Free Lord of Snow and Shadows by Sarah Ash

the gold that comes from the warm kiss of the summer’s sun, not the harsh burning of the winter’s wind or the cruel dazzle of the high snowfields. . . .
    At his side stood Bogatyr Kostya, stiffly protective, gesturing for him to ascend the wide stone stairs that led up to the front door. In the dark, Kiukiu thought, Lord Gavril would not see that the stairs were cracked with frost, the gray stone mottled with lichen and stained with weather.
    What must he be thinking?
she wondered as the
druzhina
drew their sabers in salute as Lord Gavril slowly climbed the steps.
He was so young when he was taken away from Azhkendir. Does he remember anything of this place? Does he remember anything of his father?
Then she shuddered.
What had Kostya told Lord Gavril of the Drakhaon, his father? Could he have any idea?
    And then, as the heavy front doors to the kastel closed behind Lord Gavril and the
druzhina
came tramping into the stables to rub down their horses, Kiukiu slipped silently into the courtyard.
    The night air was damp with frost. Frost was already glistening on the damp cobblestones. Kiukiu shivered, clasping her arms tight to herself.
    Winter was coming. If she ran away tonight, she would freeze to death in a ditch. No, better to endure Sosia’s anger one more night. And she would endure it willingly if only to snatch another glimpse of Lord Gavril.

CHAPTER 5

    Dish after unfamiliar dish was presented to Gavril: a hot, red soup in which great daubs of soured cream floated; cold jellied carp; salmon baked in papery pastry with bitter, aromatic leaves and rice. . . .
    But he was too weary to take more than a mouthful of each course, slowly, mechanically chewing, hardly tasting the food, longing to escape the intense scrutiny of his father’s household. All he really wanted was a hot bath.
    “Lord Gavril is tired after the long journey,” Kostya said. “My lord, let me escort you to your bed.”
    No hope of escape, even now. Kostya had not let him out of his sight once since they arrived.
    As they reached the head of the stairs, Gavril saw two of the
druzhina
had taken up positions outside a dark carved door at the end of the landing. And as they saw him, they struck their chests with their fists in salute and flung open the door for him.
    “So I’m still your prisoner,” he said, his voice dry with bitterness.
    “It is for your own safety, my lord,” said Kostya. “We have lost one Drakhaon through our own negligence. We must not lose another.”
    As Gavril entered the room, he heard the door close behind him and a key turn in the lock.
    No hope of a bath tonight. He would have to sleep as he was, dirty, stinking of travel. He sank onto the bed and started to tug off his riding boots. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as his feet emerged, the socks stiff with grime and sweat, almost glued to his feet.
    He lay back on the bed, curtained by the somber brocades, dark as his own despair. Locked in, like a criminal in the cells.
    “In my father’s bedchamber,” he said aloud, softly. The room betrayed little of its previous occupant. The tapestries, like all the others in the kastel, showed hunting scenes. The sheets smelled crisp and fresh, faintly perfumed with the leaves of dried summer herbs. A little fire crackled in the grate, warming the chill of the room. It could have been any wealthy landowner’s bedchamber for all that it told him of Lord Volkh Nagarian.
    And then he caught, through heavy lids, the glint of firelight on a portrait on the wall.
    Curiosity overcame tiredness. He forced himself from the comfort of the bed to inspect the picture—and found himself staring at his childhood self. Young Gavril. Ten or eleven years old. And the picture was so vividly painted that he knew it could only be his mother Elysia’s work.
    Had she painted it because his father had requested it of her? Or had she painted it as a reminder, a poignant message to Lord Volkh saying, “Don’t forget you have a son who is