"Under the East Wing."

"Which fell down in the bombardment." This was leading nowhere.

"Was that our fault? I thought your engineers had ways of finding tunnels and wells," she said.

"We don't have time to run a survey. The men will die for lack of air!" he said more angrily than he intended.

"Well pardon me for trying to help!" Ilsi flounced away, head held high.

Lindgren put his hands to his head in utter frustration. He was an engineer, skilled at his work. And he enjoyed it as long as it involved calculations, plans, and excavating. But this collapse deep within the mine was a disaster. His men were trapped. The druzhina druzhina were trapped. And what was worse was that his engineering would probably be blamed for the accident. were trapped. And what was worse was that his engineering would probably be blamed for the accident.

"Lord Stoyan is here," announced his adjutant from the doorway.

Lindgren half-turned, not believing what he was hearing. The Governor of Azhkendir at Kastel Drakhaon? Without any advance warning? It must be a coincidence. A horrible coincidence.

Boris Stoyan strode in.

"Lindgren!" he shouted in his great voice. "We've come to see how the restoration's progressing."

"We?" echoed Lindgren weakly.

"Good-day to you, Captain Lindgren." A woman had appeared at Lord Stoyan's side: a handsome woman with red hair and langorous green eyes. Behind her came a maidservant, carrying a wide-eyed baby. "I heard that a trunk containing my personal possessions had been found. So I thought I'd come to collect it when the last snows had melted from the moors."

"I-I'm not sure I've had the pleasure-" he stammered.

She left Lord Stoyan's side and came up to him, her hand held out. "Lilias Arbelian, wife to the late Lord Jaromir Arkhel," she said, smiling at him. "This is Stavyomir, our son. He will rule Azhkendir when he comes of age."

Lindgren took the proffered hand and briefly brushed it with his lips. Her perfume was exotically sweet and strong; it reminded him how long it was since he had been in society, how long he had been dealing with trenches, props, earth-moving. He wondered if he had any polite conversation left.

And then he became aware of a little huddle of kastel servants skulking outside the half-open door. All the maids were there, staring. He opened his mouth to send them away, then realized they might be his salvation.

"Sosia," he called sternly.

The kastel housekeeper came in, eyes downcast, deliberately not looking at the visitors.

"Sosia, would you fetch our visitors some refreshment?"

"If that's what you want, Captain." From her disapproving expression, he saw that the visitors were as unwelcome to her as to him. As she passed Lilias Arbelian, she said distinctly, "I wonder you have the nerve to show your face here."

Lilias slipped her hand through Lord Stoyan's arm. "Dear Boris, the kastel staff are lacking in manners. Perhaps you could ask the captain to have them disciplined?"

"Where are all your men, Captain?" Lord Stoyan asked. "The place looks remarkably quiet."

The governor had missed nothing.

"We have-a situation over at the mine. Nothing we can't bring under control," he added hastily. "In time."

"Situation?" Lord Stoyan stared at him under thick, dark brows. "A rockfall? d'you want me to send in some of my own men to help?"

"That would be-yes, thank you." Lindgren was desperate to get back to the mine; every minute counted, where men's lives were at risk.

Sosia reappeared with a bottle of Tielen aquavit and a pot of mint tea on a tray, which she placed on the little table near the fire.

"Mint tea?" Lilias said disdainfully. "Don't you have any real tea? From Khitari?"

"If you'd care to bring us some," Sosia said sourly. "We've had to make do as best we can here. My pantry was blown to pieces in the bombardment-oh but you wouldn't know that, would you, as you'd gone running off into the hills with Michailo."

"We'll be staying the night. The baby's tired."

"Sosia, make the necessary preparations for our guests." Lindgren grabbed his plans and hurried away.

Gavril had forgotten how long the sun stayed in the sky in the far north during spring and early summer.

He had left Azhkendir as the first snowdrops were piercing the snow. He returned now to a land he hardly recognized-to moorlands bright with gorse, the moss starred with tiny white flowers, the cloudberry and lingonberry bushes in bloom.

He had no need to look for landmarks to navigate by; the pulsing of the scar on his wrist grew stronger, as did the confusion of voices in his mind as he neared Kastel Drakhaon.

There lay the vast, wild forest of Kerjhenezh, stretching on toward the distant mountains. And there was the Kalika Tower, rising up into the pale sky where the evening star glittered, even though the sun had still not set.

