14. Raising Support

Chapter fourteen

Raising Support

Han

I picked at the bean-filled glove strapped to my wrist, the disguise for my missing hand. I'd never become accustomed to wearing anything on that arm, no matter how often I'd had to do it, but I was too conspicuous without the glove. The Blood Brothers we traveled with had provided me and the tsar with their red-trimmed white robes, the mark of their order, and with Otets' blessing, we would reach our destination undetected by Miroslav.

The Brothers had taken a vow of poverty, so we journeyed on foot. I longed for my horse, if only to increase our speed. It would take us two days to reach the first town, and nearly a fortnight to reach Prince Radomir's dacha, his country home, where the tsar intended to petition his cousin for support in the upcoming war.

"Does it hurt?" the tsar, walking beside me, asked. I looked askance, and he nodded at the glove.

"Not much." I shrugged. "It'll chafe by tonight. I don't usually wear anything on it for this long, except during the harvest."

"I'm certain one of the brothers will have a salve for you."

"Mila makes salves for me and Yakov during the harvest." After spending the day in the hot sun, it was a relief to come home and let her spread her ointments on my aching muscles. She always smelled like whatever herbs she'd been working with—leckozht and comfrey, garlic and mint. I often teased her that she smelled like a roast dinner. I smiled at the memory.

"A woman of many talents," the tsar said. "Have no fear for your wife. Otets will protect her."

"Yes, your majesty." I believed that, truly, but faith didn't always translate to emotion.

"I believe we should avoid such formalities on the road, Han. First names only, and no bowing or deference. Out in the open as we are, any such behavior could get back to my brother."

"Of course." Many boys had been named for the princes; another Borislav traveling the countryside would not be questioned.

"I pray we are successful with Radomir. If we can persuade him to join us, we should have the numbers needed to campaign openly against my brother."

Prince Radomir, next in line after Borislav, commanded the loyalty of nearly a third of the country. Without him, this war was doomed before it even began.

Borislav sighed. "I must admit, it hurts my pride to depend so much on others to plead my case."

I skirted a puddle left by the overnight rain. "My father used to say a good leader knew when to let others take the lead."

"Your father was a wise man. And your mother, does she still live?"

"She died giving birth to me."

"Ah." The tsar's face crinkled with sympathy. "So you have no siblings?"

"My father had three daughters with his first wife, but we've never been close. My mother was the same age as my oldest sister, and they were all three married before I was born."

"And your wife? Does she have any family?"

This section of the road was heavily rutted, forcing me to watch where I stepped as I answered. "Her father and younger sister died of Moon Fever years ago. Her mother lives with Mila's older brother and his wife and children near the East Mountains." Another reason I shouldn't have let Mila go. Dobromila Nikolaevna hated me; if she found out I'd allowed her daughter to go to court as a spy against Tsar Miroslav, she'd probably arrange a gruesome death for me. I wouldn't put anything past her.

"A pity they live so far away," the tsar said. "It must cause her pain."

"Her mother is a…difficult woman. I think Mila would be more pained if they lived closer."

"Ah. I can understand the sentiment. My own mother is similarly difficult. Though I hope your wife's mother has never attempted to have her killed?" He raised a brow in question.

I choked on a laugh. "No, I can't say she has. Nor me, despite her dislike of me and disapproval of our marriage." I considered the tsar before looking ahead at the Blood Brothers talking amongst themselves. "Did your mother truly try to kill you? I thought that was a rumor." I'd heard the tsarina—now dowager tsarina—had attempted to have Borislav assassinated when she heard that her husband favored him for the succession. The throne typically passed to the eldest son, but given that Miroslav was only older by a few hours, the question had been raised by the tsar's advisors as to whether Borislav was better suited to the task.

"True, unfortunately." The tsar took out his water pouch and raised it. "To difficult mothers."

***

We reached our destination early afternoon on the second day. The Brothers had arranged housing for us in the temple, and a number of men from the town had been invited to the temple that evening, ostensibly to discuss a repair of the roof.

