Anya and the Nightingale

by Sofiya Pasternack

  Alyosha started after her, but Ilya grabbed his arm. When Alyosha turned to look at Ilya, the older knight shook his head slowly.

  The boyars began to lean close to one another, mumbling questions.

  The tsar looked between where his daughter had vanished and the now-empty seat she had left behind. “Ah,” he said with a laugh. “She’s so overwhelmed with gratitude! And so excited to start a new life as a wife and mother!”

  Anya winced. She had known Vasilisa for mere hours, but even she knew that being a wife and mother was the last thing the princess wanted to do.

  The tsar motioned for the bogatyri to sit, and someone slid into the seat across from Anya. When she turned to give a nervous smile to whoever it was, she recognized the pink scar beside his left eye.

  “Misha.” Anya was surprised at how glad she was to see him.

  He smiled. “I’m glad you came.”

  Anya said, “Where did the princess go?”

  Misha pressed his lips together for a second. “Probably to stab something.”

  Anya nodded. That was the vibe she’d gotten as well. It was probably good that Ilya had stopped Alyosha from following. She nodded toward the tsar’s table, where the bogatyri sat. “That’s the ‘idiot’ she was talking about earlier, right?”

  “Yep,” Misha sighed. “Alyosha Popovich. Vasya—Vasilisa is . . . not fond of him. The first time they met, he broke her favorite sword. Bent it right in half. I think he was trying to impress her. She got angry instead. He refused to apologize. She’s refused to speak to him since.” He shook his head wearily.

  Anya nodded along with him and reached for the cabbage stew. Misha stopped talking so he could put his hand out, covering the bowl. When Anya glared at him, he smiled weakly.

  “They use pork fat as a base,” he said.

  Anya sucked in a sharp breath and whispered, “You’re Jewish! I knew it!”

  He blanched. “You what? How?”

  “Vasilisa looked at you when I said I was Jewish,” Anya said. “Just for a second. You were both too surprised.”

  “Oh.” He breathed out in relief. “That’s observant. I mean . . . it’s safe here. Pretty safe. Not like other places. Still.” He touched two fingers to his hair above his ear. “Better to be cautious.”

  “And not wear your kippah?” Anya asked.

  “I wear it at home,” Misha said. “Just not here.”

  Anya poked the fish on her plate and raised her eyebrows in a silent question to Misha.

  He shook his head and said, “Fried in pork fat.”

  “What?” Anya groaned. “Is the bread at least safe?”

  He laughed. “So far.”

  Anya scowled and slid the fish away. “So all I can eat is bread?”

  Misha shrugged. “I’m going home for dinner. Do you want to come?”

  Anya held her breath for a second. “I don’t know,” she said. “My friends . . . I don’t want to leave them.”

  “It will only be for a little while,” Misha said. “Please. I know my family would love to meet you.”

  “Why?” Anya asked. They didn’t even know she existed. How could he know they’d love to meet her?

  Misha laughed like she’d made a joke. When she didn’t laugh back, he furrowed his brow. “Because you’re one of us,” he said. “Anyone who’s Jewish is welcome in our home. Especially on Shabbat.”

  Anya had felt an ominous prickle up her spine during the tsar’s speech earlier, and now she felt another prickle. But this one was different. It felt nicer. Warmer. She smiled. “Really?”

  “Of course,” Misha said. He stood and waited expectantly.

  Anya didn’t want to leave Ivan and Håkon behind, but she really wanted to meet Misha’s family. She wouldn’t really be leaving them, she decided. They had each other. They could work out some kind of plan for the Nightingale while she was gone.

  “Hang on,” she said to Misha, and leaned toward where Ivan continued to stuff food into his mouth like his brothers were on their way to take it from him. “Ivan.”

  He looked up at her, cheeks stuffed. “Muh?”

  “I’m going to go eat with Misha.”

  Ivan’s brow furrowed. “Whuh?”

  “He’s Jewish,” Anya said. “None of this food is kosher.” She swept her hand out. “I’m just going for dinner and then I’ll be back.”

  He swallowed frantically. “What about Håkon?”

