Tsarina

by Patrick, J. Nelle

  Leo gave me an irritated look, extended a hand to help me into the boat. I took it, jumping in, nearly falling straight into the river when it rocked with my momentum. I dropped into a seat in the back, held onto it on either side.

  “Let’s go,” I said when he didn’t move.

  “You’re the one who can control the water,” he reminded me. I scowled at him, looked at the water around me. The river was astonishingly still, tiny triangles of water lifting when the wind blew particularly hard, but otherwise the surface was calm and gentle. I tried to summon that feeling, the lightning in my veins I felt with the elk, but all I felt was mildly seasick. I turned back to Leo, who wore an irritatingly hopeful expression.

  “I don’t know how to do it—” I began, stopping when Leo’s eyes left mine, flitted to the shore.

  “You should work it out,” he said. “Because they’re going to see us.” I whirled around—there were White soldiers farther up the bank, curiously pointing at the boxes Leo dropped in the water as they floated past. I watched their eyes gradually drift up the river.

  “And that’s Misha,” I said, my heart sinking.

  “What?” Leo snapped. He dove for the boat’s oars, struggled to fit them into place. Misha began to run, rifle clutched to his chest. I reached over, shoved the boat away from the dock. Leo began to paddle furiously, but strong as he was, his arms would only do so much. We rolled away from the dock, into the river, but Misha was running down the grassy banks now, readying his rifle, waving to me. I leaned over—he wouldn’t be able to shoot at Leo if there was a chance I would block the bullet.

  “Go, go, go,” I urged Leo, who was sweating now, grimacing with each stroke of the oars. Other Whites were joining Misha, confused but loyally training their guns on us. The wind was sharper out here, away from the shore, and we began to turn slightly, rotate around—they would have a shot. Not a good one, necessarily, but a shot, and there was no way I could position myself to stop them. Leo seemed to realize this as well, growled and tried to row faster, but we were still a good distance from the middle of the river. I looked back anxiously.

  The wind picked up—but not to turn us. It felt like the wind was beneath us, rather, like we weren’t on the water at all. It shoved us across the water, taking the time to rush around my arms, wrap round my face like it was embracing me. There it was, the feeling of lightning. It was faint underneath the cold air, but it was rushing around in my veins, ordering the air to push us forward like the magic was speaking on my behalf.

  “Keep doing that,” Leo shouted to be heard above the wind. I didn’t bother to tell him that I wasn’t entirely certain how I was doing this. A shot rang out, another, another, but the bullets were far from reaching Leo. The other side of the Moskva was coming into view now, the bank covered with peasants in browns, grays, blacks. I could see the Red sashes on their arms from here; looking at them, the lightning feeling seemed to increase, feed off my anger.

  We began to slow; Leo stopped paddling altogether as we drifted toward a dock clearly meant for much larger boats. I could hear the Reds talking now, bright, young voices, as a group of them gathered at the mooring.

  “How do I know they won’t start shooting?” I asked warily.

  “You don’t,” Leo said, gripping my shoulders. “I do.”

  “Well then, how do you know?” I asked. We were only a half-dozen yards out now. I could see their eyes, their unshaved faces and calloused hands.

  “Because Reds are the people of Russia,” he answered. “That means you and me, if we’ll join them. Remember, they’re not defending anything. They’ve got no reason to shoot someone coming at them.”

  I wasn’t sure—especially when Leo tossed them the rope and they pulled us to the dock. Leo jumped out first, held up his hands to show he was unarmed, then he and a Red pulled me onto the shore. The Red had eyes like brown gemstones—hard, but sparkling.

  “Who are you?” the gem-eyed Red asked, folding his arms and blocking our route off the dock. I became keenly aware of the fact that if they were to charge forward, Leo and I would have nowhere to go but into the Moskva’s icy water.

  “Leo Uspensky,” he said.

  “And are you a traitor or spy?” the Red asked. The crowd around him shouted out their suspicions; my heart sank to see plenty of fingers pointed at me, attached to voices that cried, “Spy!”

