Katerina drifted about the long, twisting corridors of the Azarov Kremlin; slowly learning her way about, understanding her place in Andrey's schemes, in Andrey's life. So far he had been as good as his word. Perhaps a little too good, she thought.
She was dressed in the tight fitting short black jacket and pants of his bodyguards, her long blond hair scraped back in a pony tail beneath her black field cap, her knee boots polished to a high gleam. At her hip she wore the standard sabre of the Azarov soldiery, long slender and only slightly curved, her possession of which she regarded as some kind of declaration of trust on the part of Andrey - although he well knew that she was no threat to him.
What rank she held was unclear to her, but the way that soldiers in the keep sprang to attention as she strolled past seemed to indicate that he had bestowed a significant authority upon her - she just hoped that nobody expected her to actually do anything.
The kremlin was far larger than she had realised, split into myriad sections. At its heart towered the massive keep: containing the quarters for the Azarov family, their attendants, slaves, bodyguards - as well as the things required to maintain life on the scale of the ruling family. It was a self-contained city, she'd realised, split over about thirty floors, its layout still largely a mystery to her - although the higher up in the building you lived, the more senior you were and each level was guarded against intrusion from less senior members by armed soldiers.
Beyond the keep the grounds of the walled citadel contained a further small town - twisting and turning about the palaces of the lesser nobility, the parade grounds and barracks of the wider citadel - the whole entwined mass crushed against the immense black shore walls that defined the limit of the original kremlin.
Beyond these defensive walls was the public city - itself enclosed in towering walls of red stone set along the shore in the shape of a sweeping bow. And beyond that - more buildings, more people spilling haphazardly along the banks of the Kolva - their homes, their businesses built up against the kremlin's walls as if seeking protection by proximity.
She paused on the staircase, looking out of a narrow slit in the stone. It was an unpromising location for a city, she thought. While the Dragon Sea could be filtered for water, the arcane machinery hidden deep beneath the habitable levels, the plain upon which it was built received practically no rain - being in the rain shadow of the massive plateau to the west. It was also unbearably hot in the day, almost intolerable beyond the cooling walls of the keep, and then freezing cold at night.
Thinking of the night brought her back to Andrey again, perhaps inevitably. Unconsciously, she sighed.
Since he had bound her to him he had placed almost no demands upon her, had forced her into no action against her will. Indeed, he seemed almost solicitous of her well-being - something she found hard to reconcile with what she knew about him. On the night of her arrival he had installed her in an opulent suite of rooms adjoining his own - deep in the part of the keep set aside for the lower ranked members of the ruling family - taking time to introduce her to his own slaves, the servants that cared for him and offering her their services.
For a while she had wandered the rooms, overcome by the sheer luxury on offer. It seemed that even lesser members of the ruling family lived in style undreamt by lesser mortals. Here there was a chamber set aside for bathing, another for dressing, a further reserved for books - comfortable chairs dotted by desks. Luxury on a scale she had heard about only in books.
Then her eyes had fallen on the fine wooden door adjoining the two suites.
"Will you order me to your bed again, Highness?" she had said, looking pointedly at it.
His reaction had not been what she had expected. The easy smile on his face had turned to water and run away, replaced first by anger, then by something more complex. "Whatever you may think of me, Sorceress, I make no habit of rape and draw little pleasure from what I am forced to do," he'd said.
And he'd looked hurt, as if she'd genuinely upset him.
She slept alone that night, lying awake listening to the sound of giggling, the sound of passion - of fucking - drifting through from the adjoining suite. Slaves she had assumed. The sounds had made her feel envious, thwarted - angry, at him, at herself. Then, at their next meeting she'd covered her discomfort with formality. It was a mistake, she now knew, but a cold tension had grown between them as a consequence. A tension that was worse with each passing night.
The thing was, she wanted to share his bed, was quite willing to share it. But she had been too proud to say that then - now she didn't know how to tell him without making things worse between them.
