35. Survivor of Barbezht

Chapter thirty-five

Survivor of Barbezht

Mila

I shifted the bag over my shoulder, hoping my nerves didn't show on my face. I'd been summoned to the Tsarina's Tower to meet both the tsarina and dowager tsarina. I hadn't received any commissions from them yet, but this was my opportunity to make connections. There were bound to be secrets shared within the tsarina's quarters that weren't shared elsewhere. Information I could pass along to Tsar Borislav and his army.

I'd seen the tsarina and grand duchesses on occasion during my time at court, but the dowager tsarina rarely left the Tsarina's Tower. As I approached the ornate golden doors that marked the entrance to the tower, I tried to picture the dowager's face. Miroslav and Tsar Borislav were so different. Which one took after their mother?

The guards standing at attention near the doors let me in, and a footman led me up a narrow flight of marble stairs. At the first landing, the chatter of women's voices came from behind another set of doors, these white with gilded scrollwork along the edges. The footman knocked, then opened the door.

"Sofia Stepanova, the seamstress," he said, bowing to the two women seated on a low purple settee.

The dowager tsarina looked me up and down as the footman left. She had light skin and hazel eyes, and her round cheeks were pink. She looked nothing like her sons, save for her regal bearing. Tsarina Desislava, Miroslav's wife, sat next to her, hands folded demurely in her lap.

I made a low bow and held it.

After a moment, the dowager tsarina said, "You may rise."

I stood, noting the other women in the room. The grand duchesses, Miroslav's young daughters, were nowhere to be seen, but I recognized several noblewomen seated around the room, sipping hot drinks from delicate white cups. Princess Alisa, a simpering smile on her face, sat near the tsarinas, and I did my best not to cringe at the sight of her. Hateful woman. I'd worked for her on several occasions, and not once had I heard a kind word leave her lips.

"I had intended to commission you for a betrothal dress for my eldest granddaughter," the dowager tsarina began, "but it appears that won't be necessary after all. Still, there's no sense in wasting your talents nor our time. I would like to see your designs. I was quite taken with our cousin Alisa's latest dress."

A duchess tittered. "Yes, it was quite wrong of you, princess, to keep the seamstress's talents all to yourself!"

"I could have died over the ermine trim," a countess said.

"Lay everything out." The dowager waved a hand toward an empty table.

I took my design book out and placed it in front of the tsarinas. As I began laying out my fabric samples on the table the dowager had indicated, two noblewomen approached.

"Did you hear about the battle outside of Sevken?" one of them asked the other in a low voice.

"It's all over the palace," the other replied. "I heard the Survivor of Barbezht fought."

I went cold, nearly dropping the cloth in my hands. A survivor of Barbezht? They'd all been killed. Alexey had said they'd all been killed.

Maybe they were talking about someone who fought for Miroslav at Brbezht. But why would they call him a survivor? That term had been reserved for the rebels, the dozen or so men who had survived the decimation of Borislav's troops. Miroslav's men had never been called survivors of Barbezht.

If Alexey had been wrong, if one of the men from Barbezht was still alive… I fought to remain calm. Was it Han? Yakov?

I couldn't give myself away by asking questions. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from demanding answers from the whispering countesses that stood perusing the table of fabrics.

Princess Alisa, thankfully, couldn't stand being left out of any conversation. "What are the two of you muttering about back there?"

They turned to her. "The Survivor of Barbezht, princess," one said.

The dowager tsarina scoffed. "Traitorous scum. I cannot fathom why anyone cares about him at all."

"I expect it's the scar," one of the duchesses said. "I saw the broadsheets. It does lend him a certain air of mystery."

A scar. Sweat broke out over my body. Han?

One of the countesses lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I heard Borislav gave him a new hand, made from wood and magicked to function like a real hand."

"Borislav did no such thing," the dowager snapped. "His Gifts of the Blood are mediocre at best. He couldn't give someone a new hand."

A scarred Survivor of Barbezht. The room seemed to swim around me. That could have been anyone. It didn't have to be Han. But still… He was fighting for Borislav.

I had to know. Swallowing, I focused my attention on the fabrics I was arranging and willed my voice to be calm. "Survivor of Barbezht? I thought they'd all been killed."

Silence fell, and I cursed myself. Servants and trade workers were to be silent in the presence of royalty unless spoken to. I shouldn't have drawn attention to myself.

But I needed to know if Han was alive. If my husband was alive.

After a moment, Tsarina Desislava answered. "It appears at least one evaded capture."

"Yes, and he's made quite the name for himself," another noblewoman said. "I hear he was the one who made the Drakra alliance."

"I thought that was Prince Radomir."

"No, Radomir's been heading the campaign."

The conversation turned to Prince Radomir's movements as my head spun. A survivor of Barbezht.

I had to know, had to discover the man's name. If it was Han, if he was alive…

What would I do?

