"Ilsi? Where's that mulled ale for the men?" Sosia appeared, carrying an empty tray. Ilsi pointed with the dripping ladle, which she had fished out of the pan.

"My lord." Sosia stared. "So it's true what the men are saying."

"Sosia." Gavril felt suddenly weary; the spicy smell of the ale was not so pleasing now. "Sosia, where's Kiukiu?"

Sosia put down her tray. He saw in the lamplight that her face was more lined, more drawn than he remembered; she had aged in the last months.

"We don't know where she is," she said. "We had a visitor some weeks back. An old man who came to see the captain on the Emperor's business. He went up to your father's study, my lord. He asked to see Kiukiu. An hour or so later, Ivar saw them go off up the lane together. Then they . . . disappeared. Since then, not a word."

Gavril heard Sosia's news with growing apprehension. "An old man? Did anyone catch his name?"

"I asked Captain Lindgren. He said he was 'not at liberty to divulge such information'-you know how punctilious these Tielens can be. But Ilsi thought she heard him address the old man as 'Magus.' "

"Kaspar Linnaius has taken Kiukiu?" Now he remembered the Magus using his dark arts to probe his mind when he was imprisoned in Arnskammar. He felt deathly cold at the thought. What had Linnaius learned? Why had he taken her? And how did he plan to use her?

"Kiukiu," he whispered, choking on her name. "I didn't mean to put you in danger. He was just too strong for me. . . ."

"Danger?" echoed Sosia. "What danger do you mean, my lord?"

"I must go to her." Gavril hurried out of the warm kitchen and into the garden. He had first seen the Magus at Swanholm; that must be where he had taken Kiukiu, to the laboratory Elysia had told him about.

He stopped in the stableyard, his head spinning. Little specks of colored light swarmed across his vision. If only he had not expended so much of his strength on the flight here. That last burst of flame he had used to blast through the blocked tunnel had left him drained.

He pushed himself on toward the garden. He could rest in the summerhouse and then set out for Swanholm.

Halfway toward the summerhouse, his knees began to tremble. He stumbled.

"You are too weak to make it to Tielen."

Figures moved across a lit window in the kastel. For a moment he stared, wondering if Captain Lindgren had brought his wife and child here from Tielen.

Suddenly he felt feverishly hot. Hands clutched to his belly, he doubled up and dropped to the ground. His skin burned. Not the clean burn of the sun or wind, but a terrible itching as if it had blistered up and was slowly peeling away. His throat was parched again, his mouth and tongue dry as sandpaper.

"No," he whispered, "I can't kill again."

His brain conjured fevered images: he was not possessed by this shadow-creature at all; he was sick, his body corrupted by some virulent disease . . .

And then he caught a faint fragrance wafting from the lit window.

Fresh scent of a child's translucent flesh, the blood pulsing just below the pale skin, deliciously clean and untainted . . .

"Why not just take what you need where you find it? You are still Drakhaon. Who will dare stop you?"

Dysis crooned a lullaby as she gently placed little Stavyomir back in his cradle. The drowsy baby began to protest, but then, too sleepy to resist, he relaxed into sleep. She stood, one hand rocking the cradle, waiting for the moment when she could steal away and continue with her chores.

A flicker of movement at the window made her glance up.

"Who's there?"

The heavy brocade drapes had not been drawn quite to. The wind gusted in the chimney and a thin draft whispered about her ankles. It must have been a stray rose branch lashed against the panes by the wind. She went across to pull the curtains closed, to block out the draft. And then she saw the eyes. Drakhaoul eyes. A gleam of gold and electric blue, cruel and bright as lightning.

She froze.

Someone-something-was crouched on the sill, watching her. Waiting.

Suddenly the creature hurled itself at the glass. The window shattered in a shower of shards as it crashed onto the floor.

Dysis screamed and ran toward the cradle.

All the lamps went out. Curtains flapped and fluttered. It seemed as if the creature's body gave off a faint glimmer, a shiver of phosphorescent blue against the turbulent darkness. Dysis half-saw, half-sensed the intruder rise to his feet.

"Help!" Her voice seemed so feeble. "Help me!"

It was moving toward her. Toward the baby.

She placed herself between him and the cradle.

"You shan't touch him." She heard her voice, thin and shrill with terror, defying the creature to come any closer-and despised herself for her weakness.

Somewhere far away it seemed she heard other voices outside, people running, fists pounding at the door.

"Can't-control-any-longer-" Words came from the creature's throat: hoarse, strangled words. Talons clawed out toward her. The darkness was scored with bright slashes, red as blood, white as pain.

"If not-him-then-you."

Caught in its claws, she felt herself drawn helplessly into its dark embrace, felt a breath hot and dry as flame sear her skin, then the graze of burning lips and tongue against her throat. Kissing, licking, sucking . . .

"No," she said faintly. "No . . ."

Drakhaoul eyes blazed blue in the darkness. Glittering wings enfolded her. She was flying; she was soaring up into the night sky . . .

Blue of thunder-flame, blue of angelfire, blue of dying stars.

The door burst open and Tielen soldiers came tumbling in. Torchlight illuminated the room-and the shadow-creature crouched at her feet, its lips wet with blood. Her blood.

"The baby," Dysis whispered, sinking to the floor. "Save the baby . . ."

Even as the soldiers threw themselves on it, the shadow-creature tore itself free and hurled itself through the broken window, disappearing into the night.

Gouts of red dripped across Gavril's sight. All he could see was a woman's face, white as snow, distorted by pain and fear. A white mask slashed with stains of scarlet.

