“Do you think it will help?” Anatoliy asked.
“Most definitely,” General Semenov answered before her father could. “I have wondered at the extremism of the People’s Army, but this article hints at something else. A conciliatory third option. Your Highness, it will be a great risk to you, but we believe your presence may make the difference between rescuing your family, and—” He stopped, staring at his folded hands.
“And what, General?” Anatoliy asked. He frowned before stepping toward the table. Shoulders thrown back, he appeared to be daring Semenov to speak.
“Anatoliy?”
He ignored her. “What difference do you believe the princess, my wife, could make?”
“Kapetan, I believe the princess’s help could save their lives. If not, she will only help us recover their bodies.” General Semenov slowly stood from his place, placed his knuckles on the table and leaned forward. “I have two hundred men who are willing to wade into the fray to save their royals’ lives. But, Kapetan, without the presence of your wife, I believe their lives will be forfeit just as surely as her mother’s, grandmother’s, and uncles’.”
“Then I’ll help,” Polya replied. Obviously, if the success or failure rested on her shoulders, she would go. But she didn’t believe it did. The people of Konstantin did not put stock in her the way her father, or General Semenov, believed they did. King Aleksandr’s actions had hurt too many, too deeply for it to be done by one person.
“You expect me to trust these guards?” Anatoliy asked. Something about his voice caused Polya to study him. His face had paled, and his hands, fisted at his side, clenched and clenched. “I know these guards. They are the ones who tortured the King’s beast. Who tormented him!”
“The beast?” General Semenov wrinkled his brow. “The bear? Yes. They had very strict protocols to follow in his care.”
“The beast would have ripped us apart at the first sign of weakness,” a man said quietly, stepping toward the map. “I was one of his guards, and I saw what he did to prisoners. If I had dropped my spear, he would have ripped my head from my body. Make no mistake.”
Anatoliy scoffed.
A low rumble filled the room, growing louder and more insistent with each instance.
“Polya,” her father whispered. “Enough.”
It was coming from her. This was why Anatoliy had become so pale and distant when they’d first come to Novo-Mikhailovsky. He recognized the men who had guarded and hurt him. The growl grew louder, rattling her chest. “Apologize,” Polya got out.
Anatoliy came quickly to her side, but she ignored him. “Any of you who hurt the beast, the bear. My bear, I would ask you to beg forgiveness in your heart. I know, perhaps better than anyone, the things people will do when forced by those in power. But I knew my bear. And there was no one more loyal, more compassionate, more kind, than he. It will do your heart good to ask his forgiveness, no matter what his fate was.” Polya reached for Anatoliy and took his hand. He didn’t want to unclench his fists, but she was inexorable and finally, he accepted her hand in his. “And perhaps it will help you forgive yourself.” Understand me, Anatoliy. You were not evil. You were forced to do the king’s bidding. Forgive yourself.
Anatoliy shook his head, closing his eyes.
“Many of us have done things of which we are ashamed,” Polya went on. “There is no dishonor in admitting that.”
The guards were silent, but some of them nodded, one of them Anatoliy’s former guard.
General Semenov cleared his throat. “Like I said earlier, Your Highness. I do believe my guards will do everything in their power to protect you.”
Polya glanced around the room. “Yes, General,” she said as she realized each guard stared at her hopefully. “I believe you.”
“My guards will be entering the square in civilian clothes, but all will be armed. They’ll take up strategic positions around the royals until they can make their escape. We expect there will be casualties,” Semenov explained.
“And what do I do, General?” Polya asked.
“I have chosen a few of my guard, our most skilled fighters, to enter with you into the square. I hope your presence will confuse the enemy, and rally the crowd to the royals’ defense.” The general glanced at Anatoliy and then away, as if worried about his reaction. He should have been.
Anatoliy’s face drained, and he shot a desperate look to Dara.
“I will go with her as well,” Dara said. “You know I’d protect her with my life.”
Polya considered the General’s plan. It was simple, but it could very well work. During her trek across Konstantin, she’d always collected a crowd. And except for the villagers from Vaskova, most of them had been friendly.
“I’ll go,” Polya said. “I’ll do it.”
“Polya.” Anatoliy turned his back on the general and Dara. “Polya, this is different. This is a crowd of incensed revolutionaries with a grudge! They’re not going to listen to you. They’ll kill you.”
“This is my mother, Anatoliy,” she said simply. “My mother.”
Anatoliy strode toward her and took her hands. “Polya.” He caught her gaze with his. It held her trapped. “Don’t do this. I beg you.”
It was as if a hand reached into her chest and squeezed her lungs, taking away all her air. More than anything, she wanted to give him this. She wanted to say, “No, I won’t go,” but she couldn’t.
Because this was her mother.
“I have to,” she said. “Please understand.”
He shook his head and dropped her hands. Then he faced the general. “I will go, too. I will be by my wife’s side. Show me what you have for Lobnoye Square.”
The general pointed to a street map on the table and tapped it. “It’s all here.”
“Lobnoye Square is elevated,” Anatoliy observed.
“Yes. To pander to the crowd.” Semenov clasped his hands behind his back. “It was designed so executions are a spectacle.”
