The Breathing Sea II - Drowning

by E. P. Clark

  “There is just as much peril in any alliance with the Rutsi!” cried Princess Belova, while Vladya and Princess Pristanogradskaya nodded in agreement, Vladya emphatically, Princess Pristanogradskaya timidly. “More so,” continued Princess Belova, “since they are such barbarians that—how would we find someone with whom to ally ourselves? Ally ourselves with one ruler, and all the others would turn against us. They cannot be trusted, not even to act in their own best interest.”

  “A problem not confined merely to the Rutsi,” said Dasha’s mother dryly. “But once again, there is wisdom in what you say. We cannot trust them blindly. We do not even know whom amongst them to approach. The path forward is not clear.”

  “Then we should not take it,” said Princess Belova. “Only a fool goes rushing on when she can’t see the path beneath her feet!”

  “That is true too,” said Dasha’s mother. “But we do not have the luxury of long deliberation. So I ask you now: what is your first thought on this matter? We may be able to revisit this issue tomorrow. Or we may not. In any case, I would hear your thoughts now. Do we ally ourselves with the Southerners, who promise much but would seek to subjugate and subvert us, or do we reach out a hand to the Rutsi, groping into obscurity, uncertain what our fingers might land upon?”

  “That is no choice!” cried Princess Belova. “And help was promised! Help was promised Belovskoye against these raiders!”

  “Help will be given,” said Dasha’s mother levelly. “But the choice must be made. So how do you choose?”

  Princess Belova swallowed and stared at all of them. “The Southerners,” she said finally. “I am not blind to their danger. But the danger of the Rutsi is much greater. No sensible woman would even consider an alliance with them.” She looked over at Dasha. “I mean no offense, Tsarinovna,” she said. “I am sure you believe in the truth of your knowledge of them, and of your visions. But these are not things that can be trusted in a matter as grave as this.”

  Dasha wanted to shout out something, cry out that Princess Belova’s thoughts did not seem any more trustworthy, created as they were in haste and fear, with no effort at the self-examination that any good decision demanded, but the words wouldn’t seem to come, and when she imagined saying them, all she could see as a result was more arguing, so she only said, once her mouth had come unstuck, “I believe in my visions,” and lapsed into silence.

  “Very well,” said her mother. “Princess Pristanogradskaya?”

  Princess Pristanogradskaya looked unhappily between her, Princess Belova, and Dasha. “I agree with Princess Belova,” she said finally, looking down at the table as she spoke, her voice slow and reluctant. “I am sure the Tsarinovna believes in the truth of her visions, but that is a very slender reed on which to place a very large amount of trust, and take a very great risk. There is no good choice, as you say, Tsarina, but there are greater and lesser amounts of certainty, and greater and lesser amounts of reward. I am not unacquainted with the Rutsi. Indeed, we trade with them frequently. And sometimes with Southerners as well. I would not trust either of them. But the Southerners are richer, and farther away. They have more to offer us, and would have greater difficulty in subduing us, if it came to that. Their army is simply too far away.”

  “Not too far away for Rutsi,” said Dasha.

  Everyone stared at her. She cringed, and then straightened. “Not too far away for Rutsi,” she repeated. “And we are not so very much farther away.”

  “Even so,” said Princess Pristanogradskaya. “Were it to be successful, an alliance with the Southerners could be very profitable. Very profitable indeed. And it, too, could be secured through marriage.” She looked at Dasha with measuring eyes.

  “I never agreed to a marriage alliance with the Southerners,” said Dasha. “I don’t think I would like that.” She reflected, letting the visions speak to her. “I think it would be a bad idea,” she said.

  Princess Pristanogradskaya gave her a look of irritation. “What does it matter to you, Tsarinovna?” she asked. “You were the one to suggest a marriage of alliance. What does it matter to you what barbarian you marry?”

  “For a start,” Dasha said, “it matters because you just said that it doesn’t.”

  Princess Pristanogradskaya flushed so red she was almost purple. At her side, Dasha could her mother choking on something, possibly laughter.