He looked down at his hands. There was blood on the dark blue curve of the claw-nails. And a strange, metallic sweetness in his mouth. Had he done this terrible thing?

He felt sick with self-loathing. How could he have struck out so viciously again?

He could hear the Tielens blundering through the gardens, searching for the intruder. He turned his back on Kastel Drakhaon and made his way through the darkened forest to the ruined watchtower. There he sat down, hugging his knees, rocking to and fro in misery.

"Make it stop, Khezef," he cried aloud, his voice more the howl of a forest beast than a man. "Please make it stop!"

CHAPTER 30.

"Never trust a wind-mage," muttered Malusha as she buckled the harness around Harim's shaggy-coated body, "for they're as fickle as a spring gale, blowing this way and that."

Harim patiently allowed himself to be led to the cart. It was a fine spring day, with fresh gusts of wind sending little white clouds dancing across a pure blue sky. The air tasted of green buds and sweet spring rain.

"First he whisks my granddaughter away on the Emperor's business." Malusha stopped. "And where is she, my Kiukiu? You miss her too, don't you, Harim? I know she used to give you apples sneaked from the winter store when I wasn't looking." She gave a sigh. She had not worried at first when Kiukiu failed to return, but now as the days stretched to weeks, she began to wonder if some harm might have befallen her. "I should never have let her go with that Kaspar Linnaius."

And then there had been the dream last night. She had woken in the darkest hour, certain that lightning had shivered across the moorlands. Yet when she had opened the shutter, the night was calm and still, with not even the faintest tremor of distant thunder.

Since then she had been troubled by an indefinable feeling of unease.

"And what of the promise that Magus made to me? I ask you, Harim, what's more important to a Spirit Singer than her duty to her House?"

Harim gave a little snort and nuzzled her shoulder.

"There's an Arkhel baby to be named. Little Lord Stavyomir." She chuckled to herself. "That I should live to see this day-an heir to the House of Arkhel."

Malusha climbed slowly, rheumatically, up into the cart, easing herself down onto the wooden seat beside the little pots of honey and dried herbs she planned to sell or trade in the city.

"Take care of the place for me while I'm away, my lords and ladies," she called to the owls. "And now, Harim-let's be off to Azhgorod."

"Papers? What papers?" Malusha turned to the red-faced young soldier on the Southgate, arms folded. "I never needed papers in Lord Stavyor's time. What does an old woman like me need with papers? I'd just lose 'em."

"Now then, Grandma-"

"Don't you 'grandma' me, young man! Do I look dangerous to you? Just let me through and we won't say another word about it."

"Is there anyone in the city who could vouch for you?"

A little queue was building up at the gate; mutterings could be heard from the others waiting to enter the city. A farmer shouted out, "Just let the old woman in, lad, and be done with it. I'll vouch for her."

The soldier shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Another came out to whisper in his ear. Both were scarcely older than boys and their uniform jackets looked several sizes too big.

"You're allowed in, just this once," he said. "But next time you have to stop to have official papers made up for you."

"What's the Tielen army coming to-cradle-snatching?" called the farmer. "You lads should still be at school, not ordering your elders and betters around."

Malusha didn't stop to hear the reply; she shook Harim's reins and the cart rattled under the archway and into the city.

Several hours later, and after many fruitless inquiries, she found herself perplexed. No one seemed to know the name Stavyomir Arkhel. Had Linnaius spun her the tale to get her away from her granddaughter?

She sold the honey and the herbs in the marketplace and listened to the chatter around her, hoping for clues. What had Kiukiu said the mother's name was? The "nasty piece of work" she had warned her of? Was it Lilias?

Malusha stopped at the stall of a Khitari tea merchant and sampled a bowl or two of tea: first green, then black scented with jasmine petals. Tea from Khitari was an expensive luxury; if she waited long enough, some servant from a big house was certain to come by. As she waited, she treated herself to a scoop of jasmine tea, which cost her the money she'd earned from the sale of three pots of honey.

Sure enough, a well-dressed serving woman approached and asked for a jar of green tea. Malusha's eyes widened at such extravagance.

"I'm looking for someone called Lilias," she said.

The woman turned to gaze at her with an expression of disdain.

"That is a name my mistress has forbidden to be spoken in the house."

Malusha was intrigued. "Why so?"

"It's none of your business." The serving woman took up her jar of tea and walked off.

"She's Lady Stoyan's maid. Haven't you heard?" called out a woman from the linen stall. "Lilias Arbelian has become Lord Stoyan's mistress."

"Arbelian?" Malusha was confused. "The Lilias I'm looking for is called 'Arkhel.' She has a little son."

"Lilias Arbelian has a baby son."

"Then maybe she's the one. Where can I find her?"

"At Lord Stoyan's mansion, across from the cathedral."

Malusha was tired now; her feet ached with tramping over uneven cobblestones and her skirts were dirtied with mud. Yet she was determined to do what she had come to do, so she set off toward the tall, black spires of the cathedral.

When she came out into the square, the first thing she noticed was the guard of Tielen soldiers around Lord Stoyan's mansion.

"Don't ask for my papers, I haven't got any," she said before the soldier could ask. "I just want to pay a visit to Lilias Arbelian and her baby."

The soldier looked at her. "I'm under orders not to admit anyone without papers."

"I just want to see the baby."

"He's not here. Lord Stoyan has taken Lady Lilias and the baby away for a few days."

"Away?" Malusha repeated. "How can they be away when I've come across the moors to see them? When will they be back?"

The soldier shrugged.

"I'll wait, then." But even as she turned away, disappointed, she knew she would not wait; she wanted to return home.