The royal palace. The realization hit Anya hard. She was about to meet the tsar. The same man who had sent a bogatyr to capture Håkon, and whose war had taken Papa from her. He was the son of the man who had destroyed Khazaria and killed Saba. Her mouth was dry. She didn’t want to meet the tsar.
The road turned into a wide courtyard lined with magnificent buildings. To the left, the unmistakable shape of a church rose up, the teardrop tops of its towers glowing in the sun. On the right, winter-slumbering gardens were partly obscured behind a low wall; within the garden, across wide lawns of short brown grasses, was a wide tower made of white stone. And in front of them, a long building stretched. It had more windows on one wall than the entire village of Zmeyreka possessed. A magnificent door that was two stories tall stood open, guards flanking either side. The beauty was overwhelming, even muted in the late fall, and Anya had to look down. How did the people who lived here stand it? How could someone get used to living in a paradise?
A long line of peasants like Anya waited at the windowed building’s huge doors, nervously tugging at shirts or hats, holding long scrolls of paper, or talking in hushed voices to a person beside them. In the company of the archers, Anya rode straight past them. Every single one of the peasants dropped to a knee as the princess passed. She didn’t look at any of them. It was like they weren’t even there.
Anya felt eyes on her as the peasants stood. What were they thinking?
They rode into a courtyard, where the princess dismounted. She walked inside, not in a hurry but not waiting, either. Just outside the door was a wide bucket full of sand, with several torches jutting out of it. She slammed her own torch, flame side down, into the sand, extinguishing it. Then she disappeared into the building.
Mikhail slid off his horse and then helped Anya down. A scrape and cry from nearby made her stomach clench. Anya ran toward the sound, darting around horses. Håkon was on his knees, the archers on either side helping him back up.
Håkon gritted his teeth as Anya ran up to him. “I’m just useless, aren’t I?”
“No,” she said. “You’re weak from the transformation. It’s not your fault.” She found Mikhail and said, “Is there somewhere he can wait for us? He needs to get his strength back.”
Mikhail looked uncomfortable. “Maybe later. You must all report to the tsar.”
Håkon looked terrified. He gripped Anya’s hand awkwardly in his new one. “Anya, don’t leave me alone!”
Anya held his hand. “I won’t.” She looked up at the archers. “He’ll need help walking, then.”
Håkon trembled as Mikhail looped Håkon’s arm around his shoulders and walked him into the building. Anya followed behind, and a moment later, Ivan fell in behind her.
Two of the archers followed them, a wordless presence hedging them in. The princess waited with an irritated face, and as soon as they neared her, she walked down the hall again. She removed her helmet and cowl as she walked. She had brilliant gold hair braided into a circle at her crown, with wisps catching on the cowl and poking wildly out of the plait. Servants materialized to take the armor away from her. Everywhere she went, people got out of her way. Still, she acknowledged none of them, her blood-red cloak brushing the stone floor of the castle.
Anya tried not to gawk at the castle as they moved through it, but it was nearly impossible not to. The hallway they walked through was as wide and tall as Anya’s entire house. The floor was stone blocks fitted together, and the walls were a different type of hewn stone, the huge blocks so solid, she couldn’t imagine anything knocking them down. Every now and then a long, woven tapestry would be seen hanging from the walls or a braided carpet would stretch beneath their feet. Otherwise the halls were dim and undecorated.
The hallway ahead ended with tall double doors, flanked by three guards on each side. Another man stood in the middle of the doors, effectively blocking the way. His rubakha was longer than any Anya had ever seen, almost to his ankles. In contrast, the archers and Ivan—even Håkon, now that he was wearing clothing—had a rubakha just down to their knees. Ivan’s was even shorter, but as a fool, he could get away with that kind of thing. The embroidery on the hem of the doorman’s rubakha flashed in the meager light of the hallway. Anya squinted. Gold thread? Her mind boggled at the wealth gold-embroidered clothing must require.
The doorman stood with his back straight, his chin up, staring down his nose at the approaching archers and prisoners. A black cloak fastened across his throat with yet more gold, covering his left arm and falling down to his knees. He stood with his free arm across his body, disappearing under the left side of the cape. There was only one reason Anya could think of for him to be standing like that: he was holding the handle of his sword. Ready.