At the sight of Kastel Drakhaon, Gavril felt a sudden rush of emotion. He had escaped the Iron Tower, but he was not unscathed. He was not the same man who had left in a prison carriage with barred windows, his mind filled with fear and despair. He was even less the naive young painter who had come to Kastel Drakhaon with Kostya on a cold autumn evening so many months ago. He had been abused and experimented on by Eugene's torturers in Arnskammar. And he had killed for prey.

Fluttering from every remaining tower in the evening breeze were the flags of Eugene's army, the standards of New Rossiya. His first instinct was to rip them all down. And then he sensed cries again, much fainter than before. They were dying.

He had a duty to save his druzhina druzhina.

But where were they? Circling high above the kastel, he noticed now the extensive excavations on the escarpment-the pulleys, the carts, all the trappings of some kind of mineworks. And from the Tielens' frantic activity below-the digging and shouting-he guessed that this was the heart of the problem.

His druzhina druzhina must be trapped underground. must be trapped underground.

Nils Lindgren threw down his shovel and wiped his damp forehead on his sleeve.

"It's no use," he said. "We'll never reach them. Too much earth has come down."

All around him, his men leaned on their spades and stared at him, their faces smeared with earth and sweat, their eyes dull with exhaustion.

"We can't just leave them to suffocate to death," said one of his men.

"For all we know, they're dead already," said another.

"I can assure you that some are still alive," said a voice from outside the mine entrance.

Lindgren looked up.

A man stood there in the twilight, a man unlike any other he had ever seen. A mane of untamed black hair hung about his shoulders and his eyes gleamed in the torchlight, unnaturally blue and bright. He looked like some wild spirit from the forest.

"Who are you?" Lindgren demanded. "And what's your interest in this matter?"

"I have come to help you," said the stranger. "You're wasting your time digging here."

"And do you have a better suggestion?" jeered one of the Tielens.

The stranger turned, beckoning. "Come with me, Captain Lindgren."

How did the stranger know his name? Lindgren picked up his shovel and set out after him. The Tielens and Lord Stoyan's men followed, bringing torches.

"Where are you taking us?" Lindgren called, for the stranger was moving fast and purposefully.

"To the summerhouse," he called back over his shoulder.

Lindgren had noticed the ramshackle summerhouse, covered in a tangle of rose briars, but never paid it much attention. Was this man mad, or was this something to do with the secret passages Ilsi had mentioned? He certainly seemed to know his way about the kastel as she led them into the neglected garden.

Inside the summerhouse, the stranger knelt down on the rotting boards. "There is a trapdoor here that leads down into one of the kastel passages. There's another at the old watchtower up on the forest road. If these tunnels are still secure, we can use them to go back down beneath the kastel, toward the escarpment."

"We?" Lindgren echoed warily. This could be a trap, plotted by the druzhina, druzhina, to lead him and his men into an ambush. Their bodies could lie in the tunnels for weeks and no one would know. . . . to lead him and his men into an ambush. Their bodies could lie in the tunnels for weeks and no one would know. . . .

"You'll need me to show you the way," said the stranger, his blue eyes glinting in the gloom. He let himself down into the tunnel, gripping hold of the rim of the open trapdoor until he could drop into the dank darkness beneath. "Hurry," he called, his tone urgent. "They've not got much time."

Lindgren looked at his men, shrugged, and followed the stranger down into the tunnel. The others came after, handing down lanterns, picks, and shovels.

The tunnel was hardly high enough for a man to stand upright, but as they moved farther along, it slowly opened up until they came out into the dilapidated ruins of a great hall. Lindgren could not help noticing that the stranger's skin gave off a faint glimmer, almost phosphorescent, in the darkness. It must be a trick of the light on his tired eyes.

The stranger moved swiftly ahead of them, counting shadowed doorways that led off the hall. He stopped at the fourth. "This one," he muttered, more to himself than to Lindgren. "Yes, it must be this one."

This tunnel stank of mold and the walls were moist; air vents, overgrown with moss and lichen, let in the occasional draft of damp night air.

"Quiet!" The stranger stopped suddenly, holding up his hand for silence. He put one hand to his forehead, as though concentrating on some sound no one else had detected. He looked around at Lindgren.

"They're in there." He pointed at the wall. "Open a tunnel here. We may yet get to them in time."

