by E. P. Clark
“Of course, Valeriya Dariyevna,” he said, looking around with embarrassment at the guards who had stopped their own training to watch us. He began to fumble awkwardly with his practice sword, which he had brought in a bag instead of wearing at his belt.
“Ivan Marinovich!” I said, interrupting him. “Surely you have the right to travel armed in Krasnograd! There was no need for you to carry your weapons in a sack.”
“I beg your pardon, Valeriya Dariyevna?” he said, looking up for a moment from his fumbling. I could see, clear as day, his unease about meeting me, and meeting me here, where all these strangers were watching him, and his general sense of exposure at being on his own in Krasnograd, probably for the first time. In another man it might have made me impatient, but with him I felt strangely protective.
“You are a prince, not a criminal. You have the right to wear a sword in Krasnograd, just as I do.”
“Well, Valeriya Dariyevna…” He gave me a doubtful look, blushing.
“Vitaly Mariyevich!” I called, causing him to break away from the guards he was ostensibly drilling and come hurrying over to us.
“Vitaly Mariyevich, allow me to introduce you to Ivan Marinovich Velikokrasnov. Vitaly Mariyevich, is it not true that Ivan Marinovich has the right to wear a sword in Krasnograd?”
“Of course, Valeriya Dariyevna.” Vitaly Mariyevich bowed. “Your caution does you credit, my prince, but there can be no question of your right to bear a sword everywhere except in the presence of the Tsarina herself.”
“Thank you, Vitaly Mariyevich,” said Ivan Marinovich with an answering bow. He gave me an odd look as Vitaly Mariyevich retreated. “I…thank you, Valeriya Dariyevna, but you must know that…I mean, I suppose I am my mother’s son, but it has been made clear to me many times in the past that I should not…I mean, I mustn’t presume to…to the rights of a true prince…”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Surely, Valeriya Dariyevna, you are aware of…”—he blushed so painfully my face hurt in sympathy—“the circumstances of my conception.”
“Oh nonsense,” I said, waving my hand dismissively. “Just because your mother never took your father in marriage doesn’t mean you aren’t a prince. Look at Mirochka: no one would deny her birthright.”
“Yes, but…As you say, Valeriya Dariyevna.”
“And who told you not to presume?” I asked. “Not your mother, surely?”
“Well…on occasion, Valeriya Dariyevna.”
“Call me Valya,” I said, in order to stop myself from gnashing my teeth at this latest example of Princess Velikokrasnova’s ungenerous behavior. “And I’ll call you Vanya, if you will permit it. After all, we’re about to spar. So who else told you not to presume?”
He gave me a look of deep dread and shook his head mutely.
“Not…your father-in-law?” I guessed.
“Yes, Valeriya Dariyevna,” he said, staring at the ground.
This time I did gnash my teeth. “Well, enough of that! You heard Vitaly Mariyevich: you have the right to wear your sword just like any prince, or any law-abiding person, for that matter, which means it would be an affront to him and to the Tsarina to do otherwise. Now, shall we warm up a bit? And then a bout?”
“As you wish, Valeriya Dariyevna,” he said, concentrating on folding up the sack in which he had brought his sword instead of looking at me.
“Valya,” I reminded him. “You can just leave your things over there. Mirochka! Let’s warm up together, and then Ivan Marinovich and I will spar, and then perhaps he will spar with you, if he is willing.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said, sounding sure of something for the first time this morning. He had set aside his bag and was warming up his wrists, moving his blade this way and that. As soon as he had taken the hilt of his sword, I noted, he had become a different person: not a diffident little boy, but a young man sure of his own skill.
He continued to warm up as Mirochka and I sparred lightly, although after a time he stopped to watch us, and even clapped when Mirochka came close to touching me with the edge of her blade. “I see you will be a worthy opponent, little princess,” he called to her. “I look forward to our bout.”
“Thank you! Don’t hurt him, mama,” Mirochka added anxiously. “I don’t want him to get hurt before we spar.”
