30. Discontent

Chapter thirty

Discontent

Han

A gnawing sense of dread filled my stomach. Yakov had woken without complaint—for possibly the first time in his life—to join me for breakfast, but I hadn't been able to make myself eat. Not with Matvey Il'ich's execution fast approaching. I wanted, needed, to be a friendly face at the man's death, having failed to convince the tsar to commute his sentence.

At least Yakov had agreed to go with me.

As we left the castle grounds, I saw a crowd had already gathered around the gallows that had been built outside the gates. I'd hoped Il'ich would be spared the cruel, jeering crowds that often attended executions. I'd never been to one, but I had heard execution spectators could be vicious.

The crowd was silent as still as the predawn sky, though. Il'ich wasn't there yet. He wouldn't be. The arrival of the condemned was a punishment in itself. I saw a few familiar faces, mostly men from Il'ich's unit. Fyodor Yakovlevich gave me a tight nod.

The sun had just peeked over the horizon when the tsar arrived, followed by Prince Radomir. Both of their faces were set. The tsar's held grim determination, while Radomir's held resignation.

From the castle gate came the steady clopping of hooves. The crowd turned as one toward the sound, and my stomach clenched.

Matvey Il'ich, wearing only a long, white linen shirt, was tied by the wrists to the saddle of a horse, stumbling behind it. Two guards followed it. As they exited the gate, the executioner, who held the horse's lead, dropped it and smacked the beast's flank. It broke into a trot. Il'ich raced after it. Stumbled. Fell.

The horse dragged him the rest of the distance to the gallows.

No sound came from the observing crowd when the guards lifted Il'ich to his feet. Scratches streaked his body, but he matched the crowd's silence. A guard released him from the horse, leaving his hands still bound together, and led him up to the gallows.

The executioner placed a noose around his neck, and the tsar spoke in a cold voice. "Do you have any final words, Matvey Il'ich?"

My chest tightened. Why hadn't I tried harder to convince the tsar? Surely there was something I could have done.

"I have betrayed my tsar, my country, and Otets." Il'ich's voice was clear, though thick with emotion. "I have betrayed the trust of the men who served under me, and I have risked countless lives. I deserve this punishment, and I hold no anger toward any of you." His gaze swept the crowd, resting momentarily on me. "I ask that you consider my debt to you paid with my death and forgive me. And for those of you that have that power, I beg you to have mercy on my sons."

Prince Radomir spoke. "The Witness reminds us that, ‘In an abundance of care for His children, the Father ordained death for the evildoers. But though the Father is just, He is also merciful. If the condemned man be truly repentant, he will not be punished in the life to come.'"

The prince's words soothed some of the tension in Matvey Il'ich's face, and he closed his eyes. His lips moved in silent prayer. Then he looked at Borislav. "I rest my spirit in the hands of Otets. May He bless you, my tsar."

The tsar nodded at the executioner, and the trapdoor swung open. Il'ich dangled in the air, legs swinging wildly. By design, the distance hadn't been enough to snap his neck, and he clawed at the noose with his bound hands. The air left my own lungs as I watched. I could practically feel the noose about my neck, as though I hung next to him.

After what felt like an eternity, the executioner cut him loose. He fell to the ground, limp but still conscious—barely. The guards hauled him into a sitting position as the executioner approached, a large, curved knife in his hand. Il'ich opened his mouth in a silent plea, his eyes bulging.

With the first slice, I looked away. I couldn't watch as they disemboweled him. Yakov hadn't moved, but as Il'ich's innards splattered, he leaned over and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

Trying to block out the sound of the slaughter, I watched the crowd. Several of them looked as nauseous as Yakov. The only unmoved observer was the tsar, who stood silent and expressionless, his hands by his side. Even Radomir looked slightly green beneath his dark beard.

I risked a glance at the gallows but immediately wished I hadn't. Il'ich's body—I assumed the man was dead by now, as he wasn't moving—lay prone on the snow, his stomach and groin like raw mincemeat, with entrails spilling out. The executioner had just begun the process of hacking the body into four pieces.

"How can you watch this?" Yakov muttered.

I glanced at my friend. His skin was pallid, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Even his freckles had paled. "I'm not."

There was another squelching sound, and Yakov doubled over again, retching.

Finally, mercifully, the process was done. The tsar turned away as the guards tossed the disassembled body into a wheelbarrow. Still the crowd didn't move, as silent as the early moments of a Prophet's Day service. The tsar and his cousin walked back to the castle, but only once they had disappeared through the gate did the onlookers begin to disperse.

Yakov and I were the last to leave. He wiped his face with his sleeve as the body—what was left of it, at least—was carted away to be scattered for the crows.

