Prince Ivan

by Morwood, Peter

  “Majesty,” said the stranger, and bowed the lowest that he had yet done, “I am Fenist Charodeyevich Sokolov, Prince of the High Mountains, and my bride-price is already in your coffers. If she will have me, I wish to marry your daughter.”

  “Send a servant to the treasury,” said the Tsar. “You will forgive our rude haste, Fenist the Falcon, sorcerer’s son and Prince of the High Mountains, but we are eager to learn if your silver exists. Surely your title does not. Dmitriy Vasil’yevich, have you heard of any such rank or style?”

  “Without consulting my books—” the High Steward began, then fell silent as Tsar Aleksandr raised his hand.

  “You’ve spent long enough with those books to guess,” he said. “So guess.”

  “Then I would say no, majesty. Otherwise it seems certain that this young gentleman,” he managed to make the words sound faintly insulting, “would indeed have been here as a guest. Yet Prince Ivan has already said he has no memory of seeing him in Khorlov before.”

  “And what,” said the Tsar to Prince Fenist the Falcon, “would you say about that?”

  “I would say, Majesty, wait for the servant you sent to the treasury. There’s more to the world than is read in a book.”

  “So and indeed. Then we wait.” Silence hung heavy as the seconds crawled by, for no one dared speak when the Tsar had plainly not finished. But his wife, the Tsaritsa Ludmyla Ivanovna, touched her husband lightly on the arm and without saying a word, showed him that there was another matter to bear in mind.

  It was the look in the eyes of his daughter as she gazed at Prince Fenist the Falcon. Tsar Aleksandr’s breath caught in his chest, and a smile moved beneath his moustache before he hid it behind his hand. He had seen such a look in a young woman’s eyes before: in the eyes of her mother, his wife the Tsaritsa Ludmyla, when he first met her and knew they had fallen in love.

  That same look was in the Tsaritsa’s eyes now, as she took his hand between hers. It had never left them, not since that first time, but only changed and softened and gentled during the passing of years. The Tsar smiled again, and this time didn’t trouble to hide it, as he decided not to wait for any report on what was or was not in the treasury.

  But before Tsar Aleksandr could say anything, at that moment the servant returned, breathless and panting. “Majesty,” he gasped, “and my lord Steward, I returned without waiting for the Exchequer clerks to assay or to count, so I could tell you that… That there’s a stack of bullion on the treasury floor they say wasn’t there this morning! They estimate it must weigh almost six poodiy!”

  Tsar Aleksandr blinked. “Prince Fenist,” he said, and inclined his head graciously, “two hundred pounds of silver is most generous. More generous, I fear, than any dowry I might have offered with the Tsarevna, had you not preferred the old ways. I am—”

  “No, Majesty,” said the servant, interrupting despite a warning glare from High Steward Strel’tsin, “I didn’t say silver. I said bullion! It’s gold!”

  Overhead, in perfect punctuation, the hole in the ceiling slammed shut like the lid of a box, and for the first time in his life Tsarevich Ivan saw his father completely nonplussed. The Tsar opened his mouth like a fish, then closed it again without any sound coming out. Even Dmitriy Vasil’yevich Strel’tsin could find nothing to say appropriate to the circumstances, for though all of Khorlov was familiar with magic to one degree or another, such lavish squandering of power and wealth left each and every one of them staring in wonder as to the source of it.

  Only Ivan had begun to suspect something of the sort, thanks in large part to the skazki tales he had been told were such a waste of time. Only he was in sufficient command of himself to bow very slightly then burst out in a peal of laughter. It wasn’t because of the much-needed gold in the treasury, but at the perfect timing of the joke. Fenist the Falcon laughed with him, until everyone present was wiping the tears of delight from their cheeks.

  Only Katya wasn’t laughing aloud. Instead she was gazing at Fenist with a small smile on her lips, and all of her soul in her eyes.

