Revolution and Rising

by Ripley Proserpina

  They were the elite guard of St. Svetleva, blessed by the Patrijarh, the highest cleric in the church. But Polya was not sure if they were good.

  Carefully, she extracted her elbow from her father. He let her go, and she edged closer to Anatoliy.

  “Kapetan!” a familiar voice called over the fur capped guards. Polya stood on her tiptoes, hiking up her dress so she didn’t trip as she tried to locate Dara.

  He shoved his way to them and embraced Anatoliy. This got a reaction from the guard. Polya watched their faces before a mask settled back into place. They were shocked.

  Dara released Anatoliy and faced Polya. “Dara,” she said quietly and hurried to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I am so happy to see you.”

  He embraced her carefully before stepping back. With a click of his heels, he bowed. “Your Highness.”

  Over his shoulders, she happened to catch one of the guard’s face. He regarded them wonderstruck. And he was too overwhelmed to hide it. Furtively, she gazed at the other guards. They had similar expressions—wide eyes, in one case, open mouth. If Dara’s familiarity with his kapetan had shocked them, then her affection had left them utterly baffled.

  “These men are loyal to us,” her father announced proudly. Hands clasped behind his back, Papa straightened his shoulders and surveyed his troops like he was at the head of an army and not a squad of two hundred men. “To the crown.”

  The men, as if reminded of their place, stood at attention, booted feet stomping against the stone floor as they saluted.

  Polya forced a smile to her lips but reached for Anatoliy—who had frozen.

  “Anatoliy?” She took his hand in hers and stared at him, trying to read his expression. The closest she’d seen him look like this before was when his men had died. Then he blinked and glanced at her.

  “I’m fine,” he said, though his smile was brittle. “Fine.”

  Polya narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t push him on it. Not here.

  “The Imperial Guard,” her father continued as if nothing had happened. And for him, it hadn’t. He was back to being the grand lord. “The Imperial Guard has the means to protect us. The armory is stocked. General Semenov, I believe you know the Kapetan.”

  A man stepped forward. He wore a variation of the uniform the guards wore, except his was without the fur hat. It seemed ridiculous to find them here, clad in ridiculous hats, while the rest of the army straggled through Konstantin.

  “Yes, I do indeed. Kapetan. I believe I heard you lost on the battlefront in Beshtau Plains. Quite a miracle to find you here, now.” The general puffed out his chest, but Polya didn’t miss the way he peered at her father. This show was for him, designed to put Anatoliy in his place.

  Lifting her lip, Polya growled. She did not know this man, but he was attempting to humiliate Anatoliy, or worse, he was suggesting Anatoliy had deserted. “Anatoliy saved my life.”

  “Kapetan Ivanovich has led our squad of soldiers since Beshtau,” Dara interjected. “He was separated from us for a short time. That is probably what you heard.”

  The man made a sound, a rumble in his throat and shook his head. “No. I’m sure I would have heard of that.”

  Polya growled again, louder this time, and Semenov flashed a nervous glance her way. “I certainly mean no offense, Your Highness.”

  “Polina,” her father whispered before he held out his hands and approached the general. “General Semenov, whatever you have heard about the Kapetan, I’m sure it has all been exemplary. I owe the man my life—and the life of my daughter. Like Major Federov, I hold him in the highest esteem.”

  “Yes, well…” He trailed off.

  Anatoliy said nothing to defend himself. He stood at Polya’s side, shoulders back, chest out as if the discussion between Papa and General Semenov had no effect on him.

  “What do you need from us, Papa, before we retire?” At her words, General Semenov’s face flushed bright red, and Polya realized what she’d revealed.

  Because of what she’d forgotten.

  She was back in St. Svetleva, with the Imperial Guard, who knew better than most the protocol of behavior for young ladies. And young ladies did not growl or hiss at soldiers.

  And they most certainly did not imply they shared a bed with a soldier.

