The Boundless

by Anna Bright

  “Batyuskha,” one of the girls broke in gently.

  Perrault had taught me the Yotne word for father—bat’ka.

  So these were Maximilian’s children.

  But the hertsoh only smirked at the girl, reaching up to pat her on the hand she’d set on the back of his throne. She stiffened and drew back slightly, pressing closer to the sister at her side.

  “I didn’t have much time to study your language,” I said, flushing. “I wish I had. But Hertsoh Maximilian, we’re not trespassers. I believe I’m here at your invitation—I’m Seneschal- Elect Selah of Potomac. I’m here to court Fürst Fritz.”

  The hall was silent but for the drip of water somewhere in a corner.

  Annoyance flashed again across the duke’s face. He nodded to two or three men on the edge of the dais, questioning them in Yotne.

  “No,” Perrault groaned under his breath.

  “What is it?” Cobie asked, shouldering between Perrault and me.

  “Nasha tsarytsya,” one of the men exclaimed, a dark look on his face.

  It required no translation. Alarm bells shrilled through my brain.

  “You are not here at my invitation,” the duke finally said, righting himself in his chair. He scowled. “You are here at hers.”

  No.

  The duke shrugged. “It’s merely a shame the tsarytsya is not here to greet you herself.”

  No.

  Goose bumps rose over my skin, and my limbs shook.

  Lang’s hand met my lower back, obscured by Cobie and Perrault at my side. I felt its warmth through my wet clothes. And still I trembled.

  Perrault and I had warred over traveling to Shvartsval’d, whether my arrival or my avoidance would send my name rising more quickly through the ranks of her administration and into her notice.

  We had not known that my invitation had not come from some adviser of the duke’s. I was here at the tsarytsya’s behest.

  I thought of every fairy tale that warned against giving a witch or a spirit or the fae one’s true name, and tried not to dwell on how easily Alessandra had offered mine up to Baba Yaga herself.

  “Her soldiers may avoid our woods, but Grandmother Wolf never ceases her attempts to meddle,” the hertsoh said, expression ugly. “As it happens, I’m busy with my own marriage preparations, and not interested in playing host. What say you, Fritz?”

  I lifted my gaze beyond the duke and took my first proper look at the hertsoh’s son and daughters standing behind him.

  Fritz was unremarkably good-looking; attractive, but a face I would have forgotten the minute I passed it by. His features were symmetrical, his face pale, his trim figure clad in neutral colors. Tidy, light brown hair was cropped an inch or so short; the eyes beneath his thick brows were nearly the same cool shade.

  Fürst Fritz took in my sopping shoes, my bedraggled hair, and shrugged. He rolled his eyes with an annoyance uncomfortably like his father’s.

  My stomach clenched and dipped again. If Fürst Fritz dismissed me, we would have no excuse to remain, and Lang would never be able to pass the zŏngtŏng’s weapons on to the Waldleute.

  I pressed my lips together and kept my eyes on Fritz, hoping to move him to sympathy without knowing anything about him.

  “She can stay, I suppose,” Fritz finally said. “She doesn’t look like a spy from Stupka-Zamok. Though, if she is not, I don’t know what the tsarytsya could have been thinking to choose her. What a mess she is.” My crew members stiffened beside me—though whether at the cruelty of the comment or how close Fritz hit to the mark, I couldn’t say.

  Fritz’s face was forgettable. But I knew then, as my face burned before the whole of the Shvartsval’d court, that I would never forget the way he’d made me feel in this moment.

  I wanted Cobie to step forward for me again, as she had in Winchester. I wanted to hide behind Lang, to let his warmth burn off some of the cold I felt in this ruined hall.

  Instead, I said, “Thank you,” as if any of this pleased me.

  The duke rubbed his forehead. “We have already supped, and no arrangements have been made for your stay. Your men can bunk where they will—just find a room. You and your lady’s maid will stay with the freinnen, my daughters.” He gestured at the girls standing behind him.

  Cobie cleared her throat but had the restraint not to react to the duke’s assumption that she was a maid.

  “Thank you,” I said again.

  The words tasted sour. I smiled politely anyway.

  “Seneschal-elect,” Perrault began, uncertain; but he didn’t finish his sentence.