  “She’s not a spy! She’s with us,” Leo shouted at them, stepping back to me. He grabbed my hand, pulled me toward him. “She’s with us. She’s with me.” He clutched my hand so tightly it hurt. “I’m from the Palace Soviets in Saint Petersburg. I’m one of you.”

  “Palace Soviets? The tsar’s own employees?” a different Red scoffed. “What would someone from Saint Petersburg be doing here?”

  “Excellent question,” the gem-eyed boy said. He was small compared to Leo, but looked fast, like a terrier. “You’re not even wearing any red.” I saw several of the boys behind him fidget with their guns. “Got any proof you’re not a White in disguise?” the boy asked.

  Leo nodded, shuffled his coat off. It slumped to the ground as he grabbed the sides of his shirt, hiked it up to his shoulders. The hair on his arms pricked up from the cold, and the Reds around us looked at him like he was crazy. They realized what he was doing at the same moment I did, and we inhaled in near unison. Two long, bumpy scars, the width of my arm, were raised angrily across his skin. They cut across his shoulders to halfway down his back, and looked horrible, more horrible still when I considered what the pain acquiring such scars must have been like.

  “A plow,” Leo said, rustling his shirt back down. He stared at the dock, like he was embarrassed. “You think I don’t know hard work? That I’m not angry like you are?”

  The gem-eyed boy looked down, firmed his lips. Everything about him changed, and he extended a hand toward Leo. “Forgive me, comrade. The Whites have sent more than one spy over here.” Some of the Reds shuffled away, resumed their posts as Leo took his hand and shook it readily. “And you, miss?” the boy asked me, seemingly more out of curiosity than need. “Why are you with us?”

  Leo was about to answer for me, but I broke in. “Because I want my country back,” I said swiftly.

  Leo exhaled. The gem-eyed boy grinned and gave me a look, one I wasn’t prepared for—like he was proud of me, like he was eager to have me with him. “We’ve run out of guns,” he said, “but there are some bayonet spears, should you want them. Miss, if you’d like to join the ladies toward the back—” he began.

  Leo cut him off. “We came here—to Moscow, I mean—looking for a mystic. We need to find her before we can join you.”

  “You want a card reading in the middle of a revolution?”

  “She’s my grandmother,” I lied. “I want to make sure she’s safe.”

  The gem-eyed boy frowned, but seemed convinced. “If she wasn’t at the square on the north side of town, she’s probably at the monastery. They’re protected there, I imagine—it’s on an island in the river. But look.” He motioned toward the other side of the water. The Whites were lining up, in formation; their guns were trained across the bridge. “It’s starting now, miss.”

  “Which monastery?” I asked quickly.

  “Down that way,” he pointed. “Just south of the Saratovsky train station.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  “But you’ll come back to the front?” the boy asked. This question was aimed at Leo specifically. “You look like a man ready for a fight.”

  “I am,” Leo said, nodding. “And I will be.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  As promised, the mystic camp was in a monastery, and yet it was not at all what I expected. This was not a place of neatly kept gardens and clean walls—or at least, not anymore. The monastery was falling apart, the outer wall reduced to a two- or three-foot-high pile of brick dust. The buildings inside the compo
und were no better. The roofs were patched with oilcloths, the walls had enormous holes missing, and vines were snaking along the entire thing, devouring whatever was left standing.

  And yet, for as lifeless as the building itself was, the camp was vibrant. Tents in reds and purples, creams and golds, with wind chimes on the outsides and runes drawn on the fabric, were propped up against the monastery’s walls. The edges of rooftops were used to hold the ends of laundry lines, and it looked like the granary had been converted into a chicken coop. As we crossed the bridge to the island, I turned to look back over Moscow and saw what I worried were traces of smoke blooming over buildings. I could feel the tension slicing toward me like an arrow. It was hard to believe the camp and Moscow’s impending revolution could exist in the same country, much less the same city.

