Free Prisoner of the Iron Tower by Sarah Ash

pined for Margret, that she could never replace her in his heart?
    Or was she repelled by his injuries?
    He swept her up in his arms and carried her to the great swagged bed, with its garlands of flowers. He would prove to her that he had banished the ghosts of his past.
    He would prove it to himself.

CHAPTER 5

    Gavril stumbles on across a hot, dark shore. Stars gleam red overhead, unfamiliar constellations, half-obscured by poisonous fogs.
    Every step burns the soles of his bare feet. The air stinks of sulphur; every breath he draws in sears his mouth, his throat, his lungs. In the distance, a cone of fire simmers; choking fumes and vapors drift past. Glossy foliage drips moisture onto the grey, glittering volcanic sand.
    The ground shudders beneath his burned feet, pitching him forward into the sand. The sea is sucked back from the shore. He can see it, boiling and churning, building high into one vast tidal wave that will sweep in with the next tremor and drown him—
    Gavril woke with a start. But all he could see were the lime-washed walls of his bedchamber, white in the first light of dawn. He was soaked in sweat as if he really had been trapped on a burning shore by a volcanic eruption.
    Since the night of the column of fire, the dreams had begun. They were always the same, always leaving him with the same sick, despairing feeling that tainted his waking hours.
    Drakhaoul . . .
    They had been one. They had thought and acted as one to defend Azhkendir. But at such a terrible cost to his own humanity that he had torn the dragon-daemon from deep within him and cast it out. Was this sultry volcanic shore the place it had ended its whirlwind flight? Was this the last it had seen of this world as it slowly, painfully, faded from existence?
    “Ahh, Gavril . . .”
    He could still hear its last harrowing cry.
    It was the last of its kind. And I destroyed it.
             
    Ever since the horrors of the Tielen invasion, Gavril had slept badly. During the day he worked alongside his men to repair the kastel, hauling stone, timber, and slate, laboring hard to repair the damage inflicted by Eugene’s army. He pushed himself to the limits of his physical resources, scraping the skin from his knuckles, straining muscles till they ached.
    He told himself that he was doing it to help his people—but in the darkest depths of his heart he knew he worked himself to the point of exhaustion day after day to try to forget the terrible things he had done when the Drakhaoul possessed him.
    Only one of the kastel staff eluded him: Kiukiu.
    Did she feel ill at ease in the Nagarian household now that she knew she was of Arkhel kin? Or did she—at some deep, wordless level—fear him for the injuries he had inflicted upon her?
    There was a connection between them, a connection forged in blood. But he could not forget that he had hurt her, had nearly killed her. Whenever they passed in the kastel and their eyes met, he saw only forgiveness and love in her shy gaze—and found himself looking away.
    He knew he loved her—but could he ever trust himself not to hurt her again?
             
    “I should tell him.” Days had passed since the night of the crimson light, but still Kiukiu had not brought herself to tell anyone of her vision. The shadow-creature had been so like the Drakhaoul . . . and yet how could it be? Lord Gavril had destroyed it.
    Kiukiu set down the empty water buckets and rubbed her aching arms.
    All water for the household had to be lugged from the old well in the stableyard, as the kitchen well was clogged with rubble.
    She had hoped Lord Gavril might be back from Azhgorod today; he had ridden there with Bogatyr Askold and some of the
druzhina,
in search of materials that could not be found on the estate: lead, putty, and window glass. And as Azhgorod was a long day’s ride from the kastel . . .
    She began to wind the first bucket down into the well, hearing it clank hollowly against the dank, mossy sides