Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology

by Michelle Diener

  Chapter 41

  "This is not Prislav," Boris said, surveying the city walls. "I have never seen this city before."

  Master Zoticus, as Rossa's father had insisted he was called, shrugged. "You have been away some time, Your Highness. The new king felt a new capital would be best, and he now rules from here in Buda. While we are here, you must allow me to show you your likeness in the cathedral. Beautiful work, though you will have to tell me if it does your brother David justice."

  Boris closed his eyes. David. How long had it been since he'd thought of him? David deserved justice as much as Vica and Lida, and still Boris had not delivered it. His family deserved better. He clenched his fingers around the hilt of the sword he'd borrowed from the castle armoury. Lady Sara had said the blade had belonged to one of her ancestors who'd gone on a holy crusade to free the Holy Land, and that the man's spirit would surely be happy to see it in his hand.

  In truth, it felt foreign to hold a blade again, when his claws had been his weapon of choice for so long. The bear roared within him, like a creature with its own mind, eager to be unleashed on Sviatopolk.

  Rossa and her father led the way to the throne room, but when they reached the doors, Zoticus stopped to speak to the herald, while Boris did not stop. He would no longer endure a usurper on his father's throne.

  "Prince Boris of Rostov, with Lord Zoticus and his daughter, Lady Rossa," the herald announced.

  The people parted, bowing as they cleared the way for Boris. He saw fear in their eyes, and so they should fear him. They'd supported a false king, a murderer, who did not deserve the throne.

  He did not stop until he reached the foot of the dais where the king sat. Guards stood on either side of him, hands on their spears in readiness to defend the king, but Boris would not let them stop him. He'd broken larger branches than those spears with a single swipe of his paw.

  He planted his feet, widening his stance, knowing the moment he beheld his brother's face, rage would take over and he would become a bear again, but this time, he was ready for it. He prayed that Zoticus would shield Rossa's eyes from the carnage.

  Only then did he raise his eyes to meet the king's.

  "You're not Sviatopolk!" Boris blurted out.

  Chapter 42

  "You're not Sviatopolk!"

  For a moment, the king looked surprised, before he burst out laughing. The rest of the court followed his example. Father remained silent, and Rossa did the same. This was politics, which her father knew far better than she ever would.

  "I thank heaven I am not Sviatopolk the Cursed every day, and I'm sure my subjects do, too!" the king said.

  Boris just stood there, shocked, and Rossa's heart went out to him. Her father had evidently brought them to the wrong court. He should step forward and say something, instead of leaving Boris to bear the ridicule for his mistake.

  It was almost as though Father had read her thoughts, for he strolled forward, keeping her hand firmly on his arm until a few steps before the dais. Only then did he let go, offering the king a courtly bow before he said, "Your Majesty, Prince Boris here has spent many years in search of the missing crown jewels, stolen by Sviatopolk the Cursed. I believe he has finally found news of them, which we would like to share with you, in private."

  The king regarded Father for a long moment. Finally, he said, "If you have indeed found the lost crown jewels, then I would be greatly in your debt, Lord Zoticus."

  Father winced. No, he did not like that title. The king only grinned, as if he knew this all too well.

  "This audience is over. We shall resume on the morrow. See that refreshments are brought for our guests," the king said.

  He led the way behind the throne, to a smaller, more intimate audience chamber. One where there were chairs clustered around a table, none more ornate than the others, though the king took the one at the head of the table.

  "Lady Rossa, you must come and sit beside me. If I had known Lord Zoticus had such a beautiful daughter, I would have summoned him to court sooner." Desire burned in the king's eyes.

  This old man was as bad as the boys of Mirroten. Rossa regretted that he wasn't the traitor Boris wanted to kill, for her fingers itched to send a fireball at him. Or maybe a gust of wind so icy, it froze off certain parts he surely no longer needed…

  "She's an enchantress, Bela, and you'd be playing with fire you cannot begin to imagine," Father drawled as he took the seat at the king's left hand.

