"He was," said Elysia distractedly, picking at a loose chip of oil paint with a fingernail.

"Then why is there no sign of it?"

She turned to face him, her auburn brows drawn together in a frown.

"The Drakhaoul only leaves the Drakhaon's body at the moment of death to seek out his heir. Isn't that right?"

"I painted him as I saw him," Elysia said, gazing at the portrait. Her voice softened, her hand, still holding the fine brush, moved almost caressingly over the dark, painted locks of hair.

"But look. His eyes, his hair, his skin-all normal. Not even a glint of Drakhaoul blue-"

She sighed. "Volkh told me that in his case, it was different. The druzhina druzhina made him Drakhaon when his father, Zakhar, disappeared." made him Drakhaon when his father, Zakhar, disappeared."

"My grandfather disappeared?" This was new territory. But then, there was so much about the Nagarians she had kept from him.

"Lord Zakhar set out on a voyage." Old Guaram now spoke up. "My father went with him. They never returned." The old man's voice quavered. "But years later, a black thundercloud came speeding over the mountains, swift as an eagle, seeking out Lord Volkh. It was the Drakhaoul. We knew then that Lord Zakhar was dead, and my own father with him."

"But why? Why did my grandfather leave Azhkendir?"

Guaram gave a rheumatic little shrug. "That question always haunted your father, my lord. He spent hours in the Kalika Tower going through Lord Zakhar's books, searching for clues."

"The books belonged to Lord Zakhar?" Gavril had puzzled over the books left open in his father's study at the time of his murder. The turbulent events of the past weeks had pushed them out of his mind.

Now he knew he must find them and examine again the cryptic scribblings in the margins.

"Mother, don't forget to pack," he called back over his shoulder as he hurried away.

"What is there to pack?" Her voice was dry. "I only have the clothes I'm wearing, remember? We left Swanholm in quite a hurry."

"Good morning, Lord Gavril!" A cheerful voice hailed him from high above. He looked up to see Semyon's freckled face grinning down from a rickety platform.

"Morning, Semyon." Gavril continued on beneath the scaffolding toward the doorway to the Kalika Tower.

"Drakhaon! The repairs aren't finished. . . ." Semyon came sliding down the ladder at breakneck speed.

"I'll be careful." The lower door had been blown off its hinges so Gavril had to clamber over shattered timbers to reach the spiral stair. A cold blast of air reminded him that one ragged hole in the tower wall still gaped open to the elements. He made his way slowly up the ruined stair, testing one step at a time.

As he opened the door to his father's study, a rush of memories overwhelmed him. He saw it glittering with Doctor Kazimir's tubes and alembics, transformed into a chemical laboratory as the scientist worked on the elixir to reverse the Drakhaoul's influence on his mind and body. And then the Tielens had come . . .

The druzhina druzhina had nailed up sheets of vellum to cover the broken windows so that the room was infused with a turgid sepia light, even at midday. At least the books and maps were protected now from weather damage-although it was necessary to light a lantern to read or write in the gloom. had nailed up sheets of vellum to cover the broken windows so that the room was infused with a turgid sepia light, even at midday. At least the books and maps were protected now from weather damage-although it was necessary to light a lantern to read or write in the gloom.

There were still fragments of glass everywhere: colored shards from the shattered windows and fine, clear splinters from Kazimir's broken phials. Before the repairs, wind, sleet, and smoke had blown in, causing yet more damage to his father's maps and books; some lay open, sodden pages a mush of paper pulp.

"They must still be here," he muttered. "They must be."

The first time he had come to the Kalika Tower with Kostya, he had noticed the books lying on his father's desk. At the time he had wondered why Volkh had been so interested in titles such as Through Uncharted Seas: A Sailor's Account of a Perilous Voyage of Exploration. Through Uncharted Seas: A Sailor's Account of a Perilous Voyage of Exploration. Now he wondered if his father and grandfather had also been cursed with the Drakhaoul's dreams and had been searching for clues as to their origins in these ancient volumes. Now he wondered if his father and grandfather had also been cursed with the Drakhaoul's dreams and had been searching for clues as to their origins in these ancient volumes.

