Sarah Ash - The Tears of Artamon 1 - Lord of Snow and Shadows

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2024-12-20 0 0 1.15MB 727 页 5.9玖币
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[Version 2.0—corrected and formatted by braven. Seems chapter numbers
are missing. If anyone can correct this it would be welcomed!]
Sarah Ash
Lord of Snow and Shadows
Prologue
The Clan Lord lies dying, his eyes wandering, glazing
over as he reaches out blindly to grasp his lieutenant's
arm.
"Over . . . at last . . . old friend . . ." The hand falls
away, his grizzled head lolls sideways, sightless eyes
sliding upward, clear at last, as if a dark veil has melted
away.
And as his faithful friend watches, his sight dimmed
with tears, he sees a shadow, black as a storm cloud,
slowly rise from the still body of his master, lift and gather
itself until it hovers over him: a great winged
daemon-serpent, terrible and puissant.
"
Drakhaoul," he whispers, in awe and terror.
Now all the warriors and servants have fallen silent,
watching or covering their faces in fear.
"Lead me, Drakhaoul," the old soldier cries aloud.
"Show me where he is to be found. And I will follow you,
no matter how far. Take me to our new lord. Our new
Drakhaon."
CHAPTER 1
"Shall I sit over here, Maistre Andar?"
Gavril Andar looked up from unpacking his oil paints
and saw Altessa Astasia Orlova in the doorway. She was
dressed for her portrait in a plain muslin dress of eggshell
blue, her cloud of dark hair tied back with a single blue
ribbon.
He glanced around.
"Where's your governess, altessa?"
"Eupraxia? Oh, she's still sleeping off the effects of
the fruit punch at last night's reception." Astasia began to
laugh. "You mean—is it seemly for me to be here alone
with you, unchaperoned? But this is Smarna, Maistre
Andar! Surely one may relax the strict rules of Muscobar
court protocol when on holiday?"
Her laughter was infectious, and Gavril found himself
smiling back at her.
"Was I facing this way? Or that?" She fidgeted around
in the chair. "I can't remember."
He went over to her. "Your head was inclined a little
more to the left."
"Like this? You'll have to help me."
Gently he tipped her chin to the correct angle. Now
her shoulders were awry. Carefully he placed his hands on
her shoulders to alter the pose. As he moved her, he
became aware that she was gazing intently up at him. He
could feel the sweet warmth of her breath on his face.
Heat flooded through him. If anyone came in and saw
them in such a compromising position . . .
"And my hair?"
Gavril consulted his sketches.
"No ribbon. Loose over your shoulders."
"But if I pull out the ribbon, I'll lose the pose," she
said with that little smile again, grave yet oddly
provocative.
As he undid the ribbon he felt the dark curls against
his fingertips, soft as the strands of sable in his watercolor
brushes.
"How long must I sit still?"
"Long enough . . ." Gavril was concentrating on his
palette, blending and mixing. The luminous dark of her
eyes—so difficult to match the shade exactly. It was
almost the intense purple of viola petals . . .
"If the conversation is diverting enough, I can sit for
hours. Yesterday you told me all about Vermeille. That was
very diverting. But you said nothing about
you. Tell me
about Gavril Andar."
"I was hoping," he said, "that you would tell me about
the Grand Duchess' reception last night."
"Mama's reception?" A slight flush suffused her pale
face. Had she met someone special last night? "Well, my
brother Andrei flirted outrageously with all the prettiest
women, especially the married ones. He has no shame!"
"And," he ventured, "was your fiancé at the
reception?"
"Oh, heavens forbid, no!" The dark eyes blazed. He
must have touched a sensitive nerve to have produced
such a vehement reply.
"I beg your pardon, altessa, but when I was
commissioned to paint a betrothal portrait, I assumed—"
"A natural assumption to make. It's just that there is
no fiancé as yet; this portrait is to sell my charms to the
highest bidder," she said bitterly. "Papa sees my betrothal
as a way to bring an end to a difficult diplomatic situation.
