Knowing her father, there was a distinct reason for this. Her uncle had spoken about St. Svetleva as if it represented their doom. Had he not spoken to her father about it?
“What about the other soldiers?” she asked. “Are we leaving them here? What if the town is attacked again?”
“We have to,” Father answered, but Polya stared at Anatoliy. She wanted his answer. It seemed a risk to leave these few men to guard what was clearly a highly desirable town.
“Was the munitions factory destroyed?” she asked. “Is that why you think it’s safe?”
“It’s not safe,” Anatoliy said, and rubbed his hand across his chin. “The munitions factory stands, but the workers haven’t returned. The remaining soldiers will destroy it, and then take the next train to St. Svetleva.”
“Destroy it?” It was a factory full of gunpowder! “How?”
“They’ll set charges on the first floor.”
“But the rest of the town…” She’d seen what shells could do. The building on the edge of the town was full, top to bottom, with weapons. “It could destroy everything. Not only the factory.”
“It’s a risk,” Father allowed. “We’ll do our best to clear the areas nearby. We’ll move people to the other side of town. But we can’t risk the weapons falling into the hands of the other side.”
The other side. Traitors. Revolutionaries. Others.
“Anatoliy?” It took him a while to look at her. “Anatoliy. Do you think it will work?”
After a moment, he nodded. “I do. I think we can’t leave the town with the factory functioning. It will invite others to repeat what happened yesterday. There aren’t enough soldiers to protect it. But…” He sighed and glanced toward her father then back at her. “I think innocent people will die. I think some people won’t leave their homes. I think we’ll miss others. I think people will hide, thinking themselves safe.”
And he would own those deaths. Polya could see it in his eyes. He may never know if people died, but by acquiescing to her father, he was accepting responsibility for the fallout.
It was another wound he’d carry.
If she could help him, she would.
“Is the church still standing?” she asked, thinking quickly.
Father nodded.
“Have them ring the bells. Bring the people in. Use the townspeople to spread the word. Don’t rely on the few soldiers you have to tell everyone. No one knows the town better than the people who live here. Perhaps their aid will save lives.”
Anatoliy nodded. “Yes. We’ll do that.”
“Brillant, mače.” Father smiled and reached for her head, touching her lightly. “My smart girl.”
Not your girl. Polya’s smile felt forced, but her father didn’t seem to notice. He spun on his heel and out of the tent, barking orders as soon as he stepped into camp again.
“He’s right,” Anatoliy said, standing and reaching for her hands. Hesitantly, aware of every ache and pain in her back, she took his hand. He waited patiently, supporting her weight when she eased up, and held on until she could stand on her own. “You are brilliant. Your idea will save lives. I’m sure of it.”
The smile left her face. She didn’t have to pretend with Anatoliy. “You’re sure this is necessary?”
“I didn’t like the idea when the princes broached the subject last night, but yes, I think it is the right answer. If I had more men, I would keep them here. I’d secure the area. But I don’t. And I can’t.”
“All right,” she answered. “I trust you. If this is the way, then we’ll do it. Anything I can do to help, though, let me.”
He nodded thoughtfully, reaching for the wool coat still on the cot. Wordlessly, he shrugged into it and then picked up Polya’s. He held it out, and she carefully placed one arm, and then the other inside, turning to face him. His face was serious as he buttoned each silver button and adjusted her collar. “Comfortable?”
The weight that yesterday would have been salt in the wounds on her back was merely irritating today. “Yes.”
Pausing, he moved his hands to her shoulders, cupping them. “You ease something inside me, Polya. Make the heaviness lighter.”
“Good,” she whispered, and lifted her face for a kiss.
He touched her lips with his and then slid his nose along the side of hers before kissing her again. “So good.”
28
What Will Pytor Sacrifice?
For a group of soldiers who’d spent most their time in the army in support positions, these men were efficient and effective. All Anatoliy had to do was issue the order and it was carried out.
