The weak winter light spilled through windows stripped of drapery. Wallpaper hung off the walls where paintings had been ripped from their mounts. The marble floor was covered in mud and snow. Everywhere she looked was destruction and chaos. Voices echoed and reverberated through the empty rooms as if they were in the center of a dinner party, and not a ravaged family home.
Had Bishmyza suffered the same fate as this place? Had the villagers in Brezoselo, the town where their summer house sat, helped themselves to her family’s possessions?
“Where is the mayor?” Polya asked. “Where are his family and servants?”
Lukas pointed to the grand parlor, toward an old woman stirring a steaming pot cooking in the marble fireplace. “There is their cook.”
He pointed to the young man Polya recognized from the forest. “That is their stable boy.” Lukas pointed to himself. “And I was the footman.” He bowed in a way Polya had seen footmen bow her entire life.
Polya examined the parlor, for the first time noticing the walls. The rose-printed paper was sprayed with bullet holes. She peered closer before lurching away, toward the door. What she thought was wallpaper were blossoms of rust colored blood. With dawning horror, she noted the path of the bullets. The ones closest to her were located high, as tall as Dara stood. But then, they trailed lower until they ended near her knees.
“You killed them.” The words came out low, a hair away from a growl. Instinctively, she flashed her fangs at the former servant.
“I did.” Lukas uncurled his body, standing up straight. He did not appear intimidated by Polya’s display. “Their family abused their position in this village for generations. It was justice.”
Releasing her tail from her hands, she struggled to contain the tremble that began in her knees. She forced herself to face Lukas and her tail snapped from side to side. With an accusing finger, she pointed to the lowest bullet holes. “And the child?”
Lukas glanced away, as if ashamed. “We had no choice.”
“There is always a choice!” Polya cried before slapping her hand over her mouth.
The house silenced all at once. The only sound was the wind whipping through the still-open door. “This”—she traced the blossoms on the wall, her fingers trailing along the path of the blood—“this is murder. You murdered a child.”
Silence was replaced with a rising whisper as the villagers spoke behind their hands. Some of them cried quietly, but they were soon overwhelmed. Whispers were replaced with full-throated anger. She had offended them. Good. They offended her with their murder of an innocent child.
“I have seen enough killing to last this lifetime and into the next.” Another image from the Hunt flashed through her mind—the blue, swollen face of the murdered domestica. The poor woman had once served her uncle and had introduced her to Dara. “I am—” She choked before taking another breath to go on. “I would never want to inspire this.” Polya raised her voice to carry over the villagers’. “This murder is what I fought to end. It is what Anatoliy died for.”
Polya spun toward Dara. The other soldiers wound their way through the crush of bodies to surround her again. “I want to leave. I’m sorry.” She stared at each one, apologizing for offering them rest and then snatching it away.
The soldiers nodded, all of them with understanding.
“Yes, Princess,” Dara told her kindly. “Of course.”
7
What Anatoliy Died For
Anatoliy fell into his role of Kapetan as if he’d never left it. And truly, he never had. Even when he’d been a bear, he’d led his men. Dara acquiesced to him, looking to him for direction.
Now he used his voice to command. He ordered the remaining officers to pack up the camp. He spoke to the supplies officer and took stock of the ammunition, food, and clothing that was left at the camp. They must all be put on rations, even the princes, if they were to make it to Bishmyza without running out of supplies.
There were animals in need of feed and care. When the Hunt was organized, the servants had used horses to bring supplies to the places the train would not reach. But some of the animals had been stolen, while others had run off. The ones left would not be for riding; they would be for hauling. Anatoliy made decisions quickly without once considering asking the princes’ opinions.
It is something perhaps I should do. Anatoliy stood outside the princes’ tent, waiting for permission to enter. When Prince Pytor finally called out, he removed his hat and pushed the flap aside.
“Your Highness,” he greeted Polya’s father. Prince Pytor fixed Anatoliy with a stare and his heart ached when faced with eyes so similar to Polya’s. “We are ready to march. I regret that you and your brother must walk along with the soldiers. Our horses are too few to carry both equipment, supplies, and men.”
Pytor stood from the table where he sat with his older brother, Prince Evgeny. Anatoliy’s experience with the King, their brother, made him brace for their rage, but Pytor and Evgeny both nodded. “Of course. We lost many horses to the deserters, and unfortunately, in the chaos of those moments, some of our horses and livestock were lost in the forest.”
“Perhaps we will find a familiar goat along the way, eh, Pytor?” Evgeny chuckled. He stood and walked over to Anatoliy, patting him on the shoulder. “We are not like our brother, Kapetan. We are used to hardship.”
Anatoliy nodded sharply. “I would like to study a map, if you have one, to determine the best route to Bishmyza. I have considered which way Dara would go, and I believe he would skirt the towns, opting to stay shielded in the forest.”
Pytor and Evgeny exchanged a glance, but it was Evgeny who began to speak. “My brother and I were discussing the same thing, but we have come to a slightly different conclusion. While it is likely your men have stayed hidden, it is necessary for us to go to the nearest town. Our brothers, Nikolai and Mikhail, have gone onto St. Svetleva to secure the government, but we don’t know if they reached the capital. We must stop at a telegraph office to send a message to them. As much as we both want to find Polya, we must also ensure the safety of the country.”
