Winter War Awakening (Blood Rose Rebellion, Book 3)

by Rosalyn Eves

  The samodiva queen disappeared, carrying Zhivka’s body into the trees beyond us. I did not hear what rites she spoke, but we all saw the pillar of smoke rising into the sky, marking the spot where Zhivka’s body burned.

  I am not sure what Vasilisa read in the samodiva queen’s face when she returned, but Vasilisa refused to let her carry Bahadır or me. Instead, Vasilisa wrapped one arm around each of us and had the samodiva queen tie a length of rope around us to secure us to her.

  “Are you certain you can carry us both?” I asked, envisioning the three of us crashing to our deaths. If she meant to kill us, there were less costly ways to do so.

  She cast me a disgusted look. “I have carried more.”

  We launched upward, the samodiva queen trailing behind us. Vasilisa did not fly as fast with two extra weights, and I told her as much. As a reward for my pains, she pinched my arm, hard enough to bruise.

  I occupied myself with tracing the roads below us and trying to guess where we were. Heading east, that was certain. This was not a part of the country I had frequented, and I was not sure I could name the cities that spun out below us. Kápolna? Eger?

  Vasilisa must have found our added weights more tiring than she admitted, because sooner than I had expected, she began lowering toward a stretch of flat land.

  I squinted. Something was hurtling toward us—a quick reach with my inner sense confirmed it was not living. But what—?

  Before I could do more than begin to frame the question, a heavy net fell over us. At once we dropped, and my stomach launched upward. Vasilisa cursed furiously as we fell. There was iron woven through the rope’s core.

  The ground raced toward us, the trees and grasses below us growing larger and taking on clarity with alarming rapidity.

  This was going to hurt like the devil.

  Vienna unsettled me in the way I imagined an ex-lover might: a place once familiar but where I was no longer welcome. A city with secrets I no longer had a right to know.

  I tensed as we neared the southwest city gate, worried that someone might recognize the lidérc as praetherian, or see in me the fugitive Miss Anna Arden. But the guards saw Emilija’s Red Mantle uniform and waved us through with scarcely a glance at me or the lidérc. As it was late afternoon, Emilija took us to the flat she shared with her father near the center of the city instead of proceeding directly to the Hofburg.

  Though not large, the apartment was well furnished and clean. Emilija showed us to rooms where we could wash away the worst of the travel grime, and then a uniformed maid with frizzled grey hair served us tea in a small parlor. Before I had even taken my first sip, Emilija began to fidget, twisting her fingers together and chewing on her lower lip. This was wholly unlike her—she tended to go quiet and watchful when anxious, not restless.

  I set my teacup on the saucer. “Are you well?”

  “No. That is, yes. Only…I miss my dog.”

  “Of course. I can take you as soon as I’ve finished my tea.”

  We left the lidérc behind, as she claimed she would rather sleep than go one step farther. Dusk settled over the city as we walked, casting a golden light over the old buildings and cobblestones. Vienna had overawed me once with her opulence and her relentlessly fashionable elite. Now, the city felt merely indifferent. The city had not changed; I had. The girl who had been impressed by wealth and fine manners was gone.

  We were still a few blocks from Borbála’s apartment when I caught a glimpse of a familiar woman in a black dress, her copper hair braided neatly about her head. Ginny had been my maid—and, in truth, my closest confidante—until she had betrayed me at the archduchess’s ball earlier that summer, appearing with other newly trained magicians to capture the praetheria. I pulled back into an alcove before she could see me.

  Emilija halted and looked at me as though I had suddenly taken leave of my senses.

  Ginny crossed the street toward us. “Miss Anna? Is that you?”

  I had not hidden myself quickly enough, it seemed.

  Emilija stepped in front of Ginny, barring her access to me. “Who are you?”

  “I used to be Miss Arden’s maid. You needn’t fear me: I’m no snitch.”

  I slipped out around Emilija. “But you are a traitor.”