"The first test of your skills, Han," the tsar said when our host informed us of the meeting. "I will await your return."

Borislav wouldn't attend the meeting, for his protection. The Brothers were confident that the men they had invited would be open to joining the rebellion, but it wasn't worth the risk of betrayal. If I was captured, my life was in danger, but if Borislav was captured, the whole rebellion would be over before it began in earnest. If pressed, I was to indicate that the tsar was raising support in the east.

That evening, I sat in the corner of a small room in the temple as locals trickled in alone or in pairs. They were as widely varied as any town I'd seen. A bespectacled man with dark skin and short, coiled hair was, I assumed, a lawyer. He entered with a fair-skinned, yellow-haired man whose muscles and scars indicated he was the village smith. A small group with dirt on their clothes from a day's hard work came in laughing, followed by a harried-looking man whose fingers were stained with ink. The first few men gave me a curious look, but once the room began to fill up, they mostly ignored me, talking among themselves.

"Heard your wife's expecting again. What is this, number twelve?"

"Get that plow fixed?"

"Saw your oldest in the market last week. How long until the wedding?"

I tapped my foot impatiently. Why didn't we start already? Ages passed before the Blood Brother finally stood in front of the room.

"Welcome, brothers, in the name of Otets." The chatter died down as everyone turned their attention to the priest. "We are gathered here to honor our tsar."

A murmur of dissent ran through the assembled crowd. The Brother raised his hand.

"Yes, to honor our tsar, for that is his due as the Heir of the Sanctioned. A firstborn son, a father's heir, deserves the respect of his brothers, and we are all brothers of the tsar, children of our creator Otets."

A trickle of sweat ran down my back. Had Tsar Borislav been duped into taking a supporter of Miroslav into his circle? This man, this priest, was calling for loyalty to the man responsible for the loss of my hand, for the army that ran roughshod over the country, hurting and killing at will. He was calling for honor toward the monster responsible for the death of my son. I trembled with anger, watching as the Brother paced in front of the muttering crowd.

"Our tsar has done no great crime, done nothing to forfeit our honor. He has not sacrificed his position as Heir. After all, which of you would disinherit your firstborn for such minor infractions as our tsar has committed?" He stopped in front of a stout bald man. "Would you, Abram, disinherit Mikhail for the murder of his brothers? Or you, Nikolai," he gestured at another man, "would you disinherit Ivan for the mere offense of letting his friends make free with your daughters? Does an heir not have the right to treat other sons and daughters how he pleases?" He stared the men down, daring them to answer.

I leapt to my feet, unable to listen to another word. "No." All eyes turned to me, but my gaze, cloudy with rage, was fixed on the traitor Blood Brother standing at the front of the room. "No, he does not. And I won't stand here listening to you make excuses for that bastard who—"

"Just so." The Brother cut me off with a nod. "An heir's duty is to care for his brothers and sisters. When he becomes a danger to the other children, he no longer has claim to the rights and privileges of an heir. Brother, has our tsar not forfeited the title of Heir of the Sanctioned?"

The men shouted in unison. "Da!"

"Has our tsar not committed atrocities against the brothers and sisters Otets has charged him to protect?"

"Da!"

"I tell you now, until Miroslav repents and makes restitution for the crimes he has committed, he is no tsar of mine!"

A cheer went up, but the Blood Brother raised his hands for silence.

"We have a brother here who wishes to speak to you of Miroslav's crimes. Han Antonovich, may Otets bless your words." He took a seat in the crowd.

I walked to the front of the room, uncomfortably aware of the eyes on me. "My—" My voice broke. I cleared my throat and began again.

"My name is Han Antonovich. I come from Selyik, and Miroslav has cost me my brothers in arms, my reputation, my hand, and my child."

The room was silent. I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart.