  For a moment, Polya hesitated. All of the rules and etiquette her mother drilled into her seemed to echo in her mind. But then she shut it out. She and Anatoliy were beyond such things, and she would not be embarrassed. Nor would she pretend he was anything less than he was to her.

  “I thought, mače, that Anatoliy would like to learn what the guard knows about the state of the country.” Her father’s cheeks held two spots of pink, but he did not comment on her announcement.

  Polya glanced at Anatoliy, waiting for his answer, but he seemed to have forgotten they were there. Instead, he stared past General Semenov toward the Imperial Guard. She craned her neck, but she didn’t see anything except guards standing at attention.

  “Anatoliy?” she asked.

  Silent, he didn’t appear to hear her question, but then he slowly shook his head. “Yes,” he answered. “I would like to hear what they know.”

  “This way.” Papa gestured toward a large wooden table at the back of the hall. “Major?” He addressed Dara. “Join us as well, won’t you?”

  Polya followed them. The guards stood at attention until they walked by but shuffled off as soon as they passed. Glancing once over her shoulder, Polya caught the curious stares of the guard. When they saw her watching them, however, they made themselves busy.

  At the end of the table stood a map, one Polya recognized from her father’s study. It was Konstantin. A section of the map was enlarged, and she could make out familiar landmarks: St. Svetleva Cathedral, the Svetleva River. It was the capital.

  Anatoliy held a chair out for her, and she moved to seat herself when her father spoke, “Wouldn’t you like to rest, Polya? There are rooms where you could stay while we speak.”

  The offer was tempting. Her back ached, and she was certain she had bled through her dress in places, but she wouldn’t leave Anatoliy. When her father had spoken, his hands had tightened on the back of her chair. Even now, his knuckles were white. She studied him. No. She would not leave him right now.

  “I’ll stay, Papa. If I fall asleep, I’m sure you won’t mind.”

  Anatoliy’s fingers unclenched, and he gave her a minute smile. She’d made the right decision.

  “All right,” her father allowed. “But I’m afraid some of this news may be disturbing to you.”

  “I’m not quite the innocent girl you believe me to be,” she replied as she sat. Glancing up from her beneath lashes, she just happened to catch the general’s expression. He was positively apoplectic. In her head, she repeated what she’d spoken aloud and realized how her words could be interpreted. Keeping her posture as rigid as possible, she positioned herself at the edge of her chair. “When it comes to war,” she added as she placed her hands in her lap.

  There. Let them stew over that comment.

  Papa cleared his throat. “Yes, Polya. You were center stage in the king’s Hunt. No one knows better than you what he is capable of.”

  What you are capable of. Papa was too happy right now, too excited. Maybe he didn’t see what she saw—a general willing to pimp himself to the first royal he encountered. This was not an honorable man.

  As if he could sense her distrust, Semenov narrowed his eyes at her and then turned to the map. Even if Polya hadn’t been weary in mind and body, he would have put her to sleep. Somehow, he made a revolution sound like an everyday occurrence. There was no sense of urgency in his voice. He acted as if this was a hiccup on the way to her father becoming king.

  When did they decide there would be a king again?

  There were many plans to which Polya had not been privy.

  “General Semenov,” Papa interrupted. “I understand your desire to see the monarchy restored. Be
lieve me, a peaceful exchange of power at the death of my brother would have been in everyone’s best interest. However. I believe we now need to be creative in our thinking about the future of Konstantin.”

  “Creative, Vaša Svjetlost? I’m don’t understand.” It was clear from the way the general clenched his jaw that he was uncomfortable with Papa’s statement. Polya, too, was confused by it.

  “We have but one purpose. Keep Konstantin from ripping itself apart. The people will not accept a return to the old ways. We will need to remake the government from scratch.” Papa rubbed his hand down his face and happened to glance toward her. “Don’t you think, mače?”

  A benevolent father, at the head of a government designed so the people believe they have a voice.

  But they do not.

  Wasn’t that what her father had described all those years ago?

  “I don’t believe the people will be satisfied with merely a show of a representative government,” Anatoliy said.