The top of the desk was covered in a layer of dirt, dust, and broken glass. Gavril began to brush the debris away. Beneath, he could just make out two or three volumes. The first was Travels in the Westward Isles, Travels in the Westward Isles, but as soon as he picked it up, he could see that a corrosive chemical of Kazimir's had leaked onto it, burning a great, brown-edged hole into the heart of the book: but as soon as he picked it up, he could see that a corrosive chemical of Kazimir's had leaked onto it, burning a great, brown-edged hole into the heart of the book: The tempest had blown our vessel so far from its course that we found ourselves far beyond the bounds of our maps and charts, the page that lay open read.

Almost dead for lack of fresh water, we sighted land toward nightfall of the third day and anchored in the bay of an uncharted island, lush with green vegetation and fresh springs of clear water.Having slaked our thirst and refilled our water casks, we made camp on the shore. In the dark of night, we were awakened by a terrible sound, like groaning or roaring. Some of the more superstitious men called on the names of the holy saints to protect them- The rest was illegible. Gavril put the book down and picked up another, trying to suppress the growing feeling of frustration. As he brushed the dust from the cover, the title glinted dully in faded gold: Ty Nagar: Legends of the Lost Land of the Serpent God. Ty Nagar: Legends of the Lost Land of the Serpent God.

"Ty Nagar," Gavril whispered and felt a shiver, as though saying the name aloud invoked some latent enchantment long dormant in the dusty pages. He opened the book gingerly and, flicking through the first few pages, saw with a growing sense of excitement that most of the text was intact: The fabled land of Ty Nagar cannot be found on any chart or map. Although mentioned in the ancient chronicles of the Rossiyan Empire, scholars have long dismissed its existence as mere fable. However, as this account by Captain Hernin records, there may be some truth in the old chronicles after all. When his ship was blown off course by a tempest, he and his crew found themselves sailing in uncharted waters far to the west. . . .

Gavril leafed on through the rough-edged pages until he spotted some paragraphs marked in red: There lies one island far to the south, dominated by the cone of a volcanic peak, said by the people of these isles to be sacred to the powerful Serpent God of their ancestors. They will not go there, as they maintain that the island is haunted by hungry ghosts and ghouls who suck the blood of unwary travelers.Another legend tells how the priests of the Serpent God, Nagar, built a great temple to their god, at the heart of which was a gateway to the Realm of Shadows. From this gateway they conjured powerful daemon-spirits to do their bidding-until Nagar himself, furious at such sacrilege, caused fire to reign down upon the temple- Gavril turned the damaged page with great care.

-and its priests, slaying them all.

Here, for the first time, he spotted words scribbled in the margin of the text. Excitedly he raised the open book to the lanternlight, moving it first left, and then right, trying to decipher the lurching scrawl.

The burden has grown too heavy for me. The cravings are too strong to bear. I must go away and try to put an end to things, once and for all.

The burden. Gavril felt his heart beat faster as he recognized what the writer described but dared not name.

Beneath the books lay the crumpled star chart. Gavril smoothed it out and studied it. Now he saw it was not, as he had originally thought, a map of the skies over Azhkendir. Unfamiliar constellations were pricked out in silver and white on the ultramarine wash of sky. And someone had scribbled figures in the margin. Readings from an astrolabe, perhaps?

"Lord Zakhar?" Gavril muttered. Was it the Drakhaoul that had driven his grandfather to sail off on that perilous journey, never to return? A journey beyond charted territory to seek out a lost island known only in ancient legends? What had they hoped to find? Expiation? Or a final division?

"I am the last of my kind."

Was the Drakhaoul trying to find a way home?

