Today she had smashed three eggs. One of which Pytor had gotten to celebrate Polya’s birth. Lara had cried, surprising Pytor, who had not seen that level of emotion from his wife regarding anything to do with Polya.
Pytor stroked her hair away from her face, and she smiled, a small purr building in her chest.
“We need to leave,” Lara whispered across the room.
He leaned down to kiss Polya one more time before following his wife.
She pulled on her gloves, straightening each one above her elbows before touching the sapphire at her throat. “You look very handsome,” she told him as he closed the nursery door.
“You are a vision, moja ljubav.”
He sighed, raising a hand to push his hair out of his face.
“Don’t!” Lara cried. “It’s perfect!”
She took his hand in her own, squeezing it gently. “Just one night a year, Pytor,” she said. “We will get through this.”
He groaned.
With a tug on his hand, she pulled him along the hall and then down the stairs to the waiting carriage.
It was the ten-year anniversary of his brother’s coronation as king. The city was alive with celebration: fireworks, parades, military galas, and tonight, a ball and state dinner. His mother, the Dowager Queen, would be there and all of his brothers and their wives.
Handsome and friendly, Aleksandr was doted upon. At least, to those who did not know him intimately. To his brothers, he was a merciless tyrant, a spoiled megalomaniac who threw a tantrum when he didn’t get what he wanted, and blamed his poor decisions on others. When he was a child, it didn’t matter. A tutor would be dismissed, or a stable boy reassigned, but it meant something quite different when that child was king.
Now an error in military planning meant court martial and, as Pytor had been reading in the newspaper just this morning, execution. Diplomats who did not secure the alliances Aleksandr wanted were recalled to Konstantin, stripped of their land, their titles, and their wealth.
A state dinner with his brother was an exercise in patience and tiptoeing. Everyone walked on eggshells, careful that their presence, their laugh, their dress, would not offend His Majesty. Or, as Aleksandr had decided to be called after his first year of rule, “Vaša Svjetlost:” Your Serenity.
Pytor’s brother was not serene.
The halt of the carriage shook Pytor out of his reverie and made him sweat inside his wool coat, but he regained control of his emotions, if not his pulse. He was adept at maintaining a distanced appearance, looking cool and unaffected.
He held his hand out to Lara, who rested hers on his own, and they made their way into the palace.
It was breathtaking. The ceilings had been draped with yards of fabrics, blues and golds, crisscrossing over their heads. The family crest hung at every beam, and a garish, newly commissioned portrait of the king was displayed at the entrance to the dining room.
His brother did not like to greet his guests. He preferred to make an entrance while everyone was seated. He asked that they did not stand, something Pytor suspected was because his eldest brother was slightly shorter than his four younger brothers and had always been sensitive about that fact.
He took his seat near the head of the table, across from Lara, who gave him a small reassuring smile.
They sat at the table for an hour, getting progressively more uncomfortable and edgy. It felt as though every fire in the hall had been stoked.
The guests kept their wrists on the table, no water or wine was served, and they barely spoke above a hushed whisper, and even then it was only to ask one or two words, “Why?”
There was no reason for anything his brother did. He acted purely on whim and desire, logic rarely factored into his decision-making.
“Vaša Svjetlost, Most Supreme Ruler of Konstantin and Emperor of the North…” Pytor rolled his eyes internally, that was a new title. “King Aleksandr!”
The guests gave polite applause, not overly loud as Aleksandr was sensitive to noise, but muted and respectful.
The doors opened, and Aleksandr entered. His wife was a step or two behind him, and his mother, the Dowager Queen, a step behind her.
Pytor’s stomach clenched. Aleksandr had a look on his face Pytor recognized. It was the one he had just before he had someone dismissed, or whipped, when they were children. It was the look of a sly predator who waited for its prey to stupidly move closer so he could swallow him whole.
Pytor did not envy his older brothers their positions.