  “Very well,” she said, when she had regained control of her voice. “We have heard your thoughts, Princess Pristanogradskaya. Thank you for speaking so candidly. Vladislava Vasilisovna?”

  Vladya looked over at Dasha, something almost like an apology, or even shame, in her eyes. “I agree with the others,” she said, looking away. “Better the Southerners than the Rutsi. We have seen what the Rutsi are capable of in Severnolesnoye. We cannot ally ourselves with them. Even if we were to do so, those of our people who have borne the brunt of their attacks would not stand for it. We owe them better than that. Things might be better with the Southerners; it is worth trying. We cannot stand around wringing our hands and agonizing over what might be when our people are dying at the hands of these barbarians. We have to stop them now before we can think of doing anything else.”

  “I see,” said Dasha’s mother. She looked over at Susanna and Aunty Olga. “Do you wish to add anything?” she asked them.

  “Vladya’s right,” said Aunty Olga, carefully not meeting Dasha’s eyes. “We’ve got to stop the Rutsi from raiding our lands before we can worry about anything else.”

  “We have no love for the Southerners in Avkhazovskoye,” said Susanna. “An alliance with them will not win the love of Avkhazovskoye.”

  “Avkhazovskoye can…” began Princess Belova. Dasha’s mother held up her hand to stop her before she got out the rest of her words. “Thank you for your thoughts, Susanna Gulisovna,” she said. “And my thanks to all of you. It seems you favor an alliance with the Southerners, as we originally planned. I will think on all you have said.” She stood. “Come,” she said to Dasha. “We have much still to discuss.” She walked briskly out of the Great Hall, with Dasha following more hesitantly behind her. No one would meet her gaze as she left.

  “Will there be many more meetings like that in my future?” Dasha asked, as soon as they were alone. Her mother led her quickly down a corridor, and then out a small door that dumped them without warning onto the cliff looking out onto the sea.

  “Very likely,” said her mother.

  “I don’t know if I can bear another one like that. Will it ever get better?”

  “Certainly,” said her mother. “When you die.”

  “That isn’t very comforting,” she said.

  “No? I find it very comforting,” said her mother. “In any case, it is the truth. One day you will be Tsarina, and that is good, for there is no one currently living who could do it better. But that means you cannot afford to hide behind comforting deceptions when there are hard truths to be faced. So much harm is done, my love, by those who tell themselves comforting lies instead of facing hard truths. I once thought that my mother would rather that I died a thousand painful deaths than have to think that I might suffer, and I still hold that to be true. We would all rather hide our faces from the suffering of others, even if it means dooming them to even worse suffering. But you will be Tsarina. You must learn to look suffering in the face, even your own.”

  Dasha turned to the West. The direction of the setting sun. The direction of death. I must have faith, she told herself. It will work out. Somehow it will work out. The visions say it will. I must have faith in them, and myself. I must have faith.

  “What do you think of this idea of a marriage of alliance with a Southerner?” her mother asked abruptly.

  “I think it is a bad idea,” said Dasha.

  “Why?” asked her mother. Dasha turned to look at her reproachfully, hurt that she would doubt her as the others had, but then saw that her mother was genuinely curious. “Do you have a vision of it?” her mother asked.
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  Dasha shook her head. “It’s not exactly a vision,” she explained. “It’s such a hazy future, I think, that true visions can’t be formed. It’s more of a feeling. It’s a feeling of…have you ever found yourself coming up with all the reasons why something is right, but there’s still something telling you that you’re missing something, and it’s wrong? It’s like that.”

  Her mother laughed. “I know the sensation all too well,” she said. “Somehow it’s always all too easy to come up with so many reasons why the wrong decision is the right one. Decisions are complicated things.”

  “No they’re not,” said Dasha. “They’re the simplest things in the world.”

  Her mother laughed again. “What makes you say that?” she asked. “Just think of all the things we have to consider for this one!”