Now, walking through the town, Anatoliy noted with relief that their warnings were heeded. Line after line of people moved toward the other side of the town. They carried their goods wrapped in blankets, or shoved into wheelbarrows they pushed in front of them.
But even more encouraging was the line of people bringing empty wagons and horses to help their townsmen evacuate.
The people were banding together, supporting each other. Doors opened on either side of the street as men and women welcomed the evacuees into their homes.
It was heartening, after all the death and pain he’d witnessed, to see what good people were capable of.
“The trains are running?” Polya asked, dragging him from his thoughts.
“Yes. Amazingly,” he answered.
Next to him Dara scoffed. “The only thing that ever could be counted on in Konstantin were the trains. It is good to see some things don’t change.”
“True,” Polya answered. “Though I have only been on a train once before. When we went to Bishmyza, we rode in a carriage.”
“Where did you take a train?” Anatoliy asked.
“The Hunt,” she replied quietly. “The cars were beautiful. Red velvet seats. Gilded windows. Brocade curtains.”
Anatoliy thought back on his train trip to the Hunt. He’d been pinned down with chains, unable to move. The doors were open, creating a frigid cross breeze that left him nearly paralyzed when he’d arrived at their destination. He’d not been able to give even the minutest resistance to the soldiers who’d yanked him into the arena and tethered him to a pole as bait.
“These trains are simple,” Dara said. Grateful for the interruption, Anatoliy turned his attention back to his friend. “Leather seats and a commode are the most luxury you will find. I apologize, Princess, there will be no velvet cushions.”
Polya grinned. “I’ll try to survive.”
The train station was not as busy as Anatoliy had seen it on his earlier trips around the town. Trains sat, steam pouring out, waiting for passengers who seemed wary of them. They stared at the doors while the conductors paced in front of the cars. More than once a steward reached for a bag, only for a man or woman to shake their heads, turn on their heel, and leave. As their small group approached the train, a conductor, buttons and shoes shined to perfection, waved to them.
“Ser! Kapetan! This way, please.” The conductor gestured to a porter who ran toward them, but paused when he realized they had no bags.
“Show them their seats, then,” the conductor directed, and the porter led the way up the stairs and into the passenger car.
He led them to seats in the rear of the train. Two leather bound benches faced each other. It would be a tight squeeze for him and Polya, but he couldn’t say he minded.
Pytor and Evgeny were already in place, dark head and blond head tipped toward each other as they studied a newspaper.
“There you are,” Pytor said, relieved. “How was it?”
At first, Anatoliy thought he spoke to Polya, but no. He was looking to Anatoliy. What a clueless man. He’d left a town about to be rocked by explosions and had calmly made his way to the train station with his brother.
“One of the conductors brought us a paper from the capital. Look at these headlines!” Pytor showed him the paper.
Anatoliy read them, his stomach clenching and heart sinking. “Come on,
Kapetan.” Evgeny smacked the leather seat in front of them. “Sit with us. This will be a working trip. We need to be prepared before we set foot in the capital. Dara, you, too, son.”
Polya squeezed his hand and inched toward the seats. “Go ahead, Anatoliy. I’m here if you need me.”
Reluctantly, he released her hand and sat before the princes who immediately began a diatribe against the editors. But he was only half-listening.
The engineer blew the horn. The sound, reminiscent of the organ in a church, seemed to imbue action in the people who were loitering outside the window.
Stay or go.
Anatoliy saw it written on their faces. Here, in this ruined town, was the known. The munitions factory would be exploded, and maybe more revolutionaries would shell them. Danger and death were a possibility, but it would come to them in their home.
They’d die surrounded by family and familiar walls.
If they left, they might live. A family huddled together, the father pushing the small children through the door to the seats.
Their clothes were warm, and well-made. The father wore a fur cap and heavy wool coat, while his wife wore a fur collar around her neck and a held a fur muff on one hand. Beneath her hat Anatoliy saw the glint of gold.