  Perrault was my protocol officer. My New York–polished, experience-sharpened etiquette expert and perception manipulator. He had played the chameleon at Asgard and rescued Skop from its king’s wrath.

  My dismay grew chillier at the fear in his eyes.

  I shook myself, straightening and nodding at Perrault. “We’ll bunk with the freinnen and talk tomorrow.” Then I turned to Lang. His canvas jacket was heavy with rain, his dark hair streaming, like mine, into his eyes. “We’ll do whatever needs to be done to make this visit a success.”

  8

  Cobie and I followed the freinnen out of the hall. If I didn’t want Fritz to change his mind and send us away, there didn’t seem to be anything else to do.

  The girls chattered like a flock of birds, darting irritated glances back at Cobie and me as an attendant led us through damp-wallpapered halls. My trunks scraped over the pitted stone and rough wood floors as we scrambled to keep up.

  The castle seemed full of empty spaces: portraits lifted from walls, leaving their pale shadows behind; shelves filled with nothing but dust; crucifixes and relics swept away from what once must have been a chapel. My mind reeled as the queue followed turn after turn, past darkened, barred windows and over mildewed stairs.

  The only direction we seemed reliably to be heading was down, down, deep into the bowels of the castle.

  Finally, the line paused at a door. The girls at its tail—a pair of twins who looked about fourteen—pointedly ignored Cobie and me as we followed them over the room’s threshold, sweating under the weight of my possessions.

  The door slammed as soon as we were inside.

  None of the sisters said anything at the sound of bolts flipping shut behind us. Ten locks, one for each girl.

  Cobie’s jaw was as tight as a steel trap as she stared like a caged animal between the locked door and the ten freinnen. I felt my face pale.

  I dropped my bag on the floor and crouched, head between my knees. My heart beat hard against my chest, as loud as the echoes of the falling dead bolts, as weighty as the gaze of the tsarytsya, present though she was absent.

  I wished for the press of my father’s kiss on my forehead. I wished for Torden’s arms around me. But the tsarytsya knew my name. No one could hide me now.

  “Excuse me,” snapped one of the girls—in English, to my surprise. She nodded sharply at my trunk, blocking her path.

  “Oh—I’m sorry.” I picked it up by its handle, my sweaty palms slipping as I heaved it out of her way, and she sailed past me.

  We were in a long room, its dimensions more like a corridor than a normal bedchamber. A dozen or so beds lined the walls, nearly all covered in stockings and hairbrushes and jewelry; four vanities between them were heaped with beauty products.

  The girls scattered about the room eyed us with suspicion.

  Cobie and I dragged our things toward two beds not strewn with possessions or haloed by the fashion plates and sketches that papered the walls. “We’re locked in here,” I said in a low, tense voice. I’d never been behind a locked door in my life.

  Cobie’s hands shook as she set down her carpetbag. “We’ll figure it out.”

  I sank onto the bed I’d chosen. Dust on its blue counterpane hinted at its long disuse, and its sheets were stiff. This room, at least, smelled clean, not like the mold of the upper halls. But it was nothing like my rooms at home in Potomac or on the Behol
der, nothing like Anya’s treehouse-like quarters in Asgard.

  How could I help Lang from behind a locked door? How would I ever find Hansel and Gretel if I couldn’t search for them?

  And how would I survive, knowing the tsarytsya knew my name and where I would lay my head at night? It had been bad enough risking her attention when I was merely courting suitors; now I was transporting contraband.

  I clenched my fists tight against the anxiety that crept over my skin.

  The freinnen busied themselves picking over cosmetics and pawing through wardrobes full to bursting. Dress forms, too, loitered about like half-clothed guests at a party. One fireplace warmed the room, flames crackling beneath the girls’ whispers.

  No one approached us.

  “I wish I’d studied more Yotne,” I said, suddenly desperate. I was drowning in a sea of mutterings I didn’t understand.

  “They’re not speaking Yotne,” Cobie said quietly, her eyes lit, despite everything. “That’s old Deutsch.”

  I turned my head sharply. “What?”

  “Will’s and my people are all from Lancaster, up in Deutsch migrant country.” Cobie smirked dangerously. “I’m fluent.”