"I thought Barbezht was bad," Yakov said as we, too, finally left. "This was so much worse than anything we saw there."

The smell of roasting flesh and the sound of Benedikt's screams filled my mind. I wasn't sure this had been worse, but it certainly wasn't better.

Borislav was supposed to be better.

Rather than returning to the castle, we headed for the camp surrounding it. I hadn't seen most of the men since our return, and I wanted to gauge the mood in the camp for myself. Between Miroslav's threat, the desertions, and the numerous executions, I didn't expect it to be good.

Despite the early hour, the camp was busy. Men, seated outside their tents, sharpened swords and axes and repaired leather armor. The clash of steel rang out somewhere out of sight as others honed their battle skills, and the smell of campfire smoke mingled with the scent of various breakfasts.

In front of one such campfire, we found Konstantin Anatolyevich, the baker from Tsebol, stirring a small iron pot. He offered a wide grin and waved us over.

"Han! How are you?"

I forced myself to return the smile. "Morning, Kostya. You remember Yakov?"

"Of course, of course. Won't you join me for breakfast?" He gestured for us to take a seat. "Nothing so nice as fresh-baked bread from my baker, but war has its consequences." He chuckled at his own joke.

I glanced at Yakov, whose face was still green. "No, thank you. We've eaten."

"What brings you to the camp so early?"

I grimaced. "We went to the execution."

Kostya's cheerful pink face turned grim. "Ah. Awful business, one of the tsar's commanders betraying him like that."

I nodded once. The reasons behind Il'ich's betrayal must not have circulated through camp yet. "I hear it's been a difficult few weeks."

"I think a lot of us are worried for our families, with Miroslav's latest edict. I told Ulyana to stay with her family while I'm gone. I hope Mila Dmitrievna is safe?"

"As safe as she can be." I didn't meet the baker's eyes. The ember of resentment toward my wife flared up in my chest again, but I forced it back down. This wasn't the time or the place to be thinking about her. "I hope your family remains out of danger. The tsar is doing everything he can to end this war soon, so you can return to them." I patted the big man on the shoulder. "Enjoy your breakfast, Kostya."

We walked on through the camp, stopping every so often to talk. The men were courteous, but I could tell they were worried. They executions weighed heavily on us, as did Miroslav's order. After our fifth stop, I turned to Yakov.

"I'm concerned about how restless they're becoming."

He stopped, leaning against a tent pole. "They're worried about their families. Can you blame them?"

I shook my head. "I'd already been going out of my mind thinking about Mila. And now I'm thinking about your mama, too. But with the rash of desertions, and now all these executions… I'm afraid if we stay here too long, we'll have more deserters. The tsar can't execute everyone."

The flap of the tent swung open, and we both jumped. Lada peered out at us, wiping her hands on her apron. "You do know these tents are made of cloth, da?" She rolled her eyes. "If you're going to gossip like old women, at least do it in here."

We followed her into the infirmary tent. Cots lined the walls, and tables in the middle held numerous bottles, some filled with potions, others empty. She pointed us each to a seat. "I assume you can work while you talk?" She didn't wait for us to answer before handing us both a large bunch of herbs. "Strip the leaves off and put them on the table over there." She picked up her pestle and began grinding something in the mortar.

Yakov and I shared a wide-eyed look and began doing as she commanded. "She's as bad as Mila," he muttered.

"So." She blew a loose strand of hair out of her face. "What were you saying about the desertions?"

"Just that I'm worried if we stay here too long, we'll have more."

She nodded. "My father says there's no plan in place for our next offensive. He's worried we'll lose the advantage if we don't leave soon." Her eyes flicked to Yakov. "You look pale. Something wrong? Or is the early hour making you sick?"

"Went to the execution," he grunted.

"Bit squeamish, are you? Here, this'll settle your stomach." She poured a cup of water and added a few drops of potion to it. He sniffed at it before taking a drink.

"Thanks."

Lada turned to me. "What about you? Did you lose your stomach like Matvey Il'ich did this morning?"

I shook my head, frowning at the poor joke.

"Oh, don't give me that look. You're as bad as my father." She turned back to her mortar and began grinding again. "The world's full of gruesome things. I've seen my fair share. If you don't laugh at it, you'll cry, and I'd rather not cry. So don't judge my gallows humor, Han."

The color in Yakov's cheeks was returning. "What's in this?" he asked, taking another drink of the potion.

She winked at him. "Blood Bastards' secret. If I share it with outsiders, I'll be executed myself."

He blinked, as if unsure if she was telling the truth. I wasn't sure, either.