But for all their material comforts, the family’s appearance was haggard. Had they left everything in town? Did they wear their wealth and hope to use it for a new life?
A small boy walked before the father. He couldn’t have been more than five or six. He saw Anatoliy watching him, and his eyes got big before he saw Pytor. His gaze skipped over him, from his hat to his shoulders and down to the buttons on his wool coat.
When Anatoliy’d been a boy, he’d loved military parades and marches. His father took him to the Lyceum and they’d watched the cadets drill on the verdant lawn between buildings.
Anatoliy smiled, lifted his hand in a wave, and was rewarded with the boy’s shy grin. With a sigh of relief, he sat back in the seat to give his attention to the princes.
“…murder the other royals…”
Anatoliy’s focus snapped to Polya’s father. “Explain.”
Pytor shook the paper under Anatoliy’s nose, stabbing it with his index finger. “Here.” Momentarily, Anatoliy was distracted by Pytor’s grimy hand and the knowledge that the royal princes had been living as rough as any enlisted man.
“These traitors to Konstantin have formed a new government. Listen! The People’ s Collective Republic of Konstantin. Evgeny, we have to hurry back. The generals, our guards. Dammit!” Pytor crumpled the paper and threw it at the window.
“What about murder?” Anatoliy lowered his voice.
Pytor sliced his hand through the air. “It is somehow related to the Hunt and the prisons. Crimes against Konstantin’s citizens. They want to hold us responsible for Aleksandr’s actions.”
“You saw what he did,” Anatoliy answered. If nothing else, the princes deserved to recognize their part in their brother’s evil. “You didn’t stop him.”
“He may have fed and clothed his soldiers,” Dara added. “But we were expendable. And the missions he assigned us… We followed those orders, Anatoliy.” His second stared at his hands as if the blood of the men they’d killed was still visible.
“To stop him meant our death. The death of our families.” Pytor glanced up at Anatoliy, and though what he said was the truth, his answer was too simple.
“Did you have no part in designing the Hunt?” he asked.
“I did not,” Pytor answered immediately, but he glanced at Polya and then to his feet. He may not have come up with the challenges, but it was clear his role was larger than he admitted.
“You didn’t design it…” Anatoliy trailed off, and then as understanding dawned. “But it was as much your idea as your brother’s.” There. That was the truth, and it was the heart of the guilt Anatoliy saw written all over Pytor’s face—and in his silence.
With gentle hands, Anatoliy drew the newspaper into his lap and opened it. The article elucidated the crimes, and even if they were spun, hyped, and exaggerated, at their most base level, they were horrible.
“Because of the Hunt, farmers lost their crops and there’s the threat of famine,” Anatoliy began. “The alterations to the landscape at the Stovnya Mountas brought an avalanche onto the town, killing most of the residents and livestock. Then there are the prisoners and ‘traitors.’ Those people had garnered Aleksandr’s dislike for real, or more probably, imagined slights. Did you see how they died?” he asked suddenly, glancing from Evgeny to Pytor. “Did you see their faces and hear their screams before their throats closed and they suffocated in their blood and spit?”
Dara swallowed hard. He’d seen it. Anatoliy had suspected his squad had watched from a distance. His reaction confirmed it.
Pytor’s face paled, but Evgeny continued to watch him, a spark brightening his eyes. Eerie and familiar, something about the gaze again nudged at Anatoliy’s subconscious, but for the life of him, he couldn’t grab hold of what it was.
“Your brother was evil, and no one stopped him.”
“We did what we could.” The prince’s voice shook. “You don’t know what he threatened. What wouldn’t you do for Polya? What wouldn’t she do for you?”
“Anatoliy.” Polya pulled him from the bubble he’d imagined around himself and the princes. Glancing at her, he realized she’d heard every word he said, every accusation he’d made.