  “Which is why we can’t make it. We’re considering too many things, and none of them are the right one. I think that’s why I can’t have a vision of it. We haven’t hit upon the right thing, the one thing that matters, yet. Because…I think that’s one of the things the visions have shown me—when you make a decision, when you make a choice, only one thing matters. Even if there are lots of things you could consider, there’s only one that counts. The problem is when you get confused and think that all the other things count as well.”

  “True enough,” said her mother. “Well, then: what is the one thing we must consider here?”

  “If I knew that, I would tell you,” said Dasha. “But I think…I think it is something to do with…with…with who we are. Are we Northerners, or Southerners? Are we rulers or subjects? Do we seek to take from others, or to give back to them? Are we concerned with what we can gain, or what we can give?”

  Her mother looked at her for a long time. “I cannot believe I gave birth to you,” she said.

  Dasha flinched.

  “I cannot believe I gave birth to someone so much cleverer than I,” her mother said. “Someone so much more perfect.” She smiled, but it looked as if she might cry as well. “It is bittersweet,” she told Dasha. “To look upon your own creation and see how it has surpassed you, become more than you had ever imagined possible. Someday I hope you will know the feeling, although right now I fear it will never be possible for anyone ever to surpass you.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Dasha’s cheek. “You have given me much to think of,” she told her. “And now I must do so. Why don’t you go…why don’t you go see your friend Fedya. I’m sure he would be glad to see you. And you might gain more joy from him than from any of your other friends at the moment. Take Alik and Seva and go see him. He should be with the other castrates at the sanctuary on the edge of town.”

  ***

  It was nearly midday, and hot and close as Dasha, Seva, Alik, Mitya, Boleslav Vlasiyevich (who had insisted on joining them, claiming the excuse that he had business in the camp), Oleg, and Svetochka (both of whom declared that they couldn’t bear another moment cooped up inside while other people made important decisions) set out from the kremlin to the sanctuary on the edge of town, near where the bulk of the people who had come up from Krasnograd and over from Lesnograd were currently encamped.

  The waters of the bay were still and glassy, with only crestless waves that looked as if they were made of some substance other than water rippling slowly towards the shore. The scent of the sea hung heavy in the breathless air, joined with the scent of the city, which was much ranker. They rode away from the arm of land on which stood the kremlin, over to the market, and then up the central branch of the Krasna to where it passed out of the city walls.

  “Come on,” Oleg said to Svetochka. “Let’s go.”

  “Aren’t you going to stay with us?” Dasha asked.

  He smiled at her, with a sad smile. “You don’t need either of us, Dasha. We’ll be of more use scouting the next village, not trailing after you. You have him”—he nodded at Boleslav Vlasiyevich—“for that now.”

  “And proud I am to do it, too,” said Boleslav Vlasiyevich.

  “I know,” said Oleg, still with that sad smile. “Which is why you should be by her side, not me. Tell your mother we’ll be back tonight or tomorrow, Dasha, if she asks after us. But like as not she won’t. Come on, Svetochka.” He wheeled Belka away from the rest of the group and turned East, onto the main road back the way they had come.

  “Don’t worry about them, Tsarinovna,” Boleslav Vlasiyevich told her, once Oleg and Svetochka had disappeared over the rise above the city. “He’s right, you know: they’ll do more good off poking around and getting into the gods know what than they will hanging around and making the rest of us miserable. And you’ll be safer with us than with them.”

  “I know,” said Dasha. She tried to smile over at Boleslav Vlasiyevich. “You were always the one supposed to be by my side, anyway.”

  He smiled back at her at that, a genuine, warm-hearted smile such as he rarely showed, and then they set off again, and soon came to the encampment of all the soldiers and guards and others who had come with the Tsarina and Princess Belova and Vladya. When they rode out into it, Dasha couldn’t help but look around in wonderment at all the—how many were there? Hundreds, she had to guess—soldiers and other members of an army gathered there. It was hard to believe that so many armed fighters could not withstand their attackers. Dasha said as much to Boleslav Vlasiyevich, who smiled faintly at her words.

