Clearly, not.
“It is obvious enough, Evgeny,” Pytor answered. Was that sarcasm he heard? Worse, was it directed at him?
Pytor glared at him. It was! Why the cheek of the man!
The devil almost chuckled.
“My daughter is a tiger. I must say, I’m more taken aback by your surprise than I am Anatoliy’s reappearance.”
“Did Aleksandr not kill you?” the devil asked, this time watching Polya. “How did you survive?”
The blood drained from Polya’s face, leaving her white as a sheet. “Father Stepan,” she whispered.
Oh! They’d worked it all out, hadn’t they? His pride wouldn’t allow him to leave it at that though. “The mystic? What had he to do with it?”
“Indeed.” Pytor perked up. Would the prince be so interested if he knew what influence Father Stepan had on the course of his life? Somehow, the devil thought the man would not appreciate the help he’d given to Lara so many years ago.
“Anatoliy did die.” Polya’s eyes got a far away look, and he delved into her mind. There! Pictured in garish colors, the sights and sounds amplified, was the memory of the bear’s death. She felt it all, every physical pain, every emotion, and it washed over the devil. It fed him like nothing else he’d experienced in millennia. “He died, but I was given the chance to bring him back, and I took it.” Red suffused her face now, chasing away the pale. Hard eyed, she met each of their gazes. What did the girl expect? Shaming?
She would not get it from him. He’d never been as proud and happy as he was in the moment she made her wish and gave him a piece of her.
Wishes and curses.
Curses.
What would be Polya’s curse?
He thought on it, and thought on it. Every day the devil thought about what it was he would take from Polya.
And he always came back to the same thing.
He wanted her.
Aleksandr had the right of it. He’d become enamored of his niece, partly because she belonged to Pytor, partly because she defied him, partly because she was innocent in a way he’d never known before.
Now the devil, too, was enamored of her. If a creature like him could feel, he felt for Polya. He yearned for Polya.
He hadn’t decided what he’d do about it. At this moment, it was enough to be near her, tormenting her uncle.
Things like curses couldn’t be rushed. He wouldn’t lose this opportunity, and so he would be patient.
The curse would come to him. It always did. And he had no doubt, it would be everything he wished for.
30
Why Pytor Did What He Did
Anatoliy met Polya’s gaze, and she could read his guilt there.
“Anatoliy, no. Whatever it was that I heard, or hoped for, it was worth it, and I would do it again. You’re alive. It is a miracle, and one I refuse to regret.”
“You don’t know what it is you gave up in exchange for my life, Polya,” he replied. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. When had he taken it?
Wrapped up in her memories, reliving every single horrifying moment of his death, she hadn’t felt him touch her.
“Father Stepan was no holy man.” She stared pointedly at her father. “You brought him into our home. Did he not whisper in your ear? What did you do that you might not have? His words wrapped around my mind like he knew my deepest secrets.”
“He did the same to me,” Anatoliy interrupted. “I never questioned how a holy man could appear in the forest in the middle of war and grant me a wish that simultaneously cursed me. I was a man, and then I was a bear. I was the thing I wished to be, and nothing I ever imagined.”
“If there is good in this world, then there is evil,” Pytor said, staring at Anatoliy and Polya’s clasped hands. “I should have known. It was he who suggested the Hunt, but I was the one who agreed. I am to blame as much as any otherworldly creature. Whatever his form.”
Yes! Polya sucked in a breath. Her father had set upon the thing precisely. Father Stepan was something else, something evil. Something wrong. But her will was her own, and no matter what he’d offered, she could have said, “no.” Hadn’t she gone to church all these years to know it was within every human’s ability to defeat evil?
“Father Stepan is dead,” Anatoliy said, pulling Polya to the present. “I tore out his throat before I died.”
“Then we no longer have to waste our thoughts on him,” her father said.
In theory. But if Father Stepan had changed Anatoliy’s form, why couldn’t he change his own?
The engineer blew the whistle, and Polya jumped. Outside the window, the landscape had changed. They’d emerged from the plains to travel alongside towns and villages. There would be more people closer to the capital. Towns would be larger, busier.
A plume of smoke hovered over the horizon, and Polya squinted, trying to make out the origin of the smoke. Her breath fogged the window, and as she swept the cloud away, a ragged tower of flame burst into the sky.
“Did you see that?” she asked, finger pressed against the glass. “Papa, Anatoliy, look!”
Crowding around her, the men stared out the window. The fire still raged, visible over the rooftops of the nearby towns.
“Are we going there?” she asked, her stomach knotting. “Is that St. Svetleva?”
“No,” Papa answered. “Where are we, Evgeny? I don’t recognize the town we passed.”
“Krasnoye,” Evgeny said. “It does not have factories that I know of. Pilgrims travel there from around Konstantin to the Yekaterina Church. The icon of Saint Yekaterina weeps blood and will heal the sick.”
