Epic: Legends of Fantasy

by John Joseph Adams

  After all these years she was still unused to the angle of his eyes and the odd duskiness of his skin. In his youth, in his homeland, had this wizened creature been deemed handsome? Perhaps. She had no way of knowing if all the peoples of Serica looked like Master Cheng. She only felt his strangeness, down to her blood and bones. He was the only man allowed solitary speech with her—but only because he was not wholly a man.

  “What do you recommend?” she asked bitterly. “They intend that before the summer I shall be either dead or wedded and bedded.”

  “This is undoubtedly in their minds, Most Gracious One.” He preened himself like a tidy little bird, smoothing the heavily embroidered silk of his sleeves. His only concession to the climate was the sable lining of his boots.

  “And?” she asked impatiently. She hated him when he breathed his cleverness at her.

  “They will come. You know they will come. And you must be ready for them. May this unworthy one suggest...?”

  She swore again in her own language, then returned to the Greek that was the only tongue she and the sage shared. “Tell me!”

  “They deserve to die for what they have done. They know it. They will expect you to—”

  “—to huddle in my bed, weeping and wailing, frightened and helpless—” She began to pace again, knowing how close she had come to doing exactly those things. Forever. “So I must do as they will not expect, Cheng. That is what you mean, yes? They will come as conquerors, and as men guilty of murder, to claim their prize—me.” She choked to say the words, but knew they must be said. “And I am compelled to welcome them as honored and honorable guests.”

  “Excellent.” Thin lips stretched in a smile. “A large feast is poor nourishment for suspicion.”

  She paused in her restless stalking about the carpeted room. Cold again; she felt so cold. Feasting put her in mind of—“Poison?” she enquired sharply. “So that they all die at the same time, and only they die? Or do you suggest I sacrifice a few spare members of my druzhina to make it all look reasonable? As if such a thing could look reasonable! I am not a fool, Cheng.”

  “No, Most High,” he agreed. “Poison is a woman’s weapon, in any case.” A musing smile crossed his face. “Have I ever shared with you the tale of Livia, Empress of Rome, who—”

  She interrupted impatiently. “Another time. But if in your learnings of history there is example for me to follow, tell me at once.”

  “Your situation is not unique—though you yourself are most certainly so. As I say, poison is a woman’s weapon. Something they will expect. They will have guards, so the weapon cannot be a man’s weapon of blade or cudgel, either. And all must die at the same time, in such a fashion as—”

  “—as to encourage belief that it was an accident. Yes, I see. But how?”

  He said nothing. He merely watched her, waiting for her to be clever.

  “The weapon of neither woman nor man,” she said slowly, “but of one who is neither.”

  Master Cheng bowed low. “Your husband, may your gods grant him glory, forbade my magic.”

  “Perhaps if he hadn’t, he might have lived longer,” she snapped. “But Yvor had greater faith in his own strength.” Yvor, of course, had been a fool. She shrugged. “I will have you use your magic, then. By the snake that killed my father, I swear—” And she broke off, only to repeat more softly, “Snake.” Memory took her back to that horrible day of her childhood, when her nurse had told her that her father was dead. Tall, golden, magnificent Grand Prince Helgi, who had hung his shield on the gates of mighty Mikligardur, who was clever and invincible, had been bitten by a deadly snake.

  A soothsayer had told Helgi many years earlier that a certain horse would be the cause of his death. He had known instantly which horse the man had in mind. The stallion was a noble animal, fine in form and regal in manner, and Helgi loved him—so much that he could not order him killed. Instead, he commanded that the horse be properly fed and looked after, but never led into his presence. Occasionally, though, he would be out walking, or riding another horse, and glimpse the stallion at a distance, and after a few moments’ sorrowful gazing would turn and move swiftly away. But eventually, after living many years and siring many foals almost—but not quite—as splendid as he, the horse died. Upon Helgi’s return from another victory in battle, he went to the place where the skull and bare bones lay. He walked about in great distress, regretting the magnificent stallion, and by accident his boot crunched the whitened skull. It so happened that the skull lay atop the entrance to a snake’s lair. The snake crawled forth from underground and sank its fangs into his flesh. And Helgi died.