  “You two will be fine without me,” Anya said. She reached for the bowl of food Ivan had put together. “I’ll drop this off. I need to get a coat, anyway.”

  Ivan looked very sour as Anya and Misha stood. They exited the hall, and Anya stopped. She couldn’t remember which direction the rooms were in.

  Misha did, though. He moved through the halls like he had been there his entire life.

  “So, how . . .” She didn’t know how rude it would be to ask him why he could serve the royal family and be Jewish. “I mean, I thought we. . .” She lowered her voice. “Jews. I thought we couldn’t be in the military.”

  “You wouldn’t be in the military anyway, because you’re a girl,” Misha said with a smile.

  Anya frowned. “Vasilisa is a girl.”

  “Well, yeah,” Misha said. “But she’s not just any girl. She’s the tsar’s only child, and she’ll inherit the kingdom one day. So she gets to do whatever she wants.”

  Except not marry a person she hates, Anya thought. “So is that why you’re in her personal archery detail?” Anya asked. “Because she gets what she wants?”

  He laughed. “Yes, kind of. We used to play together when our fathers would meet. We’re friends now.”

  So he was some sort of noble. A Jewish noble? “Who is your father?”

  Casually, nonchalantly, like it was a totally normal thing to say, Misha said, “The head rabbi of Kiev.”

  Anya’s mouth dried up and her heart thumped faster. “A rabbi?”

  Misha nodded.

  A rabbi. She was going to meet a rabbi. The first rabbi she’d ever met.

  “But why would he meet with the tsar?” Anya asked. “Isn’t he worried that something will happen?”

  “Something did happen,” Misha said. “That’s why he spoke with the tsar in the first place. The tsar was a Slavist up until a few years ago. Then he decided to convert, but not just himself. The whole country. Everyone in Kiev went to the river to be baptized. But my father protested. We had bags and wagons packed just in case. But the tsar seemed fine with our refusal. They used to meet a lot to talk about how to keep Jews and Christians happy with one another.”

  Anya looked at his exposed hair. “But you still don’t wear a kippah?”

  “It never hurts to be cautious,” Misha said.

  Before Anya could say anything else, Misha said, “Where did you come from? The same village as the fool? Or a shtetl close to it?”

  Anya blinked. She had no idea what a shtetl was but felt stupid admitting that to him. “I’m from the same place as Ivan.”

  “Did you ever see the dragon?” Misha asked.

  Anya shook her head, feeling cold inside. “Never.”

  “That’s probably a good thing,” Misha said. “Is that village far?”

  Anya nodded. “North. Ivan says we’re close to Ingria.”

  Misha thought for a few seconds. “That’s really far, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been traveling?” He tugged at the end of his sleeve. “Alone with them this whole time?”

  Anya didn’t want to tell Misha they had been transported in a magical house in a matter of minutes, so she said, “It didn’t seem that long.”

  Misha frowned, clearly not entirely approving.

  “We were safe,” Anya said in an attempt to make his frown go away.

  “I’m sure,” he said, sounding skeptical.

  “They’re my friends,” Anya said. She wasn’t sure why she was trying to justify her friendship with Ivan and Håkon to
Misha. “We’ve been through a lot together. A Varangian came to our village to get the dragon, and he tried to kill us. Ivan and Håkon saved my life.” It was so much more complicated than that, but she couldn’t very well tell Misha the truth.

  Misha’s eyes widened. “Tried to kill you? Why?”

  “He was a bad person.” And she was hiding the dragon from him.

  “What happened to him?”

  Anya’s stomach clenched as Sigurd’s bloody face flashed behind her eyes. “He died.”

  Misha was quiet. “I’m sorry that happened.”

  Anya shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Tell me more about serving in the military,” Anya said.

  Misha laughed before she could continue. “Why? Do you want to join?”

  “No,” Anya said. “I just find it interesting. A Jewish man being allowed to serve.”

  Misha nodded. “Ah yes. I’m something of a rarity.”

  “What makes you so special?” Anya asked. “You’re friends with the princess?”

