10. Meeting the Tsar

Chapter ten

Meeting the Tsar

Mila

W e said our goodbyes to Ulyana and Konstantin the next morning and left the city. My stomach churned with nerves as we stopped at a small temple outside the gate.

Han led me inside. To the left of the altar was a simple statue of the Prophet, who had revealed the divine ancestry of Fima the Blessed and guided him in his conquest of the country. The statue held a scroll, head bowed in pious prayer. To the right of the altar was a statue of Tsar Fima himself, sword and head raised in victory.

The temple was empty but for a stocky brother in his white robes, cleaning the statue of Tsar Fima with a rag. At our entrance, he set the cloth down and approached.

"What can I do for you, honored children?"

"My wife and I would like to pray together before we return home," Han said.

"Follow me." He led us to a small prayer room with a wooden kneeling rail, closing the door behind us. On one wall was a giant wooden icon depicting Tsar Fima's victory over Inzhria. The Brother pulled on one side, and it swung open to reveal a dark hole. He gestured for us to go through.

Han went first, descending into the darkness. I felt my way after him, down a narrow set of stairs, until I reached a stone floor. A small click sounded, and torchlight illuminated an underground tunnel.

"We have a bit of a walk now," the Brother said, waving the torch ahead of us.

The tunnels twisted and turned. Every so often we would come to a split in the path, but the Brother knew his way. The corridors grew damper and colder the further we walked. Were we nearing the river? We had to be traveling underneath the city. A faint scent of mildew hung in the air, and occasionally, I heard a rat scurry by. I hated rats.

Han noticed my discomfort, and he reached out, offering me his hand.

"I'm fine," I said, forcing my muscles to relax. He already thought of me as weak. I didn't need to give him more reason to patronize me.

Finally we stopped. We stood outside a closed door, similar to many we had already passed, but voices came from the other side. The Brother knocked.

A deep voice answered. "Enter."

The room inside was dimly lit, an old, repurposed wine cellar. Standing at a low table strewn with papers were two men. One, an old nobleman with a long gray beard, I recognized as Baron Ilya Sergeyevich. Out of the country when Miroslav ascended to the throne, he hadn't been involved in Borislav's failed rebellion, although I'd heard rumors that he favored Borislav over his brother.

Next to the baron stood a man I'd never seen before, but his bearing and black hair and beard were identical to statues and paintings I'd seen of Tsar Fima. There was no doubt in my mind that this man was Fima's heir, that he carried the Blood of Otets in his veins. This was Borislav, the true tsar of Inzhria.

I bowed low, and Han said, "Your majesty, my lord, I present to you your loyal servant, my wife Lyudmila Dmitrievna."

The tsar stepped forward and took my hand. "Your husband told me of the trials you've recently faced, Lyudmila Dmitrievna. You have my deepest sympathies for your loss. If it were in my power, I would erase the injustices done to you and restore your child."

My throat tightened as I looked into his dark eyes, crinkled with sympathy and reflecting my grief. Tears filled my own eyes, and the tsar handed me a handkerchief.

Crying in front of the tsar. I must have looked every bit as weak as Han thought me. "Forgive me, your majesty." My voice was strangely hoarse. I wiped my eyes and tried to hand back the handkerchief, but the tsar closed my hand around it.

"There is nothing to forgive. You've suffered so much in the years since my brother came to the throne. If I could ease your pain, I would. Alas, all I can promise is to give you justice."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Thank you, your majesty."

"Your husband told me of your bravery following the battle at Barbezht. You must be the strongest of all my subjects, to overcome what you have."

"Bravery?" I didn't understand. Nothing I'd done in the past few weeks could be considered brave.

"To nurse a defeated soldier back to health, to marry him, knowing the difficulties you would face. To align yourself with someone called a traitor, despite the stigma it would bring you. And more recently, to survive the trauma you have and not let it break you." A sad smile played on his lips.

I didn't feel brave. I'd been cut down to raw rage and grief. But if this fury was bravery, I would channel it. During the last uprising, I'd sat at home waiting for news. I wouldn't do that again. "We're with you all the way, your majesty. Whatever it takes to bring you to the throne, my husband and I will be there."

Han put his hand on my shoulder. When I glanced up at him, pride and concern mingled in his eyes. I looked quickly away.

"My cause can only be helped by an ally such as yourself, Lyudmila Dmitrievna. In fact…" He paused, glancing at Baron Ilya. "I was just speaking to the baron of you before your arrival. We have a proposal for the two of you, but it's best if we discuss it over dinner. Ilya has made accommodations for the two of you. Please, stay with us tonight. We can dine together and discuss our plans at that time."

