Seeker of the Crown

by Ruth Lauren

A lone piece of paper falls from the table in the empty chamber, and Father and the others disappear down the hallway, their footsteps and voices trailing off until we’re left standing in silence.

  “I want to see for myself who they’re sending to the pass,” says Anatol. He starts striding in the direction of the stables.

  “Wait,” I say.

  “Valor, she’s my mother,” he says. “What other family do I have left?”

  “I know. I agree with you. But I know a better way than marching in there like the prince of Demidova.”

  Anatol presses his lips together for a long moment.

  “Do you trust me?” I ask.

  His face softens. “Of course I do.”

  “Then follow me.”

  I lead the way down some back stairs and corridors used only by palace staff until we come to a window that looks directly over the roof of the stables.

  Sasha frowns. “Didn’t we …?”

  I nod. “Once.”

  We’ve done this before—on a dare from a stableboy. He bet that we couldn’t climb out onto the roof and swing to the hay bales inside. He was right.

  “Is this necessary?” Nicolai looks around anxiously as I swing a leg over the windowsill.

  Feliks sniffs and casts a sideways glance at Sasha. “It’s always better to observe first and then decide on a plan.”

  Sasha smiles at him, and his neck goes dark red.

  “Come on, then,” I say, beckoning the others out as I scramble to the edge of the roof and drop to my stomach. They all follow suit until we’re lined up and peeking over the gables. The smell of hay and horses and manure filters through on the cold breeze.

  Below us, horses snort steam into the air and toss their heads, picking up on the haste with which they’re being saddled. Women and men in cloaks shout orders and ready weapons taken from the stocks in the stables. The party being sent to rescue Queen Ana numbers six. I don’t know who they are, so I look to Anatol. His brow is furrowed.

  We were only just in time—the riders look ready, and in less than a minute, hooves ring out on the cobbles of the paddock and away through the royal family’s private grounds. A lone stableboy quiets the remaining horses as the clatter of the departure still sings in the air.

  Above us there’s a bang and a click, and I look up in time to see a servant moving away through the now-closed window.

  Katia’s face registers alarm. “How are we going to get back in?”

  “We can get down from here,” I say, pointing at the hay bales below. “If you hang and swing just right, you can land on those.”

  Sasha raises her eyebrows. “You came back after we lost that bet and did it without me?”

  I hesitate. I never told her I did that. Not after she couldn’t do it herself.

  She shakes her head. “Never mind. Let’s just get down there now.” And before I have the chance to say anything else, she’s lowering herself off the edge of the roof until she hangs by her hands. She swings back and forth. My heart jumps into my throat, but she tucks her hurt ankle under her and lands on the hay, falling onto her side with a soft noise and a startled cry from the stableboy.

  She turns and gestures that she’s okay.

  I smile. She never would have done that before Tyur’ma.

  Sasha says something to the boy while the rest of us drop down, and in short order we’re all dusting off our clothes while Anatol dismisses the boy, who clutches his cap and nods enough to make his head fall off.

  Anatol waits until the boy has scurried off, and then we look at each other. His gaze wanders to the saddles.

  I look at the horses, then back at Anatol.

  “You don’t have to,” he says. “I wouldn’t expect it.”

  “Wait a minute.” Katia stops picking hay out of her braids. “You said you wanted to see. And now you’ve seen. Weren’t those six riders the best the Guard has to offer?”

  Nicolai nods. “They were. The queen couldn’t have picked better herself.”

  “That may be true,” says Anatol. “But still …”

  “I’m going with you,” I say flatly.

  He looks torn.

  “I have to go,” he says. “My mother needs me. My country needs me.”

  “As does mine,” I say. “I don’t intend to have gone through these past weeks for nothing. You won’t get there without my help, anyway. You may remember I have some skill with a crossbow.”

  I see the hint of a smile on his face before he moves to grab a saddle.

  Sasha straightens up from rubbing her sore ankle, and I take her hands.

  “I know,” she says, resignation in her voice. “Of course you’re going. But remember that Father will send the best archers. Their small numbers mean they can approach with stealth. You need to do the same.”

