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their vendetta far beyond the borders of Azhkendir? What bloody legacy of violence had he inherited with this bizarre title?
    “We have a long journey ahead of us, Lord Gavril. Wind and tide are set fair for Azhkendir.”
    “We?” Gavril turned in exasperation on the old man. “I’m not coming with you.”
    “But you are Drakhaon.”
    “And there are things I must attend to here in Smarna. I will come to Azhkendir in my own good time.”
    The old warrior drew in his breath as if Gavril had stabbed him.
    “Don’t you understand, lad?” His eyes burned in the moonlight. “You must come now. You have no idea, have you, of what you’ve inherited?
She
has told you nothing!”
    Gavril turned and began to walk on along the shore, flinging back over his shoulder, “I give you good night, Kostya.”
    There was a silence then, broken only by the soft lapping of the waves on the moon-silvered shore and the sound of his own fierce breathing as he strode along at the water’s edge. His fists were clenched at his sides, ready to punch anyone who dared to stop him.
    Which was when he felt the blinding crack on the back of his skull and darkness came surging in, faster than a floodtide. His mind was still dazedly asking
Why?
as he pitched forward.
    Then it seemed as if someone reached up and squeezed the last light from the moon, leaving him crashing down, down into starless night.

CHAPTER 3

    A single lantern swung to and fro over Gavril’s head. Just watching it made him feel dizzy and sent dull stabs of light through his head, like blunted knifeblades. He closed his eyes, wishing the pain would go away.
    “There, lad. That’s better now . . .”
    Someone was speaking to him; the sound ebbed and flowed in his consciousness with the swaying of the lanternlight. Each word dinned in his mind like an anvil stroke. He wanted nothing but to sink back into the soft, dark oblivion from which he had wakened.
    Instead he became aware of the noises around him: the rhythmic creak of timbers, the swash and splash of deep waters slapping close to where he lay. The lantern still swung dizzyingly to and fro, swinging in time with the creak of the timbers.
    “Where . . . ?” It took all his strength to whisper the single word.
    The twisted shadow of a man materialized beside him, looming over him like some creature of darkness.
    “Are you thirsty? Here. Drink.” Someone raised his head, tipping a cup of water to his lips. The water was tainted with bitter spirit. He choked, peering with unfocused eyes, trying to identify the man who had emerged from the creaking, moving shadows.
    “No more.” He tried to turn his head away. If only he could clear the fog from his mind, if only he could begin to think clearly, he would be able to figure out what he was doing
here . . . on a boat . . . at
sea
?
    “Kidnapped. I’ve been kidnapped!” He reared up, shaking his fist at the shadowy figure. “You—you damned
pirate
!” The cabin spun giddily about him. He dropped weakly back onto the mattress.
    “Lie still, my lord,” said his captor tersely.
    At last Gavril thought he recognized the man, from his voice and his swinging braids, gray as iron.
    “Kostya? Wh—where am I?” Shreds of memory began to return. He had been walking along the seashore, the moon was bright on the waters, and then . . .
    “We left Vermeille Bay last night. In two days we should reach the White Sea and make landfall at Arkhelskoye.”
    At first Gavril could find no words. Fury robbed him of speech. He had been kidnapped not by corsairs but by his father’s own men.
    “I told you,” he said at last, “that I would not come with you. And you abducted me.”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    “You hit me over the head.” The sick headache from the blow still lowered, with the rolling menace of distant thunder. “You almost split my skull!”
    Kostya shrugged. He seemed not the least contrite.
    “Why?” Gavril managed to spit out the question at last. “What gave