2. Five Years Later

Chapter two

Five Years Later

Han

" G oing to be a hot day," I said to no one in particular. It was just past dawn, but already the smells of dirt and sweat mingled in the air.

"Can't handle the heat, old man? If it's too much, I'm sure you can take the day off."

I cast a withering look at the freckled face of Yakov Aleksandrovich, my tenant and best friend. "And miss the chance to make you buy me a drink? Not a chance. First to the end of the row, as usual?"

Pyotr Vasilievich, an older tenant with red-brown skin and a forked gray beard, shook his head. "I remember the days when the landowner was a man of dignity. He didn't stoop to childish competition with his tenants."

"But it's so much more fun this way." I grinned at him as I buckled the sickle to my wrist. "Ready?" I asked Yakov, who had finished buckling the sickle to his own wrist.

"Go."

We swung the blades with practiced ease, letting the wheat fall to the ground. Some of the younger boys who lived on the land trailed behind us, gathering the fallen stalks and binding them into sheaves.

As I worked, my mind wandered back to the battle at Barbezht and the night I first met Yakov. I had taken it on myself to see Yakov home alive and safe—or as safe as could be expected for a marked traitor with a dangerous wound. After tending to our injuries as best we could, the two of us, we'd made our way home together.

On our return to Selyik, I'd brought the boy into my home. My fiancée, Mila—now my wife—and Yakov's mother had nursed us back to health. As owner of a large farm with several tenancies, I'd offered Yakov and his mother a house and a field on my land. In the five years since the battle, we'd learned to live without our sword hands, and we'd developed a friendship from our shared tragedy and the work we'd done to overcome it. Yakov had grown, too, until I no longer considered him a child to be protected, but an equal.

An equal who was going to win our competition. I swung my blade faster.

"Keep up, old man," Yakov tossed over his shoulder.

"‘Old man.'" I scoffed. "Twenty-eight isn't old to anyone but children. Which, I suppose, you are. Maybe you should be gathering the wheat instead of cutting it."

The heat and grueling work made conversation difficult, so we worked in silence to the end of the row.

Yakov, finishing first, wiped sweat from his brow and reached for his water skin. "You owe me a drink."

"Day's not over yet," I replied. "Most rows by the end of the day? I'll throw in one of Marya Ivanovna's apple pirozhki if you win."

"Deal."

By midday we were tied, a whole row ahead of the rest of the men. A loud, clanging bell rang, signaling the dinner break, and everyone dropped their sickles where they stood. I unbuckled the belt around my own sickle, rubbing where the leather had chafed my skin. I'd have to ask Mila for some of her salve later.

Yakov shot me a grin. "Tired yet?"

"Not really." I was exhausted and sore, but I wouldn't admit that to him, just as I knew he wouldn't admit how much the red skin around his wrist pained him. "You?"

"Better than them." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the rest of the men.

Yegor Miloshovich, a tenant since my grandfather had owned the land, furrowed his brow and frowned at us. "Not all of us are as young as you two."

"But you have twice as many hands as us," Yakov said.

Pyotr Vasilievich snorted. "And what good is that, when the sickle only needs one hand? Or none, apparently," he added, nodding at my arm. "No, this work was made for young people. It doesn't cause you as much pain to be in the field all day."

Kyril Kyrilovich, my steward, stood in the shade of the trees near the field as we approached. "Does it matter who works hardest, so long as the work gets done?"

"Yes," Yakov and I said in unison.

The steward shook his head, smiling with fatherly affection. He'd been my father's steward before mine, and he had known me from childhood. "The water bucket's freshly filled. We'll take a half hour."

I took a seat in the shade and lifted the cloth on top of my dinner basket. Marya Ivanovna, our housekeeper, had overpacked it, as usual. Smoked fish, black bread, and enough apple pirozhki for everyone. I passed around the pirozhki, to a chorus of approbation.

"Mary Ivanovna's making her apple pirog for the harvest feast next week, right?" Yakov spoke through a mouthful of food.

"She always does. You'll have to fight Mila if you want to get any, though. She's been craving apples, and you know how she feels about sweet things." I grinned. Despite the fact that my wife was six months pregnant, I had no doubt that she could beat Yakov in a fight, especially if he came between her and her food.

Yakov turned to Yegor Miloshovich, who sat a few feet away, deep in discussion with Kyril Kyrilovich. "What's your son's wife making for the feast?"