  “Not all the best archers,” Anatol calls over. “I have one of them with me.”

  “I’m coming too,” says Nicolai.

  “No,” I say. “You should catch up with the rest of the Guard. We need to know what Anastasia’s doing. You can be our eyes and ears at the docks.”

  Nicolai frowns as though confused. “I don’t remember you becoming general or queen recently, Valor.”

  “What do you m—? Oh. I’m not giving orders, Nicolai, I’m just suggesting that—”

  “Listen to Valor’s suggestion, please, Nicolai,” says Anatol.

  “Of course, Prince Anatol.” He gives an exaggeratedly formal bow.

  “That’s settled, then,” says Sasha, wiping a smile off her face. “I’ll return to the palace and find Father. My skills will be put to best use with him. I’ll try to persuade him to send reinforcements to the pass.”

  “Stay safe.” I pull her into a tight hug.

  “She’ll be safe with us. I’ll stay with her to protect her,” says Feliks fiercely.

  Katia puts her hand on his shoulder. “What Feliks means is—”

  “Inessa has returned!” Sasha breaks in. Her gaze is locked on the palace windows. On the inside, servants and Inessa’s guards hurry past.

  Sasha turns to us. “Go! Before she stops you.”

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “We’ll deal with her,” says Katia, setting her mouth in a stubborn line. “Let’s go.”

  The three of them hurry away. I glance back at Sasha as I mount a chestnut mare, who’s skittish underneath me as I gather the reins. Sword at his side, Anatol rides out of the paddock to rescue the queen, and I follow him.

  CHAPTER 21

  The ground is hard beneath the snow, and the steam of the horses’ breath punctuates the air as they find their stride, eager to burn off nervous energy.

  We take a circuitous route around the dense inner city and out to the valley—an hour’s hard ride at best. The cold is harsh, pinching my face and seeping through my furs. Every nerve in my body is on fire, though, as I urge my horse onward. Prince Anatol rides as well as I do, and the palace horses are fine and strong.

  I quickly work out that Anatol intends to take the more difficult trail across the top of the land, leaving the party of six to ride low in the valley along the same route Peacekeeper Rurik took when Feliks and I traveled to Tyur’ma. The bare branches of trees whip into my path, and though the horses are forced to slow their headlong pace, it still takes every ounce of concentration I have to stay seated and keep my wits about me.

  Time seems to pass differently, and though I register that I’m getting both hungry and thirsty, it’s just a dim and detached feeling—one that I push aside. It starts to snow, and I think about Queen Ana, and about Anastasia on her ship, determined to forge an alliance with Pyots’k no matter the cost. I think about Mother too, and wonder where she is, whether she’s safe. Ahead of me, Anatol pulls up short as the valley flattens out and the forest becomes sparse. Movement to our left catches my eye. I grip the saddle between my thighs, pull my crossbow from my back, and nock a bolt. Anatol touches my arm. “Just a stag,” he says. I realize that I’ve p
ulled my horse up in front of his, shielding him. His face is pink from the pace of our journey and exposure to the freezing air, errant flakes of snow melting slowly in his hair and on his cloak.

  I look back. The stag’s antlers are visible now at the treeline, but it doesn’t venture out onto the plain. I lower my bow.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  My horse tosses its mane and steps forward.“Ride,” I tell the prince. His horse fidgets under him at the nervous edge in my voice. “Ride fast.”

  I grasp the reins in my cold hands, and we surge forward onto the plain. Snow packs down under the horses’ hooves, but they’re used to it. They’ll tire quickly after all they’ve already done, but we can’t afford to spare them now.

  My legs ache, unused to riding for so long at such a pace, but I don’t slow my horse. The flurries blind us, but flashes of the stone walls of Tyur’ma up ahead show through when the wind whips the falling snow away.

  I keep us heading straight for the shadow of the mountain, locking my eyes again and again on Tyur’ma. I’m riding toward it voluntarily, a free girl, but it still freezes my heart. I know how it feels to take the prison cart through the portcullis.

