‘I don’t recall suggesting that it was to be opened in the near future, Baron,’ said Aleksandr icily. ‘But my brother is nineteen years my junior, so the time will come.’ He knew as he spoke that the time might come sooner than any of them thought. ‘Now is there anything more?’ he asked.

  There was a general shaking of heads. The tsar rose to his feet and the others followed suit. Soon he was left alone. He raised his hands to his face and fell back into a chair, sucking in lungfuls of air. The shaking returned; he had managed to contain it throughout the meeting, but the effort had exhausted him. Now it took him over completely.

  At least he had done what needed to be done. That letter to Nikolai explained everything – well, not everything, but enough. Even so, there was something else he had meant to include with the papers; something he couldn’t remember. It concerned Colonel Danilov; a commendation perhaps? Aleksandr could not recall.

  Another spasm of pain racked his body. He struggled out of the chair and tugged on the bell cord. The effort exhausted him and he collapsed into the chair, with but one thought on his mind: Wylie would be here soon – Wylie would help.

  The coach rattled to a halt and the door opened. The starets climbed up inside. The tsaritsa sat alone. Her face was veiled, but she was easy to recognize. The starets had sent a note asking her to meet him here. He had known she would not fail to attend. She feared for her husband – and in that fear she would do anything to save him.

  ‘Father, how did you know?’ she asked as soon as the carriage had begun moving again.

  He raised a finger to silence her. ‘First, we pray,’ he said.

  They spoke in unison, as they had done before. ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon me, a sinner.’

  There was a moment’s silence after the prayer was finished, but Yelizaveta Alekseevna could not contain herself for long. ‘You said it in your letter – how did you know my husband was ill?’

  Should he claim to have heard it from above, the starets wondered. He decided against it. It might add sway to his authority, but a simpler answer would be more effective.

  ‘Who could not know?’ he replied. ‘This is a small town and he is the tsar. Even my ears are not immune to rumour.’

  ‘But you said you could help.’

  ‘It is not only I who can help – prayer is available to all of us.’

  He could not see her face, but the way her head dropped revealed her disappointment. She had been hoping for something a little more temporal.

  ‘Your letter suggested . . .’ She could not finish her sentence.

  ‘There are certainly other things that can be done,’ said the starets, ‘but none will have any effect unless we open our hearts to God and ask that He ensures their success. Can you do that?’

  The tsaritsa nodded. ‘You know I can. I must.’

  The starets paused for a moment. The approach he was about to suggest was outside what would be considered his realm. ‘There are preparations that can be administered – blessed by the Lord – that can be of great efficacy.’

  ‘Medicines? My husband has two doctors with him day and night. There can be little they have not tried.’

  ‘They are like all men of science – they place too much reliance on what they have observed and too little on what they have been told. Who was it that created your husband’s body?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t understand.’

  ‘Who created all our bodies?’ The starets’s voice was raised.

  ‘The Lord God,’ whispered Yelizaveta.

  ‘And so whom would you most trust to care for them – a man who has studied for a few decades, or the Lord, who knows everything?’

  ‘The Lord,’ she said.

  ‘It is your faith in the Lord that will heal your husband. The remedy I give you will merely be a conduit for that faith.’

  ‘May I take it?’ Her voice was eager, as was to be expected.

  ‘I do not have it with me. Such a treatment takes time to prepare.’

  ‘Perhaps Dr Tarasov already has some. Do you have a name for it?’

  ‘No!’ said the starets firmly. ‘Doctors are proud of their learning – too proud. It makes them jealous of the greater knowledge of others. They would never allow it.’

  ‘I will not tell them,’ she said.

  ‘Good. It will not take me long to prepare it. I will contact you again when I have.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘Now stop the coach, if you please.’

  She banged on the carriage ceiling with the tip of her cane, and their rocking motion came to a halt. As the starets was about to climb down, she reached forward, grabbing his hand and bringing it to her lips to kiss. He let her hold it there for a few moments before pulling it gently away.

  ‘You have great faith, my child,’ he said. ‘Your husband will thank you.’

