And her tail. Her glorious tail.
Pytor had asked her to leave it out, but she’d put on the bustle to hide it. He hadn’t fought her about it. He’d expected to have to carry her kicking to the carriage, so if she covered her tail for now, that was fine. He was positive his brother would want to see it, and she would never deny a king.
Yes, she would, a voice inside him countered.
Pytor’s palms began to sweat. Perhaps he was acting too quickly. When Father Stepan, Lara’s mystic and the priest from his society meetings, had suggested this meeting with Aleksandr, he had made it sound easy.
Talk to the king.
Suggest a challenge.
Murder the king.
Become the king.
Now, when acting on that plan, there seemed a myriad of things that could go wrong. For one: Polya. She was not acting at all as he expected. For her whole life, she had ever been his partner. She understood him, and he understood her. But she was being difficult. He wondered if this was what Lara had been complaining of all these years.
He had meant to soothe and excite her with his story about the saint. Of course she would remember the girl was burned at the stake.
“We’re here,” Polya whispered and looked at him, her face paling so much her lips were white.
“It’s all right, Mače,” Pytor said, before remembering what it was he was about to ask his brother and what it meant for Polya.
The carriage stopped, and the door opened. A wigged and powdered footman held a gloved hand to Polya, who took it and exited. Pytor took a breath and sent up one last prayer for strength before following behind his daughter.
She looked up at the palace, her back straight and her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Pytor had forgotten the sheer size of the building.
The day was cloudy, warmer than it had been, and misting with rain. In the sun, the building shone, but in this dull light, every gilded edge and marbled corner looked a little worn and dulled.
The palace stretched in either direction for blocks. When Pytor had lived here and his father had been alive, he and his three older brothers had lived in one wing, while his eldest brother and parents lived in another, and his grandmother, the regal Dowager Queen, lived in still another. Row after row of windows lined the front of the palace. Pytor was surprised to see boards covered many of the windows inside.
He hadn’t heard of any assassination or bombing attempts on the palace, but apparently his brother wasn’t taking any chances.
The footman led them through the doors and into the palace, where yet another footman met them and led them through the halls to his brother.
Polya stared straight ahead. Pytor was proud of her, she didn’t swing her head from side to side like a gawking peasant. She carried herself with the posture and deportment of a princess. She was regal and brave, and his heart gave a thump and then clenched again with guilt and self-doubt.
The footman stopped them when they reached the room Pytor knew housed the throne. It was where the king was presented with visiting figureheads and other monarchs. He was surprised they were brought here. He’d expected to meet his brother in one of his studies or the library.
The doors opened and they were presented.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Pytor Aleksandrovich, and his daughter, Princess Polina Pytornova.”
Pytor stepped forward, and a moment later, Polya stepped behind him. He kept his eyes down until his brother addressed him. “Brother.”
“Vaša Svjetlost,” Pytor replied, dropping to one knee and adjusting the sword he wore at his waist.
“Niece,” Aleksandr greeted.
“Vaša Svjetlost.”
“Please.” Pytor heard movement and felt his brother brush by him. “Call me, Uncle.”
Pytor waited to be released, but his brother walked on, leading Polya deeper into the room. Pytor chafed at the insult, but kept his head down, watching the edge of Polya’s dress, and his brother’s shoes.
“Rise, Brother,” Aleksandr said eventually. “There is no need to stand on ceremony.”
Pytor clenched his teeth. Of course there was. Had he dared not kneel when presented to the king…
Pytor stood. Aleksandr lounged in his throne now, legs outspread, elbow propped on the golden arm. He was in full military regalia. Metals were displayed on his chest, and he wore both the ceremonial sword and pistol at his side.
It was a message, if not to Pytor, then to the world, that Aleksandr was the military’s leader. He held the reins of both the government and the army.
Polya stood near the throne, one step down from the dais, her head bowed and her hands clasped.
“Too much time has passed, Pytor,” Aleksandr continued. “Your daughter should have been presented to me years ago.”
Pytor bowed his head in apology.
“Especially if she is as smart and as deadly as the newspapers claim she is.”
Pytor’s head shot up in surprise, his eyes meeting Polya’s before his brother’s.
Aleksandr leaned forward. “You thought perhaps I didn’t know who she was? That I didn’t recognize the beast described in the papers?” He leaned back again. “There is nothing that happens within my borders that I am not privy to.”
Pytor saw a dark shadow emerge from behind Aleksandr. It came into the light and laid one hand on the back of the throne.
“This is my advisor,” Aleksandr said, gesturing to the man next to him, “Father Stepan.”
Polya and Dara
Polya tried to hide her nervousness around the king, but when he snapped his fingers, she jumped. “Please bring Polina to the domaćica. Give her a tour of the castle,” he said to the footman.
Her father clasped his trembling hands behind his back. She was right. He had killed her, and he had ensured his own death.
“Papa?” Polya asked.
“Go ahead, Polina,” her father told her. “Enjoy the tour.”
She curtsied and backed out of the room as her father had told her to do when leaving the sight of the king.