  My throat burns with the cold. The wisps of hair that have escaped my ushanka soon gather a crust of ice. The snow falls thicker. I can’t tell which direction is which anymore.

  “Valor!”

  The prince has drawn his sword. I see nothing—just the snow bearing down on us—but an arrow sticks out of his mount, just above the shoulder. The horse twists back and forth, and Anatol clings to it.

  “Anatol!”

  I whip my head around, my breath harsh and loud, and draw my crossbow. But I can’t see anything. Or anybody.

  The prince’s horse rears so high that he drops back, falling into the snow with a soft thud. His horse bolts, using the last of its energy to buck as it disappears into the blinding whiteness that surrounds us.

  “Anatol.” I blink snow from my lashes, desperate to unleash my bolt if only I could see where I should aim. But my horse is snorting and tossing its head, nervous and exhausted, and I can’t manage both horse and bow. The prince hauls himself up from the snow.

  “Are you all right?” I ask. “Where did that arrow come from?” It takes me by surprise just how much it scared me to think he might be hurt.

  He shakes his head, breathing hard.

  I squint up at the battlements of Tyur’ma, but it’s no use—I can’t see anything.

  I offer Anatol my hand. “We have to keep moving. Get on.”

  We both know the horse won’t get far with two of us riding, but right now I can’t think beyond getting us close, and in one piece, to the mountain.

  Anatol mounts my horse, sitting behind me, and we’re off again, struggling through the snow. My hands are frozen on the reins, my toes numb in my boots.

  I start at every noise, and the only comfort I have is the thought that whoever’s out there, whoever loosed that arrow, can see no better than we can.

  The mountain looms, and it’s only the well-lit walls of Tyur’ma that give me any indication of where we are and how close we’ve gotten to the pass. I hope Sasha and the others are safe back at the palace. The thought makes me spur the horse on harder, though the poor creature doesn’t have much more to give.

  Minutes later, Anatol leans forward. “Valor? We’ll have to walk the rest.”

  He’s right. The horse is struggling, its head dipping lower with every stride. Ahead of us, the snow begins to rise as we reach the outcroppings of the mountain. We must climb to the pass.

  Anatol swings down from the saddle, and I lurch forward and drop, stumbling into the snow. I steady myself, and we leave the horse. There’s nothing to hitch it to, and we can’t force it to stay.

  “Can you see … anything?” Anatols asks.

  I shake my head, tired and sodden, but every nerve on edge. I point to the pass, and Anatol nods. We both turn and scrabble up, up, up the snow-covered rocks. My hands and feet are clumsy with cold, but my heart races.

  Anatol points to a steep outcropping of rock, and I nod my understanding. He wants to overlook the pass. I drag myself the last few yards, my hands hardly able to grip anymore, and pull myself up next to Anatol. He’s crouched behind some boulders. The white stone is veined through with minerals, like the cliff-face entrance to the mines in Tyur’ma. I scoop out the snow to make a shelter and conceal us better. My fingers sting and ache from the ride. They won’t bend properly, so I use my forearms. Anatol helps, and then we sit, panting, for a few seconds before we turn and peek out over the scene below.

  The pass is narrow, razor-sharp rock deceptively covered with a soft coating of powdery snow.

  Anatol sucks in a breath. A small group of Inessa’s guards surrounds a shaking woman. They wear heavy furs, while her thin cloak ripples in the wind. On her head, a kokoshnik sits askew.

  “Queen Ana,” I say, at the same time Anatol cries “Mother!”

  How long have they been standing there?

  Anatol’s hand moves to his sword, and he plants one foot in the snow.

  “Wait,” I say. Out on the plain beyond the pass, on Pyots’kan soil, I see movement in the snow—something strange. I would think it a flock of tiny dark birds, but the movement is all wrong. I pull Anatol back down beside me.

  “What is that?” he asks.

  I narrow my eyes against the snowfall and see the glint of cold winter light on steel.