“Of course, my dove,” I promised her. I was still feeling leaden-armed after yesterday’s adventures and my half-sleepless night, but no one else seemed to notice. I looked over at him, and, meeting his rather skeptical look, said, “You have my word that I won’t hurt you.” I wanted to call him by his name, but I’d already said I wasn’t going to call him Ivan Marinovich any more, and now that we were standing face-to-face, about to spar, Vanya still seemed too…intimate, as if we hadn’t earned it yet, so I settled for saying nothing at all.
“I am glad to hear it,” he said, sounding as if he were not too concerned about the possibility. Apparently I had not impressed him with my warmup the way he had impressed me.
“Are you ready, then?” I asked him.
“Of course, Valeriya Dariyevna. Are you not going to change your sword?”
“Why would I change it?”
“You are using such a slender blade, Valeriya Dariyevna. I assumed it was in order to train with Miroslava Valeriyevna. I would not like to run the risk of snapping it.”
I looked at my training sword. It was long but slender, rather like me. “It’s a woman’s blade,” I told him. “Have you never sparred with a woman, then?”
“No, Valeriya Dariyevna,” he said, swallowing a little.
“Well.” I resisted the urge to make any of the half-dozen ribald comments that leapt to mind. “Don’t worry about my blade. It’s slenderer than yours, but supple, and no less likely to snap. And if it does get broken, well, that happens sometimes in training. I’ll just get a new one. Are you ready?”
“I am at your service, Valeriya Dariyevna.” He stretched his arms up overhead one final time. This caused his shirt to rise up and expose a handspan of bare stomach between the bottom of his shirt and the top of his trousers. The sight was rather distracting, and I had to be careful not to stare, partly for his sake but mainly for Mirochka’s. I did, however, manage to notice that his stomach was flat and enticing, with a line of light brown hair leading down from his navel. Perhaps Sera had chosen very well for me, after all…
“Valeriya Dariyevna? Are you ready?”
“When you are,” I said, and brought up my sword.
He hung back at first, clearly uncomfortable sparring with a woman and a princess, so I made a few feints and lunges, trying to draw him out. I only provoked a reaction, though, when I rapped him smartly on the wrist, causing him to jerk back and nearly drop his sword.
“That hurt,” he said, shaking his hand and looking at me in surprise.
“I could have made it hurt a lot worse,” I told him. “And I will, if you don’t start engaging with me properly.”
He stopped shaking out his wrist and gave me an appraising look. His gaze narrowed, and I could tell that he was seeing me through different eyes. “As you will, Valeriya Dariyevna,” he said. He brought up his sword and, faster than I would have expected had I not already been warned of his abilities, struck at me. I parried and retreated, feeling the leadenness of my limbs slow me down. He attacked again, frowning in concentration, and I parried and retreated again, wishing I were at my best, but still, I could see, almost fast enough to spar easily with him. We kept this up for a while, me retreating in circles while he pressed forward, until he was smiling, really smiling, and then I suddenly stepped to the side as he attacked and kicked his foot out from under him, making go down heavily on one knee. Vitaly Mariyevich and the watching guards burst out clapping.
“You did well,” I told him, stretching out a hand to help him up. “Very well. I see the Tsarina told me the truth about you.”
“Valeriya Dariyevna?” He looked up from where he was still kneel
ing, his expression a mixture of puzzlement and chagrin. Suddenly the memory of another partner looking up at me with that same expression rose up in my mind. Only that expression had been on blue eyes, not brown…and had so quickly changed to something else…Like that, is it, princess? the voice in my head said. Is that how we’re going to do it?
“The Tsarina told me you would be a worthy sparring partner,” I told him, shaking my head to clear it of the memory and grabbing him by the shoulder of his shirt and hauling him upright. “Is your knee all right?”
“Fine, Valeriya Dariyevna,” he said, flexing each knee in turn experimentally. “I didn’t know we were allowed to do that,” he added.
“Well, if we were fighting in truth, we could do whatever we wanted. Would you like another go?”
In response he attacked again, but I ducked under his sword and ended up behind him. I brought up my sword to give him a firm tap on the back as punishment, but he whipped around somehow and parried me.