“Princess,” a tall, stern woman said to her. “Follow me.”
The domaćica led Polya through the halls. She could barely focus on the floor in front of her, much less the portraits of dead relatives which hung on the walls. The woman led her quickly through room after room. This was not a tour. The woman did not let her take her time, staring at the walls and finery for as long as she liked.
Polya feared her motives in leading her through the castle were nefarious. Perhaps she was leading her to the courtyard to be shot. Polya stumbled to a stop.
“Come, Princess,” the domaćica said, with an edge to her voice. “This palace is very large, and we must walk quickly if we are to see what is of interest.”
Polya began walking again. She was led her through room after room of treasures to a flight of stairs. Not a grand staircase, but a narrow back stairway with deeply grooved stone steps imprinted with the footfalls of thousands of servants over hundreds of years. They climbed the steps, higher and higher, the only light from small cracks in the ancient walls.
This was the oldest part of the palace, the part built for protection and to hold out against invading armies. The cracks in the stone which let in light were made for archers to shoot their arrows.
“Wait here,” the domaćica directed, going through a heavy wooden door and leaving Polya in the waning gray light.
The door opened, and Polya stepped back in surprise when she saw the person stepping through then closing the door behind him.
“Princess,” the man said, bowing.
It was the man from her father’s gathering, the one who had told her to run.
“I am sorry to see you here.”
“I’m sorry to be here,” Polya answered without thinking.
He gave a slight smile, and Polya was surprised to see he was much younger than she initially thought. He was only a year or two older than she was, but his eyes were ancient.
&
nbsp; “I don’t know your name,” Polya said, quietly.
“Dara,” he answered. “Dara Veronfsky. I am a soldier in the king’s army.”
Polya nodded. It would account for the tired look that said he’d seen altogether too much.
“Why are you here?”
“The king requested to see my father and me. I don’t know if we will leave here,” she answered honestly.
Dara nodded, sitting on the top of the stone steps. Polya folded her dress under her, before pulling away the material enough that her tail could poke through. She wrapped it in her hands, stroking the fur nervously. Dara eyed it, not with disgust or even interest, but as if her movements projected her feelings.
Which they do… She was disheartened and scared, and she always wrapped her tail around her body when she needed to comfort herself.
“There is another like you,” Dara finally whispered.
Polya’s hands stilled for a moment before she began to stroke the tail again, thinking about what he said. Her mind moved at top speed, though her hands never stilled.
“The beast in the newspapers?” she asked, sure of his response.
Dara nodded. “He is no beast.”
“Neither am I,” Polya countered.
Dara inclined his head, smiling at her again with that young-making smile. “Indeed. You are far from beastly.”
As soon as the words left his lips, his cheeks stained with pink. Polya felt her own cheeks heat and ducked her head to hide them.
Dara cleared his throat. “Your father and the king are two sides of the same coin,” he said, changing the subject.
Polya flipped her hand, running the tip of her tail over the back of her hand before lifting the black tip to her mouth to graze across her lips.
“I’m beginning to understand that,” she finally said.
“If your father becomes king, we will have the same leader we have now.”
“My father wants to involve the people in decision making,” Polya countered, feeling a need to defend him. Dara was silent, and Polya hazarded a glance at him. He met her gaze, his face one of disappointment. “You don’t believe him?”
Dara shrugged. “He brought you here, knowing the danger. He plots against the king. That is treason. Those are not the actions of a trustworthy man.”
Polya didn’t realize how much hope she’d been holding out for her father to do the right thing.
“But it is the risk he needs to take,” she argued. “For the betterment of everyone. He is willing to sacrifice himself and me if it helps our country.”
“Do you really think he’ll sacrifice himself?”
Polya didn’t know. A week ago, she would have answered yes without hesitation. A week ago, her father was always the epitome of honor and nobility.
But the way he looked at her now, with unveiled interest, like she was a weapon and not a person—it changed everything.
“Anatoliy was like you,” Dara said quietly. “He was loyal and honest and true. Now he is all those things, but he is broken. When he has been used up, when he’s a husk of the man he once was, the king will discard him. I fear you may be his next weapon. His next beast.”
“Why doesn’t he just refuse? Surely he is stronger than the king.”
Dara smiled sadly. “Because he has honor.”
“What use is honor when you are dead? You can’t be honorable and dead.”
“Of course you can.” Dara’s words sliced through the air. “It is the only thing he has left.”
“Why doesn’t he run away?”
“Why don’t you?”
Polya paused. “I have nowhere to go.”
“Surely there is somewhere.”
“I am the petted, spoiled daughter of a Prince,” Polya said snidely. “What survival skills do you really think I have?”
Dara rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. Polya couldn’t help but notice how very handsome Dara was. His eyes were very, very blue, and his now messy hair was a little on the long side, but blond and thick. His hands were large and scarred, blunt and strong.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized when his broad shoulders slumped.
He shook his head, removing his hands from his face. “I know you’re not a soldier, Princess,” he said sadly, “and you are just as stuck as we are.”