She expected the doorman to remain upright, but he dropped his right hand and executed a deep bow to the princess. When he straightened, he said, “Good afternoon, Your Highness.”
“I’m here to see my father,” the princess said. She moved to step around the doorman, but he shifted to block her.
“He’s not seeing an audience today,” the doorman said.
The princess stepped very close to him and snapped, “I am not an audience, Pyotr. Now, get out of my way!”
The doorman—Pyotr, apparently—didn’t even glance at the furious princess. “His Majesty instructed me that no one should enter the throne room.”
“He didn’t mean me!” the princess said.
Pyotr repeated, “He’s not seeing an audience today.” He turned only his eyes to where the princess seethed and, with the barest smile, added, “Not even you.”
The princess spat, “If you don’t move, I’ll—”
“Your Highness,” Pyotr interrupted, and Anya felt the archer next to her stiffen. Another sucked in a breath. Anya gulped. Who was this man who interrupted the princess so carelessly? “His Majesty is preparing for your betrothal banquet tonight. He has invited your fiancé—”
“I don’t have a fiancé,” the princess snarled.
“—for a celebration of your future marriage. I would recommend doing some preparation yourself,” Pyotr finished as though the princess had said nothing. He smiled at her, cold and cruel.
The princess and the doorman held each other’s eyes for a few breaths, one furious and the other smug. Finally, the princess whirled, stomping back down the hallway, and the archers all followed her at a scamper.
Chapter Twelve
Princess Vasilisa swept down hallway after hallway, saying nothing but leaving a trail of sizzling wrath in the air behind her. The archers followed at a distance, removing their cowls as they hurried after her. Anya expected them all to be about Vasilisa’s age, but only Mikhail was. The other three of them were older, probably about Dvoyka and Troyka’s age, twenty years old or so. One of the older archers had to support Håkon so he could keep up with the princess’s breakneck pace.
Walking next to Anya, Ivan pulled the notebook that Lena had given him out of his coat and began scribbling in it. Anya peered over and said, “What are you doing?”
“Insurance,” he said.
When she looked, she saw that he had written, We are nice! on the paper, alongside Agree with me, Håkon is normal, and Miroslav Kozlov should come home.
Their path through the castle took them from the opulence outside the throne room into gradually less grand areas. The princess threw open a heavy, scratched-up door, and the archers followed her through. Inside, Anya gasped at the weapons lined up along the walls and on top of tables. Shields stacked ten deep formed columns jutting off the floor. A whole row of unstrung bows in varying stages of repair or build rested on a worktable, and hundreds of bushels of arrows were stacked into pyramids on the floor beside them.
Next to Anya, Ivan whispered, “I think we’re going to be executed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anya said, but fear settled into her belly.
The princess grabbed a dagger off a table and hurled it at a stack of shields. The dagg
er hit—bang!—and the pile of shields tumbled to the floor—crash!
Anya startled at the noise. She hadn’t ever seen another woman ride a horse like the princess did, or wear trousers like a man, or hurl a dagger with such rage. In stories about the Polenitsi, women warriors from the East, they were always described as being enormously tall and supernaturally strong. Anya had always assumed that, to be a warrior, a woman would have to be as tall and wild as the Polenitsi, but Vasilisa wasn’t tall at all. Her wildness, though . . .
Three of the archers remained by the prisoners. Mikhail hastily smoothed his curly black hair, tangled from having been under the cowl, and approached the princess carefully. “Vasya . . .”
“I should have just stabbed him right in his face!” the princess yelled.
Mikhail shrugged. “You could. That’s a possibility. But he’s fairly decent at fighting. I think he could have stopped you.”
She growled something under her breath, and Mikhail put a hand on her shoulder. Anya watched the tension in the princess’s body drain out with a long, exasperated sigh. She glanced back and forth between the archer and the princess. He called her Vasya. He put his hand on her. Was that how people in Kiev acted? Like they were family?