Pyotr laughed. "Don't you think of anything but food, boy?"

I frowned at Kyril and Yegor, who hadn't looked up at Yakov's question. "What has you two so serious?"

Yegor's dark face was grim, the wrinkles streaked with dust. "The soldiers in Tsebol."

"Ah." The tsar had stationed a large portion of his new standing army in the nearby city, and they had been a source of constant trouble for the locals. "Any news?"

Kyril shook his head. "No, and I hear they're getting restless."

"Restless." Yakov spat on the ground. "That's just how these shits are. They think the world belongs to them just because they won the war."

Yegor Miloshovish pursed his lips. He'd chosen not to fight—with the baron out of the country, our region hadn't been called to arms—but he was a traditionalist, of the opinion that the oldest son should inherit, no matter how cruel or incompetent that son may be, or how close in age the next son was. I didn't agree; Borislav, the tsar for whom I'd lost my hand, had been only a couple hours younger than his twin brother Miroslav, and both kinder and more competent. Their father obviously agreed. On his deathbed, the previous tsar had named Borislav his heir, leading to the war which had culminated in Borislav's death on the field at Barbezht.

But the war was over now, and there was no need to cause tension over past battles. "Have the soldiers done something lately?" I asked, hoping to forestall an argument—or worse—between Yakov and Yegor. Yakov was quick to take offense and quicker to respond with his fist. Despite his age, Yegor could most likely hold his own in a fight, but I preferred not to have to deal with the consequences, no matter who won.

"They burned down a cooper's shop over his head two days ago," Kyril Kyrilovich said.

"Bastards!" Yakov swore. "What for?"

Kyril shrugged. "Rumors being what they are, it's hard to say, but I heard he'd refused to let them use his daughters for entertainment."

I shuddered. The soldiers were growing bolder. I said a silent prayer to Otets that they would leave soon.

"I'd have killed them with my bare hands for that," Yakov said, clenching his fist. His light, freckled skin was red with anger.

"You've only got one hand, durachok." I elbowed him in the ribs, then fixed him with a stern look. "We'd best pray you don't meet the tsar's men. You'd get yourself hanged for fighting them."

Yakov ignored me. "What does Miroslav want a standing army for, anyway? The war's over."

Yegor picked up a piece of grass and chewed on the end. "Probably planning to drive out the Drakra once and for all." The previous tsar had waged several wars against the Drakra, a race of gray-skinned people living in the east, and it would come as no surprise if Miroslav continued his father's crusade. "Either that, or there's a foreign threat we haven't heard about."

"I doubt that," Kyril said. "He's always been paranoid. Remember when he fled the country, thinking his father was going to have him assassinated? He's probably built the whole army for another one of his delusions."

"That story's nothing but fiction, made up by Borislav's followers in order to discredit the rightful heir to the throne."

"Oh!" Pyotr Vasilievich let out an awkward laugh. "Speaking of stories, you'll never believe the tale Ulyana's betrothed told us the other day."

Grateful for the change in topic, I leaned back against the tree and glanced at him. "Is she getting married? I hadn't heard."

Pyotr's chest puffed out with pride. "To a baker in Tsebol, Konstantin Anatolyevich. He's a good man." He winked at me. "A bit of a gossip, though, and places too much stock in rumors. He told us Borislav was alive."

"Da, I saw Borislav at the inn last week. He decided being tsar wasn't the job for him, so he's working as a blacksmith." Yakov rolled his eyes. "Where'd he hear nonsense like that?"

"Some friend of his. Another survivor of Barbezht." He nodded at me and Yakov in acknowledgment. "All nonsense, of course."

"Borislav died at Barbezht," I said. "We would have fought to the very last man if we'd thought he survived. Nearly did, in fact."

A solemn silence fell over us at the mention of the massacre. I took a deep breath, blocking out the memories of that awful day.

After a moment, Kyril Kyrilovich stood and stretched. "The wheat won't harvest itself. Best get back to work." He picked up the bell and clanged it, calling everyone back. We rose, abandoning talk of soldiers and politics in favor of the backbreaking work of the harvest.

***

Mila

I followed the fragrant smell of roasting chicken through the house, my hand resting on my swollen stomach. Half the afternoon had disappeared while I was napping; the new life growing inside me sapped all my energy, and Marya Ivanovna had finally insisted I lie down and rest before Han returned from the day's harvest. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror; despite my nap, dark circles bruised the warm brown skin beneath my eyes. When would the exhaustion finally end? Never, if what Anna and Marya Ivanovna told me was correct. I sighed and walked on down the hall, leaving the mirror behind me.