“I wanted to save everyone,” Pytor replied, but it wasn’t to Anatoliy he spoke, it was to his daughter. “Since before you were born, I wanted to save first my brothers, and then Konstantin. Aleksandr was always the worst of us. As a child, his cruelty knew no bounds, and as king, with armies and weapons in his hands, he became a monster. By the time I had the power to do anything, mače, I had so much to lose. Your mother. You. If he had merely threatened my land and my title, I would have given it over. I wouldn’t have thought twice.”
“But you sacrificed me,” Polya stated baldly. “You say he threatened us and that was why you gave me up. It makes no sense, Papa.”
In the time Anatoliy had known Polya, she’d only ever referred to Pytor as “Father.” And Pytor had flinched each time the word left his daughter’s lips. It struck him as painfully as any arrow or bullet, but his face, when Polya called him “Papa,” and laid his crimes bare, was the face of a man at the gate of Hell.
“I did.” Pytor stood. He pushed past Anatoliy and Dara and slid into the seat across from Polya, reaching for her hands. Trembling, he brought them to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “My darling girl, my tiger, my heart, I did. I sacrificed you for Konstantin, and power, and all the time I said to myself, ‘It is what I must do. She will survive. She is strong.’ And you did survive, mače, you are strong. In the beginning, when you were first born and I saw your fangs and your tail and your fierceness, I knew it was a sign from God of what we were, you and I. But then, as you grew older and Aleksandr crueler, I changed. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but I gave myself permission to sacrifice you, my greatest gift, for Konstantin. Even now, in quiet moments, a voice echoes through my brain, telling me anything is worth saving Konstantin. Anyone.”
They were the most honest words Anatoliy had ever heard the prince utter, but their effect on Polya was devastating. She heard, as did Anatoly, what it was the prince did not say. She may still be the sacrificial lamb, the martyr for Konstantin and for power.
“Your daughter is Konstantin’s savior,” Evgeny suddenly interjected. They stared at the man as he stood, towering over the seats. “But, I will not let her be sacrificed for nothing. You will be safe with me, Polya,” her uncle promised. “As long as I am here, I promise, no harm will come to you.”
His pledge should have brought comfort, but it didn’t. It wasn’t a threat, but beneath it was something confusing. Anatoliy couldn’t name it, but he didn’t like it.
Pytor flushed red, his throat bobbling as he swallowed. A muscle ju
mped near his ear as if he was clenching his teeth, holding back whatever he wanted to say.
“I will try to be a better father.” Eyes closed, Pytor finally spoke. “It is all I can promise.”
“I understand,” she said. The pain in her voice drew Anatoliy to her. He swept her into his arms, dragged her next to him, and then buried his face in her neck. She smelled like campfire smoke, snow, and sweat, and he breathed in again.
Four of them now sat on one side of the train. Dara stared out the window across the aisle, lost in his own thoughts.
During the time they spoke, the train had lurched into motion. Anatoliy hadn’t noticed, or felt, the jerk as it gained momentum. It moved smoothly now. The countryside blurred white and gray and brown as they flew across the Konstaya Ravnina. The Ravnina stretched on for miles, snow covered plains that stood between St. Svetleva and the Stovnya mountains.
Home. The thought blasted through Anatoliy’s mind, shaking him to his core. He hadn’t thought of St. Svetleva as home in a long time. Home was comfort and rest. He’d been a prisoner in his body, locked away as a bear and as Aleksandr’s assassin.
“We are within hours of the capital,” Evgeny spoke Anatoliy’s thought aloud. “Before we arrive, it strikes me as important to address the rather amazing thing none of us have spoken about.”
Anatoliy turned his face away from the window to focus on the prince and waited.
“When,” Evgeny continued, “are we going to talk about Anatoliy, and the fact that he is no longer a bear?”
29
What Do You Wish For?
The devil enjoyed the look of panic on Anatoliy’s face. Did he not think they knew?
Do not disappoint me…
Did the Kapetan not realize, when he brought to camp the loyal princess fairly swooning over him, let alone calling him Anatoliy, Pytor would not add two and two and make four?
Revolution and Rising Page 16