"Of course, if you worked for me, I might be able to share some of my secrets. Not the sacred ones, but some of the skills I've learned."

Yakov looked to me and back to her, brows furrowed. "Work for you?" He waved his hand around the tent. "Here?"

"Why not? I know neither of you will be in any of the battles, so you might as well be useful somewhere. Han's busy with the tsar, but you don't have any other duties, do you?"

He frowned at her. "You mean helping in the infirmary? Fetching water, cutting linens for bandages, and such?" She nodded. "Isn't that women's work?"

I slowly edged back as she whirled on him. I'd seen that look often enough on Mila's face to know when to get out of the way.

"‘Women's work?' Keeping your sorry asses alive is ‘women's work?'" She glared at him, waving her pestle under his nose. "Sure, it is women's work, if by that you mean sewing off gangrenous limbs, setting bones, and sitting next to dying men so they're not alone when they say their last words." Her eyes narrowed. "I thought you might appreciate having something to do now that we're back with the army, but if you'd rather mope around waiting for a more manly task to come along, be my guest."

"I just remembered the tsar was expecting me," I lied. "I'll find you later, Yakov. Lada." Ignoring the glare he shot at me, I disappeared through the tent flap.

So much for spending the day at camp. I wanted to be far away from the impending storm between those two. I walked back to the castle. The tsar was walking across the entrance hall, and he waved me over.

"Ah, Han. I hoped we would have a chance to talk today. Will you walk with me?"

"Of course, your majesty."

Borislav led me through the doors I'd just entered and into the castle courtyard. "How was the adjustment for you?" At my questioning look, he nodded at my arm. "Going from two hands to one."

"Difficult," I admitted. "I never enjoyed writing, but learning to write again was awful. Mila made me learn, but most of my correspondence is—was—handled by my steward. I had to relearn how to handle an ax, a sickle, a spoon." I gave a wry grin. "For the first year, Yakov and I spent all day training with tools, and all night Mila harangued us about pens and spoons."

The tsar smiled. "Your wife is a treasure. But what about swords? I can't imagine a man like you accepting the fact that you'd never hold a sword again."

Was I so transparent? "We trained a bit, with sticks and the like. Yakov and I, I mean. But no one would sell us a sword after Barbezht, and it's hard to learn to swordfight without one."

We stopped outside the castle smithy. "And if you could fight again?" he asked.

I frowned, confused. "I made my vow to you, your majesty. If I could, of course I would fight for you. But I doubt I could learn to fight again with one hand. Not in time to be of any use."

Borislav pushed open the smithy door. A wave of heat and the smell of coal greeted us.

"Your majesty!" The blacksmith wiped his sooty hands on his apron and picked up a package. "I have it here."

"Ah, thank you." The tsar took the package and handed it to me. "You may not be able to fight again with one hand, but what about with two?"

I set the package on the blacksmith's bench and peeled back the paper. I stared at it, trying to process what I was seeing.

Before me on the bench was an iron hand.

"Your majesty, it's—" I couldn't finish the sentence. There were no words.

"It's a work of art," the tsar said, beaming. "Try it on!"

I fitted it to my wrist, fumbling with the straps. After a moment, the blacksmith reached over and showed me how to buckle it onto my arm.

"His majesty designed it," the blacksmith said, "and I worked with the saddlemaker in town to put it all together. You can adjust the gears here to move the fingers." He opened and closed the fingers, then had me try.

The tsar smiled. "You'll be able to hold a sword and a pen again. And while it might take some time before you're ready to be on the field again, I'd like you to be one of my commanders, Han."

The offer struck me dumb.

"I have an opening for a captain, and you have an eye for strategy, as well as a natural bent for leadership. The men trust you, and so do I. After recent events, we need someone we can trust. I need someone I can trust."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say yes."

"I—yes, of course!" I placed my hand—my new, iron hand—over my heart. "Your majesty, I told you before, I am your man to the end. I would be honored to command your soldiers."

"Good." The tsar nodded at me. "I believe you have some work to do. Go to the training rings and get yourself reacquainted with a sword. I'll see you at the meeting with the commanders after supper." He turned to the blacksmith and shook the man's hand, unbothered by the grime. "And thank you for such excellent work. You are a blessing to our war efforts."

I ran a finger over my new hand as Borislav left. What would Mila think of this?

It could be months before I would have the opportunity to show her. If we both lived long enough for her to see it. The resentment in my chest blazed up again, and I gritted my teeth. At least now, if—when—she returned, I could protect her. I could keep her safe, rather than allowing her to fight a war I couldn't.

Once she was home, I could make sure she'd never be in danger again.