At the entrance to the dining room, I nearly collided with Han. He'd just come from the field, I could see from the dust and sweat that covered his face and neck, darkening his naturally brown skin.

"There you are!" He swept me into a kiss, heedless of my clean clothes. "How are you feeling?" he asked, tucking a stray lock of hair beneath my simple kokoshnik, the pointed headdress I wore.

"Mm." I pulled back, my lips tingling from his kiss. "You're in a good mood."

He grinned. "I won."

I rolled my eyes, hiding a smile. Han and Yakov could turn anything into a competition. It didn't matter to either of them who won—though they'd vehemently insist otherwise—but the challenge was good for them. They kept each other sharp. Having each other to compete with kept them from dwelling on what they'd lost in the war.

I brushed a bit of dirt from the tight black curls on top of his head. "What does he owe you this time?"

"A week's worth of drinks. I think I'll take him to Tsebol with me, make him pay while we're there."

"Are you sure you can keep out of trouble?" I teased. "I don't think I trust you two alone in the city."

He waved me off. "We'll be fine. I can keep him from doing anything too impulsive."

"And who's going to keep you from it?" I asked, a hand on my hip.

He grinned, leaning in to whisper in my ear. "You'll just have to make sure I'm too tired to get into any trouble while I'm gone."

"You're incorrigible." I laughed, rolling my eyes again. "Aren't you too tired from the harvest?"

"Too tired for you? Never." He pulled me close and nuzzled my ear.

"Not now, Han." I pushed him away. "I'm starving!"

He sighed. "I suppose I can wait a couple hours."

I pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "Go clean up. Supper should be ready soon."

I stepped into the dining room, where Anna Ilinychna, Yakov's mother and my closest friend, was setting the final dishes on the table. She was dressed in her second-best sarafan, the rich green of the dress setting of the pink tones in her light skin and the blue-green colors in her eyes.

"You'll have Marya Ivanovna in a fit," I said. The housekeeper was a stickler for ceremony. Anna and Yakov were staying with us for the week of the harvest, and Marya Ivanovna refused to let them help with any of the household chores.

"Yes, she was in the process of scolding me when Kyril Kyrilovich stepped into the kitchen. I took advantage of her distraction."

I laughed, taking a seat at the foot of the table. "I'm sure you'll hear about that later."

"Evening, Mama. Mila." Yakov came into the room and took a seat, immediately reaching for a piece of rye bread. His mother swatted his hand.

"Wait for blessing!" She sat down next to him, shaking her head. "I swear, you're worse than a Drakra sometimes."

Han came in as she spoke. "Who's worse than a Drakra?"

"My son," she said, scowling at Yakov.

"Ah." Han took a seat across from me and snatched a piece of bread as well, taking a bite. "I completely agree."

"And you!" She pointed an accusing finger at him.

Han set the piece of bread down on his plate, looking abashed. "My apologies, Anna."

"Blessing," she said. "Then you may eat."

Han took a drink, then bowed his head. "Divine Otets, we ask you to bless the food and drink of your children, given to us by your gracious bounty. So shall it be."

"Let it be," we responded.

As we finished praying, Marya Ivanovna bustled into the room carrying a roast chicken. Her lips were tight with disapproval, and I had to smother a laugh as I caught Anna's eye.

We were silent as we filled our plates and mouths. Marya Ivanovna had had the foresight to prepare extra food in anticipation of the men's increased appetite. And my own, I realized, serving myself a generous helping of chicken.

"How was the harvest today?" I asked Yakov, watching him spoon a third serving of stewed beets onto his plate.

His freckled face darkened as Han laughed. "I didn't eat enough breakfast. I'd have beaten him otherwise."

Han chucked a chicken bone at his head. It bounced off, landing on the table. Yakov tossed it back, and it clattered to the floor.

"Boys!" Anna scolded. "Can we not have a peaceful meal without the two of you throwing things at each other?"

"Han started it," Yakov said, as Han ducked his head and started shoveling food into his mouth. Anna and I shared a wry smile.

When we had finished eating, Han stood and stretched. "I should head to bed. Another early day tomorrow." He offered me his hand. "Milochka?"