A muscle flickered in Han's jaw. He wasn't pleased with this turn of events. A proposal from the tsar was an honor for him, but if he could, he'd be happy to lock me away to keep me safe. Still, he wouldn't refuse an invitation from the tsar. He bowed. "Thank you, your majesty."

The tsar took my hand and pressed a kiss to it. "We will speak again at dinner, Lyudmila Dmitrievna. Han Aleksandrovich." He extended his left hand and shook Han's. "Thank you for returning, and for bringing your wife. I look forward to seeing you again soon."

***

Han

Baron Ilya led us out of the tunnels, directly into his castle, where a tall manservant in simple gray livery waited. "Our guests," he told the servant, who didn't blink at the strangers appearing from underground with his master. "Please see that they're well taken care of." To us, he added, "I ask that you remain in this wing for the duration of your stay. For your own safety, and for the tsar's."

"We will, my lord."

As the manservant left us alone in the guest suite, a large sitting room opening into a comfortable bedroom, I watched Mila. Her posture was tense, not inviting conversation. A bookshelf stretched along one wall; she went to it and selected a large book titled Made of Stone: How the existence of the Drakra race reveals Otets' plan for humanity. She took a seat by the window and began reading—or at least staring at the book. Her eyes didn't seem to be moving, and though I waited for several minutes, she didn't turn the page.

I wanted to go to her, to tear the book from her hands and insist she talk to me, but it wouldn't do any good. She'd walled herself off from me since the day we lost our son, and I didn't know how to bring us back together. She hid her pain from me, blanketing it in anger and aggression.

And now she wanted to help bring Borislav to the throne.

I didn't begrudge her the desire to support our tsar, but I couldn't bear to see her in danger again. Borislav's journey to the throne would be the death of hundreds, possibly thousands. It was worth it—of course it was worth it—but I couldn't let Mila face that.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.

Her head jerked up from the book. "Tell you what?"

"Why didn't you tell me that you wanted to help?" I closed the distance between us, reaching for her hand. "Shouldn't I have had some say?" I didn't want to control her, just protect her.

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't pull away. "What would you have said? That it's too dangerous? That I should stay home and wait for news like last time? I have as much a right as you to fight for what we lost."

"If you think I wouldn't do anything possible to change things, Mila—" I shook my head. "Revenge against the men who hurt you isn't going to bring our son back. I don't want to see you in danger."

She jerked her hand from mine. "I'm not looking for revenge. I'm looking for justice. And not just against the men who attacked me, but against the tsar who allowed it. Miroslav did this to me just as much as those soldiers did."

"Do you think—" I broke off. I didn't want to know the answer.

"What?"

I shouldn't have spoken. "Nothing. Nevermind."

"Tell me." Her face was carefully blank of emotion.

I let out a deep breath. "Do you think I'm not hurting as much as you? Do you think I don't mourn him enough?"

"What? No! Of course not."

She didn't quite meet my eyes as she said it, though. A vise tightened around my heart. "By the Blood, Mila. You do. Or," I paused. "Do you blame me for it?"

"Blame you?" Her voice grew shrill. "Did you attack me? Did you kill our son?"

I sank down onto the stool at her feet. "I didn't do it, but I didn't do anything to stop it, either. What if they were there because of the fight Yakov and I had in the city?"

"They weren't." She was firm. Whatever had happened, whatever horrors she still refused to tell me about, had been enough to convince her the two events were unrelated.

A knock at the door interrupted, and the manservant from earlier peeked in. "Dinner is ready, if you'll follow me."

I took a deep breath as I stood, trying to compose myself. I offered Mila my arm, but she walked past me. Whether she had missed my offer or deliberately ignored me, I didn't know. I brushed at an imaginary spot on my shirt and followed her, hoping it was the former.

The wing of the castle we were in was empty. The servant led us down a short hall and into a small dining room, simply furnished with only a table and chairs. The tsar and the baron were already seated.

"Please, be seated," the baron said as we bowed. "Thank you for joining us. I'm sure you understand the need for discretion—we don't want to draw attention to the tsar's presence—but I hope you will make free in your use of my private wing of the castle. Only my most trusted servants come here, and my wife, so there's no risk of discovery."

I bowed my head. "We're most grateful, my lord."

"It's I who am grateful." The baron's wrinkled white face was solemn. "Your service at Barbezht fills me with shame that I was not there to render similar service."

"We've discussed this many times, Ilya," the tsar cut in. "Otets designed your absence. If not for you, I would have been captured after the battle. And had you been able to openly support me in the beginning, you wouldn't be here today to pave the way for my victory."