Aleksandr was seated, and the footmen began to serve dinner.
His brother remained silent, his narrowed eyes roaming over the table. Pytor glanced over quickly, meeting his second eldest brother’s eyes before staring down at the plate. They all knew something would happen. Their brother had some horrible plan he was about to execute, but they didn’t know what.
“My advisors,” Aleksandr said loudly, glaring down the table, “have recommended a new course of action against the terrorists who are organizing against my gracious rule.”
His voice traveled and echoed throughout the room, ricocheting against corners and landing on men’s ears like shards of glass.
“I,” Aleksandr continued, “have done as they suggested, and this is my reward.”
He motioned to a footman who gave him a newspaper.
Pytor knew what he was going to hear. Aleksandr’s advisors had suggested he close the universities, a tactic which in the past had strangled opposition to the monarchy.
Students would return to their family homes. Once there, they were reminded of their wealth and privilege and then, sufficiently fat and bored, returned to the newly reopened schools, housing new administration and professors, and continued with their education.
Instead of working as it had in the past, the students had regrouped. They’d met at clubs or estates, and wrote treatises on freedom. They’d published their own newspapers, separate from the ones that the king controlled, and were scathing in their judgment of the king. Failings were enumerated, flaws exposed.
And worse, they’d poked fun at his foibles.
Pytor had read the papers and laughed out loud before quickly sobering. He did not envy these boys when his brother found them. Pytor believed Aleksandr had never read such an account of himself.
Tonight, Aleksandr’s color was high and his eyes bright. Pytor waited for him to begin again. He had something up his sleeve.
“Brothers,” Aleksandr said suddenly. “You enjoy the fruits of my labor. You have land and wealth, beautiful wives. I think…” He stopped. “I think you owe me for the pleasant state you find yourself in. And on my ten year anniversary, having provided you with this freedom, this dazzling life you lead, you will share it with me.”
Pytor found himself lifting his eyes and meeting those of his mother. She held his gaze steadily, unbothered by her eldest son’s shaky reasoning.
She was never any help. It was she who allowed Alek to become the selfish man who existed in unreality. She would never step in.
“Nikolai!” Aleksandr began. “What would you give me?”
Nikolai’s face belied none of the panic he must have felt. Nikolai lived in the far east, past the high craggy mountains, where the land was flat and dry. He had a huge estate, and bred horses and cattle there. Many of his horses were run in the races held on St. Dmitirus Day.
“My finest stallion,” Nikolai answered, his hands fisting and then relaxing. “I have put him to stud, you may have him and breed your own stable full of winning horses.”
Aleksandr lifted his glass and took a sip of wine, silently accepting his offer.
He went to each brother: Nikolai, Evgeny, Mikhail. And they gave him their most prized possessions: horses he would never ride, the contents of a wine cellar he would never drink, a library of ancient tomes he would never open.
“Pytor,” Aleksandr said. “What would you give me in repayment for the life I allow you to lead?”
As the youngest, Pytor had the l
east. He had his beautiful lake house, Bishmyza, and a small house in the Ursu Mountains. Neither of those would be of any interest to Aleksandr. His mind desperately catalogued his holdings, land, riches, books, antiquities; he had nothing Aleksandr didn’t already have.
His brother watched him with bright eyes, and Pytor knew he’d stepped into his trap. His disappointment in his advisors was merely a ruse to throw people off. What truly brought him joy was his brothers. His earlier story had lulled them into a false sense of security, and they had believed they wouldn’t be his target. Fools.
“I know what I would like,” Aleksandr said, stroking his mustache. “I know what you have that I would like.”
Pytor bowed his head, “What I have is yours, Vaša Svjetlost.”
“Splendid,” Aleksandr replied. “I want your wife.”
Pytor’s head snapped up, and he met Lara’s wide eyes.
He feigned a laugh. “Well played.”
