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Lord of Snow and Shadows: Book One of The Tears of Artamon - Softcover

Buch 1 von 4: The Tears of Artamon

Ash, Sarah

 
9780553586213: Lord of Snow and Shadows: Book One of The Tears of Artamon
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0553586211 ISBN 13: 9780553586213
Verlag: Spectra, 2004

Inhaltsangabe

Combining the best of fantasy traditions with her own unique vision, Sarah Ash brings us a new saga filled with epic adventure and unforgettable characters—set in a world teeming with political intrigue, astonishing magic, and passions both dark and light. . . .

“Unusual . . . exotic . . . Well worth the read!”—Katherine Kurtz, author of Crusade of Fire

Raised by his protective mother in the sunny climes of the south, Gavril Andar knows nothing of his father—or of the ominous legacy that awaits him. But now the man who ruled the wintry kingdom of Azhkendir, a man infused with the burning blood of the dragon-warrior known as Drakhaoul—has been murdered by his enemies. 

Expected to avenge his father’s death—and still his unquiet ghost—Gavril soon learns that becoming Drakhaon means not only ascending to the throne of Azhkendir but slowly changing into a being of extraordinary power and might. A being that must be replenished with the blood of innocents in order to survive…

“Unusually complex [with] a smooth style, breathtaking atmosphere, and a fickle, impetuous plot.”—Dave Duncan, author of Paragon Lost

“A splendid tale . . . Sarah Ash is destined to be one of the bright luminaries of fantasy.”—Dennis L. McKiernan, author of the Mithgar series

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sarah Ash is the author of six fantasy novels: Children of the Serpent Gate, Lord of Snow and Shadows, Prisoner of the Iron Tower, Moths to a Flame, Songspinners, and The Lost Child. She also runs the library in a local primary school. Ash has two grown sons and lives in Beckenham, Kent, with her husband and their mad cat, Molly.

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Chapter One


"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's 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 fiance 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 fiance 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...

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Verlag
Spectra
Erscheinungsdatum
2004
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0553586211
ISBN 13 
9780553586213
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
608
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Verantwortliche Person
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