15. Idesk

Chapter fifteen

Idesk

Mila

T he white towers of the city wall loomed against the cloudless blue sky. I gaped at the giant gate, twice as tall as the gate to Tsebol. As we rode into the shadow of the wall, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the frigid air.

"Your mouth is hanging open, Fia."

I grinned sheepishly at Izolda. In the two weeks we'd been traveling, I'd grown used to my new identity, including the nickname she insisted on using. "Sorry. It's just so big."

"Wait until you see the palace. It's always been beautiful, but Tsar Miroslav completely renovated it. Huge marble balconies over the ocean, formed by magic—he had all the Sanctioned come to the capital to work on it—and a throne room so ridiculously pretty I can't even begin to describe it."

"It sounds amazing."

She winked. "Once Lady Heli is settled in, I'll give you a tour."

The retinue passed through the gates, and the city rose up before us, narrow streets bustling with people. Vendors hawked their wares, brightly colored Drakra-woven tapestries or fragrant fish pirozhki.

Rather than going down that road, we turned sharply left, onto a wide but comparatively empty road that followed the path of the city wall.

"Where are we going?" I asked Izolda, turning to look back at the busy streets.

"The roads are too narrow for us to get through that way. Big enough to ride if you have to, but only single file. This is the only road to the palace that fits wagons. Guess what they call it?" She grinned. "Telezhnaya Doroga. Wagon Road. Original, right?"

I laughed. "But how does everyone get around? I mean, how do they move things to market and such?"

"Hand carts, mostly. The nobles all ride sedan chairs, if you can believe it." She rolled her eyes. "Thankfully, the baroness doesn't usually leave the palace while we're at court. Sedans are such a pain."

We rounded a corner, and I gasped. The palace ahead of us dwarfed the city below it. The onion-shaped domes of the towers were striped in brilliant blue and red, topped with gold points that glinted in the sun. Two domes reached above the rest, opposite each other and fully gilded. They looked like something from the stories my father used to tell me, like at any moment a bird made of fire might swoop down and perch on top of one of those golden domes, or a sorcerer might come to a window and call down thunder from the sky, turning the brilliant day into darkest night.

"What did I tell you?" Izolda said.

"Prophet's Balls!" I looked at her smug, bloodless face, my eyes wide. "I see what you mean."

A second wall separated the palace from the rest of the city. We rode through the gate into an opulent courtyard of white marble. In the center stood a statue of the Prophet, staff raised high in blessing over Tsar Fima, the founder of the country and ancestor of Miroslav and Borislav. Blood poured from the staff onto the legendary tsar, forming a pool around the feet of the statues. I recoiled.

"It's not real blood," Izolda said, low enough that only I could hear. "Just an enchantment that Miroslav did to the water. Gross, huh?"

Before I could respond, she climbed off her horse to attend to the baroness, who was descending from her carriage. I looked back at the fountain, my skin crawling. Real blood or not, it was disgusting. So much for first impressions.

"Sofia!" The baroness's voice drew my attention from the gruesome image. I hurried to her. "The new seamstress," Lady Heli said to a nearby servant, waving a hand at me.

"If you'll follow me, miss, I'll show you to your quarters. Your luggage will be brought later." The man turned on his heel and walked off.

I grabbed my saddle pack and rushed after him. He didn't wait to see if I followed, and I didn't have time to take in the sights as we made our way through the palace grounds. I had a vague impression of colorful buildings, a large glass structure that might have been a greenhouse, and a lush green courtyard before we reached the much humbler building that housed the trade workers, those who worked in the palace but weren't assigned to any particular noble. He led me into the building and down a dimly lit hall, stopping at the end.

"This will be your room, miss. If you need anything, the trade steward's quarters are down the hall and to your left." He gave a curt bow and left me alone.

The room I'd been assigned was comfortably large. Long tables lined the walls, and a wide window let in plenty of natural light. All that light would be good for work, I noted, but it would come with the consequence of making a frigid workspace through the winter. The room was already cold, thought not unbearably so, but the weather was far from its coldest of the season, and winter was still a couple weeks away. I glanced at the small fireplace. I would have to see what the daily firewood allowance was. Likely not enough to heat the room all day.

The fireplace was unlit, and I could see through it to another room. I went through the door and found a small bedroom with no windows. It was sparsely furnished, with a simple bed and a desk, but there were posts to hang curtains around the bed. This room, at least, would be warmer than the other.

"Fia? You here?" Izolda's voice came from the workroom.

"In here."

She poked her head in and whistled. "Nice rooms."

"You're done early." I cocked my head. "The baroness didn't need you?"

"Nah. She wanted to rest, and since no one's brought up our luggage yet, there wasn't anything for me to do. Care for a tour?"

"Sure." I tossed my pack on the bed and followed Izolda out of the room.

She waved a hand around as we walked out of the building. "These are the gardens."

"How are they still so green?" It was too late in the year for the amount of fresh growth I saw as we passed.

"If you think they're green now, you ought to see them in the summer. As to how, it's all done by Blood Bastards. Miroslav has a whole team of them dedicated just to the upkeep of the grounds. His uncle, Tsar Vyacheslav's illegitimate half-brother, leads them up. They make potions to extend the growing season in the gardens, prevent the stones around the palace from weathering—they even invented a new type of golden paint, one that glints even when the sun isn't out. That's what's covering the towers." She jerked her chin toward the gilded towers above us. "But this is nothing. What I really want to show you is the throne room."