"As you say, your majesty." Baron Ilya pinched his lips together as though he didn't agree, but the servants entered the room then. They carried fragrant trays of roast duck, stewed beets, and fresh-baked bread.

Once our plates were filled, the tsar lifted up his hands. "Pray with me, friends." He bowed his head. "Otets, great father who gives food alike to the wicked and the good, we ask that you would bless these gifts to our nourishment and grant us victory over the wicked who would seek to do us harm. Grant your blessings to your chosen Firstborn of the Sanctioned, and lead us to follow the mandates handed down to us by Witness, Steward, and Prophet. Let it be."

"Let it be," we echoed.

"Now, Han," Tsar Borislav said as we began eating, "the baron and I were speaking before your arrival this morning about you and your fellow survivors of Barbezht. The tsardom owes you a debt we can never repay, but I would like to try. Following my ascension to the throne, I intend to ennoble all the survivors of Barbezht in recompense for your losses and in return for your support in the coming conflict."

My mouth dropped open. Ennoble? He would make wounded soldiers, convicted traitors members of his court? "Your majesty, I—I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing, friend. It's no more than your due, and probably far less than that, by the time this is all finished."

I stared at the man sitting across from me, his eyes wide with sincerity. "I'm honored, but what possible benefit could a handful of cripples be to your cause?"

I heard the hiss of Mila's breath, but the tsar just smiled. "You underestimate yourself, Han. True, there are few of you, but who could be more important to me than those who have been my supporters since the beginning? And there could be no one more resourceful than the man who has lost a hand. Boris Stepanovich has made a living here in Tsebol. You and the young man you saved—I believe you said his name was Yakov?—have farmed the land the past five years. All three of you have shown great strength of character after Barbezht, and you will have learned things from the last uprising that I did not. You may not be able to wield a sword, but wars are not won primarily on the battlefield.

I looked down at my plate, my head swimming. "Your majesty is too kind."

"Not in the least." His smile turned rueful. "My motives are not all so pure as that. Grateful as I am for you and your fellow survivors and for your support, there are other reasons for my generosity."

I looked back up, an eyebrow raised in question.

"My brother alienated many of his supporters when he chose to maim unarmed men who had offered him their surrender. I don't wish to repeat his mistakes. By rewarding those who Miroslav punished, I can win the support of those he lost. True, most of them aren't of the noble class, but when I win the heart of the lower classes, I will have won the tsardom.

"I also wish to have a survivor of Barbezht present with me as a reminder not to repeat my brother's mistakes. I will have to be ruthless on the battlefield, and at times I will have to be ruthless off it, but I would not estrange myself from loyal supporters by administering cruel punishments to defeated enemies. Having one of my brother's victims constantly at hand, I hope, will keep me humble.

"So you see, Han, I am not the paragon of virtue you would paint me. A gift from a tsar is never truly generous; there's always a hidden agenda."

The tsar's motives sounded more noble with the explanation than without. "Your majesty, you are more worthy of the throne than I ever thought. Your motives do you credit.I would be honored to be a noble in your court, and as I vowed yesterday, you have my service, whatever you would ask of me."

Borislav listed his glass in recognition, then turned to Mila. "But Lyudmila Dmitrievna, you will think me remiss for my lack of attention. Don't think that because I ask for your husband's service that you've been forgotten."

"Not at all, your majesty." She smiled at him, the expression more sincere than any she'd worn in weeks. Was she pleased by his offer? She'd make a wonderful noblewoman. Marya Ivanovna would have been apoplectic with joy, I thought with a twinge of grief. "And please, call me Mila."

My lips twitched in an approximation of a smile. She hated her name. The only one who ever called her Lyudmila, rather than Mila, was her mother.

"Mila, then. Your husband tells me you were trained as a seamstress?"

She nodded, pushing her barely-touched plate back. "My mother wanted me to join her practice. I married Han instead, and she and my brother moved east."

"Ilya Sergeyevich and I have been working to place an informant in my brother's court, and an opportunity has arisen that you are perfectly suited for."

My chest tightened, and I gripped the edge of the table. He wanted to send Mila to court? She'd be in as much danger as if she were on a battlefield, if not more.

Mila's face showed surprise, rather than fear. "I'm honored, your majesty, but isn't there someone better suited for the position? Even my husband—" She broke off as Borislav shook his head, smiling.

"Han's missing hand makes him too conspicuous and marks him as one of my former supporters. My magic is strong, mistress, but even I cannot grow body parts where there are none. And the position requires certain talents your husband lacks."

"What would I be doing?"