  He nodded again. “Yes. Vasya asked for me.” He cast a sideways glance at Anya. “I know she’s mean. She doesn’t have a lot of friends. The tsar and tsarina have been trying for a long time to get her to marry someone, but she’s rejected all of them. She’ll reject Alyosha, too. She says if anyone’s going to rule Kievan Rus’, it will be her. A couple years ago she asked me to teach her archery, and you don’t say no to Vasya. She put me on her detail then. I mean, of course I’m going to be a rabbi. But this is nice for now, and I think she needs me.”

  “Of course?” Anya asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Misha said. “Does your rabbi not have sons?”

  Anya was embarrassed to admit that the only clergyman she’d ever met was the priest, Father Drozdov. “No. I mean, that’s not . . . You don’t have any brothers?”

  Misha shook his head. “Two sisters, both younger. No brothers.”

  “I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” Anya said, and Misha looked very surprised.

  “Why not?”

  Anya shrugged. “I don’t know. I never asked.”

  “That’s unfortunate.” Misha stopped by a familiar door. “This is your friends’ room.”

  Anya knocked on the door and waited for a few seconds before pushing the door open gently. She peered in. Håkon sat on the floor, back against the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. He looked up forlornly as Anya peered in.

  “I forgot how to stand up,” he said.

  She looked at Misha, forced a grin, and said, “Just one minute.” And then she slipped into the room with the bowl and shut the door in his puzzled face.

  With some hoisting and grunting, Anya got Håkon on his feet. He leaned against the bed, face-down on the top, and mumbled, “This body is the worst.”

  “It’s temporary,” Anya said. “We just need to bring the Nightingale here alive, and we can go back to Zmeyreka, and you can go back to . . . being you.”

  His eyes shifted to the door. “Is someone out there?”

  “Yes.” Anya held up the bowl. “Here’s your dinner.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “With Misha,” Anya said.

  Håkon stood up straight. “What? Why?”

  “He’s Jewish.”

  “So?”

  “So?” She snorted. “I’ve never met someone Jewish who isn’t my family.”

  Again, louder, Håkon said, “So?”

  “So,” Anya said forcefully, “I want to know what it’s like for him. For them. He invited me to dinner.”

  “You’re leaving me twice, then?” Håkon said.

  “I didn’t leave you,” Anya said. “Why are you angry?”

  “Because I look like a human being and I still have to hide from everyone,” Håkon said. “That’s my whole life. Håkon, don’t let them see you. Håkon, don’t talk to the villagers. Håkon, the tsar will kill you even though you never did anything wrong.”

  Anya said, “I don’t—”

  “I want to meet him.” Håkon walked unsteadily toward the door. “Is he out here?”

  “Yes,” Anya hurried after him.

  Håkon yanked the door open and almost fell over. Misha startled, eyes wide, but he recovered and said, “Hello.”

  “You’re the archer.” Håkon glowered.

  Misha nodded and held out his hand. “Mikhail. Misha.”

  Håkon examined Misha’s extended hand, then put his out in the same way. “Håkon.” Misha took it and shook, and Håkon ground his teeth together so hard, Anya heard them squeak. She wasn’t sure if that was because everything feels, or if it was because of Misha specifically.

  Misha didn’t seem to notice Håkon pulling his hand away as fast as he could. “Håkon, I’ve got to tell you. You look . . . a lot like the tsarevna.” He laughed.

  Anya’s breath stopped in her throat. Håkon seemed to hold his, too.

  “That’s just remarkable,” Misha said, reaching a hand up. “You’ve even got the same freckles just there.”

  Håkon swatted Misha’s hand away and said, “I’m going to be sick everywhere,” and slammed the door in Misha’s face. He spun to face Anya, which was a bad idea. It caused him to teeter and almost fall. “You’re trying to be friends with him? Why?”

  “Not friends,” Anya said. “I just want to see what it’s like to talk to an actual rabbi.”

  “He’s going to figure it out,” Håkon said. “He’s going to turn me back into a dragon. Maybe he’s the one Lena talked about. The one who would do anything to change me back.”

  “There’s no way,” Anya said.