  An arbor made of graying wood framed the camp’s entrance on the far side of the bridge, gentle and sloping where the iron bridge railings ended, sharp and exact. Heads turned as Leo and I grew closer, mostly belonging to women with dark black eyes and heavy, wild hair. They wore long necklaces and cheap metal rings, eyeliner, and lipstick, like they were starring in a play rather than living on the outskirts of a city in turmoil. Their eyes skirted between me and Leo and the city’s skyline, like they couldn’t tell which was the more pressing danger.

  When we were nearly at the halfway point on the bridge, a girl a few years older than me stepped through the arbor. Leo and I locked eyes briefly as she walked toward us.

  “Lost?” she asked. She walked quickly, like she wanted to reach us before we got too much closer.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m looking for a . . . mystic.”

  “No one here’s working,” she said curtly. “Perhaps you’ve noticed, the city is a bit preoccupied.” She pointed behind us; I heard a rattling noise that I soon realized was gunfire. A rushing sound, a wave of cries, reached me on the breeze, though it fell away as soon as the wind stopped. Leo met my eyes—he heard it too.

  So Moscow’s revolution had begun while I had my back turned. Just like in Saint Petersburg.

  I turned to the girl; behind her, other mystics were hurrying into their homes, sealing doors with ribbons like this could possibly keep a war out.

  “This is about the revolution,” I said quickly. “I can’t explain—we just have to see her. We’ve always called her Babushka. Is she here?”

  The girl folded her arms. She was gamine, with high cheekbones that suited her now, but I suspected would hollow when she got older. There were tattoos along her collarbone, runes that looked blurred, drawn on with a shaky hand. “If you don’t know her given name, I’m afraid you don’t know her well enough for me to hunt her down for you. Go. Go find shelter.” The girl turned, began to walk back to the camp.

  “Please!” I called out, chasing after her. Several older mystics were lining up around the outskirts of the camp, casting herbs about on the ground; they gave me cold looks, like I might ruin their charm with my presence.

  “We’ve traveled a very long way,” Leo called as he ran up behind me. “We think she may have something that can help us. That can help all of Russia, in fact.”

  “Can you just tell her that Lady Natalya Kutepova is here? She’ll remember me. I’m sure of it,” I added.

  The girl stopped and sighed, rubbed the back of her head; a few of her fingers got caught in her hair, and it took her a moment to work them free. I heard a cannon fire, a sound that reminded me of the Aurora and made my heart stop. Leo looked back toward the city, and I heard him suck in a nervous breath. I kept my gaze on the girl. The revolution would happen if I was looking or not.

  The girl scowled. “Fine. Wait here. Don’t pass the arbor, clear?”

  Leo and I nodded in unison. The older mystics continued to scatter dried leaves around the borders of the camp. Rasputin’s Constellation Egg couldn’t save the royal family, but they thought a handful of basil might save them? Still, I found myself hoping it would work. Perhaps the revolution wouldn’t venture this far south . . .

  Another cannon sounded. Leo closed his eyes.

  “She said you can come in.” The girl’s voice rang out from farther inside the camp. “But I don’t know that she’ll do you much good.”

  We walked through the arbor and joined her in the camp. It was a maze of tents, of lean-tos, the scent of teas and incense heavy in the air. Now that we were inside, we could see the camp was set up like a sun, with all the tents circled around the monastery’s crumbling main building. On the exposed interior walls, I could see the remains of murals, images of angels and saints whose faces were being chipped away by time.

  “Here,” the girl said, stopping at the edge of a sage-green tent. She swept a curtain back. “Go.”

  I hesitated, so Leo went first, dipping his head to go inside. As soon as I was through the door, the girl dropped the tent flap and, as best I could tell, walked away.

  It was dark, so dark that it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. There were a few candles burning on the far side, giant things melted down to little more than lumps of wax. There were rugs on the ground, bells hanging from ropes on the ceilings, and tapestries on the wall with designs too vague to make out. Underneath the incense, the tea, and the candle smoke, was the smell of vodka, harsh and bright. I grimaced, continued to look around—I didn’t see her here, and certainly didn’t see the Constellation Egg. Was she going to meet us? I looked back at the door.

  “Lady Kutepova!” a voice called out, slurred and sloppy. I whirled around, tried to find the source.