  *

  The Metropolitan Archbishop Levon Popovich was summoned to perform the wedding ceremony, at once and without the publishing of banns, for as Tsarevich Ivan was heard to observe, the town and the people of Khorlov had been awaiting such an event for quite long enough. The comment displeased the Archbishop – as Ivan had hoped it might – and he said several things about the bridegroom’s dubious arrival and still more dubious repair of the damage he had caused, things that were not in the best Christian traditions of forgiveness and tolerance. They were things that provoked Tsar Aleksandr to say a few words of his own, with such force that Metropolitan Levon completed the marriage service then took to his bed.

  Thus he missed the sight of Tsarevna Yekaterina driving away with her new husband, very fine and splendid in a smart carriage that was all blue and silver, drawn by grey horses. It was perhaps just as well, for the carriage arrived in the same mysterious manner as Prince Fenist and his gold, and before the happy couple were a mile from Khorlov’s gates they had vanished the same way…

  *

  The events leading up to that wedding had first begun almost half a year before, when midwinter snow still lay deep and crisp and even – that is, unsettlingly deep and broken-glass crisp and treacherously uneven – around the walls of Khorlov. It was a season of the year to be indoors, or at least under the eaves, for the wolves were howling hungrily in the distant birch-woods and Tsarevich Ivan Aleksandrovich Khorlovskiy, who was old enough to know better, was amusing himself by dropping snowballs from the ice-encrusted ramparts onto the helmet-spikes of the sentries far below.

  His lessons that morning had been political culture, social history and the theory of government for three hours, with questions at the end. One Thousand and One Things Every Tsar’s Son Should Know. Ivan had survived without actually yawning full in Dmitriy Vasil’yevich’s face, even though when acting as Royal Tutor rather than High Steward or First Minister or Court Wizard, Strel’tsin taught politics the same way as a drip of water wears away a stone. Constant repetition was the standard approach to every subject, from Low Magic to the Reading and Writing of the Court Hand, and in almost fifty years he had seen little reason to vary his theme. Sooner or later his pupils made sure to remember what they’d been told, in the hope that by getting it right they could make him move on to some other subject.

  Ivan had also received what he had come to recognize as the standard homily. “It Is Incumbent On Every Tsar’s Son to Consider the Wellbeing of the Tsardom and The Political Value of Marrying and Providing The Tsardom With an Heir…”

  Praise those who make ink and the scribes who use it, they must love him, Ivan had thought a score of times, but being wise, hadn’t voiced once. Strel’tsin always contrived to get full value from his Capital Letters; there was Greek Byzantine blood in there somewhere among the icewater. Most children were simply told the approximate details of how they’d come to be alive and breathing on the earth: he was given the full political machinations as to Why.

  But still, Providing an Heir was considered to be the best demonstration of faith that any Son and Ruler-to-Be could give to his Father and People. Hearing the same lecture for the third time in a week had raised Ivan’s suspicions that his free-and-easy life about the kremlin was about to end.

  The arrival of a servant summoning him to the Hall of Audience confirmed them.

  *

  Khorlov’s Hall of Audience had been built a hundred years before, and the principal intention of the Great Prince who had it built was that it should impress those who stepped inside. Or, in the words and delivery of First Minister Strel’tsin, “It should Impress.”

  That meant size, and it meant grandeur, and in providing both his architects and artists had surpassed themselves. It was large enough to contain two thousand people without making them feel cramped, and patterned mosaic-work on the floor where they would stand was bright with colour and the de
eds of heroes. Their gaze was then led aloft by vaulted pillars inlaid with marble and semiprecious stones, toward a ceiling whose arches were intricately painted with scenes of hunting and war.

  But all of that stony echoing space led inevitably to the one commodity Khorlov and all of Russia possessed in abundance. Cold. Only when the Hall was full of people did it seem truly warm, and even then its walls leaked a slow, soft, steady chill that not even the hottest summer could abate.

  In winter that chill could cut like a knife.

  It was cutting right now. Ivan made his bow from the doorway as quickly as he could, then moved with unseemly haste up the hall and closer to the great fires banked up on either side of his father’s throne. Tsar Aleksandr was wearing his crown, the winter one with fur inside it, and a long crimson kaftan embroidered with gold and lined with lustrous sable. High Steward Strel’tsin was standing to one side, dressed in his usual grey. They both looked uncomfortably formal.