  “We haven’t kept a standing army for a long time here in Zem’, so it’s understandable that this should look like a lot to you, Tsarinovna,” he told her. “But the Southern army must be at least a hundred times as big as this one. This isn’t even an army. This is just a small detachment.”

  “I know that,” Dasha told him. “But it’s still hard to believe, looking at all these soldiers gathered here.”

  His face grew sober. “I fear that many of your princesses are taken in with similar thoughts, Tsarinovna. It has been so long since Zem’ has faced any serious threat from the outside that we have grown completely unaccustomed to fighting, and forgotten what it takes to fight a war.”

  “What would you do, Boleslav Vlasiyevich?” Dasha asked. “About our situation, and about the alliance? Whom would you ally us with?”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “They tell me that you were taken prisoner by them,” he said. “The Rutsi.” His face, his whole body, was very still as he spoke, in a way that was much more frightening and upsetting than a display of emotion would have been.

  “I wouldn’t say I was taken prisoner…” began Dasha.

  “You went with them of your own free will, then?”

  “Not exactly…”

  “Then what was it?” he demanded.

  “I was obeying the visions,” Dasha told him. “The visions said it must be done, so I let it happen as they told me I must.”

  He nodded, not looking happy about that at all. “Then you know what they’re like,” he said.

  “Rather better than most others here,” Dasha said.

  He nodded again. “Maybe that’s so. So you know what barbarians they are.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But you may not know what barbarians the Southerners are,” he said. “I am like you, Tsarinovna. I am wary of the gifts they claim to be offering. I mistrust anything and anyone who claims to be my friend when all they can show for it is displays of excessive friendliness. I mistrust anyone whose smile is too bright. I mistrust anyone who makes extravagant promises of help and friendship to you, as they mistreat others.” He took a deep breath. “You know what I did, before your mother became Tsarina,” he said.

  She gave him a puzzled look. “You were Captain of the Imperial Guard, just as you are now,” she said.

  “Yes, but…my duties were different then.” His face twisted. “I…I was not the man I am now, under your mother’s command. I did many things she would never countenance, above all, making those whom we wished to talk, talk. I know the tricks of deceit. I know how to break others—how to make them break th
emselves. It is not so hard, you know. Most people are more than willing to do most of the work themselves. Most people are more than ready to fall for your lies, providing they match their own lies.”

  “Do you think that is what the Southerners are doing to do?” Dasha asked. “Letting us break ourselves, so that they can use our brokenness?”

  He shrugged. “It has that feeling to me, Tsarinovna,” he said. “While the Rutsi—oh, they would break us if they could, but that does not seem to be their aim. They just want to survive as best they can, and remain unbroken. Such people are also dangerous, but it is a different kind of dangerousness. A less terrible kind of dangerousness. One that it is possible to protect yourself against.”

  “So you think I’m right, then,” Dasha said. “You think we should ally ourselves with the Rutsi, not the Southerners.”

  He shrugged again. “I do,” he said. “But I think it in part because you think it, Tsarinovna, and in part because of knowledge I’ve gained of things I can’t share with the princesses. My words would be…they would sound even vaguer and less substantial than your visions, compared with the solid advantages the alliance appears to offer. I think those advantages are no more solid than morning mist, but my words are less solid still.”

  “I see.” Dasha thought for a moment. “That is good to know.” She smiled at him. “We must have faith, Boleslav Vlasiyevich.”

  “Faith in what, Tsarinovna?” he asked, smiling back at her.

  “That we are right,” she told him. “You know, so many people whom I met along the road here—they had so many troubles, some that were such silly troubles, but when I tried to help them, they mistrusted me and wouldn’t listen. And they were right to mistrust me, because most people can’t be trusted to do right by others. I see that now, more clearly than ever. Only…I was right, and they should have trusted me, just as I believe that the princesses should trust me now, even though they can’t see it. But I think we have to believe. That our abilities and our knowledge do not mislead us. That things will work out as we know they must.”