“Polya will need to be there,” Dara mused as he stared at the map, but Anatoliy shook his head.
“No. She’s too exposed.”
“How else is she going to get their attention?” Semenov asked.
“I tend to attract attention whether I look for it or not,” Polya replied. Her tail swept across the floor and Semenov glanced down. His face paled and eyes widened as he tracked its movement.
“I—” He stopped and swept a hand down his face. “I thought perhaps the stories were allegorical.”
Her father laughed. “No. Polya is my fierce tiger girl.”
“The fangs…” Semenov regarded her now as he would a wild animal. He lifted his hand to his forehead again, and then lowered it to his shoulder. The man had crossed himself, like the servants at their home in the capital used to do.
“I am not a demon, General.” Polya fought to keep the hurt from turning her voice into a growl.
“No. No.” His hand shook. “Of course not. But I have never been in the presence of a miracle. Forgive me, Princess.”
She was too surprised to respond, so Papa did. “I have always believed her to be a gift from God.” He met her gaze and smiled before changing the subject. “Now let’s discuss this plan.”
The next hour was spent arguing about where Polya should be located in the square. How they would cover her and what they should do if they became overrun. The clock in the corner ticked ominously, its hands moving closer and closing to noon.
The time when her mother would be executed.
Her palms sweat and she wiped them on her skirt. Anatoliy glanced at her from time to time, but he was in the thick of the discussion. While she’d always known he was strategist, listening to him plan was like hearing a symphony. Each guard’s role intersected and supported the others. Finally, they’d made a plan, and the only thing left to do was realize it.
“We want to hide who you are until the last possible moment,” Anatoliy said, dragging a woolen cap over her head. Already she wa
s buttoned into an overlong coat. Her tail was hidden, and he’d wrapped a scarf around her face. “Your hair is distinctive, and I don’t know how many newspapers you’ve appeared in. Semenov tells me your face was painted onto buildings, so you’re well known now.”
“Painted onto buildings…” She considered it. “I hope the portraits were flattering at least.”
“I’m assured they were.” He smiled and cupped her face. “Though from the whispers among the Imperial Guards, they didn’t half do you justice.”
She rolled her eyes and grasped his strong wrists. “I’m sorry.” She felt like she had to apologize. Their success was by no means assured, no matter how in awe the guards held her. She was still royal, and the royal family was currently Konstantin’s enemy.
Anatoliy kissed her, lips lingering on hers. “I know. And I understand why you feel you have to do this.” He drew back. “I don’t like it, but you are loyal. And she is your mother. I know you would do anything to save her. Like you would for me.”
“I’d do anything for you,” she whispered. The curse loomed large and ominous in the forefront of her mind. Each decision she’d made, each step they’d taken in their trek across the country seemed to be leading here. And she couldn’t help but see the demon’s hand in it.
Anatoliy frowned, as if his thoughts had taken a similar path, and he took her hands in his. “We’ll always be together. I’ve married you in front of God and man. Let them try to take you from me.” His voice was savage. Polya saw her bear again, and her heart clenched.
“Or you from me.”
“Your Highness?” One of the guards interrupted them. All of them were dressed in civilian clothes. Even General Semenov had relinquished his buttons and epaulettes for a simple wool coat and leather boots. On his head was a fur cap, but not one that would belong to a wealthy man. It was worn bare in places.
No one who saw him would identify him as the smug man from yesterday.
“Mače,” Papa called as they trekked toward the door. Polya stopped and her father rushed toward her. He would be going with a separate unit of soldiers to St. Svetleva’s Cathedra. There, they would take up defensive positions in the towers leading to the gilded onion domes. It had been a long time since Papa had hunted, but he’d assured the soldiers he knew how to hit a target. At first, he’d wanted to go with Polya, but Dara had argued seeing a prince could undo the power of Polya’s appearance. The people trusted Polya. Somehow, she’d managed to occupy a space between royalty, sainthood, and citizen.
“Mače.” He enfolded her in a hug and kissed her head. “Be careful. Listen to Anatoliy and if they try to hurt you—fight. Fight like you did in Misurka Square. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa.” But she hadn’t made a decision to fight in Misurka Square. When her parents were attacked, she’d acted without thought. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, and she fought nausea as she remembered how blood had run down her chin.
He kissed her once more, and then he was gone.
“Our turn,” Anatoliy said and took her hand. He held on as they walked through the tunnel and stairway that led to the post office. The building was as abandoned as when they’d come through the first time.
As they approached the street, Anatoliy dropped her hand. “Follow my directions, but remember what your father said. If anyone tries to hurt you, fight.”
“I will.” Her voice trembled, and she swallowed. The fear building in her chest was not for herself. It was for him. If anyone tried to hurt him again, she’d tear them apart.
The streets were eerily quiet as they emerged from the old building. They weren’t empty. Hordes of people streamed out of houses and businesses, all of them headed toward Lobnoye Square.
Snow had fallen during the night, and their feet shuffled through the piles. Far off in the square, someone rang St. Svetleva’s bells, but the snow muffled the sound.