"Most of the men in my town did not fight in the uprising. You know that with the baron out of the country, our region was not called to arms for either tsar. Some of the Selyik men chose to fight for Miroslav. I, along with my childhood friend Benedikt, fought for Borislav.

"You already know how the last uprising ended. After a few losses, Miroslav brought foreign mercenaries to Inzhria. He killed nearly every one of Borislav's soldiers. I narrowly survived, as did my friend. The survivors were rounded up and told to swear allegiance."

I saw tears in the eyes of some of the men. Who had they lost? Barbezht had touched everyone in the tsardom in some way. Some regions were more affected than others; those that had declared for Miroslav were almost completely unscathed, while others lost an entire generation of young men. Judging by the ages of the men before me, this town had suffered relatively few losses.

"Miroslav told us Tsar Borislav was dead. He promised us mercy if we would surrender to him. Benedikt, my friend, rejected the chance to surrender, and Miroslav turned the Gifts of the Sanctioned against him. He burned my friend to death." The scent of burning flesh came to me, and I clenched my fist, nails digging into my palms to bring me back to the present moment.

"With these options before us, we knelt, expecting the mercy promised to us. Instead, Miroslav ordered his men to cut off our sword hands." I lifted my maimed arm, no longer hidden by the glove, for them to see. "I bear a permanent reminder of Miroslav's mercy." I heard the bitterness in my own voice as I spat out the last word. None of the men moved, but I saw pity and disgust mingling on their faces.

"Most of the survivors died of their wounds. Only a handful of us made it home. I thought that having survived the war, I had made it through the worst of it. I mourned the death of Tsar Borislav. I recovered from my injuries. I found a way to live without my hand. As a survivor of Barbezht, I was branded a traitor, but I pressed on. I married a strong, beautiful woman who refused to let me give in to despair. We built a life together. For a short time, we were happy.

"But Miroslav wasn't content with defeating his brother. Inzhria wasn't enough for him. He wants an empire, and to build it, he's formed an army." A few of the men nodded their agreement. "He took idle, cruel men and gave them authority to do whatever they wanted.

"In my small town with my newly pregnant wife, I assumed we were safe from Miroslav's standing army. We heard news of crimes committed by the soldiers, but they were far enough from us, I thought we would remain untouched. They would leave the region soon, I was sure, to build the tsar's new empire. But they didn't leave.

"While I was away from home one day, a few deserters, some of the violent men Miroslav couldn't keep control over, came to my house. My wife was at home with our housekeeper." The room was deadly silent, as though no one dared to breathe. I was barely breathing myself. "They killed our housekeeper and beat my wife nearly to death. They murdered our unborn son."

My eyes filled with tears, and I struggled to force the words out. "Because of Miroslav, I lost everything. I could have surrendered to despair. I wanted to, but Otets guided me. He showed me His plan for the tsardom. He led me to Borislav."

A wave of whispered confusion swept through the room. One man in the back spoke up over the murmurs. "Borislav is dead, sir."

"I thought so, too, but he is not. Through a miracle, he survived Barbezht, and he's returned to take his rightful place as Heir of the Sanctioned."

A clamor of voices broke out as everyone vied to speak at once.

"Brothers!" The priest stood, shouting over everyone. "Let Han Antonovich finish speaking."

The room quieted. I looked around, meeting a few suspicious gazes. "I understand this is hard to believe. I didn't believe it myself until I met the tsar. But I assure you, he is alive, and he will guide the country back onto the path Otets revealed for Inzhria through the Prophet. I ask you, brothers, to join us. Gather your weapons, be prepared, and in a few weeks the tsar will call for you. He will gather his army, and you can see him for yourselves. We will take back the tsardom from Miroslav." I paused, letting my words sink in. "Will you join us?"

There was silence for a moment. A sallow-skinned man stood. "I will, sir."

Another man followed him, his long black coils of hair swaying with the movement. "As will I."

In a moment, everyone was on their feet. My chest swelled as their declarations of allegiance rang through the room.