  “Son of mine,” said the Tsar in that tone of infinite patience possessed only by saints and the parents of several children, “Soon you’ll be twenty years old, and I’ll be sixty-five. The string of pretty girls associated with your name are one thing, but what steps are you taking to secure the succession?”

  It was unpadded even with a royal plural, and it took Ivan off his guard. He had been expecting a lengthy preamble such as those beloved of Strel’tsin, wordy enough that he could prepare a defence, or excuse, or whatever the situation might require, long before his father finished speaking. This direct question caught him in much the same way as a rake left in the garden’s long grass had once done, right between the eyes.

  “I, uh,” said Tsarevich Ivan, and stopped. What he’d said wasn’t much, but more than enough.

  “As I thought,” said the Tsar wearily. “Nothing’s changed. Vanya, I have no desire to arrange my children’s marriages, not after promising them a freedom of choice. But if I must, then I will.” He sat back and glanced sidelong at the High Steward with a glitter of sardonic amusement in his blue eyes. Ivan saw that glitter, and saw too the shadow of a smile that hid within his father’s silver beard as a fox hides in a thicket.

  “Dmitriy Vasil’yevich assures me you’ve been advised that our own little kingdom lacks enough importance for any great Prince to want alliance with us.” Ivan nodded. “There have, however, been recent developments which caused something of a change.”

  “Prince Yuriy,” said Ivan before High Steward Strel’tsin could speak.

  Tsar Aleksandr struck his hands together, applauding. “Well done,” he said. “And well done to you also, Dmitriy Vasil’yevich. You still teach facts well enough for at least some of them to stick in the memory of my dear son.”

  Ivan grimaced slightly, but changed it to a smile in time. Yet another groove had been worn in the surface of his brain to produce that prompt answer. He had often wondered whether it might be easier to find some small spell that would lock such education into his head, but the High Steward, as Court Wizard this time, had warned against it. Since magic was a part of memory, using it to memorize other matters would, he claimed, set up such cross-currents in the brain that one might have to sort through the contents of an entire library before remembering what day it was. Ivan got the same effect from vodka, but didn’t mention it. Strel’tsin wasn’t known for his sense of humour.

  “As you so rightly say, Ivan,” said Tsar Aleksandr, “Prince Yuriy Vladimirovich of Kiev. And why would you say this name rather than, perhaps, Boris Mikhaylovich of Novgorod, or his brother Pavel?”

  “Because those two Princes won’t move against any foe, not even Manguyu Temir of the Sky-Blue Wolves, for fear that when one brother moves, the other who remains in Novgorod will lay sole claim to the sceptre and take all for himself.” Ivan paused, gathered his thoughts and smiled a thin smile that, though he remained unaware of it, was the most adult expression to cross his face since he entered the audience chamber. “The encouragement of which belief, and all the others to augment it, currently costs us five poodiy of silver every year. Prince Yuriy, however, answers to none but himself. All three desire our land, but only Yuriy of Kiev will dare leave his own kremlin in an attempt to get it.”

  It was uncomfortably true. Ivan, and the – hopefully male – child resulting from a marriage he hadn’t yet even considered, were the only things to prevent Khorlov from being swallowed up by the ambitions of such princes as Yuriy, who was already taking an interest in the Tsardom, less with an eye towards alliance by marrying one of three eligible daughters than simple annexation by force.

  Only a legitimate heir to the Tsardom of Khorlov would give Prince Yuriy pause for thought. Kiev wasn’t yet so powerful that he could move with impunity against a realm whose succession was assured, for such an action would be seen as a threat against the independence of all the other little kingdoms of the Rus. It would not be tolerated, it would be opposed, and the combined opposition would outnumber Prince Yuriy’s army ten to one.

  “It seems,” said Ivan, “that I’ll have to start looking for a bride.”