“Very good!” The words came out on their own. I tried to tell myself that it was only my tiredness that had kept me from striking him, but in truth I thought I would have had a hard time getting past his guard even on a good day. I could see the hours of daily practice behind his moves, the only comfort for a lonely boy with a scornful, domineering mother and a fearful step-father anxious to assert his dominance by constantly reminding his new son not to get above his station, not to claim his birthright…it was not like me to woolgather like this while sparring. Normally all I saw was my opponent right here, right now, not all their past and future spilling out around them, as, it was said, my foremothers saw…my distraction allowed him a moment of respite to gather himself and attack again. When I parried that, rather more slowly and clumsily than was my wont, he retreated half a step and considered me.
“Anything goes, Valeriya Dariyevna?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “As long as no one’s seriously hurt.”
He started to move to the left. The guards had formed up around us, hemming us in on all sides, and were watching in bright-eyed anticipation. Mirochka was also standing in the circle, watching unhappily. I took my eyes off him for a moment in order to grin at her reassuringly, but was then forced to turn my attention back to the matter at hand, as he took advantage of the opportunity to rush at me. I jumped out of the way, bouncing lightly off a guard, and ran to the other side of our small circle. No heaviness in my limbs now, but I could tell that was only temporary. He rushed at me again, and I jumped out of the way again. We could go on like this for a while, and judging by the freshness of his step, I was going to tire long before he did. I sidled to my right, ending up in a small corner with guards on both sides of me. Grinning, he stepped forward to attack. The guards retreated slightly but not enough for me to get past him to open ground. I parried his strikes once, twice, but on the third one he caught the edge of my blade awkwardly, half-knocking it from my hand. Smiling exultantly, he moved to disarm me—and ended up on the ground when I kicked him in the chest.
“Ai-da Valeriya Dariyevna!” cried the guards, clapping and cheering wildly. Mirochka ran forward.
“Are you all right, mama?” she asked. “And did you hurt him?”
I knelt down beside him. He was lying with his eyes closed, breathing shallowly. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“No,” he said, his eyes still closed. “My pride has been fatally wounded, Valeriya Dariyevna.”
“Don’t worry, young prince: it only feels like a mortal wound,” said Vitaly Mariyevich, kneeling down on the other side of him. “I can tell you from personal experience that you’ll recover in no time.”
Ivan opened his eyes. “Did she do the same thing to you?” he asked.
“More than once, young prince.” Vitaly Mariyevich gave me a rueful glance across Ivan’s prostrate body. “It’s some steppe trick, or so she says.”
“I’ve offered to teach you,” I told him mildly.
“True enough, Valeriya Dariyevna, but my legs don’t reach up to my ears like yours do.”
“They would if you trained like a steppe fighter,” I pointed out.
Ivan pushed himself up to his elbows. “Was it all a trick?” he asked. “Getting boxed in like that, letting me disarm you…was it all a trick?”
I grinned. An expression of hurt and anger crossed his face, making me regret it. I should have let him win. Young men’s feelings were so easily bruised, and this one was as skittish as a wild cat, and with good reason. Stupid, stupid, stupid…
“She wouldn’t have done it if she hadn’t thought you were a worthy opponent, young prince,” said Vitaly Mariyevich consolingly.
Ivan sat all the way up. “Really?” he asked.
“Really,” Vitaly Mariyevich and I said together.
“In fact, I think I’m the only one I’ve seen her use that trick on before today,” Vitaly Mariyevich continued.
Ivan’s face started to clear. With our help, he got to his feet, eliciting another round of applause from the watching guards.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked.
“I think I will be, Valeriya Dariyevna,” he said, “…but only on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“Teach me how to do that.”
“Ai-da Ivan Marinovich!” cried the guards in delight.
“With pleasure,” I said with a bow.
“Really?”
“Really,” I told him. “I’ve never gotten a black earth boy to agree to learn about steppe fighting before. I congratulate you on being the first.”
“Really?” His face brightened even more, and then was overcome with another blush that was apparent even on top of the flush from his exertions.
“Really,” I said. “But I’m sure you will be an apt pupil.”
“He can practice with me, mama!” said Mirochka, tired of being ignored and eager to contribute. “We can practice together!”