*****

By the time the tsarinas released me, I barely had time to dash across the palace grounds to meet Alexey for my daily training session.

He frowned t me as I rushed in. "You're late."

"I was working," I snapped. I tossed my coat into a corner and dropped into position. I wasn't in the mood to talk. There was too much on my mind.

He didn't push, just moved into a fighting stance as well, a wooden dagger in his hand. This week, we were focusing on disarming. As he'd told me, I wouldn't always have a weapon. I needed to be able to take down my enemy without one.

He lunged, and I dodged, aiming for his legs, as he'd taught me.

In an instant, he had me pinned, the dagger to my throat. My heart raced, but not with fear. I shook him off and stood. "Again."

He raised a brow but nodded, leaning back into a crouch.

Again he lunged, again I dodged, and again he pinned me.

He stood, holding out a hand to help me up. "Where's your head, Sofia? You're not even trying."

"Nowhere. I'm fine." I flicked my braid back over my shoulder. "Do it again. I'll get it this time."

He overpowered me three more times before finally stepping back, hands up. "I think we're done for the day."

"What?" I scrambled to my feet. "I'm fine. I can keep going."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're obviously distracted. I'm not working with you like this." He took my hand. In an instant, he transformed from the hard-faced trainer to my gentle lover. "It's alright, my sun. We can take the night off. You've been working hard. You deserve a break." He brushed his thumb over my cheek.

I sighed. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

"Anything you want to talk about?"

I started to shake my head but thought better of it. I wanted answers, and of everyone I knew, he was the most likely to have them. "I was called to the Tsarina's Tower today."

"Oh?" He leaned against the wall, giving me space. "I'd have thought that was a good thing."

"It was." For Sofia the seamstress, it was wonderful. For Mila the spy, it should have been, as well. "I got several new commissions."

He grinned. "I'm proud of you. But what's wrong?"

I leaned against the wall next to him. "I don't know. Some of the noblewomen were talking about the recent battles." I glanced sideways at him, picking at my sleeve. "They kept talking about some of the men fighting for Borislav. It…set me on edge."

"Did they mention names?"

"Just one. Well, a title. ‘The Survivor of Barbezht.' I thought you said everyone from Barbezht had been killed?" I looked up at him, searching his face for the slightest reaction.

He studied me for a moment, likely remembering how I'd responded the day he told me about the slaughter. After a moment, he let out a long breath. "Han Antonovich, the so-called Survivor of Barbezht. Apparently he was already with Borislav before the tsar arrested the remaining survivors."

The blood drained from my face. Han was alive.

He went on, oblivious to my racing heart. "He's high in the Grand Duke's army, which is likely why the tsar couldn't get to him. Apparently he negotiated an alliance with the Drakra." He paused. "You look worried, my sun."

Control. I had to get myself under control. I swallowed. "The war—everything about it worries me." Not a lie.

He drew me into an embrace. "I'm sorry I haven't ended it yet."

I choked on a strained laugh. He'd said something similar before that first battle, when I'd been so afraid for Han. And I'd told him… "I believe you have an inflated sense of self-importance, sir."

He brushed a kiss to my forehead, and the tender touch soothed the ache in my heart. "Anything to ease your mind." He picked up my coat and draped it around my shoulders. "Come. You've had a busy day. You should rest."

As we walked back to my quarters, I clung to his arm, needing the contact to ground me. The large workroom was cold and dark, but Alexey soon had a fire roaring. He turned to me, eyes glazed with desire.

"You're so beautiful." He pulled me into the bedroom

Tears blurred my vision as he sat on the bed and drew me onto his lap. I didn't deserve him. All this time, I'd been falling in love with him, and my husband had still been out there. I didn't deserve either of them.

Alexey wiped the tears from my eyes. "Shh, my sun. I have you. You're safe."

"That's not—I just can't tonight."

"Then we won't." He rubbed my back. "Whatever you need."

"Hold me?"

"Always."

We lay down, and I rested my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. He held me until we both fell asleep.

In the middle of the night, a twinge in my stomach woke me. I sat up, extricated myself from Alexey's arms, and rubbed my eyes. The pain was familiar, and it came with a sinking feeling. In the dim light of the fire, I reached for the rags I kept nearby and wiped between my legs.

Blood.

My courses.

My heart clenched. It should have relieved me, but…

I glanced at Alexey, his dark figure limned with firelight. His breathing was deep and even.

I'd known it wasn't the right time for a child. Not with him, not with me in this body. But I'd wanted to be a mother for so long. That dream had been taken from me, first during the years of infertility, then when my son had died, and finally, when I'd thought Han was dead. Wrong though it might have been, I'd wanted to have that chance again.

Otets, what was wrong with me? My husband was alive, and I was mourning the fact that I wasn't pregnant with another man's child.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn't the right time. He wasn't the right man. And maybe—maybe I wasn't the right woman, either.