  He smiled wryly at the prospect for, as his father suggested, he already had something of a reputation amongst the ladies of the court. Having to restrict his attentions was less than appealing, for once the more immediate delights of their company had been set aside, there wasn’t one among the lot with whom he would care to spend the rest of his life. Which meant, and the thought when it ran through his head provoked a little smile, that he had no need to restrict his choice to the ladies of Khorlov. Much entertainment could be obtained from the round of banquets and ceremonials that would precede his choice.

  But such things were expensive, and unnecessary expense was the province of the First Minister rather than the High Steward, which meant that Dmitriy Vasil’yevich Strel’tsin would have to change his hat again. He did, at once.

  “Majesty,” said Strel’tsin, bowing to the Tsar, “it would be better on the grounds of economy if not only a wife for the noble Prince were sought, but also husbands for the Princesses. Catching, as it were, four birds with but a single strew of grain.”

  Ivan stared at Strel’tsin and slowly raised one eyebrow. The man spoke sense and logic, of course – Khorlov wasn’t rich, and paying for the maintenance of confusion between the Novgorodskiy princes hadn’t helped – but he spoke it with a relish that Ivan didn’t like. It was almost as if the High Steward had caught Ivan’s smile and the thought that had prompted it, and now as First Minister he was trying to be deliberately annoying.

  “Your words are as always, First Minister,” he said, “full of wisdom and the dry consideration of dry years. We thank you.”

  Dmitriy Vasil’yevich knew a dismissal when he heard one. No Steward and Minister who had served two Tsars and hoped one day to serve a third ever needed to be told twice when to leave the Presence. He leaned on his staff and bowed more deeply than ever, so that this time his long beard came close to sweeping like a besom across the floor, looked once and most thoughtfully at Prince Ivan through dark eyes that betrayed none of whatever thoughts swam deep within them, and took his leave in silence.

  The click of the door-latch sounded very loud indeed.

  Tsar Aleksandr leaned forward and raised a disapproving eyebrow, then smiled a little as he realized he’d seen Ivan do the same thing only minutes earlier. There were portraits in the palace of the kremlin that were almost fifty years old, portraits of when he too had been a young Tsarevich, Tsar Andrey’s eldest son. They might have been a mirror, reflecting then the face that looked up now at Aleksandr Andreyevich: the same blue eyes, the same hair so flaxen-pale as to be almost white, that showed how strongly the blood of Ryurik the Norseman still flowed in the veins of the Tsars of Khorlov.

  “Like father, like son,” said Tsar Aleksandr to the mirror image of himself, and to Ivan’s astonishment, he grinned. “I have a confession to make, Vanyushka.” The Tsar looked about the empty audience chamber like a conspirator, or like a fath
er playing games with his children, then concealed his mouth behind one shielding hand. “When I was your age, I didn’t like Strel’tsin either. I used to believe he was born old. That he was always so wise, and so thin, and so grey. Do you know, Vanya, I’ve never seen him laugh?”

  “I think he’d crack in two if he tried.” With a shrug Ivan dismissed the High Steward from his mind and instead went to the small table close by the steps to the throne, where he poured wine into a goblet of figured Persian crystal as heavy and cool as carven ice. It was red wine, the favoured drink of the Romans of old, and as far-travelled as the soldiers of that ancient empire. This was brought at great price from the warm Tuscan hills to be drunk here in Khorlov, a city built on the edge of forests of birch and pine so vast that they could swallow all the land of Italy and leave not a trace behind. Tsarevich Ivan looked into its darkness and thought, It can travel, why not I? Before duty and politics nail me to this one piece of ground.

  “Father?”

  “I said, are you going to give your poor thirsty old father some of that, or would you rather stare at it all day?”

  Ivan felt the warmth of the mild reproof in his face and ears. His fair skin showed it like a beacon across his cheeks, as red as the wine, and he made so much haste in filling and delivering a second cup that he came close to spilling it.

  Tsar Aleksandr accepted the goblet of wine, pointed the tip of his finger at a drip running down the outside and concentrated a moment so it turned about and ran back into the cup, then glanced at his son. “If you want to travel so much, Vanya,” he said, “then why not do it?”

  Ivan turned to look at him, wondering when his father had begun lessons in the reading of thoughts.