eugene dropped his voice. He felt as if New Rossiya were a castle of sand crumbling under the assault of a fast-flooding tide. A tide that could rapidly sweep him and all he had fought for away.

"The council is awaiting you, highness."

"He's gone. Vanished." Raisa came back down the mountain path, arms open wide in a gesture of bewilderment. "We've searched everywhere." She seemed utterly desolate at the thought.

Flown away, Pavel thought, unable to refrain from grinning. Pavel thought, unable to refrain from grinning.

"Pavel, you don't think he's lying hurt somewhere, do you?" She caught hold of him, her eyes wide with worry. "That head wound of his wasn't properly healed. . . ."

Ironic that she was touching him, her hand on his arm, yet all her thoughts were about Gavril Andar. Don't waste your affections on him, Raisa, he wanted to tell her. A man like Gavril Andar could break your heart.

"And your wound?" he said tenderly.

"Just a scratch. Almost healed." But she was pale beneath the golden sheen the sun had burned into her skin.

Iovan came swaggering up to them. He looked pleased with himself.

"No sign of Tielens. No sign of Muscobites either. We've been talking to a couple of shepherds in the high pastures up beyond Anisieli. They said they saw soldiers making for the border."

"A strategic retreat? Or just regrouping, waiting for reinforcements?"

"We must send word to Colchise," Raisa said.

Gavril climbed a winding path that led up through twisted tree roots and humid, fly-infested forest to the top of the gorge. After an hour's walking he found himself on a high, scrubland plain with a clear view to the north of the hazy outline of Mount Diktra. A buzzard skimmed overhead, letting out a desolate cry. There was no sign of the rebels up here, or the Tielens.

If he was to find them, there was no alternative but to take to the air, like the buzzard.

Eugene glowered at the assembled ministers of the Rossiyan council. He did not like what they had come to tell him. And they had chosen Chancellor Maltheus to deliver their ultimatum.

"We judge the situation in Smarna to be critical, imperial highness. It is the council's opinion that we cannot afford to lose any more men. I fear we have no alternative but to withdraw and discuss terms."

"Withdraw?" Eugene thundered. "You mean capitulate?"

"My terminology was perhaps a little vague-"

"Lose Smarna?" Had they never studied history? "If we give in, all we have gained will be lost. Azhkendir will rise up. Then Khitari."

"But the men are becoming demoralized, highness."

"My men, demoralized?" Eugene could hardly believe what he was hearing. "I will travel to Smarna and lead them myself. I've been out of the field for too long." men, demoralized?" Eugene could hardly believe what he was hearing. "I will travel to Smarna and lead them myself. I've been out of the field for too long."

"Is that advisable in the current situation? Now that you are Emperor, there are other considerations-"

"Could we not at least offer to talk terms with the Smarnan council?" ventured the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

"I will not be dictated to by a rabble of students and anarchists!"

"A rabble who possess a secret weapon vastly superior to anything the Magus has been able to devise," said Chancellor Maltheus, gazing levelly at Eugene.

"The Magus and Captain Lindgren are working even now on a new type of powder," Eugene said, not rising to Maltheus's challenge.

"Time and money, highness; it all comes down to time and money. Money to support widows and fatherless children; the time it will take to develop and produce this new gunpowder. I advocate a strategic withdrawal-"

"And is it strategic for Tielen, Chancellor, to leave the Smarnan waters unprotected?" Eugene, both hands on the table, leaned toward Maltheus.

"We have nothing to fear at present from other nations," said Maltheus, not even blinking under Eugene's fierce gaze.

"Can we be so sure of that? What about this Francian 'naval regatta'? Since when did Enguerrand take such a passionate interest in his fleet? Do we have any new intelligence?"

"Let me see . . ." Maltheus shuffled through the pile of dispatches on the table in front of him. "Enguerrand embarking on pilgrimage to the holy sites in Djihan-Djihar, accompanied by members of the Francian Commanderie."