  Olga remembered imagining the snake in its lair deep in the earth, slithering out to strike down a noble prince. She had for years afterward dreamed of snakes, and been unable to enter the homes of any of her people: the wood dwellings were built above pits twice a man’s height, and she was sure snakes waited there to kill her. Gradually she had conquered her dread of visiting her people’s houses, but she had never overcome her terror of snakes.

  Yet as she thought of the dreams, and of the houses, all at once she smiled. “Make me a magic, Master Cheng of Serica, as lethal and as cunning as a snake,” she murmured almost sweetly. “The Drevlianians will come here, and die.”

  He looked puzzled—him, the great sage from the silk-lands where all other countries were sneered at and all other peoples were considered savages. She laughed softly, pleased that she had finally managed to outthink him.

  “The history of the land that has become our land,” said her father, “begins with three brothers and a sister.”

  “What was her name?” she asked. “Was it Olga, like me?”

  “No, but that’s no reason not to listen.” He softened the reproof with a smile. He always did; he was always gentle with her, this fierce and fearsome warrior. She was ferociously proud of him, and of herself for being the only one who ever saw that particular smile.

  “The first brother’s name was Kyi, the second was Shchek, and the third was Khoriv.” Her father paused, arching one heavy blond brow. She knew from his look that he was expecting, not another interruption, but instead some sign that she recognized the names. She did not. She hated it when she disappointed him. “And their sister, who was very beautiful—as all sisters in such tales must be—was named Lybyd. Their parents and all their folk had been killed by invaders from the East, and they were seeking a new place to live, safe from war.”

  Olga could not help but frown. Lybyd’s desire to escape, she could understand; it was not a woman’s business to make war. But war was the thing that all men who were true men lived for, the only way a man became rich and great and powerful. Her father was a perfect example. Yet here he was, telling her a story about three brothers who did not want to go to war—not even for vengeance against those who had murdered their parents and kindred.

  “They came upon a beautiful river, and on its western banks saw seven green hills, lush with kashtan trees and carpeted with flowers. Kyi, Shchek, and Khoriv made for themselves a boat to cross the great river. Lybyd waited on the eastern shore, anxious for her brothers’ safety. And what do you think happened? I’ll tell you what happened. The boat—for it was not a mighty longship like ours, but a boat smaller than a lodya—it was caught in dangerous rapids. The three brothers fought bravely against the currents as water foamed all around them. What they did not know was that within the river lived spirits who enjoyed more than anything else playing with whatever boat might dare to cross. And because the local people knew of them, and avoided the river, they had not had anything to play with in a long, long time. These spirits were called Vesuppi, who warns the traveler ‘do not sleep,’ and Gjallandi, who warns by loudly ringing, and Eiforr ever-fierce, and Hlaejandi, who is always laughing— or maybe that spirit’s name was Leandi who is always seething—”

  “I think there must have been two of them—one laughing while the other seethed. Just like when Heirleif sees Ylwa talking
to another man, and she giggles when he looks all daggery at her!”

  “Entirely possible. And I am glad to know that even at your little age you can recognize a look that flashes daggers.” Her father nodded his approval, and she glowed from the inside out. She could feel it, warmer than sables, brighter than summer sunlight. It was a vast thing, to have this man’s praise.

  “Where was I? Ah, yes. The three brothers in their little boat were tossed from one to the other like the toys the spirits considered them to be. Lybyd, back on shore, loudly wailed, sure that her brothers would be lost to her forever. But Kyi and Shchek and Khoriv fought back, for to them their lives were not toys to be played with by river spirits. Shchek and Khoriv wielded their oars as weapons, and though they were brave and strong, after a time they began to tire. Kyi struggled with the tiller, steering as best he could while his brothers battled the river spirits. He knew that if he let go, the little boat would veer even more madly and they would certainly all be killed. Finally, seeing that his brothers were exhausted, Kyi summoned the last of his strength and was able to swerve the boat away from the river spirits. It fetched up onto shore, and the three brothers dragged themselves out and onto dry land—soaked to the skin, tired unto death, but alive.”