Anatoliy suspected something like this would happen. “In that case, Your Highness, I made a plan of contingency.”
“Please tell us. If it is possible, we will agree.”
“The officers left will protect you and your brother as you travel to the town. I will scout ahead by myself, looking for her trail. I know you denied me other soldiers to do this, but I will move quickly by myself. I will go to Bishmyza, and then I will return to you.”
Both princes shook their heads. “Could we send on a less valuable officer?” Prince Evgeny asked.
“These men are part of the same platoon. They work well together, and have shown themselves to be loyal to you. I believe they will protect you and carry out their duties.”
“I’m sorry, Kapetan. We cannot let you go. But we will allow for a soldier or two, perhaps even an officer, if there is one you believe could do this, to search for Polya.” Prince Evgeny sat back in his chair, splaying his feet in front of him. Deep circles ringed his eyes. He pushed his hat back on his head and wiped a hand down his face. “Is that possible?”
Anatoliy clenched his teeth and squeezed his fists, trying to calm his racing heart. He did not want to lead a slow, heavily laden platoon to a town to send a telegram. He wanted to race through the woods at breakneck speed to Polya.
“The nearest town,” he ground out. “How long do you plan to stay there?”
Pytor walked to the table, gripped the edges in his fists and stared down at the map. “Too long. We will need to stay in contact with the government to be assured things will run smoothly while we search for Polya.” When he glanced up, his blue eyes were dark and his face conflicted. “I do not like it. But that is how it must be.”
“You wish me to wait for an indeterminate amount of time? My skills are much more useful in the field than at camp.” Anatoliy tried another avenue of persuasion.
“I know. If we can spare you, we will. I want my daughter found more than anyone.”
With difficulty, Anatoliy held back a snort. Certainly, Pytor did want Polya found, but to what end? To help him gain control of the citizens of Konstantin? As a symbol of his right to rule?
If Anatoliy’s purpose diverged from Pytor’s then he would have no problem abandoning the prince. Polya was his priority, and while he believed that Dara skirted the towns, he couldn’t be sure. If he had to stay with the prince for now, he would take advantage of the opportunity to question the people in the villages. Perhaps word of Polya had spread through the towns. Perhaps they’d have seen her themselves…
It was an unlikely possibility, especially since Dara was so skilled at staying hidden, but it was a hope he would hold onto.
The crux of the matter was that Anatoliy did not yet trust Pytor. The man may have been under Alek’s thumb as much as Anatoliy, but his intentions for Polya were unknown. Anatoliy tried to put himself in the prince’s place.
But he could not, no matter how he tried, imagine sacrificing Polya for Konstantin.
Konstantin could burn to the ground for all he cared, so long as Polya walked away unscathed.
8
What Anatoliy Would Want
Dara seemed worried that the townspeople would stop them when they tried to leave the murdered mayor’s home, but they didn’t. They let the soldiers pass, staring at the ground or someplace over Polya’s shoulder as they walked by.
Their shame was tangible.
“We’re going to walk quickly into the forest,” Dara said, his voice a toneless whisper designed to carry only to Polya’s ears.
She nodded, keeping pace with them as they increased their speed. When they had trudged up the muddy road toward the forest, the group broke apart.
“Come with us,” Dara directed Polya.
The other soldiers disappeared ahead of them. “What are they doing?”
“They’re setting up a trail and then they’ll double back to cover ours.”
Polya’s skirts were weighed down with mud and muck from the road, but she lifted them to keep up with Dara’s fast pace. As they reached the interior of the forest, she paused a moment to flick the mud off her boots. Beneath her skirt, she wore woolen petticoats and beneath that woolen stockings. All of it was sodden with mud and snow. Her boots, while warm, and designed for the Hunt, were slowly breaking down from the constant travel. As she jogged to keep up, her toes squished inside them.
“We’re going to walk well into the night.” Dara’s voice cut through her discomfort. “I want to put distance between us and Vaskova.”
“I’m sorry if I caused more trouble.” Agitated, she whipped her tail back and forth as she recalled what she’d seen. “I can’t believe they would murder a child like that. For what?”
Dara peered back at her. “Generations of families have lived under the thumb of cruel masters. It is only surprising that they waited so long to do it.”
Polya stumbled. “But the child?”
“They see him as a small overseer. He was not a child in their minds. He was their future master.”
Polya shook her head. “Children do not always take after their parents.” The thought made her pause. Was that right? She thought about her father and mother. Was she so different from either of them? Hadn’t her father sacrificed her to the Hunt and a challenge to amuse a king? It could have ended in her death.
But she would give up everything to keep Anatoliy with her. A voice echoed through her mind. Even your soul?
Without question, came her answer.
“I do not excuse their behavior,” Dara continued, interrupting the path her thoughts had taken. “But I understand it.”
“It makes us no better than the king, executing innocent people without reason or cause.”