  “Think about it,” Håkon said. “The princess, in the armory. She said the dragon was very important to her father and to her. That’s me.” His voice shook. “I’m that dragon. I’m very important. If Misha took me to the tsar, he’d probably be rich for the rest of his life.” Håkon jabbed his finger at the door. “He’d kill me, Anya.”

  “He wouldn’t—”

  “He would so.”

  “Only if you looked like a dragon.”

  “I am a dragon!” Håkon snapped, and then looked at the door. Quieter, he said, “If I didn’t look like this”—he motioned at himself—“he’d be trying to drag me to the tsar, and I’d die. Like all the others. Like all the others. He’s not different from the rest of them. He’s not like you and Ivan.”

  “I felt bad taking you to the tsar because I’m Jewish! Because of the Talmud!” Anya said. “And he probably knows it better than I do. I bet he wouldn’t hurt you.”

  Håkon blanched. “Don’t you dare tell him.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “What I am.”

  Anya frowned. “Do you really think I’d tell a stranger about you?”

  “You’re going to go eat dinner with a stranger,” Håkon pointed out.

  “That’s completely different,” Anya said. “Eating dinner is not the same as telling someone a huge secret.”

  “A secret that’s not even yours to tell,” Håkon said.

  Anya put her hands up. “You know what? If you’re going to stand here and be unreasonable, I don’t want to deal with it. I’m going.”

  “Fine,” Håkon grumbled.

  “Fine,” Anya said.

  “Go.”

  “I am.” And she opened the door, stepped out, and slammed it behind her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Misha asked Anya if she was okay, and she yelled that she was, and he didn’t say anything else as she collected a coat from her room. He also didn’t say anything as they walked out of the castle and away from the city’s upper town and into the southern area. Anya could see out of the city, out to the Dnieper and the forest, both tinted orange in the setting sun’s light. The day was starting to pick up a nighttime bite already. They would be cutting it close with Shabbat.

  Misha ran his fingers along the closure seam of his coat, then cleared his throat and said, “I hope your friend is—”


  “I don’t want to talk about him,” Anya snapped in the dimming afternoon light.

  “Okay.” He fidgeted with his coat seam and then said, “Did I make him angry?”

  “He’s feeling sick,” Anya said. “He’s just grumpy in general. It’s not you.” Even though it definitely was Misha. Thinking about it rekindled Anya’s annoyance. Håkon wasn’t her papa. He couldn’t tell her what to do, or who to be friends with. Misha wouldn’t hurt Håkon. If he met him and knew how nice Håkon was, there was no way Misha would hurt him.

  Right?

  Misha smiled. “Oh. Well, good.” He looked skyward. “We’ll get there with plenty of time to spare. My mother is going to kiss your entire face, just so you know. And my sisters—”

  “Wait,” Anya said. “Kiss my entire face?”

  “Yes.” Misha nodded. “And my sisters will not stop talking unless you specifically ask them to. They’re going to want to know everything about you. But you don’t have to tell them. They’re just nosy.”

  “What about your father?” Anya asked.

  Misha shrugged. “He’ll be fine.”

  To Anya, that sounded very ominous.

  They followed a road down the hill Kiev was built on, but they didn’t descend that much. Misha followed the river’s curve north and zigzagged back and forth between tall buildings. Eventually they passed through a gate, and something on the other side changed. It might have been the smells, or the colors of the wood on the doorposts, or the arrangement of the stones on the road. Whatever it was, it felt familiar.

  Misha stopped at a clean wooden door with flowers carved into the doorpost. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded half-circle of cloth; he unfolded it, kissed it, and smoothed it over his hair. A black kippah, smaller on Misha’s head than Papa’s was on his. When Misha opened the door, it swung out rather than in, and just inside the right-hand jamb was a small rectangular box, nailed on a slant above Anya’s head. It was plain, mostly, wood or metal painted blue, but a single Hebrew letter—shin—had been inscribed in gold on the front. Misha touched it as he passed through the door, and Anya’s hand twitched to follow. But she didn’t know what it was, didn’t know if it was special only to his family, so she just balled her fists and marched inside.