Tsarina

by Patrick, J. Nelle

  My instinct was to speak out for Alexandra, but I managed to muffle my protests. Maria seemed to be crumbling—were she a softer woman, I suspected tears would be falling. Instead, she went to lean against a crooked dresser, resting her thumb and forefinger on her temples. She pulled on her thick black hair with her other hand, like she might yank the more sorrowful thoughts from her head. She glanced up, realized that Leo, the Babushka, and I were all looking at her.

  “Stop. Staring at me!” she screeched, then turned around and dropped her head. The Babushka immediately turned away, and even I found it impossible not to avert my eyes.

  Leo, however, rose cautiously, gave me a mournful look before taking a step toward Maria. “You mean to give it to the Reds then?” he asked gently.

  Maria snorted, looked up. “That’s the problem with people like the both of you. Reds. Whites. You’re all under the impression that there are only two sides in a war.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said slowly.

  “Of course not,” Maria answered. “You know, the mystics were never interested in politics, in society. I grew up wearing pants, riding horses with a leg on each side, never learned a single dance. And then suddenly I was in Saint Petersburg and my father was famous and I had parties and dresses and purchased friends and then . . . then I realized it was all fake. Everything the Whites are is fake.” She walked to the table with crystals, where she’d hidden the Constellation Egg earlier, and ran her fingers across the cloth draped across it. “But now the Reds are burning cities and stomping around like children, bitter that rich people won’t hand them money. Both sides are lined with fools, and it’s all very exhausting.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Leo muttered.

  “It never is,” Maria said. “Which is why it’s time we brought peace to Russia. Miss Kutepova, you’ve seen what the magic can do for you. Imagine that power in the hands of someone who knows how to use it.”

  Thunder rolled outside; a wave of even darker clouds crept over the holes in the roof above. I heard the splatter of a few raindrops on the stone floor. “So you mean to claim the egg for yourself?” I asked, baffled. I glanced at the Babushka, who looked as astounded as I felt.

  “Maria, you mean to return the power to the mystics,” she said swiftly. “Tell her. The power is rightfully ours.”

  “And I will,” Maria said. Her words were stilted, like she was trying to sound kind but failing. “As soon as the nobles pay for what they did to my father. As soon as the Reds pay for what they’ve done to Russia. As soon as I set things right, set a course for Russia that won’t fall to peasants or yield to gold.”

  “With you at the helm?” Leo scoffed. Maria took a hard breath, flicked her tongue out again.

  “I am the only one in Russia who has seen both sides of this country,” she said confidently. “I am the only one strong enough.”

  “No,” the Babushka said slowly. “No, Maria. This is our power. I brought the egg here for us.”

  Maria whirled around, stared hard at the Babushka. “You brought the egg here for your priestess,” she snapped. She walked forward until she was in front of the Babushka, towering over her. “Me.”

  The Babushka shook her head again, stomped forward to the table, reached out for the Constellation Egg. I meant to rise, meant to grab for it first, but a whistling noise streaked by me, followed by a loud slap. I startled, tried to understand what had just happened—to my left was Maria, hair in front of her wild, ice-blue eyes, face contorted with anger and hand extended. And to my right—

  “Oh God,” I said, words falling from my mouth before I could stop them. The Babushka. She was on the ground, a kitchen knife sticking out of her chest. I dove to her side, dropped down as her fingers twitched, her eyes already shut. I felt my mouth twist into something ugly and horrible as I grabbed for the knife, yanked it out. Blood bubbled up; I grimaced and put my hands on top of the wound, tried to think of grass, of flowers, of stars—I had to heal her.

  “That won’t work,” Maria said, laughing like she were watching some sort of skit. “The egg doesn’t mean you can heal anyone you please.” Leo’s arms were on me, pulling me away from the Babushka’s body. I tried to fight him for a moment, then gave in, turned into his chest with my hands clasped together at my throat, stained with the old woman’s blood. Leo held me tightly for a moment, till he was convinced I wouldn’t fall back to the Babushka’s body. I turned to Maria, my face distorted with horror.