“Polya,” she corrected. “If we are going to be friends, you can call me Polya.”
“Friends?” Dara asked, raising an eyebrow, the scarred one.
“Well, you’re trying to save my life,” Polya responded. “That seems friendly.”
He chuckled, looking at his lap and shook his head. “I can’t save you, Polya,” he said. “I couldn’t save my friend, and I probably can’t save myself.” He stood, dusting his pants. “Just… be smart.”
Polya stood as well. “I’m always smart.”
He chuckled again, bowed, and took a step until they were face to face. He held out his hand, and she placed hers in it. “Princess,” he said, bowing over it.
Polya dipped a quick curtsey. “Ser.”
He jogged down the steps, turning the corner. Polya waited until he was out of sight before she began her descent.
The door above her opened. The domaćica entered and stepped in front of her to lead her down the stairs.
She paused suddenly, turning around and looking at Polya. “Listen to him,” she said quietly, peering up and down the stairs as she spoke. “Do not trust the king.”
She didn’t wait for Polya to respond.
The trip through the palace was much faster, within minutes she was returned to the throne room. Her head was spinning, and her was heart pounding.
Aleksandr and Pytor Discuss a Game
Pytor watched Polya leave and wondered if it was the last time he would see her before he pushed the thought out of his mind.
He was smarter than his brother, and Father Stepan was on his side.
“Father,” Pytor greeted. “A pleasure to see you.”
He waited for Father Stepan’s response.
“Prince Pytor.” The priest’s deep voice echoed through the room. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Father Stepan,” Aleksandr began in a bored tone, “has been instrumental in ferreting out the treachery in our country. He suggested we use my Beast to inspire fear among the peasants.”
The distaste with which Aleksandr held those peasants was glaringly obvious in the way he snarled the word.
“Indeed?” Pytor asked, as if interested.
“Yes,” Aleksandr said, picking up one of the medals on his jacket to examine it. He held it to the light before rubbing it with one thumb and patting it back into place. “He has some ideas about how your beast may be of use to me.”
Pytor held his hands behind his back and clenched his fist. He rocked back and forth on his heels, trying to hold back his anger. “I assume you mean my daughter?”
Aleksandr waved the words away. “Whatever you call it.”
His brother sat confident upon his throne, just as he had his entire life. He could throw out hurt and it would never rebound on him. He was unchecked and spoiled, but he displayed a level of cruelty Pytor had not anticipated.
Silently, he cut his eyes to the priest, waiting for him to speak. Father Stepan stepped forward and held his hands out as if appealing to Pytor. “Your daughter,” he said, “is marked by God. Or the devil. I know not which. Her actions in Misurka Square speak to courage, but we know not the endgame of demons, and why they influence men the way they do.”
Pytor bristled at the word demon being used to describe his daughter, but he let it pass. One thing Father Stepan said was true—the end game was unknown.
“The Beast, and the girl…” He nodded his head at Pytor, an acquiescence of the beast in question being his daughter, “…are merely examples. Living proof our world is dangerous. Treacherous.” He let the last word echo through the chamber.
Aleksandr yawned. “Fighting the anarchists with
in my country is beginning to impact my image abroad, which, in turn, is impacting the support we receive from our allies.”
Pytor waited.
“I would like to remind them Konstantin is governed by a ruler with an iron-fist. One who not only leads the army with bravery, but has all manner of secret weapons at his disposal.”
Weapons like my daughter. To what end was Aleksandr leading?
“I propose a challenge,” Aleksandr said, when Pytor continued to be silent. “A diversion for our allies. One which… reminds them of my potential. Of Konstantin’s potential.”
“Potential for what?” Pytor asked.
“To overwhelm them. To overrun them. They have no beasts. Who would dare deny the king who has so clearly been blessed by God?” Father Stepan added.
“How would Polya, and your beast, show them this?” Pytor asked, as if Father Stepan hadn’t explained the whole thing to him already.
“We devise a series of entertaining events,” Aleksandr said. “To show the skill and cunning of our beasts. We let the observers participate, and maybe throw in some enemies,” Aleksandr continued, “to be adequately… punished… for their actions. They, the weak and cowardly traitors, live or die according to our whim. But so do the most powerful beings, like our beasts. Perhaps the beasts mete out the cowards’ end. I have not yet decided if I should have them participate in that manner.”
This had not been part of Father Stepan’s idea. At no time had he said Polya would have to kill.
His conscience. No. Pytor didn’t feel bothered by his conscience so much as by his worry Polya wouldn’t kill. What if she wouldn’t perform?
“And what if Polya and your beast should be injured? Or killed?” Pytor asked.
“That concerns you?” Aleksandr asked a gleam in his eyes.
“Any father would care.” Pytor was careful to answer without specifics to himself.
“We will give them every advantage,” Aleksandr hedged.
“But we must remember the purpose of this game,” Father Stepan said. “The Beast and Polya are an extension of Your power. They are the personification of Your power, Your intelligence, and Your wrath. With every challenge they overcome, they show the world these things.”
Wrath and Ruin Page 10