“I do not jest,” Aleksandr said, gesturing to a servant who came to him, a yellowed scroll in his hand. “It seems our illustrious forefathers, back in, what was it? The thirteenth century or so, decreed wives were property, and as such, property can be transferred to the king, if the king so desired. Well, this king so desires.”
Pytor saw bright spots of color on the queen’s cheeks, though she continued to resemble a marble statue, and his mother had pressed her lips together. It seemed Aleksandr had finally embarrassed her.
“No,” Pytor whispered.
Aleksandr’s eyes widened. “No?”
“No.”
“You do realize, of course,” Aleksandr continued, “that to deny me this means that your land, your title, your money, all returns to me. This is, in effect, treason.”
Pytor swallowed hard. “Fine.”
Aleksandr narrowed his eyes. “You agree? You are a traitor? All of your worldly goods belong to me. Your life—everything—is forfeit.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll do it,” Lara whispered.
Pytor lunged to his feet. His chair flew backward, echoing through the cavernous room. No one made a sound, a move. It was as if the room was completely empty except for Aleksandr, Pytor, and Lara.
“No.”
Lara’s face was pale, and her lips, normally so rosy, were white.
“You allow, Princess,” Aleksandr interrupted, gaining their attention again, “that it matters to you to keep your wealth and title.”
“Pytor’s life is worth more than that.”
“You would trade your honor for those things?”
“Yes.”
Aleksandr leaned back in his chair. “No,” he said, almost sadly. “I’m sorry, Pytor, but no. You may have a beautiful wife, but it seems, given her tenuous grasp on her honor, you have married a whore.”
Pytor’s hand went to his waist to grasp the hilt of his sword. He glared at his brothers. None of them met his eyes, none of them dared to. They let him stand there like a fool. His wife had been insulted, and he was without recourse.
He met the queen’s eyes, and she gave him the tiniest of head shakes.
Aleksandr began to laugh. “I jest, brother! I jest! My God, Pytor, always so serious.”
The king scanned the guests, encouraging others to laugh with him. The room exploded into laughter, guffaws of relief and mounting hysteria now the danger had seemed to pass.
A servant righted Pytor’s chair, and waited for him to sit.
Aleksandr signaled the servants to present the meal, and pretended nothing amiss had ever happened.
Pytor sat, his entire body trembling with insult. Lara’s chin wobbled and her eyes were glassy with tears, but she took a deep breath, swiped a finger under her eye, lifted her glass, and took a sip. She turned to her neighbor and began to talk as if her honor hadn’t been besmirched in front of the entire country.
Something shifted within Pytor. He was an honorable man who had been loyal to his brother, despite his irrational and sometimes insane decisions. But tonight he saw something new.
He saw a king unhinged, and he realized a madman led his country. Aleksandr could easily have taken his wife, led her out of the room and sullied her, and no one, no one, would have stopped him. Pytor himself was helpless to stop him.
He would never be helpless again.
He would never be so powerless again.
Because what he lacked was power.
He needed it.
Power to control his destiny. Power to keep what was his. Power to make the decisions his brother was too stupid to make.
There was only one answer, only one way to get that power.
His brother would have to die.
What Do You Wish For?
Konstantin, 1895
The sun in winter did not mean warmth. Not in this land where the winter was endless. A clear blue sky didn’t mean spring or a respite from cold.
No.
Here in Konstantin, the beams of light only meant more frostbite, more snow-blindness, and less stealth. It meant skin sticking to metal. It meant stiff joints and muscles tense from shivering. It meant numbed fingers spilling black gunpowder and bullets into pristine snow.
Anatoliy gave the light shining through the slit in his tent an angry glare before he sighed and stretched, putting his feet directly into the boots next to his cot. He shrugged into his bear-skin great coat, carefully set his fur-lined hat upon his head, and stuffed his chilled fingers into his fur-lined gloves.