  I wanted to ask her what they were saying. But suddenly one of the freinnen was standing at the foot of my bed.

  “I’m sorry no one welcomed you properly.” Her hair was black and her skin was fair, her figure soft and her blue eyes kind. “I’m Leirauh.”

  She was the one who’d tried to break in while her father spoke. I tried for a smile with little success. “It’s not your fault. I’m Selah, and this is Cobie,” I added. Cobie nodded, mouth frowning, eyes alert.

  “Still.” Another of the freinnen crossed the room, settling her lithe figure gracefully on the tiny bed next to Leirauh. “What an upsetting mix-up.” Though her brown eyes seemed to take in everything about us, she appeared not to notice Leirauh’s sudden tension at her side. “I’m Margarethe,” she said, brushing a strand of waist-length brown hair out of her face with long, deft fingers.

  “Pleasure,” Cobie said coolly. “We’ll survive.”

  “Of course you will,” Leirauh jumped in quickly. Her pale cheeks flushed like feverish roses.

  Margarethe tipped her head to one side, showing the elegant length of her neck. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Wine? The castle makes its own Riesling.”

  I became aware again of how cold I was. “Tea, please,” I said, scrubbing a hand over the goose bumps on my arms.

  “Wine for me.” Suspicion lingered beneath Cobie’s polite tone.

  Locked in, drenched, and unwelcome.

  I ached with the memory of our arrival at Asgard. Of meeting Torden for the first time, of Anya’s immediate embrace, of Valaskjálf’s blazing fires.

  I crouched over my trunk, peeled off my wet clothes, and changed into pajamas, twisting my hair into a knot. A moment later, Margarethe and another girl—light brown–haired and brown-eyed, like Fritz, like Margarethe—crossed the room with our drinks. “I’m Ursula,” she said, passing me a cup of tea. Her arms were long and pale, delicate from shoulder to elbow to wristbone to fingertip. “I hope you like milk and sugar.”

  Grateful despite myself, I nodded, sipping at the warm drink and leaning against my pillow. I wished I could read, or speak to my godmother. But my storybook and my radio were aboard our ship, and the eyes of the freinnen were on me. Watching me, like they were waiting for something.

  Their expectant faces were the last thing I saw before I fell asleep.

  9

  When I woke, my head was pounding, and the castle was quiet as death. I felt like I’d slept for a hundred years.

  I sat up too quickly. The room spun, and I sank back, easing myself down onto my pillow, pressing my fingers into my face. My skull throbbed like a bruise.

  Slowly, slowly, moving only my eyes, I risked a glance at Cobie. She was sprawled out on top of her covers, breathing a sleeper’s heavy breath. The other girls seemed to be asleep as well, though they’d at least made it under the covers.

  Nausea rocked me, my gut pitching like the deck of the Beholder. I scrambled out of bed, searching desperately for chamber pots.

  My stomach was empty, since we’d missed supper. When I finished heaving bile, I rinsed my mouth from a jug of water in the privy. Then I crept to Cobie’s side.

  “Cobie.” Nothing.

  “Cobie,” I whispered more loudly, shaking her by the shoulder.

  She flailed suddenly, hand flying from beneath her pillow, clutching a knife. I flung myself backward to avoid her slashing arm, putting a finger to my lips in the universal gesture for be quiet.

  She blinked at me, bleary-eyed, then pressed a hand to her temple.

  “What happened?” I breathed.

  Cobie shook her head—rapidly at first, then slowly, with a wince. “Don’t know. Could be the wine . . . ?”

  “But I didn’t—” My volume rose, and Cobie shushed me. “But I didn’t have the wine!” I finished in a whisper.

  Cobie turned onto her side and nodded grimly at her goblet, still nearly full of pale Riesling. “I didn’t have much, either, from the looks of it. Not enough to feel like this.”

  I rose too quickly and had to clutch the bed for balance. “We need to talk to the freinnen. They—”

  “Selah, no.” Cobie seized my arm and pulled me back down again.

  My voice was urgent. “Cobie, we have to make sure they’re all right!”

  “Selah.” Her hazel eyes were sharp despite their weary cast. “Who do you think did this to us?”

