A weaver of tales, a caster of spells, and a writer of rare imagination, Sarah Ash lends her unique vision to epic fantasy. In this captivating continuation to her story, the author of Lord of Snow and Shadows revisits a realm filled with spirits and singers, daemons and kings.

Gavril Nagarian has finally cast out the dragon-daemon from deep within himself. The Drakhaoul is gone--and with it all
of Gavril's fearsome powers. Though no longer besieged by the Drakhaoul's unnatural lusts and desires, Gavril has betrayed his birthright and his people. He has put the ice-bound princedom of Azhkendir at risk and lost.

Emerging from his battle with the Lord Drakhaon scarred but victorious, Eugene of Tielen exacts a terrible price. He arrests the renegade warlord Gavril Nagarian for crimes against the Rossiyan Empire and sentences him to life in an insane asylum--for the absence of the Drakhaoul is slowly driving Gavril mad. But Eugene has another motive as well. He longs to possess the Drakhaoul--at any cost to his kingdom and his humanity. With Gavril locked inside the Iron Tower, three women keep his memory alive. His mother returns to the warmer climes of her homeland, where she foments the seeds of rebellion. A young scullery maid whose heart is broken by Gavril's arrest sends her spirit out to the Ways Beyond. And even the emperor's new wife is haunted by her remembrances of the handsome young painter who once captured her soul.

The five princedoms of a shattered empire are reunited. The last of Artamon's ruby tears adorns Eugene's crown. But peace is as fragile as a rebel's whisper--and a captive's wish to be free.

Glowing with the powers of light and darkness, Prisoner of the Iron Tower will astonish and enthrall you, as courtly intrigue collides with the fantastic--and good and evil become as nebulous as the outlines of a dream.

From the Hardcover edition.

Chapter 1

W Astasia Orlova leaned on the rail of the Tielen ship that was carrying her back home to Muscobar across the Straits. Cold seaspray blew into her face, her hair, but she did not care.

She was bearing Count Velemir's ashes back to Mirom. It was Feodor Velemir who had brought her to Tielen on the pretense that wreckage from her brother Andrei's command, the Sirin, had been washed up on the shore. She had gone, eager that there might be the faintest glimmer of hope that Andrei was not drowned but lying injured in some remote fisherman's hut, only to find that it had all been a ruse to display her charms to the Tielen court and council, to persuade them that she would make a suitable bride for Prince Eugene.

Well, Count, she thought, gazing into the rolling sea mist that hid the coastline of Muscobar from view, you have paid the ultimate price for your treachery. You used me heartlessly. You lied, you twisted the truth to further your own ends, and now you are dead.

But even now she was not sure she believed the evidence of her own eyes. What she had witnessed in the snowy palace yard had shaken her to the very core.

There crouched a dark-winged creature, veiled in a blue shimmer of heat. And--most horrible of all--the burning remains of something that had once been Feodor Velemir, Muscobar's ambassador to Tielen, lay in a charred, smoking heap at its feet.

Drakhaon.

In that one moment all certainties had been seared away.

"Altessa!" Nadezhda, her maid, came up to her, carrying a wool shawl. "You'll catch a chill up here in this bitter wind."

"Don't fuss, Nadezhda. I'm fine."

Nadezhda took no notice and draped the shawl over Astasia's shoulders. "Please come below and warm yourself."

"Not yet," Astasia said distantly. "In a while . . ."

The cloudy sky and the choppy sea mirrored her mood. She felt numbed. Whenever she tried to sleep, she saw the Drakhaon of Azhkendir rear up out of the darkness and then, oh then--

The one moment she could not forget, the moment when the dragon-winged daemon had turned its piercing blue gaze on her and she had recognized Gavril Andar.

Elysia Andar had tried to warn her, but she had refused to listen. Yet now she knew it to be true. Gavril, the one man she had ever allowed to hold her, to kiss her, was possessed by a dragon-daemon--

"Altessa."

She turned to see that one of the Tielen officers had come up on deck.

"We have received an urgent message from Mirom, altessa, that concerns you. Will you please come below?"

Reluctantly, Astasia followed him belowdecks to the captain's anteroom. Chancellor Maltheus had sent an escort of the household guard to protect her . . . or to prevent her from running away?

A group of officers were gathered around the table; they bowed as she entered.

"Is there a storm coming?" she asked, taking off the shawl. The fine mist of seaspray still clung to her hair. "Should we seek harbor and sit it out?"

"The message comes from Field Marshal Karonen, altessa. He reports there is rioting in Mirom. It seems that your parents have been trapped in the Winter Palace by a mob of dissidents who are threatening to torch the palace and all inside."

Astasia gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. "Dissidents?" she repeated.

"Your father has requested our help. It seems the situation is quite desperate."

"My father is asking for help?" Astasia said. If nothing else, this brought home the severity of the situation. Her father never asked for help.

"The Field Marshal is ready to lead a rescue force into the city, altessa. Just give the word and...

 

Sarah Ash, who trained as a musician, is the author of four fantasy novels: Lord of Snow and Shadows, Moths to a Flame, Songspinners, and The Lost Child. She also runs the library in a local primary school. Sarah Ash has two grown-up sons and lives in Beckenham, Kent, with her husband and their mad cat, Molly.


From the Hardcover edition.

 

Prisoner of the Iron Tower by Sarah Ash
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