She couldn't be considering this. I tried to catch her eyes, but she was fixated on the tsar, face screwed up in contemplation.

"There is an opening at court for a seamstress. Lady Heli, Lord Ilya's wife, was asked to make a recommendation. You would have a room and freedom to come and go throughout the city. A member of the lower classes at court has opportunities to hear things nobles cannot, and while Lord Ilya and Lady Heli have servants they trust, Miroslav is watching their household carefully. As a trade worker, you would not be a member of their household, and as such you would not be as strictly observed."

I could see by the expression on Mila's face that she wanted to accept the offer. She had no idea the danger she was putting herself in. If she was caught, Miroslav wouldn't spare her just because she was a woman. She'd be tortured, executed. I had to stop her. "Your majesty, while my wife has many gifts, she has no experience as a spy. How would she know what to do? What sort of information to listen for?"

She scowled at me, but the tsar nodded thoughtfully. "A reasonable question. She would have contacts at court—Lord Ilya's household, primarily—to help guide her. She would perform all the regular duties of a seamstress and to pass on anything learned in the course of those duties." He looked at Mila. "We have others in place who could do the more dangerous tasks of infiltrating heavily guarded areas or stealing sensitive documents. What we need from you is the appearance of neutrality, of being a trade worker with no particular loyalties, in order to overhear important news that might be passed through the women of court."

"How long would I be gone?"

My chest tightened. She couldn't leave. I placed my arm on her leg, but she ignored me as the baron answered.

"No more than a few months. I've been summoned to court. We leave in a week."

"We will, of course, extract you before marching on the city, should that become necessary," the tsar said.

The assurance wasn't comforting. If anything, I felt worse. Sending my wife into an enemy court, a court that might soon be the site of a battle for the kingdom? "But, your majesty, what would I tell people about her absence? Our servants would be concerned, to say nothing of our friends and neighbors."

"While I by no means wish to compound your personal tragedies, Han, if your wife consents to take this position, your journey to Tsebol this week provides a most convenient reason for her absence." Seeing our uncomprehending looks, he added, "Moon Fever. There's been a rash of cases in the city recently."

The horrid fever was named for the speed at which it killed. People woke healthy in the morning, and by the time the moon rose, they were dead. I stared at the tsar, struck dumb.

"To…pretend I died?"

Mila's expression matched my own, I was gratified to see. Maybe she would see sense after all.

"Not necessarily," the tsar said. "Han Aleksandrovich can spread the news that you contracted the fever during your visit to Tsebol, and once you survived the first night, your husband chose to have you sent east to recover fully." Survival of Moon Fever was rare, but if anyone survived the first night, they could make a full recovery, although their healing took months. "There's a hospital near the Spider Mountains where a team of Blood Bastards is studying the disease in hopes of finding a cure. You can explain to your friends that due to the nature of the hospital, she won't be able to receive visitors or communicate with anyone.

"Mila's absence would also provide a reasonable excuse for yours, Han." The tsar shared an inscrutable look with Lord Ilya. "With Ilya gone to court, I need someone to assist me. I've already told you of my desire to have a survivor of Barbezht with me. I can think of no one better to help me raise my army."

All thoughts left my mind. "Me?"

The tsar nodded.

"But what about Boris Stepanovich?"

"Boris Stepanovich prefers to work from the shadows. He'll remain here in Tsebol. But you, Han, you sought me out. Your story of life under my brother's rule, the trials you've faced, can inspire others to join me. I want you to help raise my army."

I swallowed. This was too much to process at once. "I'm honored, your majesty. May we have time to consider your offers?"

Mila cut in. "There's no need. We would be proud to assist your majesty in any way possible."

I caught her eye and held it. She was firm, mouth a tight line. I knew I would never be able to convince her otherwise.

"We are yours to command," she said.

The tsar raised his glass. "To my newest recruits: may Otets grant us swift success and expedient justice."

I raised my glass with the others, but my mind was in turmoil. I sat in silence, allowing the conversation to flow around me as talk turned to lighter subjects.

As we finished dining, the tsar turned to us again.

"Ilya Sergeyevich will leave for court on the first of the week. Mila, you will need to spend that time here preparing, of course. Han, in the morning you can journey home to ensure everything is taken care of during your absence. Tell whoever you must about the Fever and that you are going to stay near the hospital until your wife is well enough to return home. As soon as your business is finished, you can return here."

This was all happening too quickly. We had one night together. One last night, and then we would be separated for who knew how many months. My throat tightened.

The tsar rose. "Mila, if you would attend me in a short while, I would be most grateful. At your leisure, of course. I'm sure the two of you would like some time to talk."