" 'A pilgrimage'?" Eugene fell silent, his mind working on the information. Djihan-Djihar lay to the far south of Smarna. "And how many ships has he taken for this pilgrimage?"

"We have no further details yet."

"Enguerrand is by all accounts a very devout man," put in the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

Eugene did not respond. He could sense all his ministers watching him warily, bracing themselves to withstand his next outburst.

You've bested me and my men again, Gavril Nagarian.

"A withdrawal it is, then," he said. "But only to regroup."

"We haven't much left on the Smarnan borders to regroup, highness."

Eugene left the council chamber, silent with fury. There was no other course of action left to him. He sent a message containing a single word to Linnaius: Tonight. Tonight.

The Drakhaon flew over the gorge on long, slow wing-beats, drifting on the currents. Now that he was airborne again, he felt the guilt and shame melt away. Up here, floating so high above Smarna, he felt detached, free of the cares that obsessed him. He could be one with the sunlit blue of the sky.

When he finally caught sight of the rebel column, marching away from Anisieli, their tattered standard fluttering in the afternoon breeze, he shadowed them a while, trying to guess where they would make camp for the night.

The column was considerably shorter than when they had set out from the citadel. It looked, from the air, as if they had lost almost a third of their number in the Tielen ambush.

He spied Raisa, her head still bandaged, riding beside Pavel; Capriole was on a leading rein behind Luciole. And at the sight of her, even so far below, he felt the stirring again of that dark flame of hunger.

Now I can never allow myself to be alone with her. Now I can never trust myself with any woman again.

"Don't you remember, Gavril Nagarian? You are Drakhaon. You can do as you please."

"What am I doing here?" Kiukiu rubbed her sleep-crusted eyes; she felt as if she had slept in too long and was not yet wholly awake. She gazed around her, suddenly suspicious. This didn't look like a prison. She was lying on a comfortable feather mattress covered in sheets of the finest linen. She felt the linen between finger and thumb, remembering the countless sheets she had laundered and ironed at Kastel Drakhaon. She sniffed it, scenting the faintest sharp hint of lavender. She was certain they did not give prisoners lavender-scented sheets.

Unless the Magus has housed me in the prison governor's house?

She pushed back the sheets and left the bed to gaze out of the wide-paned window.

"What is this place?" she whispered. She saw tall buildings all around, beautiful buildings of the palest honeyed stone, decorated with elegant carvings. And beyond the buildings she could see green lawns and formal gardens with bobble-headed trees stretching to the horizon, where fountains sprayed great jets of sparkling water high into the air.

"It's so . . . grand. It can't be Arnskammar."

As she watched, mouth open, she saw guards marching in a neat column to a steady drumbeat across the courtyard below, carbines on their shoulders. Their uniforms, grey and purple, were similar to those of the regiment stationed at Kastel Drakhaon. They seemed to be performing some changing of the guard ceremony involving much saluting.

"Arnskammar is by the sea. I don't see any sea. So where-"

She went to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. She knocked, she called, but no one answered.

"It seems that I'm the prisoner." A fluttery, panicky feeling had begun in her chest. "Now, Kiukiu, don't get all flustered." She sat down on the bed again and forced herself to breathe more slowly. "There has to be a reason I'm here, locked up. For my own safety, maybe?"

But in the back of her mind she kept hearing Malusha's voice warning her of the Magus's trickery.

The room was simply furnished, the paneling painted in a delicate shade of ivory outlined in duck-egg blue. The window and bed hangings were of a cream brocade, fringed with gold and blue. The soft tapestry rug beneath her feet and the china ewer bore the same design of two gilded swans, beak to beak, making a heart with the curve of their necks.

Now she noticed that a tray had been placed on the other side of the bed; she lifted the silver cover and saw a plate of fruit, cheese, and little sugared almond cakes.

Her stomach was empty. She must have been asleep for some time, for, judging by the sun, it was approaching noon. Her hand crept out; she nibbled at an almond cake. It was delicious. She ate another, and another. Just as she was eating the last cake, she heard soft footsteps outside. Guiltily wiping the crumbs and sugar from her lips, she jumped up as the locked door opened.