We entered the main palace through a side door and turned down a bright hallway. Windows lined one wall, giving a view of the courtyard I'd seen when we first arrived. I caught a glimpse of the bloody fountain and shuddered, turning away from the windows. The other walls were covered with rich tapestries, depicting religious and secular scenes.

"Most of the nobles are housed on this side of the palace." Izolda stopped in front of a mirror and perused her reflection. "Lord Ilya and Lady Heli are upstairs, third floor. The higher the status, the lower the rooms, and the closeness to the tsar's tower indicates favor, too. The baron and baroness haven't been closer than halfway down the hall since Tsar Vyacheslav died."

Standing behind her, I caught sight of my own reflection. Izolda had spent the journey teaching me how to care for my new, more textured hair, and her lessons seemed to have paid off. The tight rows of braids I'd put in the previous day were still intact, coming together to form a two long braids down my back. I felt a sense of pride in my appearance; even though it wasn't really my body, I felt beautiful living as Sofia.

Izolda finished checking her appearance and walked down the hall, toward two guards standing on either side of an enormous wooden door. As we passed them and rounded the corner, she took my arm. "That's the tsar's tower. You won't have any reason to go in there, but on the opposite side of the palace is the tsarina's tower. You should try to get a commission from the tsarina or the dowager tsarina. It would be a great achievement for your career."

I heard the undertone in her words. She wasn't speaking of my career as a seamstress, fighting for notice among the half-dozen other seamstresses at court, but of my work for Tsar Borislav.

She led me down a servants' corridor and stopped outside a nondescript door. "This, though… This is the best part of the whole palace." She swung the door open with a dramatic flair.

My breath caught in my throat as we stepped inside. Enormous white pillars lined the room, and on the far end of the hall to my left was an alcove covered with stained glass windows. The vaulted ceiling was the color of the night sky, and its golden stars twinkled in the light from the windows. The throne, on a raised dais at the end of the hall, was made of pure gold and cushioned with blue velvet.

"They say Tsar Fima himself built that throne," Izolda whispered reverently. "He cast a spell so only the rightful Heir of the Sanctioned could be seated on it."

"Do you believe that?" I matched her whisper, unwilling to break the spell the room had cast.

As she shook her head, grinning, the main doors to the hall opened, and a man stepped in. I froze as he caught sight of us. I would have recognized him anywhere, the orange hair and beard, the narrow eyes in his large red face.

The lord of Arick. The man who killed my son.

"What are you doing in here?" he demanded, his voice low and sharp.

"I beg your pardon, my lord." Izolda bobbed a bow. "This is the new seamstress. I was showing her around the palace."

He scowled. "The throne room is not for gawking. Be on your way."

"Yes, my lord." She stepped back toward the servants' entrance, but I remained rooted to the spot, my chest so tight I couldn't breathe. Murderer. Murderer.

The nobleman walked toward us. "I said, ‘be on your way,'" he growled.

"Fia!" Izolda grabbed my hand.

I flinched at the touch. My breath came back to me all at once. "Apologies, my lord." I ducked my head in imitation of a bow. "I don't know what came over me." I moved to follow my friend, but he blocked my way.

"Have we met?" he asked, stepping too close.

He couldn't recognize me. I wasn't me. I was Sofia Stepanova, a seamstress who had never met him before. "I don't believe so, my lord." I backed away, trying not to smell his rancid breath. I'd smelled that before. Fuck, I was going to vomit. The room spun around me.

"Hm." He peered at me, then took a step back. "Go. And be more cautious about where you find yourself in the future. Others are less forgiving than I am."

"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord." Izolda grabbed my hand and dragged me from the room.

Once we reached the end of the servants' corridor, we stopped. I backed against the wall, eyes closed, drawing shaky breaths.

"What was that about?" she demanded.

I shook my head, not opening my eyes. "Nothing."

"Nothing? ‘Nothing' doesn't make you cry."

I opened my eyes a crack and realized they were filled with tears. I wiped furiously at them and took a deep breath. "He…reminded me of someone."

Izolda looked up and down the hall, and seeing it was clear, stepped closer. "You could have given yourself away back there. If your past is going to be an issue, I need to know. Now."

"I'm fine." I stood up straight, dabbing at my eyes with the long sleeve of my sarafan. "It won't happen again."

"I hope it won't." The words didn't sound like a reprimand.

She looked away, giving me a moment to compose myself. I brushed the wrinkles from my dress. I should have expected to see him. If the tsar had summoned most of the nobles, it stood to reason that the lord of Arick would be at court as well. The shock of seeing him was what had affected me, more than any lingering fear. I wasn't afraid of him. What else could he do to me that he hadn't already done?

When my heart finally stopped beating like a douli drum, I asked what I hoped was a casual voice, "Who was that, anyway?"

"Kazimir Vladimirovich, childhood friend of Tsar Miroslav." She wrinkled her nose. "Now the baron of Arick, by no merit of his own."

Kazimir Vladimirovich. The man who had murdered my child. And he was a friend of the tyrant. I felt a spark of something that resembled satisfaction. It hadn't been the right time to tell Tsar Borislav what had been done to me, but perhaps I didn't need the tsar to make justice for me. I could make it myself.

My body still trembled, but my mind raced with anticipation. I could make him pay for what he'd done and serve my tsar all at once.