  I sat back, frowning.

  Cobie watched my face. She saw the moment I realized what had happened.

  I’d heard those ten locks fall closed behind us. We’d been entirely alone, and Cobie and I had felt awake and aware, until Margarethe and Ursula had prepared our drinks and put them in our hands.

  I rose again, anger pumping through my blood, and faced the ten sleeping girls. But Cobie dragged me back once more. “We have to pretend like we don’t know what happened,” she whispered fiercely.

  “Why?” I gritted my teeth. “I want them to know that I know. I’m sick of games. I’m sick of tiptoeing around the people who hurt me.”

  It was a thousand times worse than Lang invading my room; these girls had done something to my body. Had stolen time from me—a whole night. I felt sick, fearful, violated.

  “I know they all lied to you. I know you’re angry at Lang and the rest of them.” Cobie narrowed her eyes, sitting forward, only wincing a little at the pain in her head. “But lashing out at these girls won’t even the score for what the crew did behind your back. Besides, don’t you want to know why they did this?”

  “What do you mean why?” I bit out.

  “If they drugged us, they did it for a reason.” Cobie’s tone was logical, her words slow but not condescending. “But if they think we’re onto them, they’ll be more careful. They’ll close ranks. And we’ll never find out why.” She paused.

  “But?” I prompted her.

  “But if we say nothing,” she said, “they’ll assume we’re fools. It’ll be easier for us to learn what they’re up to.”

  I rubbed my head. “I’m tired of people thinking I’m stupid,” I muttered.

  “Who cares what people think?” Cobie said, incredulous. “Lean into it, if that facade helps you along. Let them think you’re stupid, if foolishness paves your way forward.” She leaned toward me, eyes intent. “You know the truth. We’ll stick together, and we’ll figure this out.”

  It rankled. But she was right. I flopped back on my bed and shut my eyes, and waited.

  Before long, the girls began to stir. I watched them carefully through my lashes.

  Margarethe got up first, yawning and wiping at her eyes. They were smeared with dark makeup, though I hadn’t remembered her wearing kohl the night before. She jumped onto Ursula’s bed, white nightgown fluttering as she bounced and greeted her sister in a singsong voice. Margar
ethe laughed as Ursula swatted at her.

  The others were slower to wake. One of the twins who’d ignored us yesterday shuffled out of bed and went to rouse the sister whose wide mouth and narrow shoulders were identical to hers.

  “Nein,” the other girl grumbled, burrowing farther beneath her covers. Her twin prodded her only a moment longer before giving up and crawling in beside her. Margarethe laughed.

  Their casual intimacy charmed me against my will, which only made me angrier. What right did they have to be kind to one another when they’d done such an awful thing to me? What had I ever done to them?

  Once I’d gotten my frustration in hand, I sat up, stretching and blinking. I caught Leirauh watching me, blue eyes anxious, and forced myself to smile at her.

  I know what you did, I wanted to spit at all of them.

  I made for the privy again, instead; my mouth felt like sandpaper. “We’re dressing for breakfast,” Margarethe called to me in English. “Are you hungry?”

  “A little sick to my stomach, actually.”

  Ursula clucked and Margarethe frowned, apologetic, high cheekbones standing out sharp.

  “Don’t worry.” I kept my tone sociable. “I’m sure I’ll be fine soon.”

  I know your secret, I told Margarethe with my polite smile. And I’m going to find out all the rest of them.

  10

  I followed the freinnen through the castle’s silent corridors to another once-grand room lined with peeling wallpaper. Its chandelier was covered in dust.

  Hertsoh Maximilian sat at the head of a large table. Leirauh took the chair at his left side without considering any other, as if it were her place and no one else’s. He greeted her warmly but merely nodded at the others.

  Though Cobie, Lang, Perrault, and I were alone with their family this morning, the freinnen had dressed with great care, in elaborate makeup and clothing chosen to flatter their figures—all but Leirauh. She was barefaced, in a high-collared dress that fit like a flour sack, and her black hair was in one long, plain braid. Above all, her blue eyes were lifeless, devoid of the spark that would have rendered her beautiful, regardless of what she was wearing.