  The general spluttered. “Surely you’re not suggesting a constitutional monarchy?” His nose wrinkled as if the word disgusted him.

  “I’m thinking about whatever will keep my family alive and my country from tumbling into a civil war, Semenov,” her father spat. And then leaned back in his chair. “My brothers are dead. Perhaps Evgeny lives, but he went into the Imperial Palace and there is no telling what he found there. Nikolai and Mikahail, my elder brothers, left the Hunt to return to St. Svetleva, and no one has seen or heard from them. My wife and mother may well be dead, if what you’ve told me about the fate of my cousins is true. We have two hundred Imperial Guards, and an army that, as you claim, has deserted. So, yes. If we must consider a constitutional monarchy we will, and we will hope Aleksandr did not ruin Konstantin beyond repair.”

  Throughout her father’s speech, Semenov had become less a smug general and more a confused old man. Now he sat, pushed back the hat on his head and stared at the table. Finally, he lifted his gaze to Papa and swallowed. “You have my loyalty, Prince Pytor. Such that it is.”

  “Thank you, General.” Her father sighed and shoved himself away from the table. “I think we all should sleep for a few hours and then return here. I plan on ascertaining the whereabouts of my wife and mother.”

  “They are alive,” a voice called. A man cleared his throat and stepped past his fellow guards to approach Papa. “Your wife, Princess Lara, is at the palace with your mother. She has been caring for her along with the dowager’s maid and private physician.”

  Polya reached for her tail and squeezed it in her hand. Her relief at hearing her mother lived made her glad she was seated.

  “They live?” Papa asked, eyes wide. “General Semenov, shall we get them now?”

  “I apologize, Prince Pytor. I should have told you of their status right away,” the guard said.

  “An old woman and the princess’s mother, why did you not hide them when you realized what was happening?” Anatoliy went on.

  “How did we choose?” General Semenov asked. “It was not in our hands to decide who lived and died.”

  The man spoke false. It had always been in their hands. They had just not wanted to save them. If they had, they would have been overrun with royals, which would have gotten the attention of the revolutionaries. Polya examined the room again. And there were too few Imperial Guards to save the royals and themselves.

  She understood self-preservation, and she understood pain. The Imperial Guard may have been tasked with protecting the royal family, but they’d been forced to do some terrible things at their behest. With her uncle’s death came the opportunity to wipe the slate clean.

  “Will you protect us?” she asked quietly. She met the General’s gaze and then studied the room, meeting the confused stares of the guards. “If we bring my mother and grandmother here? I would not put them in harm’s way if they are safe where they are. And your families. Are they here as well? Should—” She glanced at Papa. “Should these men leave to collect their families and return here? They must be worried about their families as well, Papa.”

  “We would stay here, Your Highness,” someone called out. “We will protect you.”

  There were shouts of agreement from the crowd. Each voice that lifted gave their oath to stay and protect her.

  Once again, she was astounded by the ability of people who had been mistreated, to forgive.

  “Thank you.” She raised her voice to be heard over them. “Thank you for choosing to protect us.”

  “You’re welcome,” General Semenov said. He appeared a little dizzy, as if he’d been struck upside the head and saw stars when he looked at her. “Your Highness.”

  “My name is Polya,” she answered. “Please call me Polya.”

  The older man shook his head.

  Polya could sense Anatoliy’s gaze on her, so she faced him. He still sat, but stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. She smiled at him, a little nervously. “What?” she asked, and he shook his head.

  “You, tiger girl. You leave me wonderstruck,” he whispered.

  “My bear,” she replied quietly. “You are the miracle.”

  Anatoliy stood, chair scraping across the floor. “Is there a place to retire?” he asked, eyes on her, though he addressed Papa.

  “Yes,” her father answered. “Dara, will you show them the barracks where we sleep?”

  The side of Anatoliy’s mouth lifted in a self-deprecating smile. So while she and Anatoliy would be allowed to stay together, her father had found a way around leaving them alone.