  Rossa felt her cheeks grow hot. Even with her father there, the king was still staring at her.

  "But she's your daughter. Any heirs she gave me would be the most well-guarded children in the world. No one would dare harm them…" the king breathed. "Give me an heir, Lady Rossa, and I will give you a crown, and name you Queen Regent upon my death."

  Give him an heir? Have sex with this old man? Rossa wished she hadn't eaten breakfast, because she was about to vomit it up all over the king's costly carpet. Boris was the only man she'd ever considered allowing into her bed, and to share herself with anyone else…

  "He may not be Sviatopolk, but say the word, Lady Rossa, and I will defend your honour with my blade. If you desire a crown, you have only to ask and I will give it to you," Boris said. He glared at the king. "Freely, for I ask nothing in return." He took the seat at the foot of the table, opposite the king.

  Rossa swallowed, then slid into the seat between her father and Boris.

  "I believe you would benefit more by talking about crowns with Boris, instead of my daughter, Bela. That's why I brought him," Father said, his tone edged with irritation.

  "Fine," the king sighed. "Tell me, Boris, what do you know of Sviatopolk the Cursed, and the treasures he stole?"

  "Sviatopolk was my bastard brother. He stole my wife and daughter from me, ordering them to be murdered, and I suspect he killed my father and my brother, David, too. He did not deserve the crown he stole from my father. So after he took everything from me…I took everything from him," Boris said. He lifted his sack of treasures onto the table, but he did not spill the contents. Instead, he seemed to be fixated on the king. "You're wearing my brother's crown."

  King Bela touched the plain gold coronet on his head. "This was forged for King Yaroslav the Wise, after he and his army drove Sviatopolk out of the capital. It has been passed down through my family for generations."

  Boris shook his head. "No. My brother Yarik was given that crown on the day our father sent him to govern the north, while I was sent south to deal with the Bisseni raiders. He was Prince Yaroslav, then, my half brother. I suppose with my brother dead, me gone, and Sviatopolk a murderer and a traitor, the next in line for the throne would be Yarik, but…where is he now? He would have sent men out to find me, he said he supported me as the next king…" Boris trailed off. "How long have I been gone?"

  Father winced. "Maybe we should have gone to the cathedral first. The likeness is quite remarkable. I imagine the artist must have known Prince Boris very well."

  The king's jaw dropped. "Do you mean to say…this is Saint Boris? And he somehow miraculously preserved the crown jewels, so that he might return what his brother stole?" He stared at Boris in wonder.

  The men kept talking, but Rossa's mind would not stop whirling. She'd known Boris's story sounded familiar, but she'd never considered it might be the tale of a two hundred years dead saint. And yet…

  The clang of metal on the table dragged Rossa out of her reverie. Crowns, jewels…the sack of treasure just sat there in an undignified jumble. Tarnished from age, kept in a sack for two centuries…

  "My grandfather said the treasures had likely been melted down and sold, to pay for the civil war that erupted when Yaroslav died. For he might have been a wise king, but his sons fought like rabid dogs, killing each other off until none remained. My grandfather was descended from one of Yaroslav's daughters, who married a foreign prince. She attended her father as his nurse in his final days, and she wrote an interesting account of that time. His mind
was so far gone that he imagined he and not Sviatopolk the Cursed had commanded that his father and brothers and their heirs be killed, and he had only framed Sviatopolk in order to claim the throne for himself. Perhaps it is true. I do know it was he who petitioned for Boris and David to be proclaimed saints, their bodies buried in the cathedral he built in their honour. I have seen the tombs myself."

  "Has anyone ever opened them?" Father asked. "Because I would wager Boris's tomb is empty, or contains someone other than the saint."

  The king scratched his chin. "What would you be willing to wager?"

  "How long?" Boris demanded.

  Both men stared at him.

  "How long ago did your two saints die?"

  Neither man seemed inclined to answer, so it fell to Rossa. "Two hundred years," she whispered.