  He stepped out of the coach and closed the door, watching it rattle off into the distance before turning and continuing on his way.

  It was a thing of beauty. Aleksandr had never really noticed before – he had thought of it as just a tool – but some craftsman had poured his soul into its creation. The handle was of nacre. It shone warmly in the early morning light, the band of gold around its middle glinting as it caught the sun. The handle was capped with more gold, shaped into the form of a helmet, its plume intricately carved, to no practical purpose. The base of the handle, again wrapped in gold, was where the blade was pivoted. The blade itself was exquisite. It was steel, but shone almost as brightly as the gold leaf embossed into its side. It had been well cared for – not by Aleksandr himself, but by Anisimov, his valet. The gold leaf was patterned with curlicues, but again they were mere decoration – perhaps even a distraction.

  It was the edge of the blade itself that fascinated Aleksandr the most. He had used it – or one like it – every day since he had first become a man, but he had never stopped to consider it until now. It was a marvel how something so straight, so narrow, could be so unutterably sharp. A saw was serrated to make it cut more effectively, as were many blades, but a razor was different. Its acuteness lay in its simplicity. He rested his thumb against the edge of the blade, with only the slightest force. He could feel it pressing against his skin, but that did not convey to him how it really felt. With any other item, to feel was to caress, to run one’s fingers over the object and experience not just one static sample of its texture but to feel how it moved, how it interacted with the skin.

  But with a razor, that could never be. If he moved his thumb just slightly, one way or the other, then his skin would not sense its texture, but be ripped through by it. It was King Midas, never to touch but that it destroyed what it touched. He pressed a little harder with his thumb, daring himself to draw blood, though the very idea of it repelled him. He moved his thumb away, holding the razor once again by the handle, and began to sharpen it against the strop.

  His face was already lathered. He raised the edge to his cheek and scraped it slowly downwards, revealing a swathe of smooth, pale skin. He flicked the razor and a mound of lather landed in the sink. He returned it to his face and repeated the action again and again until his cheeks were clear. Then he raised his head and began to shave his neck, starting on the left and moving round to the right.

  He took a sharp intake of breath as the blade curved round the tip of his chin. He looked at himself in the mirror. There it was, beneath his lower lip, a smudge of red that grew into a droplet as his heart continued in its task of pumping, unaware that it was forcing the blood so vital to it out of the tsar’s body. The droplet became too large to support itself and plunged downwards. Aleksandr would have sworn he heard it as it splashed on to the porcelain of the sink and splattered in a hundred directions. He looked down, gazing at his own blood. Another drop dripped from his chin and into the bowl.

  He felt a knot in his stomach, a revulsion at the sight of blood – his own blood – that he had never felt before. But the feeling quickly changed. It was still located in his stomach, but the sensation was now one of hunger. He licked his lips and stared down at the red droplets that glistened against the white porcelain. He reached out with his finger to scoop one up, but then stopped as he noticed his own reflection gazing back at him, tinted with red. His bald forehead was familiar, but he looked old – as old as he felt. He frowned and touched his upper lip with his fingers. There was nothing there, but in his reflection, he could clearly see a long moustache of dark, iron grey.

  The nausea returned and the room around him began to swirl.

  * * *

  His eyes flicked open suddenly. It was morning and – though he could not see it – the sun was high. Now should be the hour of his deepest slumber, but the passenger of Rzbunarea felt awake and vibrant. The sides and lid of the coffin squeezed in tight around him, but it did not matter. He did not need to rise in order to enjoy the experience – it was not his experience anyway, but a stolen one, taken from a mind linked, however weakly, to his own.

  Within moments, the sensation faded. The pain to his chin was inconsequential. The blood was of more interest, but he was old, and perhaps becoming jaded. Blood was commonplace.

  What was of significance was that he had experienced anything at all. Until then, there had been nothing. When he had urged the tsar, from the prow of Rzbunarea, to visit Chufut Kalye, he had sensed no response. When he had imagined himself above the caves, guiding Aleksandr down into them, he had had only his imagination to see that what he had asked had been done.