The third volume, Through Uncharted Seas, Through Uncharted Seas, which lay open close by, was full of tiny slivers of broken glass, lethally sharp. As he shook the book to dislodge them, he felt one prick his finger. which lay open close by, was full of tiny slivers of broken glass, lethally sharp. As he shook the book to dislodge them, he felt one prick his finger.

"Ow!" A drop of blood dripped onto the yellowed page-mortal red, as if to remind him he was free.

The kastel bell suddenly began to clang again.

"What now?" Annoyed at the interruption, Gavril let the book drop and went to the door.

"My lord!" Semyon shouted from the stairwell. "The Tielens. We're under attack!"

"It can't be." Gavril stared down from the tower roof at the Tielen regiments surrounding the broken walls, a blur of blue and grey uniforms.

Had time turned back on itself? Had he only dreamed the destruction of Eugene's army? Or was this some ghostly force come to haunt him? They looked real enough from the top of the Kalika Tower.

In the courtyard below, Askold had mustered the pitifully small number of those druzhina druzhina fit enough to fight. Crossbows were loaded, aimed at the Tielens. fit enough to fight. Crossbows were loaded, aimed at the Tielens.

This time it looked hopeless. There were too many. All the Tielen soldiers bore firearms: muskets, carbines, and hand mortars. Now that he had rid himself of the Drakhaoul, the crossbows and sabres of his bodyguard would prove little use against the firepower of Eugene's elite troops. Even as he watched, shivering in the morning damp, he saw a group of officers detach themselves from the ranks and ride forward under a white flag of truce toward the archway that led into the courtyard. One dismounted and entered beneath the archway.

"Hold your fire!" Gavril cried.

Askold went to meet the newcomer.

"What do they want, Askold?" Gavril called down.

"You, my lord. They want to speak with you."

To speak with him. The words were so ordinary-yet he knew that he was in mortal danger. He looked down at his finger and the red blood oozing from the little cut.

They know. God knows how, but they know I am no longer a threat to them. Why else would they have taken the risk?

Wild plans of escape whirled through his mind. If he made for the secret tunnels under the East Wing, he could slip away unnoticed into the forest. But that would certainly lead to brutal reprisals-and executions. What kind of man would save his own skin and leave his household to face the consequences?

He had little choice but to see what it was the Tielens had to say to him.

As Gavril went out into the courtyard, Elysia came hurrying up to him. "Don't go," she said, catching hold of his hand.

He squeezed her hand as reassuringly as he could and walked out unarmed across the mossy cobblestones, heavyhearted in the knowledge that this time there was no Drakhaoul to save him or his people.

The Tielen officer-a young, brown-haired man not much older than himself-saluted briskly. He held a rolled parchment weighted with a blue wax seal.

"Lord Gavril Nagarian, I come in the name of the Emperor Eugene."

Gavril heard his men murmur the title in disbelief.

"His imperial highness has charged me to read you the following decree: " 'We herewith order the arrest of the renegade warlord, Gavril Nagarian, sometimes known as Gavril Andar, for crimes against the New Rossiyan Empire.' "

Somewhere behind him he heard Elysia cry out, "No!"

" 'In his place we appoint Lord Boris Stoyan as Imperial Governor of Azhkendir, until young Stavyomir Arkhel is of an age to be proclaimed Arkhaon.' " The officer finished reading from the parchment and rolled it up again, tucking it inside his greatcoat.

"And if I decline the Emperor's invitation?" Gavril asked wryly.

"We have orders to counter any resistance with the utmost force. Your kastel is to be razed to the ground and all members of your household executed."

Gavril raised his head and gazed at the ranks of well-armed, mounted Tielen soldiers waiting outside. It seemed there was no choice but to go with them.

"What are these crimes my son is charged with?" Elysia demanded. "Defending his people against an invading army? What kind of a crime is that?"

One of the older officers who had been observing, dismounted and came into the courtyard; the other saluted him smartly, clicking his heels.