The camp was busy with activity. Fires burned low as men boiled snow for coffee and then dipped hardtack, a tasteless mixture of flour and water, into the warmth, before tearing pieces off with their teeth.
Life in the field had stripped away the patina of civilization from his men.
Anatoliy smiled to himself. His soldiers had not had much to begin with, but then, neither had he. They no longer shaved; they barely bathed. They swore and cursed, or muttered one-word, barely articulated sentences at each other. Here, all that mattered was the mission.
Standing near his tent, Anatoliy watched with pride as the men worked around the camp.
This group was his, given to him by the king. He’d taken these soldiers, the ones he trusted with his life, and turned them into warriors. Stealthy, smart, team-driven men who would stop at nothing to bring glory to Konstantin.
But this mission was unending, and his men were starting to show signs of weariness that gave him pause.
The weather didn’t help, and this cold went on and on, unrelenting.
“Dara,” Anatoliy approached one of the men at the campfire. “Have our scouts returned?”
The man jumped to his feet. “No, sir.”
He tried not to let his concern show on his face. They should have returned hours ago with the position of the enemies they were hunting.
He nodded, like he had expected as much, and continued on his way through the camp. He greeted men with nods, studying them as they completed the tasks that would make it possible for them to close camp and move at a moment’s notice.
As he reached the edge of the forest, he saw a flash of light. His heart jumped in his chest, though he kept his features calm. He recognized it as the sun reflecting off of glass. The binoculars, perhaps, of a sly enemy.
Maybe the bright day would prove to be fortuitous.
Anatoliy moved forward, keeping the location of the flash in his periphery as he pretended to scan the camp. He wound his way through tents until he could reach the tree line.
If the enemy had snuck up on his camp, then the unit was in trouble. But if these were enemy scouts, they had a chance.
Inside the forest, his foot sank past the frozen crust of snow and into the powder, crunching loudly. It echoed through the forest, making the birds squawk in surprise.
Removing his boot as quietly as possible, he cursed the sun, the cold, and the snow. He took another step through the forest, this time onto a fallen branch to avoid the thin, icy surface.
He weaved thr
ough trees, lightly and carefully, not making another sound until he reached the place the reflection originated. He gazed around the area searching for fallen branches, looking for signs of men or of blinds they could use to hide their presence. He studied the ground, but not even the three-toed pattern of bird feet was visible.
“Anatoliy Ivanovich.” The whisper blew a fetid breath across his ear and cheek.
He spun around, moving his hand forward without conscious thought until he could rest the blade of his dagger against the throat from which the voice had come.
As his eyes focused on the man in front of him, he nearly dropped his knife in surprise. It was a priest. He wore a black cassock, had a wooden crucifix around his neck, and a rosary of jet in his hands. Anatoliy took in his appearance piece by piece. His mind tried to make sense of the images that were… wrong.
The priest’s feet were bare, but the cold and snow didn’t seem to touch him. His fingers, nails chipped and dirty, moved nimbly across the rosary beads.
Deep set black eyes, fearless and a little smug, stared out at Anatoliy from a pale face. It seemed as if Anatoliy’s unbalance pleased him.
“I have been waiting for a moment with you,” the priest said, his voice like the sound of dead leaves scuttling across bricks. “You are a godly man. A pure man. A man who serves his king and his men selflessly.”
Anatoliy gripped the knife tighter and didn’t answer. He struggled to make sense of how a priest managed to sneak up on him, and on his camp.
“I want to reward you,” the priest said, spreading out his hands, palms up in a posture that reminded Anatoliy of the icon of Jesus presenting the stigmata.
Despite his use of the word “godly,” the priest choked as he forced it past his lips.
“I want nothing,” Anatoliy said.
“No?” the priest asked, taking a step toward the blade. “Not money. No. You don’t want that. Not fame. You don’t care for that either. But what about glory?”
Glory.
Glory was something he could use. Something his men could use. Glory was success in battle; it was winning; it was peace.
Eventually.
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