I hesitated. "I slept half the afternoon. I ought to get some work done." It was too late for gardening, but I still had the baby's gowns to finish. I could sew by candlelight.

Marya Ivanovna came into the room just in time to hear my remark. "You'll do no such thing!" she scolded. "Up to all hours of the night, and with child, no less! I'll hear nothing of it. Head you to bed and rest yourself. I've enough to do without worrying you'll overwork yourself."

I knew better than to argue with the motherly housekeeper. I didn't object as she shooed me out of the room and up the stairs with Han.

"I'm really not tired," I said as we reached our bedroom. "There's no sense in me going to bed. I slept until supper."

He caught me by the waist and kicked the door closed. "Well, if you're not tired…" he whispered, looking at me with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Marya Ivanovna wouldn't approve, you know," I whispered back. "‘A gentle lady subjected to such goings-on when she ought to be resting! And with child, no less!'"

He trailed kisses along my jaw, sending a rush of warmth through me. "‘Such goings-on?' Well, if Marya Ivanovna wouldn't approve, we shouldn't." He untied my apron and let it fall to the floor, kissing further down my neck.

He knew how to make me melt with a single touch. "That's not fair." My voice came out breathy as he tugged at the string of my skirt. In a moment, the skirt joined my apron. The room was cool, and I wore only my long shirt and kokoshnik, but my skin radiated heat. He guided me to the bed and untied the ribbon that fastened my kokoshnik, setting the headdress on the bedside table. Then he unbraided my hair and combed the tangles out, each touch lingering.

Once my hair fanned over my shoulders in long, black curls, he pressed a kiss to my shoulder, letting his hand trail down to the hem of my shirt. He caressed the swell of my stomach—I said a silent prayer of thanks that the baby was restful for the moment—and moved to my swollen, sensitive breasts. Letting out a whimper of need, I turned and wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing my lips to his.

***

Some time later, we lay together in bed, breathing hard. A trickle of sweat rolled down my stomach, and I pulled away from Han's sweltering touch, fanning myself with a hand.

"Warm, are you?"

I glared at him. "Well, it's certainly not my fault if I am."

He touched a finger to the tiny black freckle at the corner of my eye, then trailed a path down my cheek. "Yes, it is. Your fault for being so beautiful." I rolled my eyes, and he laughed as he went to the window and opened it. "Better?"

The slight breeze that came through the room was divine. I laid my head back and sighed. "Much."

"Good." Han sat down on the bed and ran his fingers through my hair.

The combination of the breeze and his touch was almost enough to lull me to sleep. I closed my eyes. "Was there any interesting news in the field today?"

"Not really." His voice was tight, though. I opened one eye, looking up at him in question. He sighed. "More problems with the soldiers in Tsebol."

"I wish you wouldn't go next week." After the harvest, he'd travel to the city to sell the wheat. His missing hand marked him as a survivor of the battle at Barbezht, and I wouldn't put it past any of the soldiers to target him because of it.

"I've been going to Tsebol my whole life, Milochka. This isn't any different."

"It hasn't been crawling with soldiers your whole life, though." All the news about unrest in the city had me on edge. I wished we could do all our business in nearby Selyik, but the harvest wouldn't sell well in our small hometown.

"It will be fine," he soothed. "No one's going to look twice at a farmer in the crowds."

I caught his hand in mine. "Just be careful, da?"

"I will." He pressed a kiss to my hand. "I have too much to come home for."

"And Yakov?"

"I'll keep him out of trouble."

"Hm." I wasn't sure I believed him. Yakov was more likely to draw Han into trouble than Han was to keep him out of it.

He squeezed my hand. "We'll be fine, dorogusha."

"I—oh!" My words were lost as the baby kicked me, hard. I placed Han's hand where I'd felt the movement.

The scar on his head, a remnant of his first battle, wrinkled as he frowned in concentration. We sat in silence for a moment, until the kick came again.

Han's eyes widened. "Was that him?"

"That was him." I smiled. "I think you woke him up."

He stared at his hand on my stomach, his eyes bright. "My son," he said, his tone wondering.

Typical. "Our son."

"Our son," he agreed. "Or daughter."

"No, definitely a son. I've got a feeling." The baby kicked again, slightly lower, and I shifted his hand.

"I'll be happy either way." He pulled me onto his lap and pressed a kiss to my lips. "As long as I have the two of you."