  But now, with the blood that was already in Aleksandr, and with the shock of the blood that had left his body, a connection had been made. It had not lasted long, but that would come. Aleksandr was alive, and that could only heighten the resistance of his mind. Soon things would be different.

  Aleksei arrived at the palace in the midst of uproar. He saw the back of Tarasov’s heel as it disappeared in the direction of the tsar’s rooms. Volkonsky was in close pursuit. Aleksei joined the chase and soon found himself in Aleksandr’s bedchamber. There was a small crowd gathered around the washstand, and Tarasov pushed his way through. Aleksei stepped into the gap and saw for the first time what had attracted so much attention.

  The tsar lay on his back on the floor. His head was being cradled by his valet, Anisimov. There was blood on the tsar’s chin, but it was no more than a smear; blood loss was certainly not the cause of his collapse.

  ‘What happened?’ demanded Volkonsky.

  ‘His Majesty cut himself whilst shaving,’ said Anisimov, almost whimpering. ‘He fainted. I didn’t catch him in time.’

  ‘Did he hit his head?’ asked Tarasov.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied Anisimov. ‘Not hard.’

  Dr Stoffregen – the tsaritsa’s personal physician – arrived and knelt down beside the prostrate figure. He looked over the tsar briefly, then began to rub eau de cologne into his forehead and temples.

  ‘Too late. Too late,’ moaned a voice quietly in Aleksei’s ear. It was Wylie. The sight of his patient in so weakened a condition had sent him into a panic.

  ‘Get him on to the bed,’ shouted Aleksei. The command had some effect, and those around him began to lift the tsar off the floor.

  At that moment, the tsaritsa arrived. Aleksei had scarcely seen her move from her own rooms since arriving in Taganrog. Stoffregen immediately stepped away from Aleksandr and went to her side. Fortunately, there were enough others around to take the tsar’s weight, and soon they had him on the bed.

  ‘Stand back! Let him breathe!’ ordered Tarasov. The crowd moved away from the bed. The tsar groaned and threw his head from side to side. Then he became calmer, and his eyes flickered half open. The tsaritsa went to him. Tarasov and Wylie stood in quiet discussion. First Aleksei then Volkonsky joined them.

  ‘What can you do for him?’ asked Volkonsky.

  ‘I would suggest leeches,’ said Tarasov.

  ‘You want to let his blood?’ asked Aleksei, aghast.

  ‘It’s a standard medical practice.’

  Volkonsky nodded. ‘I’ll ask him,’ he said. He went over to the bed and bent down to speak in the tsar’s ear.

  ‘Send them to the devil!’ Aleksandr’s answer was loud and forthright. He stared over at Wylie and Tarasov as he rejected their advice, but within seconds the effort was too much, and his head fell back on the pillow.

  ‘What he needs is a spiritual physician,’ said the tsaritsa.

  ‘I think what he also needs is a little peace and quiet,’ said Volkonsky softly and out of the tsaritsa’s earshot, although the remark was not directed at her. It was sound advice. The room began to clear, leaving only Tarasov, Stoffregen and Yelizaveta inside.

  ‘Cain is not dead,’ announced Aleksei. It was more than an hour since he had arrived back at Taganrog, and the first opportunity he had had to speak to the two doctors alone.

  ‘What?’ gasped Wylie. ‘How do you know?’

  Aleksei told them the story, or what they needed to know of it, from his return to Chufut Kalye up to Iuda’s departure, though he avoided ever using that name.

  ‘But you escaped,’ commented Tarasov, stating the obvious.

  ‘Cain wanted me to escape,’ stated Aleksei bitterly. ‘He said that he wanted a head start, and that’s what he meant. I was released at dawn, giving him a little over twelve hours’ lead on me. He wants to ensure that I witness his victory.’

  ‘Released?’ said Tarasov. ‘So he had an accomplice?’

  Aleksei glanced over at Wylie and saw a knowing smile on the Scotsman’s face. ‘I don’t think he needed one, did he?’

  ‘Did he mention it in his notebook?’ asked Aleksei.