Had he heard a faint call for help? Or a desperate tapping? But there was something so authoritative in his voice and manner that every man did as he was ordered. Lindgren took a pick and began to swing it at the bricks, sending mortar and chippings flying.

"Can't you work any faster?" cried the stranger. He began to tear at the earth with his bare hands. "There's hardly any air left. They'll suffocate."

And then he stopped, breathing hard. "Stand back," he said. His blue eyes blazed warning. Lindgren took a stumbling step or two down the passage. This was no ordinary man; he knew it now for sure. "Stand farther back!"

He saw the stranger raise one hand, fingers extended toward the rock. Little flickers of brilliant blue began to crackle between his fingertips. And then a blinding burst of fire shot the length of his arm and pierced solid earth and rock, splitting them apart. A hole appeared. Faint cries and groans could now be heard, coming from the fetid darkness beyond.

Lindgren stared at the stranger. He knew him now. When they had last met, he had been New Rossiya's prisoner.

"Drakhaon," he whispered.

"Come, Lindgren," said Gavril Nagarian, clambering through the hole he had blasted, "they're through here."

A young man lay close to the hole, white-faced and filthy, his fingers bleeding; he had been trying to claw his way out.

Gavril knelt down beside him, checking for a pulse. At his touch, the young man's eyelids flickered open and Gavril recognized the emaciated face of Semyon beneath the dirt and sweat.

"Lord Drakhaon," he whispered, "I said . . . you'd come for us."

Gavril felt his throat tighten. "Hold on, Semyon," he said, placing his hand on his shoulder. "This one's alive!" he called. "Get him out, fast!"

But the Tielens were busy with their own casualties and seemed not to have heard him. Gavril slipped his arms beneath Semyon's thin frame and tried to lift him. Only then did he see the shackles that bound him to the other prisoners.

A terrible anger burned through Gavril's brain. He knew only too well what it was to be shackled. He could not bear to think his druzhina druzhina had been forced to endure this indignity. He looked at the Tielen soldiers through narrowed eyes. The blue fire began to crackle at his fingertips again. had been forced to endure this indignity. He looked at the Tielen soldiers through narrowed eyes. The blue fire began to crackle at his fingertips again.

"Lord Gavril," came another faint voice. Distracted, he looked up and saw Askold, hollow-eyed and barely recognizable beneath several weeks' growth of matted beard. "Gorian's here. Out cold. And Barsuk doesn't look too good."

Gavril concentrated the energy at his fingertips on the shackles. Metal sizzled and the dim light in the cramped shaft turned a lurid blue as one by one, he burned through the links.

"Here. You take the boy's head, I'll take his legs." It was Lindgren, offering to help him carry Semyon out into the passageway.

The anger still simmered, but there were too many men to be brought out to give vent to it. As Gavril went back into the shaft for Askold, he sensed a faint but distinct tremor in the escarpment above.

"Captain!"

Lindgren turned around.

"Hear that? Get your men out. Now."

Gavril pulled Askold's arm about his shoulder and half-carried him out; Lindgren followed close behind, dragging Gorian by the legs. The Tielens came after as the rumbling grew louder.

"It's all coming down!"

They dragged or carried the casualties into the passageway as rock and earth thundered down into the shaft behind them.

For a moment as they retreated, Gavril feared that the ancient kastel brickwork would not be strong enough to withstand the force of the earthfall and that they would all be crushed. But the rumbling subsided and the dustclouds slowly settled.

Gavril gave Lindgren a long shrewd look. They were filthy-Tielens and Azhkendi alike-but together they had brought fifteen men out alive from the collapsed shaft.

"They were good builders, our forebears; they built to last," said Askold, coughing up a mouthful of dust and slapping the brickwork.

Gavril stood in the darkened garden, staring up at the lit windows in the kastel. He wanted to go in. He wanted news. But he was still a fugitive.

Elysia had told him Kiukiu was here at the kastel, but there was no sign of her. Perhaps, weary of waiting on the Tielens, she had gone back to Malusha. There was no way to know without risking discovery, though he sensed Nils Lindgren would not order his arrest tonight, nor begrudge him the shelter of his own kastel.

He went into the kitchen in search of Sosia. He could smell mulled ale: the scent of cloves and ginger reminded him of cold winter evenings in the kastel. Ilsi was busy ladling out ale. When she saw him, she let out a little cry and dropped the ladle in the pan.

"Drakhaon?"

He placed one finger over his lips. "Where's Sosia?"