He's looking for a rich and powerful ally."
Gavril looked at her blankly.
"Haven't you heard? Eugene of Tielen has invaded
Khitari. And now his warships are in the Straits. Things are
looking a little . . . tricky for Muscobar. That's why Papa
has stayed in Mirom."
"I had no idea." Gavril, like most Smarnans, paid scant
attention to international politics. Smarna was a sunny
summer retreat for the rich aristocracy from the northern
countries, too small and unimportant to play a major part
in world affairs.
"And of course, my feelings are not to be taken into
consideration, oh no!"
All trace of laughter had vanished; he saw how
miserable she was at the prospect of this marriage of
obligation.
She glanced around guiltily. "But you must never let
slip you heard me say such a disrespectful thing. Papa
would be so angry."
"Portrait painters are trained to be discreet."
"I feel I could tell you anything."
"Anything?" he echoed, blushing in spite of himself.
For a moment her gaze rested on him and he felt a
delicious shiver of danger. Hadn't his mother warned him?
Never become involved. The gulf between a Grand Duke's
daughter and a young, impoverished artist was so great
that he knew he must never dare to think of her as
anything more than a wealthy patroness.
And then she began to chatter again, affecting the
charmingly light, idle tone of their earlier conversations.
"My dancing partners from last night. Lieutenant
Valery Vassian for one. The First Minister's son. Very
good-looking, but a terrible dancer." She smothered a
giggle. "My poor toes are still bruised. And then there was
Count Velemir's nephew, Pavel. He's been abroad on some
kind of diplomatic mission about which he would say
nothing of interest. I suspect he may be one of Papa's
secret agents! I don't think I could marry a spy. One
would never know if he were telling the truth . . ."
Even as she chattered on, Gavril painted as he had
never painted before. Her freshness, her utter lack of
self-consciousness, inspired and enchanted him. In repose,
he noticed a wistful expression darkening her eyes as she
gazed out of the window, beyond the breeze-blown gauze
curtains, to the blue haze of the sea beyond.
"Ahh. I'm stiffening up."
"Time to take a break, then," he said, laying down his
brush.
She came around to his side of the canvas.
"Well?" he said, rather more tensely than he had
intended.
"I think you've flattered me, Maistre Andar," she said
after a while. "I always thought myself a pale shadow of
Mama. She is such a beauty. But you've made me look
almost pretty."
"But you
are," he began, only to be interrupted as the
double doors opened and a stout woman hurried in.
"Altessa! How long have you been here—alone—with
this man?" The governess was so out of breath she could
hardly speak.
"Oh, don't be such a prude, Eupraxia."
"If the Grand Duchess were to hear of this—"
"But she won't, Praxia, will she?" Astasia wound her
arm around Eupraxia's ample waist.
"And if some impropriety had taken place—"
"You've been reading too many romances," Astasia
teased.
"That's quite enough portrait-painting for today,
Maistre Andar," Eupraxia said, ignoring Astasia. "When the
arrangement was made, I was told your mother Elysia was
to accept the commission. I had not expected a
young
man. If I had known, I would have made my objections
clear at the time."
"Yes, yes," Astasia said, "but Maistre Andar is doing
such a good job. Do take a look, Praxia. See? Isn't it
coming along well?"
Eupraxia grudgingly admitted that it was a fair
likeness.
"So we shall expect you at the same time tomorrow
morning, Maistre Andar?" Astasia gave him a smile of such
bewitching charm that he could only nod in reply.
He turned back to the canvas in a daze, still
intoxicated by her fresh hyacinth scent, her smile . . .
Gavril painted until the light faded: the sun was
setting and the last dying rays deepened the misty blue of
the sea to lilac. He had been so absorbed in his work that
he had not noticed till now that his back and arm ached.
He stood back from the canvas, looking at it critically in
the twilight. Yes, he had captured something of her
elusively wistful expression, even though it was not yet as
perfect as he could wish.
