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of the icy wind.
    Gavril stared down at the open wound, too surprised to cry out.
    Blood dripped from his palm, a slash of dark liquid welling from his scored skin. But . . . had Kostya smeared the blade with some chemical substance to alter it? Shouldn’t his blood run red? This was dark, too dark for human blood. Somewhere behind the pain and outrage, his artist’s mind tried to define the color accurately. It was more porphyry-purple than crimson. No, closer to indigo than purple . . .
    With a grunt of satisfaction, Kostya lifted Gavril’s palm high in the air, showing it to the crowd. Blood dripped onto the snow. Where it touched the snow, there was a faint sizzling sound, as though the blood were burning its way down to the soil beneath, staining the white snow dark as ink.
    And now, at last, the crowd broke its silence, the people hushedly, excitedly nudging each other, pointing, exclaiming.
    “Say these words after me,” Kostya whispered in Gavril’s ear. “With my blood.”
    “‘With my blood,’” Gavril repeated, almost speechless with anger.
    “I, Gavril Nagarian, claim my birthright as Lord of Azhkendir.”
    “‘I, Gavril Nagarian.’” The knife slash stung, cold as the icy breath of the wind on his cheeks. “‘Claim my birthright as Lord of Azhkendir.’”
    He looked up, then, into the faces of the
druzhina
who stood silently watching him, and it seemed to him that there was a glint of hunger in their eyes, the hunger of a starving wolf pack encircling its prey, waiting for the kill.
    Then the shouts of “Drakhaon!” began. People rushed forward, straining to touch Gavril. But the
druzhina
moved swiftly to hold them back, arms linked, forming an alley. Kostya took hold of Gavril’s arm and hastily led him between the two lines toward a cluster of horses, saddled and bridled, heads down against the wind. Ears ringing from the shouting, Gavril saw nothing but a blur of staring, eager faces and grabbing hands.
    As Kostya helped him up into the saddle of a sturdy black gelding, he looked back to the quay. People were pushing and jostling each other to get to the place where he had been standing, scrabbling in the snow. Dully he realized they were fighting to collect the snow that had been stained with his blood. His blood! What primitive superstition made men and women place such faith in the blood of their chosen lord?
    He looked down at his palm in disbelief. The blood was clotting already in the searingly dry cold air. In the ice-light it was difficult to tell what color it was oozing now.
    “Let me bind that for you, my lord.” Kostya pressed a linen pad onto the gash and swiftly tied it in place.
    “Why didn’t you warn me?” Gavril said, glaring at him.
    “Gloves, Lord Gavril.” The old warrior passed him a pair of leather gloves, fur-lined, ignoring his question. “You’ll need these. We have a long ride ahead of us.” And he raised his hand in a gesture of command, impatiently signaling to the
druzhina,
beckoning them toward the waiting horses.
    The crowd surged forward as Gavril’s bodyguard vaulted onto the backs of their mounts with whoops and wild shouts of exultation. Kostya grabbed hold of Gavril’s reins. Hooves rattled on the compacted snow, a muted thunder that shook the timbers of the wooden houses.
    Gavril looked at the eager sea of faces as they swept through the crowd. One alone caught his attention. A glint of burnished gold hair; dark eyes staring at him from a pale face with a singularly intense, unreadable expression. For one moment all the shouts and the dinning of hooves receded into a blur of sound.
    A young man’s face, eyes dark with pain and horror . . .
    Gavril swung around in the saddle, scanning the following crowd. But the face had vanished and the townspeople were dropping behind, only a few energetic ones still pursuing them, waving and shouting his name.
             
    They had been riding north across the moors for two days since they had