Read Lord of Snow and Shadows for Free Online

clever illusion, maybe. Some trick with gunpowder and poisonous smoke.”
    “I know what I saw,” Kostya said, his face closed.
    “But look at me. I’m a man, like any other. Where are my wings, my talons, my fire-breathing nostrils?” He could not stop the laughter now; it burned hard and mirthless in his throat.
    Kostya seized hold of his hands, turning them over, thrusting them, nails upward, in front of his face.
    “Look. Look! These stains on your nails. Blue stains. See? That’s one of the first signs.”
    “Old paint stains, nothing more. I’m a painter, remember? Or I was until you kidnapped me.”
    “You thought these paint stains? This is just the beginning.”
    “You’re asking me to believe that if you had not come to tell me, one day I would have woken in my bed to find myself covered in scales, breathing flames, and scorching holes in my sheets?”
    “That is not how it happens,” Kostya said curtly.
    The laughter died. Gavril stared down at his hands, suddenly sobered, as if Kostya had dashed cold water over him.
    “Then how exactly does it happen?”
    Kostya shook his grizzled head. “Have you still not understood me? The Drakhaoul claimed you as its own. You are Drakhaon, whether you will or no, until your dying day. Your father’s blood runs in your veins. And it is blood proof that your people will demand to see when we make landfall.”
    “What kind of barbaric custom is this?” Gavril cried, drawing back from Kostya. Were they going to sacrifice him?
    “If you had been raised in Azhkendir, lord, you would not find anything unnatural in this. But you know nothing of our ways, nothing of our history. Your history.”
    “Blood, Kostya? My blood?” The anger was beginning to simmer again. “What possible point can there be in the letting of my blood?”
    “The renewing of an ancient contract, lord. Between the Drakhaon and his clan. A contract of mutual trust. Besides, there is a power in your blood, Lord Gavril.”
    Speechless, Gavril turned his back on the Bogatyr, gazing out over the shimmering expanse of ice. White as far as the eye could see. White sea, white sky. For a moment his anger gave way to bleak despair. He was not just a prisoner of these savage clan warriors with their crazed beliefs in dragons, but a prisoner of his own birthright, condemned by the blood that pulsed through his veins to a future dark beyond his darkest imaginings.
             
    Gavril gripped the rail as the Drakhaon’s barque was brought alongside the jetty. The timbers ground against stone as sailors leaped ashore, grabbing ropes to make her fast.
    Arkhelskoye was a sorry place, more a huddle of deserted wooden buildings, warehouses, and customs houses than a prosperous port.
    A bell began to clang from the harbor tower, an iron clamor shattering the icebound calm. Suddenly the shore was thronging with people. Gavril blinked. Where had they appeared from? There were women, thick shawls wrapped around their heads, rough-bearded sailors trudging through the snow, fur-cloaked clan warriors, and yet more clan warriors.
    “They have come to welcome you,” Kostya said, nudging Gavril toward the quay. Their feet crunched on tightly packed snow as they walked to the end of the jetty.
    The crowd stared at Gavril in silence. Expectant silence. Now all he could hear was the thin whisper of a wind that cut like wire . . . and the distant crackling of the ice.
    Kostya turned to him. He had drawn a curved-edged knife from his belt. The white light glittered on the blade, which was keen and translucent as ice.
    “Do I have to go through with this?” Gavril asked through gritted teeth. The utter stillness of the watching crowd disturbed him. He could feel their eyes boring into him. What did they expect to see?
    “Right-hander, yes?” Kostya gripped hold of Gavril’s left hand, palm upward. Before Gavril could twist away, he had drawn the thin blade across his palm. The cut stung, keen as the whisper