Music came floating on the drowsy summer night.
Carriages were drawing up, wheels crunching over the
gravel on the broad drive. Gavril took out a cloth to wipe
his brush and started to pack away his paints.
Colored lanterns glowed like little jewels on the
terraces. The guests were arriving, the women dressed in
bright spangled muslins of primrose, coral, and turquoise;
diamonds and sapphires sparkled around their throats. The
men wore uniforms stiff with gold brocade and brass
buttons. The night gleamed with golden candlelight,
trembled with the babble of conversation and the frothy
dance melodies, light as foam on the waves in the bay.
It was time to leave. And yet he could not go, not yet,
not without seeing her one more time.
Servants, resplendent in the blue liveries of the duke's
household, hurried past them with golden punch bowls,
silver trays of petits fours and crystal dishes filled to the
brim with sugar-dusted berries.
The dancers spilled out onto the terrace and Gavril
strolled into the gardens to watch, leaning against the
pillared balustrade from which the wide, dark lawns rolled
down to the sea beneath. The warm night air tasted of
sparkling wine, headily effervescent. Little trails of white
moths fluttered around the flickering lanterns.
No one challenged him. No one seemed to notice that
he was not wearing military uniform or evening dress.
And then he saw her, one hand resting on her older
brother Andrei's arm, gazing gravely at the spinning
dancers. In her gown of white organdie, trimmed with
green silk ribbons, she reminded Gavril of a snow flower,
clean and pure among the garish costumes of the guests.
Suddenly he realized that she had seen him and was
gazing at him with an intensity that made him shiver.
She moved away from Andrei, rapidly fanning herself
with her white feather fan. He caught a few snatches of
words as she came closer, smilingly shaking her head as
attentive young men offered her ices, sherbets, fruit
punch.
"So hot . . . fresh air . . . maybe later . . ."
He watched as she drifted down the marble steps
onto the darkened lawns and followed.
"Altessa," he said softly.
She turned to him. "Gavril," she said.
His heart beat faster to hear her pronounce his name
without the formality of "Maistre Andar." It had a
wonderfully intimate quality, as if they were equals, as if
he could hope—against all hopes—that a poor painter
could . . .
"Do you believe in fate, Gavril?" she said, softer still.
"It's as if we were meant to meet. As if we were meant to
be together."
The strains of a waltz drifted out from the ballroom.
"Listen," she said, "they're playing 'White Nights,' my
favorite tune . . ."
Before he knew what he was doing, she was in his
arms, her head close to his, and they were dancing slowly,
circling on the dew-wet grass, in a pool of moonlight.
He leaned toward her—he could not help himself—and
kissed her.
[missing???]
Bitter resentment burned through him like a flame. He
was as good as the Mirom aristocracy, no—better! How
dare they humiliate him in this way?
"Astasia!" he cried aloud over the waves' soft rise and
fall. Suddenly the beach went black. Glancing up, he saw a
darkness blotting out the stars, and a thin, cold wind
sighed across the waves. Must be a storm coming after all
. . .
He hastened his steps, hurrying toward the path that
led up to his home, the Villa Andara, at the opposite end of
the bay.
But as he moved, the darkness moved too, shifting
faster than any wind-driven cloud, racing across the night
sky toward him, pursuing him like a hawk wheeling over its
prey.
The feeling of dread overwhelmed him, cold as a
fever sweat. He clambered up the sandy cliff path,
stumbling over the tangled blackberry briars and tree
roots. Breathless and sweating, he reached the old rose
garden, his mother's favorite place.
摘要：

[Version0.9—scannedbyJASC][Version2.0—correctedandformattedbybraven.Seemschapternumbersaremissing.Ifanyonecancorrectthisitwouldbewelcomed!]SarahAshLordofSnowandShadowsPrologueTheClanLordliesdying,hiseyeswandering,glazingoverashereachesoutblindlytograsphislieutenant'sarm."Over...atlast...oldfriend......

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