The princess spun and walked to where the remaining archers held Anya and her friends. She stopped an arm’s length away and said, “I never introduced myself. Vasilisa Tsarevna, the heir to the throne of Kiev, no matter what my father’s henchmen think.”
Ivan bowed deeply and foolishly. Håkon tried to imitate him, but his was weak and shaky. Anya did the same, bending at the waist. When she straightened, Vasilisa was staring at her, puzzled.
“What was that?” Vasilisa asked.
Anya’s stomach churned. “I, um . . . was bowing to you?”
“Women don’t bow,” Vasilisa said. “Women curtsy.”
Anya didn’t know how to curtsy, but she didn’t want to admit that. She felt adrift, like she really had gone to Patzinakia among the Pechenegs. At least there she’d have an excuse for not knowing things.
Vasilisa continued. “Anyway, don’t do either.” She pointed a finger at Ivan. “You said you were here to have an audience with the tsar. What was it for?”
Ivan froze. His eyes widened. Anya’s hands slowly curled into nervous fists as everyone watched Ivan, waiting for an answer.
Finally, Ivan said, “We came about that guy on the road. Obviously.”
The archers exchanged confused looks. One of Vasilisa’s golden eyebrows lifted up.
“Obviously?” she asked.
Ivan nodded. “Oh yes.” He pulled out the notebook Lena had given him and flipped it to the first page. He pointed to where he had written Agree with me. “See?”
The princess narrowed her eyes at the paper. Anya held her breath, hoping the notebook actually worked. If it didn’t, she wasn’t sure Vasilisa would appreciate the attempt to charm her.
But Anya didn’t need to worry. Vasilisa hummed and said, “I do see.” She drew a dagger out of her belt and began to run her finger up and down the ridge along the center. “In that case, I think you can help me. And I you. Mutual benefit.”
Anya watched Vasilisa’s finger go back and forth, singing along the shined metal blade. She swallowed hard.
“Absolutely, Your Highness!” Ivan said, grinning. “Whatever you need, we’ll—”
“I need the Nightingale,” she said. “Alive.”
Ivan’s grin was frozen to his face, tacked there uncomfortably as he stared at Vasilisa. “The Nightingale. Because that’s what he’s called. I knew that.” He cleared his throat, grin falling way, and he stroked his chin. “Why alive?”
Vasilisa regarded him with calculating, brilliant eyes. “Do you not think you can do it?”
“Of course I can do it!” Ivan said.
Vasilisa continued to hold him with her eyes. “That’s interesting. I think I remember something about your father. He was sent up north to a village to investigate a dragon. How did that turn out?”
Ivan swallowed hard. Anya scooted to be next to Håkon, who was so pale that his freckles looked like they’d been drawn on with ink.
“There wasn’t a dragon,” Ivan said.
“We got a letter that there had been,” Vasilisa said slowly. “But that it was dead.”
“That’s what I meant,” Ivan said. “It, um . . . there was a Varangian.”
Vasilisa nodded. “Do you see why I ask? If you can do it? That dragon was very important to my father. To me. And your father let it die.”
“I can bring the Nightingale alive, no problem,” Ivan said. “I was just curious, that’s all.”
“From what I hear, fools aren’t supposed to be curious.” She focused on the dagger’s tip now, balancing a finger against it with the barest pressure. “You are a fool, aren’t you?”
Ivan shifted uncomfortably. Anya winced for him. Was he a fool? By family right, he absolutely was. By magic inheritance . . . not at all.
“I’m the best fool you’ll ever see,” Ivan mumbled.
“Wonderful.” Vasilisa slid the dagger back into her belt. “If you can bring me the Nightingale alive, I’ll grant whatever wish you ask.” She waited, staring at Ivan expectantly. When he didn’t say anything, she sighed. “What do you want, fool?”
“Oh!” Ivan hesitated, and then pointed to Anya. “Her father was wrongfully conscripted. We’d like him to be brought back.”
Now Vasilisa turned her penetrating eyes to Anya. Anya tried her best not to shrink away from the princess, but it was hard. She felt as though Vasilisa could see straight through her and out the other side.
“Wrongfully how?” Vasilisa asked.