  Ginny flinched. It should not have pleased me to know I could still wound her, but it did. “I did not betray you. Every spell I cast in that ballroom, I did at the request of Her Majesty’s government.” Her eyes flickered over me, taking in the ill-fitting boys’ clothes I wore. The crease in her brow deepened, but she said nothing of my sartorial failures.

  “You thought it right that the praetheria should be forced from their homes? That I should be sentenced without trial?”

  Ginny pinched her lips together and crossed her arms. “I did not know what they intended. We were told only to exercise our magic on behalf of Queen Victoria. I never meant for you to be hurt—I was glad when you escaped.”

  The conversation grated on me. I both wanted Ginny to apologize and wanted to throw the apology in her face, so I could hold on to the betrayal I’d felt when she showed up at the ball, allied with the same magicians and soldiers who trapped me. Yet deep down I knew I was being unfair: I was blaming Ginny for becoming a magician instead of a lady’s maid—a role I had encouraged her to take, a role that opened up many more opportunities than I could have given her.

  Ginny continued, “I’m sorry about your friend, though.”

  The shift away from the ball confused me. Who was she talking about?

  “Mr. Skala?” Ginny said.

  “William? What happened to him?” My stomach tightened.

  “He died in the hospital, after the ball.”

  It came back in a rush: William, running to tear me away from the soldiers, the spread of blood across his white shirt where a soldier’s sword slid through him. He’d fallen, and the soldiers had dragged me away, and then Hunger had pulled me out a broken window and into the night. I hadn’t seen William again, hadn’t found anyone who knew if he lived or died.

  Dead.

  William, who was the first rebel I had ever known, and one of the truest. How terrible that his lofty ambitions had come down to this: a moment’s decision to try and save me, fueled by personal rather than national interest. A promising story cut off midparagraph, midsentence. I blinked back tears, aware of Emilija shifting beside me.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I said. “But we must be going.”

  Ginny didn’t move. “There’s good news too. You have a nephew: Christopher. A bright, bonny child.”

  I grasped her arm. “You’ve seen him? And Catherine? Are they well?”

  “They’re well. I was just visiting with—”

  I interrupted her. “They’re in the city? I thought she was returning to England.”

  “Travel did not agree with her or the baby. She had to turn back. But both are well now.”

  I shook my head, dazed. Christopher. It was a good name. In another world, I might have given him a nickname and carried him on my shoulders and taught him to fish, just as I had taught James. Perhaps I still could, if I succeeded in persuading the archduchess to pardon me. But Catherine was in the city. Whatever violence was about to engulf us would wash over her as well. And the baby.

  I did not want this war to become my war; I wanted to stay clear of it. But for Catherine, for my infant nephew, I should have to pray that the archduchess could stop the war before it was too late.

  We said goodbye to Ginny and moved on.

  Borbála Dobos lived in an unremarkable flat just within the walls of the city. When I rapped at the wooden door, it was opened by a pretty, neatly dressed woman in her thirties, her dark hair just threaded with grey at the temples. She ushered us into the flat, casting curious looks at Emilija.

  “Hallo, Marina,” I said. �
��This is Emilija Dragović, here to recover her dog.”

  A cloud passed across Marina’s pretty face—only a hint of shadow and then it was gone. “Of course. Borbála is taking her supper in the dining room. Will you join her? It’s rare enough I can get her to sit down to eat two bites together. She’s always chasing a story.”

  The dining room turned out to be no more than an airy nook with a small table crammed into the space, a bright bouquet of chrysanthemums at its center. Borbála sprang up as we approached, pulling a napkin from her trousered lap, but a blur of white and black fur reached us before she did.

  The dog jumped up, putting his forelegs on Emilija’s shoulders and barking jubilantly. Emilija laughed and let the dog lick her face before kneeling to tuck her arms around its neck. “I have missed you, Sretno.”

  Marina turned away, and Borbála altered her course, patting me gently on the shoulder as she passed. She drew Marina to her in a hug. “It’s all right. We’ll find another dog, if you want one.”