  She waited, knowing there must be more, but at length could contain herself no longer. “What about Lybyd?”

  “They called to her from the western bank of the river, and she left off her fear and weeping and called back joyously.”

  “But—how did she get across?”

  “Because the three brothers had fought so long and valiantly, the river spirits were tired and so the waters were quiet. They went back across, picked up Lybyd, and soon all were safe on the western shore.”

  “But didn’t she do anything? She only wept and waited for them to come back, and didn’t do anything?”

  “What was there to be done?”

  Olga twisted her mouth to one side so her front teeth could chew on the inside of her cheek. It was a deplorable habit, according to her nurse, but it helped her to think. Once or twice she had gnawed hard enough to taste blood. “I don’t know—she could have made another boat, couldn’t she? If the river spirits were tired, then she could have gone across on her own.”

  “So it’s your belief that there is always something to be done?” her father asked, grinning widely. “I believe the same! I have yet to encounter circumstances where there was absolutely nothing to be done. And I hope I never do!” He laughed his sharp, loud laugh and swung her up off his knees, holding her high in the air with his big hands strong and gentle around her shoulder bones. Olga giggled, and grabbed at the ends of her long golden braids to tickle her father’s cheeks and nose. It was an old game with them, going back to her earliest memories, before her mother had died. He shook his head and twitched his face around in terrible contortions, which only made her laugh harder.

  At length, exhausted with laughing, she settled back into his lap and asked, “What happened to the brothers—and their sister who didn’t do anything?”

  Another burst of laughter told her she had chosen exactly the right thing to say. “You don’t approve of Lybyd, do you? I think that you would not weep and wail on the riverbank. As for Lybyd, she and Kyi and Shchek and Khoriv made a great city on the banks of the river. A smaller river that ran through the city was named for her. Each of the brothers chose a hill to live on, and so named them Shchekovitza, Khorivitza, and—ah, I see you have guessed!”

  “The whole city was named for Kyi! Are you going there? Are you going to Kyiv? Will you take me with you?”

  “One day. One day. For now, you must stay here at home in Novgorod, attend to your lessons, and be very good, for there is a place waiting for you in Kyiv, and to take it with honor you must become accomplished and wise.” He kissed her forehead in blessing, and set her onto her feet. “And I do not think you will cower on the shore and wait to be rescued, the way Lybyd did.”

  Five years later, she took the place her father had promised.

  She made the long journey from Novgorod to Kyiv in winter—for to travel at any other time was to risk becoming hopelessly mired in mud on roads that barely existed; the ice and snow stayed solid beneath the hooves of the horses and the runners of the sleighs. She went to Kyiv and married Yvor, grandson of the great Rurik, and if it had been many, many years before she gave Yvor a son, it was the fault of Yvor and no one else. Had he spent more time in Kyiv instead of progressing through the tributary lands; had he stayed to rule instead of venturing out to battle the Pechenegs, the Khazars, the Greeks, the Drevlianians...

  And, of course, if he had not beaten her bloody many, many times for being the daughter of a greater warrior than he, perhaps she would have borne more sons.

  There was only the one little boy. Five years old. And the Drevlianians would kill him.

  They came to Kyiv, the triumphant Drevlianians, but only twenty of them. She hid her furious disappointment and received them in the great hall. They were uneasy with the stone all around them—they who lived within wood and wattle, with packed dirt for flooring. Yet they understood the wealth that all this stone implied.

  With great ceremony, they gave her the Tears and the Blood. She was surprised by this, and allowed it to show. She had expected one of them to be wearing the earring. Yet it seemed they had something else in mind.