  “Babushka?” I said. “Is that you?”

  “Of course it is, golubka,” she said. Movement drew my eyes to her—she was sitting near the back of the tent on a chair badly in need of new upholstery. She heaved herself up, toddled back and forth for a moment, then stumbled toward me.

  “She’s drunk,” Leo said, annoyed.

  “Very drunk,” I agreed as she tripped, fell, and rolled a little. Leo and I hurried to her side, each took an arm, and pulled her back to the chair. The acrid smell of vomit was strong; I opted not to look around and find its source. Her hair was unbraided, her eyes watery, and I suspected her dress was on backward.

  “Here,” Leo said, vanishing from my side. He reappeared a moment later with a mug of water from a carafe on a table. I handed it to the Babushka, who stared at it for a moment, then gulped it down.

  “Babushka,” I said, kneeling in front of the chair so I was mostly eye level with her.

  “Lady Kutepova,” she said again, sounding the slightest bit better. “Cards? Runes?”

  “No, Babushka,” I said, snapping my fingers in front of her face. Leo returned with a second glass of water; I dipped my fingers into it and splashed her face. “I need to know about the Fabergé egg. The one I told you about the last time I saw you.”

  Her eyes widened; she looked to Leo accusingly, like he was intruding.

  “Never mind him,” I said swiftly, waving to draw her attention back. “Remember the egg, Babushka? Did you take it?”

  “Of course,” she said. She grinned, a wicked sort of expression. “I had to. Keep it safe.”

  “For the Romanovs,” I said, relieved. I saw Leo shift uncomfortably, fought the urge to give him a smug look. The Babushka laughed loudly.

  “Not that it did any good,” she said. “They’re dead. Every last one of them. Shot. Dead.”

  Something hollowed out in me, and a hand was suddenly on my shoulder—Leo’s. I wanted to shake it off, but it felt like the only real thing in the room. Besides, I had to focus, had to get an answer out of her. The Babushka was breathing slower now, gaining her bearings.

  “Where is the egg, Babushka?” I asked. “I need to get it. I’m Alexei’s girl, remember? I need it, to get it out of the country so the Reds don’t get it.”

  The hand on my shoulder tensed, then pulled away entirel
y. I didn’t look back.

  “The egg?” the Babushka said, sighing. “He was a fool, Lady Kutepova. Rasputin, I mean. Falling in love with a queen. He was great, he was powerful, he was a visionary. And in the end, he was no different from any other lovesick schoolboy.”

  “Where is it?” I asked, voice growing tense. I didn’t get kidnapped, ride in a boxcar from Saint Petersburg, lie my way through Moscow just so she could dodge my question. I rose, looming above her.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. They’re dead. Our powers are locked inside the egg forever.”

  “Your powers?” Leo asked. The Babushka blinked at him, confused, but answered anyhow.

  “My powers. Their powers,” she waved toward the door of the tent. “Rasputin didn’t just put his own powers into that egg, he put our powers into it. And now the last people who could access it have been killed. It’s useless. A charm. A demon.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head quickly. “Alexei was the tsar, and he loved me. The egg is mine now.”

  “So . . . even though the Romanovs are dead . . .” Her eyes were bleary.

  “I’m not dead,” I said hopefully, squeezing her arm. “Take me to the egg, Babushka. Help me keep it from the Reds.”

  The Babushka blinked hard, shook her head. She finally spoke, voice even, like she was fighting the alcohol in her blood. “You’re the last one,” she said. “The last one the egg can work for. You were his . . . I remember you were his . . .” She frowned, like she still wasn’t sure she believed me.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding at her. Bits of my hair were coming loose, falling into my face, and I fought the urge not to flinch when the wind swept through the camp carrying another wave of battlecries. There wasn’t much time—it would be hard to escape the city before too long, egg or no egg.

  The Babushka stared at me, shook her head. “I’ll take you to it. Come on.” She hobbled forward, using the posts in the center of the tent to steady herself, and made for the door. We followed behind, toward the tent flap that she was holding open for us. Leo ducked through first, then me.