  “Of course,” Dara answered.

  They followed Dara out of the room, stopping to shake the hands of the guards who reached to touch her. They were more fearful than the villagers or the citizens in the capital she’d met. The rules and regulations of their position still tethered them, but something had happened to loosen those reins. If it made the guards see her as a person, then Polya was glad.

  Her back ached, and as they stepped out of the bright room, she sighed.

  “Are you in pain?” Anatoliy asked.

  “A little,” she answered honestly. “It has been a long day.”

  Dara slowed to walk next to them. “What took you so long?”

  “We were waylaid by some citizens.” Anatoliy’s voice was tired. “They recognized Polya.”

  “Even with your tail hidden,” Dara said, “you stand out among a crowd. I am not surprised they discovered who you are. I’m just glad they didn’t hurt you.”

  “I have only myself to blame.” How far was their room? “I hissed at one of them.”

  Dara stopped and opened a door. Inside were two sets of bunk beds. Heavy wool blankets were folded at the foot of each. Off the room was a small water closet with a sink. Thank goodness.

  “Settle in,” Dara said. “I will return with food and supplies for your injury. I believe your father may be a while longer with the General.” With a smile at Anatoliy, Dara spun on his heel, and closed the door quietly behind them.

  Polya shrugged out of her coat, grimacing as the weight slid down her back.

  “Careful,” Anatoliy said quietly. “Let me help you.” He faced her, unbuttoning her blouse. Polya’s face heated. In fact, her entire body flushed. She could feel it rise from her chest to her neck and into her cheeks, but she kept her gaze on Anatoliy. For his part, he appeared to be fascinated with her buttons.

  Polya lifted her chin, studying him, and he glanced up at her. He wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted to appear. He’d firmed his lips into a line and frowned at the buttons as if they’d personally offended him.

  “Lift your arm,” he directed and she did, allowing him to slide first one sleeve, and then the other off her arms. Beneath her blouse she wore a shift, so she was still covered.

  Polya reminded herself that she didn’t know what Anatoliy had seen of her body when she was injured, but then she’d been unconscious. Now, she was aware of everything.

  “Turn,” he said, voice hu
sky. As she did, he sucked in a breath. “Polya.”

  “Is it bad?” she asked, trying to see over her shoulder.

  “You’ve irritated it. Rubbed it to bleeding on your shoulders.” There was a quick rap on the door before it opened. Anatoliy spun, shielding her from sight.

  “Here you are,” Dara’s voice was muffled, as if he hadn’t come in all the way. Polya couldn’t see past Anatoliy, so she assumed he stayed in the hall to give them privacy. “Food and bandages. There’s some salve on the tray.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” Anatoliy replied.

  “Of course,” Dara answered, and the door shut.

  Anatoliy faced her again, lightly gripped her shoulders, and turned her toward the wall. His fingertips were cool as he lowered the straps of her shift, and they tickled when he moved it to her waist. Polya kept her arms at her sides, even though she wanted to lift them to cover herself. He removed the bandages she had left, and she shivered as the skin was exposed to the air. A moment later, something cool was dabbed on her burns, and she sighed in relief.

  “Better?”

  “Yes,” she answered. Whatever it was he used took the heat out of her skin, but left a slight tingle. He spread it over her back and then replaced her bandages before helping her thread her arms back through the straps of her shift and into a new blouse.

  She turned and met his gaze. His face was tight, eyes narrowed and lips nearly white. “What?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

  Anatoliy shook his head. “I’m frightened.” He pushed her hair behind her ear and shook his head. “I’m terrified I’ll lose you again.”

  Polya stepped into his arms, and he immediately wrapped them around her. “You’ll never lose me,” she said. “I promise.”

  “There are promises we can’t keep,” he replied, sadly. “You once asked me to give you the same promise. Do you remember?”

  Of course she remembered. It was near the end of the Hunt, and she could sense something would happen. She’d begged a promise of Anatoliy, but he wouldn’t give it to her. And then he’d left her.