  "No! I swore I would bring them justice. That I would execute the man who ordered them killed. He can't be dead. He can't!" Boris rose so quickly, he knocked his chair over, but he did not stop to right it before he stormed out of the room.

  Rossa rose to follow him.

  Father put a restraining hand on her arm. "Let him go. It's a lot for any man to take in."

  Rossa shook him off. "You knew, or at least you suspected. You should have told him, instead of letting him find out like this. And you." She pointed a damning finger at the king. "You laughed at him, before the whole court. A court that should be his, not yours, stolen by your ancestor's treachery. That man is our rightful king, and I will not just let him go!" She marched out the door, across the throne room, and out into the main square.

  She had to find him. She had to.

  Chapter 43

  The cathedral was so grand, it rivalled the palace. Inside, it was even more ornate. Mosaics covered the walls, floors and even the ceiling, showing scenes he remembered hearing about in the much smaller church in Prislav, when he'd been a boy.

  The altar at the far end stood amid the most brightly coloured pictures, but in the wings on either side of it were the Virgin's altar…and the one that was usually dedicated to the church's patron saint. The saint's altar was what drew Boris, for what he both hoped and dreaded he would find there.

  Two stone coffins flanked him, each bearing a carved likeness of a man on top. Boris could not bear to look. He found himself on his knees, the mosaic floor rising up to meet him until his forehead kissed the cold tiles.

  And he wept.

  For two hundred years wasted. That Vica had not had a better husband, or Lida a better father. That Sviatopolk had won, and it had fallen to Yarik to avenge them. That they'd made him a saint, when he wasn't fit to scrub the floors in this church, let alone enter heaven.

  Light footsteps padded on the tiles behind him. He wanted to snarl at the priest or whoever it was to leave him. Boris felt the bear rise within him, ready to vent his fury on anyone who helped to maintain this mockery.

  "Do you want me to open the coffins?" Rossa asked, her voice quiet and calm to the storm raging inside him.

  No, he did not want to see David's face in death. He, at least, deserved sainthood, so his remains would be incorruptible. But to look upon his face, to have to admit his failure…no, Boris did not have the strength for it.

  But he also didn't dare admit that to Rossa. She'd come here to help him fight for justice for David, and he could not bear for her to think him a coward. And yet…that's what he was. He'd been running for nigh on two hundred years, instead of delivering the justice he'd promised.

  "Well, I'm not waiting any longer. I want to see what's inside. So if you won't do it, I will."

  The scream of stone scraping against stone set his teeth on edge, until a final clunk told him she'd set the coffin lid down.

  "Looks like the artist carved him from life. The statue on top is holding a book, and so is he. Huh. I'd heard saints' bodies don't decay, but it's strange to see it. I would have thought he'd be a skeleton by now, but…Boris, is this your brother?"

  Boris swallowed. Of course Rossa had the courage to look upon David's dead body. And if a maiden could do it, what did that make him?

  He rose. Never had three steps seemed so far before, but he forced himself to take each one, until he could clutch the lip of David's tomb. He took a deep breath, and looked down.

  The boy he'd remembered had become a man, and a monk, too, judging by the robes he'd been buried in. His hands were clasped together as if in prayer, over a book of psalms that had once belonged to their mother.

  Boris's mouth went dry. He would have given anything to prevent David's death, but looking at his brother now, so peaceful, Boris didn't begrudge him his place in heaven. Though Boris had broken his oath to avenge his brother, he had the feeling the man who had briefly lived in this body would forgive him for it.

  "I'm sorry, David," he whispered.

  "What for? You didn't kill him. Didn't even know he was in danger, or surely you would have warned him. Or dealt with the danger. Why should you be sorry?"

  Her words felt right, somehow, and yet he could not accept them. "I'm sorry I didn't deliver justice to his killer."