"You're awake, Kiukirilya. Good." Pale eyes gleamed in the Magus's lined face.

"Kaspar Linnaius," she gasped, recovering. "I should have known this was your doing. Where am I? And why am I here?"

"This is the Emperor's palace. It's called Swanholm."

"I'm in a palace?"

"If there was one wish I could grant for you, what would it be?"

Kiukiu heard the question and found herself drowning in a wave of longing for what could not be.

"There is only one thing I want," she said quietly, "and that is beyond your powers to give me."

"Think carefully. I cannot bring him back to life, true. But is there nothing else? A comfortable house with land for your grandmother? A friend on whose behalf I could petition the Emperor?"

He was tempting her. Why?

"Think of Kastel Drakhaon, Kiukirilya."

She could not help but fall under the suggestive spell of his words; she saw Semyon limping along in chains, horribly thin, his ribs showing like a skeleton's beneath his skin. She saw the half-healed scars of the overseer's whip scoring Gorian's back. And she knew what Lord Gavril would have wanted her to ask.

"The druzhina druzhina. Free the druzhina druzhina."

"And if the Emperor agrees to free the druzhina, druzhina, will you agree to use your skills one more time?" will you agree to use your skills one more time?"

"No more summonings," she said, shuddering at the memory.

"This will not involve a summoning. This is, I suspect, a simple case of possession."

"Simple?" He could have no idea of the risks involved. But for Semyon's sake alone, she would do it. He could have no idea of the risks involved. But for Semyon's sake alone, she would do it.

"The Emperor will reward you generously if you cure his daughter."

"The little princess?" Kiukiu began to wish she had not agreed so rashly. What would the Emperor do to her if she failed?

Kiukiu hugged her gusly tightly, holding it like a shield between her and this unfamiliar world that was the Palace of Swanholm. She glimpsed maidservants in neat grey dresses, silently disappearing into doorways as they approached. The palace was so light and clean. And she knew, better than most, how much painstaking work had gone into polishing the floorboards and cleaning the great windowpanes till they sparkled; she could smell the beeswax.

Tall guardsmen stood outside the gilded door to the princess's apartments.

"We are not to be disturbed," said the Magus.

Inside, Kiukiu saw a comfortable sitting room with a fire burning in the grate. Chairs and a couch in a pretty sprigged brocade of blue and pale yellow had been placed close to the fire, but the room was empty. Close by someone was coughing; a high, painful, repetitive rasp.

"Put down your instrument, Kiukiu."

Kiukiu gratefully placed the heavy gusly on the table next to a little slate with chalks and open books. A half-sewn sampler was stretched across a frame, with colored wools hanging down. The princess must have been at her lessons.

An inner door opened and a little girl in a blue gown appeared. She spoke to Linnaius in Tielen.

"This is Kiukirilya, a Spirit Singer, Princess," said Linnaius in the common tongue.

As Princess Karila came toward her, Kiukiu saw how badly twisted her body was; she only managed to walk with a strange lurching gait. But as she bobbed a curtsy to the princess, she could not sense any evidence of spirit possession at all.

"Is that a zither, Kiukirilya?" asked the princess.

"It's called a gusly, highness."

"I'm learning the fortepiano, but my music-master is very strict and makes me practice boring scales."

"Practice is important if you want to play well," Kiukiu said guiltily, aware that she had been neglecting her instrument.

"Can I try?" One hand crept out toward the strings and plucked a few notes. "Ow. The strings bite!"

"You have to wear these little metal hooks to protect your fingers until your nails grow strong and hard." Kiukiu slipped the plectra onto her fingertips for the princess to see and struck a playful volley of notes, light and fast and bright as shooting stars.

"You're so clever!" cried Karila. "It's sky music. Flying music!"

Kiukiu was unused to playing to an appreciative audience; she was about to delight the princess with more of her improvisation when she heard Linnaius clearing his throat. Glancing up, she saw him pointing sternly to the clock.