  “People,” I whisper. Women and men dressed all in white, their furs virtually undetectable against the snow on the plain. The dark marks I can see are their weapons. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, armed with swords and bows, march across the plain toward the unforgiving white mountain and the black walls of Tyur’ma.

  Anatol sees it too. “Soldiers.” His voice is hushed. “The Pyots’kan Army.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Snow deadens all sound, so it seems as though a ghost army marches toward us in a dream world of muted light and slowly falling snowflakes.

  Anatol and I look at each other. All the color has blanched from his face.

  “Where’s the rescue party?” he whispers.

  They should have been ahead of us, taking the easier route through the valley. Are they still approaching the pass? Hidden in the trees somewhere?

  The prince looks over his shoulder, searching the forest. It’s silent and empty. His breath mists the air. Once. Twice.

  Then one of Inessa’s guards moves, and I catch a glimpse of a cloak. It’s a figure, on his knees in the snow, hands bound behind his back. It’s one of the rescue party.

  My heart sinks. I nudge Anatol.

  When he sees too, he clenches his jaw. “Are they all there?”

  “I don’t know. But …”

  He lets out a measured breath. If one is captured, and they all rode together, it’s likely they’ve all been captured.

  I wish that were the worst thing about the scene I see before me. My thoughts fracture like thin ice on a lake. The mountain pass is too small to permit a whole army to march through undetected, but—

  “This must be why that Peacekeeper was going to the palace,” I say. “They saw this from the walls of Tyur’ma and sent a warning.”

  Anastasia never mentioned this; in all her gloating she only said the queen was to be handed over to Pyots’k at the pass. Did she want us to see this? Did she even know about it?

  “The Peacekeeper will have raised the alarm.” Anatol’s voice is faint. “The Guard will have turned away from the docks by now. They’ll be headed here. There’ll be a battle.”

  I don’t answer him. I already know. There’s going to be a war. Right here in Demidova. And not in months or years to come because of Anastasia’s allowing Pyots’k to launch its ships—but right now, because their army is invading.

  “We have to close the pass.” I blurt out the words fast before I even begin to thi
nk of how impossible it is. “It’s the only way to prevent a war.”

  Anatol’s expression moves from animated to hopeless as he realizes the same thing I do—the only way to stop this is to do something that can’t be done.

  “Valor,” he says gently, “it’s a wonderful idea. But we’d need something more than a boy with a sword and a girl with a crossbow to do that.” He casts his eyes over the steep sides of the pass, but his expression doesn’t change. He shakes his head. “We’d need something powerful enough to cause a landslide.”

  He’s right. But there must be a way. There must.

  I follow his gaze. The snow has fallen in such a thick layer over the pass that the smaller trees are bent almost in half with the weight of it on their branches.

  I grab his arm. “Not a landslide,” I say. “An avalanche.”

  He frowns, and then his eyebrows shoot up.

  The first of the soldiers in white is almost at the pass now. Very soon he’ll be into Demidova, and they won’t stop until the whole army has poured through while everyone in the city is distracted by Anastasia’s ships sailing past our harbor.

  “How?” he says. “And what about Mother?”

  “We have to get her out of there first. That’s your job.” I say. “Then I can shoot into the snow and break it up. Look how steep the sides of the pass are. After that flurry we just had, it will fall, I know it.”

  I don’t know it, but I can’t sit here and do nothing.

  “It has to be now,” I say. “Before the Pyots’kan army gets through the pass.”

  Antol’s jaw tenses. He nods.

  We creep around the boulders and out into the open. Below, the soldiers approaching the pass march on despite the dangerous glint of the rock through the snow.

  I crouch low, and Anatol follows suit, but we’re both wearing dark furs, and I’m painfully aware of how visible we are. The guards surrounding Queen Ana all have their eyes trained on the approaching Pyots’kan force, though, and as we get closer, I let myself wonder if we might be able to pull this off.

  I’m barely breathing by the time we’re near enough to see that all six members of the rescue party kneel in the snow beyond Inessa’s guards. Their hands are bound behind them. I move my head a fraction to the left and catch Anatol’s eye.