"Karonen, Commander of the Northern Army," he said brusquely, grey mustache bristling in the cold. "I understand, madame, that any legal proceedings against Lord Gavril will be merely a formality. The Emperor is not a vindictive man. He is merely anxious to restore the Arkhels to their rightful position in Azhkendir. I believe he mentioned the possibility of exile with regard to your son."

The druzhina druzhina began muttering among themselves. began muttering among themselves.

"That's as may be," said Elysia, folding her arms, "but will my son be properly represented? If he is to stand trial, he must have lawyers!"

"My orders, madame," said Karonen with a hint of weary disdain, "are to escort Lord Gavril to Muscobar-or to destroy the kastel."

"Well, my lord?" said the first officer to Gavril.

"It seems," Gavril said, hearing the words issue from his mouth as if another were speaking them, "that I must come with you."

"Who is in command of the kastel garrison?" demanded Karonen curtly.

"I am." Askold took a step forward. He stared at the Field Marshal through narrowed lids.

"You will surrender your weapons to Captain Lindgren. He and his regiment will be stationed here; a further two regiments will be installed in Azhgorod, a fourth at Arkhelskoye, and a fifth on the eastern coast."

Askold stared at Karonen. "We are the Drakhaon's druzhina, druzhina," he said slowly, stubbornly. "We are oath-bound to die in the defense of our master rather than surrender."

"Askold," Gavril said. "Do as the Field Marshal says. I want no more deaths."

Askold turned and Gavril saw scorn in his eyes. He stared at him as if he were a stranger.

"You dishonor us, Gavril Andar. You dishonor your own bodyguard."

His words cut Gavril to the heart. His own men-whom he was trying to defend-didn't want his self-sacrifice. Locked into their archaic warrior code of honor, they didn't understand what he was trying to do for them. For a brief while he had been their warlord, but now they looked on him as a weakling and a deserter.

"We're wasting time." Karonen signaled to two of the waiting soldiers. They marched forward and placed their hands on Gavril's shoulders.

"My son needs warm clothes!" Elysia protested. "At least let me fetch him a coat-"

Karonen shrugged. He beckoned the soldiers to lead Gavril after him.

"I'll be all right, Mother," he said, forcing a bravery he did not feel into his voice.

"I'll be there, Gavril," she cried. "I have friends in Muscobar. Friends in high places!"

Gavril tried to look back over his shoulder, but the troopers were increasing their pace now, walking him briskly under the archway. The last thing he saw was the druzhina druzhina go slowly forward, one by one, to drop their weapons at the Tielen captain's feet. go slowly forward, one by one, to drop their weapons at the Tielen captain's feet.

CHAPTER 7.

The Empress Astasia sat in front of her mirror listlessly brushing her hair. Nadezhda usually performed this task for her, but she had dismissed her early, wanting to be alone with her thoughts.

She was remembering her bridal night.

All the ladies-in-waiting had teased her with lewd tales about men's lusts and appetites. And it was not as if she had been ignorant of what was expected of her. But she had not anticipated this remoteness. Eugene had been courteous, even respectful, as though the act of consummation were some faintly embarrassing but necessary diplomatic procedure. He had murmured some affectionate words . . . but she felt they were spoken out of duty, rather than spontaneous feeling.

She had seen the portraits of golden-haired Margret, his first wife, at Swanholm. Perhaps he still held her in his heart and she could never hope to compete with the distant, dead beloved in his affections.

Or perhaps he will never see me as anything other than a commodity in a political transaction. At least Gavril loved me for myself alone.

"And where are you tonight, Husband?" she asked. "Oh yes, urgent affairs of state." All through dinner, he had had a distant and preoccupied look in his eyes. She had tried to make conversation, telling him that Karila's cough was much improved, but he had only nodded distractedly. Then he had made his excuses and left before dessert, kissing her on the top of the head just as if she were his elder daughter, not his wife.

The bristles snared on a tangle. Eyes smarting, she dropped the silver-backed brush and picked the knotted strands apart with her fingertips.

"I'm not crying," she told her reflection angrily. It was only a tangle of hair. "I'm not not crying." crying."