“Perhaps it is just a fire.” The words sounded hollow to her ears even as she uttered them. “Perhaps…”
“It is the revolution,” Anatoliy said, but he softened the blow by resting his hand on her head and smoothing her hair. “Before we enter the city, we need to change our clothes. Or at least remove those identifying markers of your rank and status. Polya will be fine, but you—”
Polya followed Anatoliy’s gaze. Her father and uncle did not dress like princes. Neither one wore medals or ribbons that identified them. Studying Anatoliy, she tried to make out what it was that might set him apart. For the first time, she noticed his coat. Wrapped around his waist was his belt. All the buttons had been torn off.
“What happened?” she asked.
“The buttons identified me as an officer. When we brought you into the town to the hospital, I removed them. I planned to claim I stole the coat if I was asked. It did not come to that. Your Highnesses, I will need to address you by your given names, and you should consider removing the buttons from your coats as well. And perhaps exchange boots with one of the other passengers on the train.”
“My boots?” Papa glanced down. “Why my boots?”
“They are too well made. Your hat is fur, your coat lined. We may be able to explain the coat, but we don’t want people looking at you too closely. I did not see—was your picture in the newspaper?” Anatoliy asked.
“No,” Papa answered. “Aleksandr’s…” He trailed off, raising Polya’s suspicion.
“What Papa? What about the king?”
“A picture of Aleksandr in death. His body was found, photographed, and apparently burned.”
“Burned?” Polya asked horrified. She’d never heard of such a thing. In all of Konstantin’s bloody history, a deposed king had never been burned, had he? “Why?”
“They wish to erase any sign of the aristocracy,” her father explained. “They did not want to bury him and create a monument for people to visit or pray over. They want to wipe out any sign we ever existed.”
“Everyone?” she asked.
“Remember what I told you, mače? The people hold the power. Now they know they hold it in their hands, and they will use it to whatever end they wish.” Papa frowned as he spoke, his gaze never leaving the faraway flames. As if he felt her watching, he faced her and smiled tightly. “Have hope, Polya. I have a plan.
”
It seemed to Polya that no matter how far they traveled, the flames were just as high, just as bright.
Flames that size, easily visible, must have towered over the town of Krasnoye. Whatever was burning had plenty of fuel.
Her father glanced one last time out the window, and then set to work elucidating his plan to Anatoliy. Uncle Evgeny listened quietly, nodded his head with points Papa made or crossing his arms to scowl at others.
Dara joined them after a moment, but the soldier was silent and distracted. From time to time, he turned away from the others completely. Then, he would appear lost, staring out the window at the blurry landscape.
Evgeny’s home was far in the east. Her father had once told her, as next eldest, he wanted to be farthest away from Aleksandr. As paranoid as he was cruel, Aleksandr often accused his generals and advisors of plotting against him. His brother had removed the temptation by staying as far away from him as possible.
Except Pytor. Youngest and weakest, Aleksandr had discounted Pytor as a threat. It was the mistake that had cost him his life.
“We must see Mama first,” Polya said, interrupting the debate raging about whether to go to the Imperial Palace first, or to the Novo-Mikhailovsky Palace. The Novo-Mikhailovsky contained an armory, a fact not well known outside of royal circles. It also housed the barracks of the Imperial Palace guards.
It was both Uncle Evgeny and Papa’s opinion that they go there first, establish whether any guards remained loyal to the royals, and proceed from there.
“Yes. Of course,” Papa answered. “I have no doubt she is safe at home, but yes. We will find Mama.”
As far as Polya was concerned, such a thing was not for certain, but she got the answer she wanted.
Would her mother be happy to see her? Would she be glad she lived?
Polya dismissed the dark turn of her thoughts and slid from her seat across the aisle to Dara. “Is your family in St. Svetleva?”
“My mother and sister are, yes,” he answered quietly. “I have a younger brother, but he was away at school.”
“Then we should call on them? Assure yourself of their safety?”
Dara’s response was silence. Worried, Polya peered at Anatoliy and caught his eye.
“Dara,” Anatoliy said. “We’ll go to your home after calling on Polya’s mother. If your family has need, we will bring them with us.”
“My family is not at risk like the princess’s,” Dara answered. “My father was a teacher. The bourgeois are not in the crosshairs of the revolution.”
“Not yet, son,” Uncle Evgeny answered. “But a hundred years ago, in a country to the west, the bourgeois’ heads rolled after the royals. Anyone with material comforts are at risk. No matter what their blood.”
“So much anger,” Polya replied. “Aleksandr created so much hate in such a short time.”
“It was not only our brother,” Uncle Evgeny retorted. “Our father was quite brutal as well. You don’t understand, niece. The peasants existed because we allowed them. Their work was our comfort. No other country in the world has riches like Konstantin. And no other country has such a disparity between the royals and the rest of the population. The pendulum has been swinging this way for a long time. Now, it is time for it to swing back. Revolution was inevitable, all Aleksandr needed to do was give it a push.”
“What will you do?” Dara interrupted. “What can you possibly do to stop the course Konstantin is now on? Do you think you can appear at the palace, declare your rule, and the people will agree?”
It will be so, because we say it is so. They couldn’t go back in time. The revolution was like this train, barreling ahead with momentum all its own. If one of them stepped in front of it to slow it down, they’d merely be crushed beneath its wheels.