She turned at the end of the corridor, slowly descending the twisting staircase, leaving the family quarters far behind. She had passed few people on her exploration - an occasional soldier patrolling, a scattering of house slaves, some servants busy about maintaining the huge fortress - but then she deliberately chose paths that seemed less frequently used, having no desire for company as she tried to puzzle out the strange turn her life had taken.
She knew that he wasn't human; not entirely anyway. What he was, though - that eluded her. In her short time at the Azarov Kremlin she had learnt that most of the family were bastards. The Princess Ilsa had only birthed three children - the heir apparent Prince Vasily Mikhailovich, Princess Sofie Mikhailovna and Andrey. The rest of the siblings, and she had trouble keeping track of how many there were, were born of the harem of concubines and slave women kept by Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch. Yet Andrey was the only one that carried the patronymic Zmeyevich; the only one openly declared a bastard.
It wasn't hard to guess as to why. He was the only Azarov not fathered by Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch. The only reason he carried the name was his mother, the Princess Ilsa. Although it was pure speculation, she supposed that she must have persuaded the Lord Prince not to disown him entirely. The question was who - no, what - had fathered him?
She paused momentarily, staring without seeing at a faded tapestry on the wall while her mind toyed with the problem. She had thought at first that he was a cambion, a half-demon, his father some incubus that had forced itself on the Princess Ilsa. But she had known incubi - his power was of a different texture to their crude lust-spells, a different scale altogether. Yet it was undoubtedly infernal, a thing of darkness and hunger. Finally, with a mental shrug, she continued on her way - no closer to a solution.
This part of the fortress seemed busier, though she had no real idea where she was. The wide corridor was filled with a bustle absent from the higher levels. She stepped into the flow, moving faster than she wanted to, looking for an opportunity to slip into a quieter passage. Numerous corridors opened off from the main artery she followed, some well travelled thoroughfares; others narrower, quieter. Finally, when it became clear that the corridor she followed ended at the massive kitchens, she chose a quieter passage at random and ducked out of the crowd.
She found herself walking past a small shrine to the Nine, little more than a niche in the wall, along a tiled passage that became a shadowed cloister. To her right it opened onto a leafy and secluded quadrangle, surrounded by the hulking walls of the fortress. Within she heard the sound of water falling and smelt foliage and blossom - a refreshing change from the searing heat and the arid plain that surrounded them.
In a few steps she passed between a pair of whitewashed columns and entered the paved area beyond. Shaded by the high walls, the quadrangle was a haven of palms and cypress trees, of low growing shrubs in walled borders, all encouraged to grow in a semblance of wildness. Around the cloister itself the brightly coloured blossom of straggling bougainvilleas hung down from the walls and draped like fragrant curtains between the greenery. In the centre a fountain danced in the diffuse light, a simple jet emerging from a square pool to fall dancing into the water.
Katerina found a secluded stone bench hidden amongst the overgrowing greenery and lowered herself into it, breathing deeply of the cool, damp air. For once she felt fully at peace.
"So, you are the sorceress I sent him to kill," the voice said.
Her eyes snapped open - she hadn't realised she'd closed them. Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch stood in the quadrangle, armoured soldiers, insectile in black chitin, standing discreetly in the background, a bearded man with swarthy skin behind him, to his right. His dark eyes were fixed on her and she saw little warmth in his lupine gaze.
"You look quite alive to me. Are you? Alive I mean."
She shuffled awkwardly on the bench. "Yes, Highness. Uh..."
"As I thought. That hardly seems like success to me; more like failure. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Uh... Highness?" She could feel power oozing from the bearded man - he was dangerous, truly dangerous. Mikhail was like a shadow, little substance, nothing to read.
"Well, you're alive. I asked for you to be dead. I dislike being disappointed."
Katerina started to feel nervous.
"Prince Andrey, he thought I could help..."
"Yes, yes. He has always been a sentimental fool at heart. 'Demon of the Azarovs'. Nonsense. When it comes to pretty women his judgement has always been suspect," he said, his voice cold. "One day I'll have to disabuse him of that romanticism. Perhaps today, what do you think?"