  Emilija looked up, taking in the two women with a slight frown. “It’s true that Sretno is very lovable. I am sorry if caring for him has brought you pain—I am very grateful that he has been so well tended.”

  Marina smiled, though her eyes shone suspiciously. “He is your dog—he should be with you.”

  Emilija stood, her frown deepening. Sretno sniffed at her fingers, then padded across the room to do the same to Marina, who rubbed his ears. “My father has gone to war, and after I take Anna to see the archduchess—”

  “You’re taking Anna to the archduchess?” Borbála echoed, cutting her off. “Why? The woman will slaughter her! Best leave her here with us.” She stepped forward, arms crossed, as though she might intimidate Emilija.

  “I mean to try and break the spell on the archduke,” I said, feeling absurdly touched by Borbála’s defense.

  Borbála narrowed her eyes at me. “You think she will pardon you? I’d not be so trusting.”

  “She loves her son.” The archduchess might hate me with the passion reserved for demon-spawn, but she would not harm me if there was a chance I could save her son.

  Emilija cleared her throat, and we turned back to her. “As I said, my father is at war, and I will likely join him when my business here is done. Sretno is an excellent hunter, but he is not a warrior, and I would not wish to see him hurt. There is no one at our flat to care for him but an old maid. Perhaps…?” Her voice trailed off delicately.

  “Of course he can stay here,” Marina said, her face already brightening. “For as long as you’d like.”

  Borbála pressed her lips together in mock displeasure. “And have I no say in this? This is my house, after all.”

  “You always have a choice,” Marina said, stooping to plant a kiss on Sretno’s head. Emilija joined her, dropping to her knees and murmuring to the Dalmatian.

  Borbála’s eyes softened. “Yes,” she said. “I know. And that choice will always be you.”

  I watched the two women, secure in their friendship and love, and wished I had anything approaching their certainty. If I were to choose one person, one place, one thing over and over again, what would I choose? Gábor? My family? Hungary? Would I even get to choose, with war sweeping over everything? Or was my choice already cast—some seemingly insignificant decision that would shape everything else? William had chosen to help me, and he had lost everything—every other choice had been subsumed in that one moment. What would my choice to help the archduke cost me?

  * * *

  A deep green silk dress with copper leaves embroidered along the hem and sleeves spilled over Emilija’s arms.

  I’d spent the night in a real bed and felt nearly ready for anything. But— “I can’t wear that.”

  The girl who had worn such dresses and had taken tea with the archduchess no longer existed. And I did not want to be beholden to Emilija.

  “A good soldier goes into battle armed and prepared; think of this dress as your armor. The archduchess will not like you better for wearing humble clothes—or boys’ clothes.”

  I sighed. She was right. “Thank you.”

  Emilija left the room while I washed. It was a relief to unwind the strips of fabric binding my chest, but strange also, as if I’d forgotten the feel and shape of my own body. I did not have to exchange my drawers or the chemise I’d worn under my binding, but I had to call Emilija to help me cinch the corset tight and fasten the gown. The multiple petticoats that belled out the dress hung heavy from my waist. This I had not forgotten: the way a dress made me feel both feminine and weighted down, my breath constricted and my steps precise. I had not realized, until I wore men’s garments, how differently we inhabited the world in our clothes.

  Emilija and I stared into the small mirror atop her dressing table. My short hair curled unevenly, and my attempts to brush through it with my fingers only made it stand up higher.

  “I’m a tolerable hand with a braid,” she said, “but your hair is too short for that.”

  I dipped my fingers into the water in the basin and ran them through my hair again. The wetness made the curl lie down a little. I sighed. “I don’t suppose you have a bonnet?” I had never seen Emilija wear a hat—only her hooded mantle.

  “Somewhere.” She frowned and dug through her wardrobe, eventually producing a faded brown bonnet with a pink ruffle. She looked dubiously from it to my green dress. “It does not exactly match.”