“We must take a parallel track now,” her father answered. “You’re right, Dara. There’s no way to stop the revolution, and so we must evolve. Konstantin needs a government, and it needs leaders.”
“You cannot possibly think they’ll let you lead after what your family has done?” Dara asked, eyes narrowed.
“I believe, in time, with understanding and support, they will,” Papa answered. “There are no leaders in this revolution. There is no goal except destruction and revenge. A vacuum needs to be filled, and Evgeny and I are the ones to step into it.”
“So you will not be king?” Anatoliy asked.
“The time of kings and royals are over. Men will lead based on merit. It is our job now to show the people who deserves it.” Papa met her stare and smiled.
“And if they don’t agree?” Polya asked her father.
“Then…” his voice trailed off.
“Then,” Evgeny answered dryly, but jovially, “like the royals in that far-off country in the west, we too will meet our demise.”
31
Return to St. Svetleva
Farms and factories made up the outskirts of St. Svetleva. Here, far away from where the wealthy lived, the cloying smell of smelting and manufacturing was the strongest.
Paper mills, iron smelts, cotton. All of it was here.
Anatoliy did not expect to see the smoke stacks pouring smoke into the sky. Like the villages and towns they’d left, he thought St. Svetleva would be as chaotic.
Not here.
“It is because the factories are not government run. Those factories there—” Prince Pytor pointed to two brick megaliths. “They are owned by a family in the west. And those—”he pointed to another—“they are owned by a buccaneer. One of those new wealth fellows from across the ocean. We levy heavy taxes, but we do not oversee them.”
“Hence their continued operation,” Evgeny noted. “Aleksandr was many things, but business-minded was not one of them. As long as he was receiving money or pay-offs from the owners, he cared not what happened or who owned them. In hindsight, this has worked in our favor. The workers are still being paid, so we’ve managed to avoid a famine.”
Each subsequent conversation with the princes brought to light yet a darker outcome for the revolution.
However… “Many of them were starving already. If they hadn’t been, none of this would have happened.”
“True, Kapetan. True.” Evgeny appeared supremely unbothered by Anatoliy’s announcement.
As they came closer to the busy capital center, the train slowed. Now, Anatoliy could truly see the city. Once they’d passed the factories, they arrived at the edge of tenements, those rough and rickety habitations of the workers who trudged drearily to their factories jobs each day.
It had snowed recently, which covered much of the garbage and detritus of the workers lives. In the center of the city, government employees swept the streets clear of refuse.
But not here.
Here, animals and humans left their waste where it landed. It built up and built up until it stunk and rotted. A blanket of snow was a blessing, hiding, at least for a little while, the ugliness of their condition.
Near the tracks, women had gathered. They carried baskets of goods. Some of the baskets steamed, as if whatever was in them had just come out of the oven.
Long ago, after one of his first assignments with the army, he’d returned by rail to St. Svetleva and bought a pastry from one such woman. He still remembered how the crust had flaked and the seasoning burst across his tongue after months and months of field rations.
His mouth watered at the memory.
The soldiers had hung off the train, pressing coins into the women’s hands. It had been easy, then. The train had slowed, and all the women had to do was walk alongside the car with their hand out to receive payment.
Now however, the train was not at a speed where an exchange of goods could be made. For whatever reason, the train chugged along at a fast clip. Air, whipped into a frenzy by the train, blew the women’s scarves and dresses about their bodies so they appeared to be stout, blue and gray tornados.
Glancing away from the window, he met Dara’s pointed stare. His frie
nd smiled and shook his head, probably remembering the same things he did.
Past the tenements came the long rows of family houses. These were the homes of the factory managers, teachers, or businessmen. The neighborhoods of the bourgeois.
This was as far out as the government street sweepers and trash burners came. It was the outer ring of St. Svetleva proper.
Behind the homes here were carriage houses and horses. Perhaps some of the wealthier people even had motorized carriages. Some homes stood independent of others, a single family occupying three floors, none of which shared a wall with a neighbor.
This was where Dara’s family lived, though their house was one in a block row, hemmed in on either side by other families. Still, they did not share a parlor or kitchen. Anatoliy had once visited, and he’d been given a guest room all to himself. He and Dara had sipped brandy in the parlor after dinner.
The station was in the center of the city, but the tracks skirted the edge of Dara’s neighborhood. From his vantage point, Anatoliy could not make out the front of the houses. He could see the carriage houses. Perhaps the weather, which had begun to snow, kept people in.
Or perhaps it’s something else.
The train slowed, crawling along. They passed a train going in the opposite direction, and he made eye contact with a person in the passenger car. A man about his age held his gaze, and finally, with a slow blink, faced forward.
The engineer pulled the whistle, and the train rolled to a stop. Steam hissed from beneath the cars, obscuring the surroundings as it jerked to a full stop. The whistle blew again, and Polya clutched his arm.
His beautiful girl had wrapped a wool scarf around her head, hiding her bright hair. Her tail, usually visible from beneath the edge of her coat, swaying and dipping based on her mood, was tucked up along her back.
It hurt him to see her hiding those parts of herself he loved so much.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. His voice was muffled beneath the noise of people standing or gathering their suitcases.
Revolution and Rising Page 17
