Despite the influence of her father, the Czar’s capital seemed far away from Bozhena as she pursued the studies given by her tutors. The girl spent most of her free time around the smattering of peasants who worked the land her father owned, being able from childhood to converse not only in Russian, the language of the manor, but also in Ukrainian and Rusyan. When not in the fields, she and her younger sister learned Polish from their mother. During those times when Alexey was not at home, she was schooled in the rich heritage that her mother said he had denied her.
Not only did her mother tell her of the gallantry of her father’s line, but also of her own proud family heritage. The Korczaks had existed since shortly after the dawn of Poland. Sitting in the sanctuary, Bozhena recalled how they had even been there to struggle and sacrifice as far back as the Mongol depredations of the thirteenth century and then during the Ottoman invasions four centuries later. She also remembered her mother telling her that Korczak blood had been forged through the trials wrought by the Golden Horde. However, Bozhena had always considered that last assertion to be something of a joke or exaggeration.
Always, after her mother’s stories, the older woman would remind her to never forget that she was Herbowina – of a Polish aristocratic line – and to take pride in that.
Most of all, she remembered one day during what would be her last few weeks in the manor. Her father had again departed. Bozhena had been walking down one of the building’s main halls, when her mother had appeared from around a corner, looking harried. She had grabbed the girl and shoved her into a recess in the corridor, in which her father had decided to hang an icon of Saint George slaying the dragon.
Speaking Polish, the older woman had looked her daughter straight in the eye, her own eyes threatening to spill over with tears.
“Whatever happens next, never forget that you are klejnotna,” she reminded her daughter again, using a more esoteric term to refer to Bozhena’s lineage. “The last of the Korczak crest-family. When the time comes, I know you are capable of what must be done.” Her mother pressed an amulet she had always worn into Bozhena’s hands. It was a cross, with an inscription below it. The girl had time only to nod, not knowing what to make of her mother’s emphatic pronouncement, before the older woman turned and walked away.
The next day, when Bozhena and her sister had gone to check on her mother on account of her strange behavior, they had found her asleep. Her bed was soaked in crimson. She was never to wake again.
When Bozhena’s father returned, newly awarded the title of Prince from the Czar’s court, he took the news of his wife’s death in stride. Shortly thereafter, Bozhena’s younger sister ran away. She never was found; Bozhena assumed she was long dead. The only remaining member of a once proud clan cried herself to sleep for two weeks after that, caught in the grip of forces she did not understand, before the end came.
One night, four years ago as her father prepared to leave again in service to the Czar, a dark figure appeared in Bozhena’s modest chambers. It had taken the Korczak to the sanctuary in which she now sat; where she had reached the age of ascension two years later, sealing her fate forever. Bozhena had screamed as the red energy of the Transmutation burned through her.
And what if I am of noble descent? What does it matter here? This is my life now, she thought bitterly.
Bozhena felt the air produce a wave of movement from the tunnel behind her and stiffened. Some of her Brothers were approaching. Hating them, what they stood for, and most of all her unexalted position among them, she set her jaw in anticipation of what was to come.
***
Striding ahead of his two lieutenants, Ziya al-Din entered the grotto’s main chamber. He immediately noticed a figure sitting in front of the altarpiece on one of the ornately carved benches.
The Chosen had been in the deeper recesses of the compound, discharging his responsibility to periodically tour the bare stone chambers, where those recruits who had not yet reached the age of Transmutation were accommodated. As he had done so, his lieutenants had updated him on their main assignment over the past few months: convincing the Sultan of Zanzibar to cede some of his coastal territory to the German Empire, over protest from the local inhabitants. He had been pleased to learn that an armed conflict looked likely in the coming months.
Yet, the figure he now saw in the grotto signaled to him that not all projects, which the Dark Prince had willed, might have been carried out to his satisfaction. Slowing, Ziya approached the backlit, seated form, circling around to face it head on, the light from the altar to his back. His two lieutenants flanked him.
“You have news?” he demanded.
The Chosen took in his servant’s battered appearance with annoyance. Taken along with the absence of the new recruit they had secured from the British army officer, he figured it was further proof that she had failed in her mission. Then, he reflected, this was a difficult assignment. It was why he had assigned it to the Order member who now stood to face him. It was precisely her raw ability that threatened his hold on power.
“Yes, My Chosen,” Bozhena replied.
“Where is the Fragment? My new recruit?”
“I regret to inform you that I was unsuccessful in my attempt to capture either,” Bozhena explained, attempting to keep any emotion from her voice.
The henchman to Ziya’s right lashed out, hitting her with his fist on the cut she had sustained to her cheek.
“Unacceptable!” thundered the one who had struck her. “You are but a servant of the Chosen. Meant to carry out his wishes or be delivered to the underworld in the attempt!”