Dara paused, waiting for Polya to catch up to him. He stared at her. “I don’t excuse it,” he repeated. “But cruelty breeds cruelty.”
Memories assailed her, and suddenly she remembered launching her body at soldiers, tearing at them with her teeth. And again in Misurka Square. There she’d clawed at the revolutionaries who’d tried to kill her mother.
If she was to judge the townspeople for their actions, then she needed to recognize she also held the potential for cruelty inside her, especially when the people she loved were threatened.
But a child? Who was only in that house because of—what was it Lukas called it?—“the luck of his birth.” She imagined the terror they’d felt, the sheer horror his mother experienced, knowing there was nothing she could do to save him.
That poor child, faced down by a firing squad made up of the people he’d known since birth and who, until that very moment, he never believed would hurt him.
“It was not right.” Polya lifted her chin. “No matter what the history. No matter what the reason. Some things are not right and we, who know better, must stop it.”
“Are you going to stop this?” Dara asked. “Should we pass Bishmyza and go to St. Svetleva? Will you work to change the way Konstantin has always been so that nothing like this, or the Hunt, ever happens again?”
Polya staggered. His words crushed the ice around her heart. What he suggested was moving on, going on with her life and putting Anatoliy in her past.
And Polya couldn’t do that. Freeze, she commanded her heart. Don’t you dare beat. Freeze.
She put her hand over the organ, as if she could will it not to feel, but the damage was done. Perhaps the ice had begun to melt when she saw the bullet holes in the wall at Mer Popov’s house, or perhaps, when she recognized Anatoliy’s guidance in the soldiers’ actions.
Or maybe the ice began to melt when she started thinking of them as her soldiers.
Whatever the reason, the ice was gone now, and she was left vulnerable all over again.
“I can’t, Dara.” Polya rubbed her hand against her chest over and over. “I can’t. Not without Anatoliy.”
Dara reached for her, and Polya made herself stand still. He would not hurt her, and for the first time, she allowed herself to see the wounds he lived with. He drew his brows low over his dark blue eyes, drawing her attention to his scar. It ran through his brow and down his cheek, and reminded her that he’d seen as much pain, if not more, than she had.
“I miss him, too.”
Polya folded. His hand on her shoulder was the only thing that kept her upright. She bent in half, one hand pressed to her heart and the other wrapped around her waist, as if it was Anatoliy’s arm offering her comfort.
She made a sound. It came from deep inside her, from the tiger she was at her core. It was the sound of an animal whose mate was torn from her, and who now faced the harsh wilds of the world alone.
Dara caught her before her knees hit the ground, and she gripped his coat in her hands, curling her fingers into the material. Holding her body close to his, he wrapped his arms around her. “Anatoliy wouldn’t want you to disappear into your pain.” He bowed his head over her shoulder so his mouth was next to her ear. “He’d want you to do something. He’d want you to live.”
Polya shook her head from side to side. She wanted to cover her ears, so she couldn’t hear what he said. Her heart, that traitor, told her Dara was right. Everything he said about Anatoliy was true.
“Polya.” It was the first time Dara used her name. “Polya.” He rubbed circles on her back until her keening abated. Slowly, she registered other hands on her back, patting, offering comfort. She let Dara go, rubbed her face and lifted her swollen eyes to the forest. Her soldiers watched her silently. Some of them touched her while the others stood ready to protect her.
They understood her pain. They understood it because they’d lost Anatoliy, too. He’d been part of their brotherhood, and they’d cared for him.
And he had protected his soldiers. He let the king beat and torture him to keep them alive.
She realized then, even if she continued to act selfishly, to beg them to brin
g her to a place where she could disappear into ashes and dust, they would. They would walk her to Bishmyza and then if she bade them to, they would leave her there.
But what they really wanted to do was honor Anatoliy.
And—it hurts so much—so did she.
How happy it would have made Anatoliy if he knew she cared for his soldiers as much as he had? If she did as Dara suggested and was brave, she and his soldiers could honor Anatoliy’s sacrifice doubly. And she would watch over them the way Anatoliy would have if he was alive. She’d watch over and protect them the way he watched over and protected her.
Polya swiped her wet gloves across her face, most likely smearing her tears before she straightened. Her lip still trembled, and she bit it as she stepped away from Dara. A small, small bead of blood welled up. When she reached to wipe it away, Dara stopped her. He used his thumb on her mouth, then swiped it across his trousers.
“What would you have me do, Dara?” she asked him.
He gave her a small smile. “What Anatoliy would do.”
9
Town
Anatoliy put his new second-in-command at the front of the platoon. The man was older, gray-haired, and sported a bushy mustache. As a supply officer, the most responsibility he ever had was making sure the coffee rations were adequate, but he was an honorable and devoted soldier. All these men were.
The chance to desert came, but they stayed. So, while the men scouting ahead may never have scouted before, Anatoliy trusted them to do their very best.
And that supplies officer would do everything in his power to ensure they followed the right path.
The princes walked in the center of the squadron while Anatoliy marched in the rear. There were not many of them left, maybe a hundred. When Anatoliy had been a bear, there were three times as many in the camp.
Revolution and Rising Page 3