  “It will have to do,” I said, taking it from her and tying the ribbons beneath my chin. I could scarcely march bareheaded into the archduchess’s salon. And it was an improvement over my curls. “Do you need to bind my hands?”

  “Do you plan to run?” She smiled, a delicate curling of her lips. “I do not think a rope is the right ornament for that dress.”

  We walked the short distance to the palace. Most people paid us little heed, only eyeing Emilija’s red mantle warily. Emilija led me past the guards at the palace gate, up a flight of stairs, and through several hallways with an ease born of long familiarity. When she reached a liveried footman standing in one of the hallways, she asked if the archduchess was receiving.

  “She has gone out for the morning, I’m afraid. Is the matter urgent?”

  “Fairly urgent,” Emilija replied. “I’ve someone here who might help the archduke.”

  The footman’s eyes flicked to me with interest, quickly wiped away as he recalled his place. He escorted us to a small salon and bade us wait.

  It was perhaps half an hour before we heard voices and light footsteps in the hall. The door opened and Archduchess Sophie stepped in, immaculate in a pale blue gown, carrying a familiar scent of lemon and bergamot with her. As I studied her, I revised my first impression. Her dress was as neat as ever, but there were furrows around her eyes that suggested a deep strain. My heart lifted. If the archduchess was indeed desperate, she might listen to us.

  “My dear Miss Dragović,” the archduchess began, hands outstretched to Emilija. Beside me, Emilija dropped a curtsy, and I echoed her. Then Archduchess Sophie stopped, her fingers curling into fists. “Miss Arden.”

  She was already turning to the footman—with an order for more guards, no doubt—when Emilija said, “Please, Your Royal Highness, hear her out. Arrest her once she’s spoken, if you must, but please listen.”

  Arrest her? Perhaps Emilija and I should have discussed our plans in more detail. That was not how I intended this discussion to end.

  The archduchess turned back and nodded once, stiffly. “Very well. Speak.”

  I explained that I had heard of Franz Joseph’s mysterious illness and thought I might try to break the spell.

  “I suppose you are here for the reward,” she said when I had finished. “Your ungeschickt appearance suggests as much. I hope you are not here for my son—he would never marry you now that you have broken our laws.”
>
  I flushed and ignored Emilija’s curious look. “I don’t want your money—or to marry your son. I should like a pardon, and your word that Austria will pull back from war. I want you to command Croatia to do the same.”

  “You do not ask for much,” she said, her voice excessively dry. “Pray, tell me why I should give you these things.”

  My heartbeat stuttered. If I overreached, I might lose everything. “You charged me with killing my cousin, but my cousin is alive. I have witnesses who will swear to it.”

  “Do you?” She was beginning to sound bored.

  “I’ve seen him, Your Royal Highness,” Emilija said. “He saved my life.”

  I shot a glance at Emilija. Her chin was high, her voice even, betraying no fear. But it occurred to me then that she was risking much on her faith in me.

  “There is, besides, the matter of the praetheria.” Briefly, Emilija related what we had told her. “My father is one of your most loyal subjects, and I am loyal to him. I would not lightly speak against his wishes or his plans unless I believed it to be in the best interest of the empire. This is a war we cannot win. We must stop before we are too weak to protect ourselves.”

  The archduchess tapped her lips for a moment. “I will make no promises until my son is healed. If you succeed—and I am not at all certain you shall—then I shall see you pardoned, and I will do my best to see this war ended quickly.”

  “Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” I said, relief making my knees weak. “That is all I ask.”

  “But if you do not”—she lifted her finger—“then my soldiers will take you to prison to await your execution.”

  “Not trial?” My voice sounded thin in my ears, like someone else’s.

  “Your cousin’s death was not the only crime you were accused of. These are my terms. I suggest you take them. If you do not, I will have my soldiers take you away immediately.”

  I took a deep breath. “All right.”

  “Miss Dragović, you may go.”

  Dismissed, Emilija set a reassuring hand on my forearm, then dipped a curtsy and retreated.