  “The Grand Prince Yvor,” one of them said, their warchief, his darkness suiting the rain-clogged day as her own golden fairness did not, “while a great man in some ways, was unwise. This year he came as he always came each year to our city of Iskorosten. We presented him with our tribute. He demanded double. We spoke among ourselves, and decided thus: If a wolf comes among the sheep, he will take away the whole flock one by one, unless he be killed.”

  He paused, as if waiting for her to say something. To acknowledge his tribe’s cumulative wisdom in murdering their Grand Prince, perhaps? She clamped her jaws shut over exclamations of outrage as he reviewed the events that had brought them all here. One did not shout at someone who merely told the truth, insulting as that truth might be. She kept her gaze on the sprays of flowers thickly embroidered on her silk-covered sleeve, and resisted the impulse to chew at her cheek.

  “Now you are a woman without a husband, and a woman alone cannot rule. As Yvor, grandson of Rurik, married you and became Grand Prince in your father’s stead, so now a Drevlianian will become your husband, and Grand Prince, and rule long and wisely, and provide sons for the future glory and wealth of Russiya.”

  Stiff and formal in her crimson silk robes and heavy crown and looped necklaces of gold and amber, she said nothing.

  “We invite you to choose among us,” their warchief continued with an oily smile. “I have brought with me twelve fine, strong, proud young warriors. The best our land can offer.” The promised twelve came forward; she did not even glance at them. “Only consider, good Lady, that with a Drevlianian as your husband, and a Drevlianian as your son, this land will be ruled by those who have belonged here since time began.”

  She stayed silent, not trusting herself to speak, for what she was thinking would have ruined all. Those who “belong” here—by which you mean those descended of the three brothers who ran away from taking vengeance for their people’s destruction! And let us not forget the sister who cringed and shivered on the riverbank! It is no wonderment to me that you pleaded with great Rurik to rule over you and give you laws and safety from your enemies, for you are all cowards and fools.

  It was her late husband’s warchief, Sveneld, who spoke, taking one long stride from near the silk-draped chair that was her throne. “Dare you forget,” Sveneld rumbled from deep within a chest the size of a wine cask, “that it was you who asked of us a prince to rule over you? We Varangians wanted only a secure route to Mikligardur, to the Silk Road of Serica, to the trading of sables. Prince Rurik you invited—begged!—to become your leader and your salvation from invaders. Prince Helgi made you great, p
roclaimed Kyiv the Mother of All Russiya—”

  “Enough,” Olga said softly. All eyes, wide with shock, were upon her. She would apologize to Sveneld later—and thank him for saying what she must not. Rising from her chair, she smoothed her robes and looked down on the Drevlianian warchief. “You must understand the disquiet of my spirit since—since—” She stopped and stared down at her hands again, as if unable to go on. Spies had reported to them, she was certain, about her pacing and her sleeplessness and her cold turmoil. She could not present them with a woman completely in control of herself and her emotions. If they thought her grief-stricken and terrified, so much the better. “You have given me a difficult choice, for all the young men you propose are worthy, I am sure, of the Tears and the Blood.” Her fingers clenched around the earring in her palm. “Please, forgive me if I am unable to choose at this exact moment—”

  “We never intended you to, gentle Lady,” soothed the Drevlianian. “You may take as long as you like. We will wait.”

  Later, to Master Cheng, she gave voice to her fury. “Yes, wait! And while they do so they will devour my food, drown themselves in my drink, despoil my maids—”

  “Peace, Most Gracious,” the old man murmured. “Did we not hope for exactly this? They are here, and think you unbalanced by sorrow for the past and fear of the future. While they believe you to be wringing your hands in private over this choice, they will not think to see what is truly there to be seen.”

  Calming herself with an effort, she began removing the heavy amber jewelry from her neck. The crown she had taken off upon entering her rooms; it had given her a headache with the weight of its gold.

  “All is prepared?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  A chain snagged on silken embroidery. She yanked at it, abruptly furious again. “Why did Yvor do it? Why did he demand double the tribute? Did he think himself so powerful that none would dare refuse? How rich did these Drevlianians appear, that Yvor demanded double?”