  “She was one of you!” I snarled. “She’s one of your subjects! How could you betray her?”

  Maria scowled at me like I was something particularly repulsive. “I’m the traitor? The tsarevich loved you, Miss Kutepova. Loved you so much that the Constellation Egg guarded you with the same ferocity it guarded him, his parents, the grand duchesses. And how do you repay him?” She looked at Leo, surveyed him and seemed to find him unimpressive. “You love another. Enough that the magic extends to him.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but there were tears in my eyes, rocks in my throat. Leo exhaled, a deep, shaking breath, but I was grateful he didn’t say anything aloud. I didn’t want it to be true, I couldn’t admit that it was true, but the egg saved him. The egg saved him, which meant . . .

  I couldn’t even think it. I glanced at Leo, who avoided my eyes.

  Maria scoffed at us, which turned Leo’s avoidance into red-faced anger. He looked down at the Babushka’s body, then at me.

  “Enough,” he growled at Maria, and bolted for her. He’d only made it three or four steps when Maria whipped a hand up, palm facing him.

  “Stop.” Her voice was the hypnotic, creeping one she’d used on Misha. Leo instantly froze in place. His eyes widened, he turned his head just enough to look at me, like he wanted me to help him, like he thought I had any idea how to help him. Maria smiled wickedly, picked up another knife, and spun it around between her fingers.

  “You’re strong,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “You’re fighting me much harder than Colonel Ivanovich did. You should be proud.”

  “Go ahead,” Leo muttered, as if it were hard to speak. “Cut me. I survived a shot to the stomach. I can survive a crazy lady with a chef’s knife.”

  Maria snarled, rushed in, let the knife drift along his collarbone, gently enough that it didn’t break his skin. “Just because you can heal doesn’t mean it won’t hurt, darling. And you’ll recall—a blessed egg couldn’t save Alexei Romanov from a hail of bullets. If they can kill him, I can kill you.” The words made my stomach feel heavy, made my heart beat faster; Leo didn’t look afraid, but I was afraid for him. Maria was right. She could kill him. He could die, just as Alexei died.

  I couldn’t bear another drop of blood on my hands.

  “Leave him alone,” I said, jaw tight. Maria’s eyes flickered from Leo; this seemed to break the spell, as he fell backward, clutching his chest like it ached. I walked forward, placed myself between the two of them. “What do you want, Maria?”

  Maria smiled. “It’s rather complicated. You see, we retrieved the egg from the Winter Palace, and our powers didn’t return. The Romanovs died and our powers didn’t return. This leads me to believe, dear Miss Kutepova, that we are approaching this incorrectly. Perhaps rather than breaking my father’s curse, we should endeavor to untie it.”

  “How do you plan to do that?” I asked, voice steelier now.

  “Tonight,” she said. “We’ll complete the claiming ceremony. Give me claim to the egg, Miss Kutepova, and you both can go. Give me trouble, and . . . well . . . perhaps we’ll use your companion to test the limits of the egg’s healing powers . . .” She ran her fingers along the edge of the knife lovingly, staring at Leo the whole while. He didn’t flinch, but I did.

  “If I help you, how do I know you’ll let us go?” I asked.

  Maria smiled. “I suppose you don’t.” She turned around, dropped the kn
ife on the table by the Constellation Egg, and walked to the curtain in the back of the room. She swept it open, revealing, as expected, a tent room with an open side that revealed the monastery’s garden. The sun had fully set now, and the tiny ribbon of sky I could see above the tree line was starless and black.

  “Come along, dear Leo,” Maria said. She waited, then sighed. “You can come willingly, or I can make you come.”

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, voice soft for my benefit.

  “You’re my prisoner. Obviously, I’m locking you up,” she said simply. “Where I can know you won’t run off and return with an army of boys wearing red ribbons.”

  Leo inhaled. I could tell he was looking at me, trying to make eye contact, but I couldn’t drag my eyes off the ground. Finally, he walked away, vanished with Maria into the camp. I let out a shuddering sob, gasping at the weight on my chest. I lifted my eyes, looked at the Constellation Egg.