  ‘Not specifically,’ replied Wylie, ‘but he did speculate on the endless uses to which the by-products of a vampire’s body might be put.’

  ‘By-products?’ said Tarasov. ‘Like the skin on the book, you mean?’

  ‘Or the hair on the head. I’m right, am I not, Colonel Danilov?’

  ‘Entirely,’ said Aleksei, quietly impressed at Wylie’s perspicacity. ‘The rope was made from the hair of a voordalak. At dawn, when the sun hit it, it just burned away.’ He held out his hands, palms up, and showed them the charred skin where the rope had been in contact with his wrists. It still itched.

  ‘And where do you think Cain is now?’ asked Tarasov.

  Aleksei looked around, almost fearing that his answer would be even more literal than he meant it to be. ‘Here,’ he said simply.

  ‘In Taganrog? But why?’

  ‘Because of the Romanov Betrayal.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘That’s something that only His Majesty can tell us.’

  ‘And will he?’ demanded Wylie.

  ‘He’ll have to,’ replied Aleksei, ‘eventually.’

  ‘He’s asked for a priest.’

  Tarasov looked ashen as he spoke. It was a little after five the following morning, and few of them had got much sleep.

  ‘Is it as bad as that?’ asked Volkonsky.

  ‘He seems to think so.’

  ‘I’ll go fetch Father Fyodotov,’ said Diebich, who had been waiting outside the tsar’s room with the rest of them. He marched out swiftly.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ whispered Aleksei to Wylie, who sat beside him. ‘There’s been no sign of Cain, but still the tsar’s condition worsens.’

  ‘Perhaps whatever Cain gave him in the cave was enough,’ suggested Wylie.

  ‘Then why did Cain need his book? There was something more he planned to do. He’s not done it, and yet still Aleksandr is dying.’

  Wylie looked at him harshly. It was not something that any of them wanted to hear uttered out loud. ‘It may be that that is precisely Cain’s concern,’ he said. ‘The death of His Majesty – a true, Christian death – might not suit his plans at all.’

  Aleksei said no more. Wylie was right. In some ways the tsar’s death would be a blessing for all – not least for Aleksandr himself – but Aleksei prayed they could find another way.

  The monastery was not far, and Baron Diebich returned with the priest within half an hour. A small crowd followed him into the tsar’s room, and he began by saying a blessing. Aleksandr opened his eyes and smiled at the sight of the priest, and when the blessing was over, he spoke weakly.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Father Fyodotov. I wish to confess. I ask you to hear me – not as an emperor, but as an ordinary man. Please do it quickly. I am ready for the sacrament.’

  The others departed, leaving the tsar and the priest alone together.

  The act of confession took almost an hour. When Fyodotov emerged, his face was sallow. Volkonsky slipped in immediately to speak with the tsar. The rest of them looked at the priest. His face was paler even than Aleksandr’s own had been. His eyes scanned the ground as he walked out of the building, afraid to look up and make contact with those of anyone else. At the door, Aleksei caught his arm and spoke to him.

  ‘What did His Majesty say?’ It was a question born of instinctive concern, but one that no priest could ever answer.

  Fyodotov’s eyes flicked up and looked into Aleksei’s. In them Aleksei saw a fear that he had seen in few soldiers – never before in a priest. The eyes scanned his face, as if in search of – begging for – responses to the sort of question a priest might normally be expected to answer, not ask.

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t.’

  The first time he said it, it was the normal reply of a holy man observing the sanctity of the confession. The second, it was the purest expression of fear.

  CHAPTER XXV

  VOLKONSKYu EMERGED FROM THE TSAR’S ROOM ALMOST immediately.

  ‘He wants to speak to you – alone,’ he said. All eyes turned to follow the direction in which the prince was looking; all except Aleksei’s. His eyes had no need to move. Volkonsky was staring straight at him.

  ‘Me?’ he said.

  ‘He says he wants to tell you about Cain.’

  Aleksei glanced around the room, nodding at both Tarasov and Wylie to indicate that they should come too. All three approached the door, Aleksei in front. Volkonsky stood in the way.