Polya kept her face forward, but couldn’t help peering around her from time to time. The newspaper articles had made the execution sound like a celebration. But no one looked joyous. There were no smiles or whispers. They could all be attending a funeral.
And perhaps they were.
Anatoliy touched her elbow, and she dropped her gaze.
Dara was in front of her, and it suddenly struck her that she hadn’t thanked him. It seemed like the sort of thing she should have done before she went to an execution. If Dara hadn’t taken care of her, she wouldn’t have made it out of the woods below the Stolvnya Mountains. He’d kept her alive, and because of him, she had a second chance with Anatoliy.
It became imperative she speak with him. She couldn’t say why, but she had to do it.
With a soft touch to Anatoliy’s elbow, she sped up until she could reach Dara. She touched his back, and he startled before slowing.
“Thank you,” she whispered, hoping the snow and the bells would mask her voice. “Thank you for everything, Dara.”
He bent his head, and reaching behind him, touched her hand to show he’d heard her.
Then he surged forward and was gone.
Please God, let them live. The gilded domes of St. Svetleva were right ahead, just a few city blocks away.
This part of the capital was known as the Aleksandr Gardens. A wall of trees, beautiful and lush in the summer, abutted one side of the Imperial Palace. Now, their bare branches stood dark against the gray winter sky, like skeletal hands reaching toward heaven.
Here, the snow had been brushed away from the cobblestones. The street led toward the square, twisting like a snail’s shell, and she could make out the raised platform with its hangman’s nooses spinning in the wind.
She counted them—six.
As she got closer, she could see the platform was occupied. Young men in short coats, wearing black armbands, strutted across the platform. Every so often, one of them would speak to another and nod solemnly.
Polya’s throat tingled with the desire to growl, but she swallowed the sound and instead focused on the plan. She had to wait for her family to be led out of the jail beneath the Square before she acted.
And she wanted to act.
Anatoliy’s arm grazed her shoulder, offering a silent sort of support as the citizens pressed in around them. All of them wanted a closer look—a better seat to see the stage.
The noise in the square rose as the citizens of Konstantin chattered nervously to their neighbors. Polya caught some of their whispers, questions about the execution and the trial.
The whispers grew until people were shouting to be heard. Their voices weren’t angry, but with the tide of sound came a wave of nervous anticipation. It felt like the entire city was here, and they all held their breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
A touch on her hand had her side-eyeing Anatoliy. “Remember the plan.” His voice was barely audible over the din, but she followed the movement of his lips. Lacing her fingers with his, she held on tightly. I remember.
The sound died away so quickly, the silence was painful. The sound of a door swinging on rusted hinges caused Polya to suck in a breath.
And even though she knew what was coming, she still wasn’t ready for what she saw.
Her mother.
Blood had dried on the side of her mouth and her hair—her beautiful sunrise-colored hair—had been shorn to her scalp.
But she still walked like a princess. Her arm was wrapped around the dowager queen’s waist, aiding the old woman as they walked past their subjects toward their death. Her grandmother, like her mother, held her head high, and only stumbled once, on the first step of the platform.
Then came the princes, Nikolai and Mikhail.
Uncle Evgeny.
They were in worse shape, and it was a miracle they could see through the blood and bruises covering their faces.
The hush that had descended over the crowd was replaced with horrified cries.
“Shame!”
“Save them!”
“They are innocent!”
Polya let out a breath as the crowd jostled and pushed her. From their angry calls, they wanted the prisoners released. Hope filled her chest. Given the chance, the citizens of Konstantin would do the right thing. They wouldn’t allow innocent men and women to die.
They wouldn’t kill her mother.
Mama had reached the platform and stared out at them. Polya wanted to wave to her—it was the strangest impulse—but she wanted her mother to see her.
But Mama’s eyes had taken on a faraway cast, as if she wasn’t shivering in a tattered gown in front of all of St. Svetleva. Perhaps, like Polya had during the Hunt, she imagined herself far away from the chaos. Maybe she imagined she waded into the lake at Bishmyza or dozed in front of the fire in Papa’s study.
From the corner of her eye, another man emerged from the jail and jogged up the steps with unrestrained energy. He fairly bounced toward the end of the platform and held up his hands. At first, Polya only saw his lips moving but slowly the crowd silenced to hear him.
“Countrymen! Konstantineans! My friends!” Polya canted her head as she studied him. It hit her like a thunderbolt. She knew this man. She’d seen him before. First, in the woods above Vaskova, and then, holding a grenade in a destroyed barn.
Lukas.
He began to speak, and like Lobnoye was designed to do, his voice carried over the crowd.
His story was familiar, because part of it was her story. An evil king, cruel and changeable. A country brought to his knees by his whims. Men—generals, soldiers, royals—who refused to act.
Polya shook her head as the crowd began to nod in agreement. It was the story of Konstantin, but twisted and ugly. There were no bright spots in his story, no room for hope, no moments of bravery or self-sacrifice.
The crowd rumbled, and Polya realized—this was the time she had to act. If she didn’t, Lukas would create a mob, and the mob would cry for blood.
Revolution and Rising Page 23