  I couldn’t give it to Maria.

  But I couldn’t lose Leo too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The ceremony was like a play. I had lines to memorize. A script to follow. Maria watched me carefully as she sat at a vanity in the sanctuary, raking a comb through her hair and admiring herself. She looked annoyed when another cannon sounded.

  The revolution in Moscow reignited, fire and gunshots and crashes in a largely blackened city. Most of the streetlamps were out, and any building that still had power had long turned its lights off for fear of attack. I wondered how either side could see who they were shooting, but suspected they didn’t care anymore. The world was dissolving around them, and they had no plans to go out quietly. Occasional thunder promised rain, which I supposed would at least wash the sharp smell of spent powder and burned homes from the air.

  Maria snapped her fingers at me in the mirror. “Keep studying,” she said shortly.

  I lowered my eyes back to the page where Maria had hastily scrawled out my lines.

  It was simple. Maria, in fact, would do most of the work. She would cut her hand, put it on the egg, say a few words. Then I had to cut mine, put it on the egg, and say several lines. My name is Natalya Kutepova. I relinquish my claim to this power. Let it flow from me to you. At which point, I was to take Maria’s hand, a thought that gave me chills on its own. I renounce the Romanov dynasty. I renounce myself as tsarina. I renounce their claim to power.

  I struggled to say the final lines even in my head—I certainly wouldn’t be able to say them aloud. But I still had no plan, no escape. Maria wouldn’t kill me, I was certain; she couldn’t risk losing the Constellation Egg’s powers forever. But Leo . . .

  I remembered Maria’s words. Just because you can heal doesn’t mean it won’t hurt, darling.

  She would cut him. Slice him, make him beg. Kill him, if she had to. And I would break, eventually. I would break, I’d complete the ceremony, and Maria would have it all. Perhaps not tonight, maybe not even tomorrow, but eventually . . .

  There had to be another way, but I surely couldn’t think of it. How could so much magic be so useless? I wondered about the egg. If only melting ice and growing sunflowers could stop this.

  I smoothed my hair, adjusted one of the pins so I could see the page better, as if I were really having trouble memorizing the words. Mystics were moving around outside, arranging hundreds and hundreds of candles in the garden outside Maria’s door. They moved obediently, easily, questioning nothing—they even hauled the Babushka’s body out on Maria’s word that the old woman had betrayed them. They trusted her implicitly, though I wondered how much of that trust she’d earned, and how much of it was merely her powers.

  “Maria?” a young mystic, hardly my age, asked from the tent door. Maria turned to her. “It’s stopped raining,” the girl said. “At least for a bit. The candles will light. Should we?”

  Maria smiled. “Yes, yes. Is the moon out?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Well,” Maria said. She rose, looked across the room to me at the table. “Are you ready?”

  “I don’t have much choice,” I said, rising, letting the paper fall to the floor.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Maria said, gathering up the Constellation Egg. She cradled it against her like a baby. “There’s always a choice. Sometimes there’s merely a clear winner.”

  I rolled my eyes at her and followed her out of the sanctuary into the garden where the other mystics were now striking matches, lowering them to the candlewicks. The air was damp and cold, and the wicks fought to take the flames. I turned to look back at the church, crumbling and dying against a night full of bright stars. I searched among them for Alexei’s constellation, the one on the egg—the lion, Leo, I thought bitterly at the coincidence. As if I needed one to remind me of the other. I was never terribly good with stars, though; there were so many—it felt impossible to see only a few and turn them into a shape. Thunder clapped above me; I continued to stare, continued to watch.

  A single snowflake. It drifted down gently on the breeze. I held out my hand, let it perch and melt on my fingertips. Then another, another. The mystics were smiling, looking up as clouds rolled in and covered the stars. Flurries began to flutter down as the thunder continued to roll overhead. Maria ignored all of this, lighting the closest candle herself then walking toward me, forcing my eyes from the sky.

  Something clattered—something closer than the rioters, on the far side of the garden. I looked toward the noise.