“Um.” Anya wasn’t sure she wanted to tell her that Papa was Jewish. Vasilisa was the granddaughter of the tsar who had wiped Khazaria off the map and killed Saba. Her father was building churches as fast as he could quarry the stones. What did Vasilisa think of Jews? What would she do to Anya?
Anya straightened her back. She had to be brave. For Papa. Whatever Vasilisa’s opinion of Jews, she had said she’d do whatever Ivan asked. And there were witnesses. She’d have to keep her word. Wouldn’t she?
“My papa’s name is Miroslav Kozlov,” Anya said. “He’s Jewish. The magistrate in my village lied. He told the conscription officers that Papa was Slavist so they’d take him. He never should have gone in the first place.”
Vasilisa glanced for half a breath at Mikhail. It was so fast, Anya might have imagined it. But the archer’s eyes were wide, and Anya caught him staring at her before hurriedly looking away.
“Wrongful by law,” Vasilisa said. “But I think anyone should be able to serve as a soldier if they want.”
Mikhail shifted but stayed silent.
Vasilisa asked, “Where is he?”
Anya trembled. “He’s working with the cavalry. They went into Rûm through the Pecheneg territories some time ago. That’s all I know.”
Vasilisa recovered her surprise quickly. “If he’s already in Rûm, extracting him will be difficult.”
Anya’s shoulders slumped. How was she supposed to convince the princess that bringing back her papa was worth it?
Before Anya could speak, Vasilisa continued: “Difficult, but not impossible.” To Mikhail, she said, “Take the three of them to the guest suites. They can stay next to that idiot bogatyr who thinks I’m going to marry him.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Mikhail murmured, bowing his head.
Vasilisa strode to the door, pausing halfway across the room to turn and glare at Ivan. “Make it worth my effort, fool.” And then she was gone out the door.
Mikhail turned to them, smiling unsteadily. “Well. All right, then. I’m Mikhail Yakovovich.” He gave them all a slight bow.
Ivan had already introduced himself, but he did it again for good measure.
Anya said, “Anya Miroslavovna.”
They all looked at Håkon, who said nothing. He fidgeted with the hem of his rubakha.<
br />
Ivan clapped Håkon on the back. “My shy friend here is Håkon Jernhåndssen. He’s afraid you’re going to think his name is strange.”
Håkon looked up then, and Mikhail stared at him wordlessly. His eyes ticked to where Vasilisa had stormed out, and, too late, Anya remembered that Håkon looked like the princess. She moved to get between Mikhail and Håkon, but then Mikhail managed an unsteady smile.
“There are plenty of strange names in Kiev,” he said through his unsure smile. He glanced at Anya. “You can call me Misha. I’ll be showing you to your rooms.”
Chapter Thirteen
Misha escorted them out of the armory. This trip through the halls was slower, and Misha was a very amiable chaperone. Without his cowl on, he looked much friendlier. His dark, curly hair was cut short, and his eyes twinkled. There was something about him that put Anya at ease.
“So, you’re going to apprehend the Nightingale,” Misha said after walking in silence down several hallways. “That’s a bold statement.”
“If anyone can do it, Ivan can,” Anya said. Like Ivan, she was curious about why they needed to bring him back alive, but she was fine with not shedding any blood. She didn’t want to press the issue in case it made the princess change her mind.
Misha peered over at Ivan. “Are you a great fool, then?”
Ivan exclaimed, “Of course I am!”
Misha looked skeptical but didn’t say anything. He directed his attention to Håkon, who was trailing a step behind everyone else. “And you. Are you a fool too?”
Håkon just stared at him, so Anya said, “He’s not a fool. He must still be feeling sick.”
Misha nodded. “He looks unwell.”
Håkon’s face darkened. “You look unwell.”
“I look . . .” Misha’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“Nothing!” Anya said. “He’s just tired. Right, Håkon?”
Håkon huffed and said nothing.
The group went back to walking in silence, with Ivan breaking it every now and then to point at something he found interesting. They returned gradually to opulence, and then Misha halted by a door and pushed it open. “This room is for the gentlemen.”
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