“Indeed,” I said. “You could even start now, if you wished.”
Ivan flexed his neck and shoulders, shaking out the stiffness of his fall. “I’m game if you are, little princess,” he said to Mirochka.
“Hurray!” she cried, clapping her hands. “Can we, mama? Can we train together?”
“If Ivan Marinovich is willing, of course,” I said. “Here, I’ll show you on him, and then you can practice together.” I turned back to him. “I’ll do it without knocking you down,” I told him. “At least for now.”
He grimaced. “You have my thanks, Valeriya Dariyevna.”
“No promises for tomorrow, though,” I told him. “Now, the key is to catch your opponent when they’re off guard or off balance. Legs are longer and stronger than arms, so once you develop your reach with them, you can surprise your enemy—unless they know steppe fighting, of course. Or they’re an Easterner. But even so it’s a good technique. Watch how I do it…”
For the rest of the morning, I instructed Ivan, Mirochka, and several of the bolder of Vitaly Mariyevich’s guards in the basics of the first tactic in steppe fighting, knocking your opponent down with your feet. Mirochka, of course, already knew this, but was happy to practice along. The men, for whom it was unfamiliar, and who had very little suppleness in their legs, found it much more difficult, and by the end of the morning the guards had all declared that they were never going to be able to kick someone in the chest, and given up. Ivan was also daunted by the difficulty of the task, but expressed a willingness to keep trying.
“At the very least it will be a surprise for Alyosha,” he said as we walked away from the training grounds. “He’ll be green with envy when he hears about this. But I don’t know if I’ll ever get it, Valeriya Dariyevna. I don’t know if any man could ever get his legs up in the air like that.”
“Nonsense,” I told him. “Steppe fighters do it all the time. You just have to train. A lot. Tomorrow, then?”
“If it pleases you, Valeriya Dariyevna.”
“It will be a pleasure,”
I assured him. “And…” I called as we separated, making him turn back to look at me.
“Yes, Valeriya Dariyevna?”
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Valya?”
He grinned. “Many more, I think, Valeriya Dariyevna. I guess I’ll have to train. A lot. Repetition is the mother of learning, you know.”
I laughed. “As you will…Vanya. Until tomorrow.” And highly pleased with myself, perhaps even more so than the morning warranted, I, suddenly alarmingly weak-legged after my exercise, led Mirochka back into the kremlin.
***
There was food and water waiting for us in our chambers, to my great delight, and Mirochka fell upon it like a dog as soon as she saw it. As she was wolfing down her third pie, and I was finishing off the pitcher of water, not wanting to chance solid food until I had taken in some liquid, a serving girl came and announced that the tsarinoviches would be honored if Miroslava Valeriyevna would share their afternoon’s amusements with them, and that the Tsarina requested my immediate presence.
“Tell her I’ll be up as soon as we’ve changed,” I said.
“I believe, Valeriya Dariyevna, that it would be better…” the girl gulped miserably, “…if you went as you are. The Tsarina instructed me to escort you personally to her as soon as I found you.”
“Where are the tsarinoviches?” I asked. “Someone must take Mirochka to them. And…”—I turned to look at Mirochka—“you were supposed to meet with Kiryusha and Adriana, weren’t you?”
“Can’t we ask them to come play with us too, mama?”
I looked at the maid, who shuffled nervously but agreed that Kirill Tatyanovich and Adriana Gulisovna could be summoned to join the tsarinoviches and Mirochka, and that we could stop by the Imperial children’s chambers on the way.
Which was how Mirochka and I ended up walking to the Imperial chambers in sweat-soaked training clothes, with Mirochka still gulping down another roll. As we walked I darkly wished Sera much joy of my presence. Perhaps the scent of the sweat drying on my body would sicken her new-mother’s sensitive nose…not that I wanted that. In truth, I was surprised it had taken her this long to send me a preemptory summons, after the scene from last night. Which was concerning. It could very well mean that she had spent the morning feeling too unwell to rise, which had always been her pattern when she was with child…everything about it had always been such a miserable experience for her. A lot of my anger at her redirected itself at the gods or whatever had made it so that she would have to suffer so much.