  Leo was leaning against the cage doors of the mausoleum. Watching. Staring, face half in shadow in the moonlight. The tombs behind him were broken, probably robbed long ago, and the cage doors rusty. His head nearly brushed the ceiling, his fingers curled easily around the thin bars. I inhaled, didn’t look away, couldn’t look away.

  I ran.

  I ran across the garden, knocking over candles, sliding in the wet grass and tripping over mounds of long forgotten flowerbeds. There were shouts behind me, voices, Maria was screeching, but I didn’t stop. Leo watched me run toward him, and as I neared the cage doors, he pushed his arms through. I stumbled up to the mausoleum; Leo took my hands and pulled me against him easily. I could feel his chest rising and falling against mine, warm despite the cold bars between us. Tears ran down my face, but there were no words, there was nothing I could say, nothing I could allow myself to admit.

  “Don’t do it,” Leo said lowly, trying to put his lips by my ear—the bars prevented it. “Don’t do it. Don’t let her have that power.”

  “I have to,” I choked, leaning back to see his face. I blinked away the snowflakes that clung to my eyelashes. The other mystics were arriving now, slowing down once they realized I had no tricks up my sleeve—I wasn’t really running away. I was just a girl standing at a cage, wondering where things went so very wrong.

  “You don’t,” he whispered, letting one hand run along the back of my neck, like I was something wondrous.

  “I want it to be over.” My voice was squeaky now, and I gripped Leo’s arms ever tighter. “If I do this, at least it will be over.”

  Leo shook his head; his hair fell across his forehead, casting linear shadows across his face. “Revolutions can’t end this easily, Natalya.”

  “This wasn’t easy,” I answered, stifling something between laughter and weeping. Leo smiled, suddenly, and the expression warmed me, warmed me in a way that I couldn’t feel guilty about even as a darkened part of my heart drew up Alexei’s face.

  “That’s because it isn’t over,” he whispered. He paused—his eyes flickered behind me, and I saw his shoulders tense. Maria was surely walking up, but I didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to see her right now. Leo ducked his head, pulled me back to him. I pressed my face against his chest, closed my eyes—

  “Enough,” Maria said. Her voice was serrated, carved between me and Leo. I whirled around to face her just as her tongue darted out. Snowfl
akes dotted her black hair; the ground was starting to be more white than brown. “It’s time.” She walked away; the nearest mystics swooped in, all skirts and hair and the smell of incense.

  Leo was wrong—it was over. I wrested one hand away from the girls guiding me and yanked the pins from my hair, threw them down. My hair caught in the wind, swirled around me. I looked like the mystics, I suspected, like the peasants, like a girl without a reputation to protect. Without years of cotillion training, without a wardrobe that cost more than most make in the year. Without the clothes, the hair, the crown, the powers, I was no different from the corpses behind Leo, no different from Leo himself. No different from Alexei. It was strangely warming, the thought that there would be no need for revolution or jealousy one day: we’d all be equal in the grave.

  The candles were all lit, flickering in the wind. The mystics stood in a circle behind them, looking anxious. They became a sea of dark eyes, dark hair, hands clasped and skirts rustling. Maria positioned me on one side of the pedestal that held the Constellation Egg; she stood on the other. I could see Leo from the corner of my eye, though I didn’t dare actually look at him. Maria seemed to notice this and rotated us around again so he was behind me. I tried to ignore the smug look on her face but failed.

  “Calm down,” she said. “In a quarter hour, the two of you will be free.”

  She reached toward the pedestal with the egg, pausing to admire it lovingly. A knife, an elaborate dagger with onyx in the handle, was sitting beside the egg. She lifted it, held it up in the light of the moon, and muttered something in a language I didn’t know. Maria then brought the dagger down to her palm. She licked her lips, closed her hand around the blade, then yanked the knife through. Several of the mystics sucked a breath in through their teeth as blood dripped through her closed fingers to the ground, staining the ever-increasing layer of snow. I swallowed a curse as she opened her palm, placing it over the egg. Her blood looked almost black in the moonlight as it trickled down around the diamonds, ran a course around the quartz base, finally pooling around the bottom.