  Rossa blew out a breath. "If it's any consolation, it seems the killer met a sticky end, anyway. Sviatopolk the Cursed did not keep his crown for long, and he did not live long after he lost it. If I remember my history rightly, a company of the Varangian Guard caught up with him and slaughtered him slowly, over several days. Father said he's been asked to do something similar on occasion, when his target deserves a slow death. He said he usually suggests they hire an executioner instead."

  Boris closed his eyes. Sir Cyril would have taken command, and hunted him down. For him. Because they believed he was dead…

  He scrubbed at his eyes. Cyril and his men were long dead, much like everyone he'd ever known. But to do such a thing for him…he could never repay them. Where he had failed, Cyril had succeeded. Of course he had.

  "So, ready to open the other box, to see what's inside?" Rossa asked. She bit her lip, then stared at David's final resting place. The lid slid back into place, sealing his remains inside.

  Would Boris ever be ready? He feared the answer was no, but he could not say it. Thank the heavens Rossa had the strength to open them when he could not.

  He bowed to David's memory, before turning to face his own grave. At least when a man looked upon his own mortality, he was supposed to feel some apprehension. Even Rossa wouldn't judge him for suppressing a shiver.

  "Right, here goes," she said. This time, she lifted the lid clean off, and set it against the wall. "Oh, that's…most unnerving. No wonder the mosaic likeness is so much like you."

  Boris dared to open his eyes. Unnerving was an understatement – he found himself staring at his own sleeping form, or so it seemed. "How is this possible?" he breathed.

  Rossa frowned. "There's magic here. A spell, so light I can barely sense it. It feels like…a glamour, for that uses hardly any power at all. I should be able to remove it, if you just give me a moment…there!"

  The Boris in the box vanished, to be replaced by a vision he'd never thought to see again. Vica lay there in his stead, holding Lida to her breast, as if they'd both fallen asleep only a moment ago. Not as though, two hundred years into the past, they'd been sent screaming into a death they hadn't deserved. While he did nothing, like the illusion someone had laid over them.

  "Was she…your wife?" Rossa asked, her tone almost timid.

  Boris nodded. "Princess Slavica, though I called her Vica, and our daughter, Lida. They look like they might wake at any moment." But they wouldn't, he knew. And he did not want them to, for if they did wake, they would condemn him for letting them die, and rightly so.

  "They're both so beautiful, though little Lida looks more like you, I think. You must miss them very much. I'm so sorry." Rossa wiped away a tear, then laid her hand on top of his.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her what she was sorry for, as she certainly hadn't killed them. Hadn't even been born while they lived and
breathed. And while his heart still ached with loss as he looked at his family, it wasn't the same stabbing sensation it had once been. He'd said his farewells, and he knew Vica would never look at him with love again. That if he reached down to touch them, they would be as cold as the stone bed their bodies now occupied. Instead, he was becoming increasingly distracted by the warm hand on his. The living, breathing woman at his side, who knew his past, and all his failings, and still she stood beside him.

  She wasn't looking down into the past, at the family he'd lost. No, she gazed upward, at the ceiling. "Whoever made this did a masterful job. Your brother's staring up at heaven, but you're watching over your family. As if the artist knew who truly lay in this coffin, though he's made your face exactly as it looked in the illusion…"

  For the first time, Boris dared to look up, and what he saw had fury erupting in his chest. "I'm not some benevolent saint, watching over anyone. Whoever made that didn't know me at all. When it came down to it, when they really needed me, I could not protect them. Could not…" He buried his face in his hands and wept.

  There. Now she would see him as he truly was, and leave him to his misery. He should have used that dagger the day they died, instead of dishonouring them by running…

  Rossa's arms came around him, pulling him into an embrace. For a girl half his size, she had surprising strength. "You saved me. Twice. I'm not sure I ever thanked you properly for that. I'm certain you would have saved them if you could, and that artist knew it, just as they knew you were not buried in that box with them. There are witches who see the future. My grandmother did. Perhaps the artist saw something that has not happened yet, and that's what's on the wall. Not what was, or what is…but what will be."