Bozhena caved slightly, turning her head at the blow. But, she didn’t let any expression of pain cross her features. She looked up at the one who had struck her. Older than either her or the Chosen, he had been an Urumi for longer than she had spent in the sanctuary’s compound, and had worked his way to power through attrition.
The blue-eyed warrioress glared at him briefly, then squared her jaw for a second time.
“My decision to retreat served the Dark Prince’s interest,” she countered, turning her gaze back to Ziya. “Tell me, Chosen, has He deemed to enlighten you as to whether my target had any traveling companions?”
“Only a house cat,” the Chosen replied, sounding bored with what he obviously thought to be a pedantic question.
Bozhena’s cheeks flushed red; she was momentarily glad for the injuries to her face. They likely hid her reaction to the complacency of the Chosen’s statement.
“I had been about to successfully capture my target and the Fragment, as per your orders, Chosen.” Bozhena paused for a short moment. “It was at that point, when the cat revealed herself as a felinoid. I suspect the Society is enlisting its aid to protect the girl.”
Ziya frowned, as if lost in thought. Afterwards, his eyes flared, clearly angered by this unanticipated information.
“What proof do you have of this?” he queried eventually.
“She waited to reveal herself until the last minute, as if attempting to maintain her cover for as long as possible.”
“Maybe. Still, that does not prove anything.”
“At any rate, I believe that we should send more members of the Order, if the mission set for us is to meet with success.”
The Chosen shook his head. Then he glared at her.
“No. That would require pulling other members from their tasks. Only because you have given your excuse for not being able to achieve the objective I have set for you, that does not mean I will alter the plans of the Order to compensate for your weakness.” He pronounced the last sentence with an edge in his voice.
“Still, Chosen, the presence of a felinoid….”
Ziya harrumphed as he waved her off with a movement of his hand.
“True enough. If you cannot handle such circumstance on your own, I shall send these two with you. Their mission, for the time being, is at least proceeding apace.”
Bozhena nodded. “I thank you, Chosen.
”
The blond-haired girl bowed her head briefly, turned, and prepared to go. But, she had only gotten a few steps when she again heard Ziya’s voice behind her.
“There is one other thing, Sister. Where shall you and your newfound assistants intercept your target?”
She paused, took a deep breath, and then turned to face him.
“I regret to inform you, My Chosen, that I have lost track of the Fragment and the target who carries it.”
“Really,” he said, not sounding particularly surprised. “Your most basic task was to shadow those I suspected of possessing the Fragment. Now you tell me that you not only let the individual who you are almost certain has it escape, but also that you do not know her whereabouts?” The Chosen’s timbre now hovered somewhere between genuine anger and simple malevolence.
“Other than that she likely remains somewhere in the western United States, that is correct,” Bozhena said quietly.
Ziya addressed the two Urumi on either side of him. “I suggest that the first action you might take in assisting in your Sister’s thus far abortive mission, is to remind her of my tolerance for failure.” He stalked out of the sanctuary without another word.
“Yes, Chosen,” they said at once, starting towards her.
The Urumi to Bozhena’s right backhanded her across the face. The other landed a series of punishing blows to her back, knocking her to the ground. Although this had never happened to her before, Bozhena knew better than to resist. That would only make the punishment worse.
Pain blossomed in the Slav’s abdomen as one of the Chosen’s henchmen landed a solid kick on the side of her rib cage. Bozhena closed her eyes attempting to steel herself as the beating continued, wracking most parts of her body. Blow after blow landed upon her.
The last holder of the crest of the Korczak line eventually lost track of how much time had passed before the embrace of unconsciousness welcomed her.
Thirteen
“Stas?”
Stas started, and turned his head from the space near the ceiling of the carriage into which he had been staring. He took stock of his surroundings, checking to see if anything was amiss. Nothing immediately seemed out of the ordinary. Except for the fact that he was trying not to notice: they had come into a large city – apparently Bombay – and neared their destination of its port. He sighed and asked, “What’s wrong, Nell?”
“We’re here,” Nell said it as a simple declaration.
Beyond the warehouse district through which they were now passing, Stas could see steam stacks poking above the roofs of the low-slung storage buildings that fell behind them on either side of their vehicle.
“Yes, we are.”
“You know what it means?”
Stas frowned as he nodded.
“God! I don’t want to go, Stas. I’m so nervous.”
Her friend nodded again. On the two-week trip from Madras, the two of them had found plenty of time to commiserate about their fathers’ decisions and their fears for the future. As the journey had dragged on, a kind of lazy comfort had come to imbue the passing hours; the inevitability both of them were dreading seemed both a distressing, urgent conversation topic, and yet thankfully, not in the immediate future. Now, as the carriage neared the shipyards, the time was fast approaching when the two of them would have to say their farewells.
“I wish you were coming with me. I think I’d feel a bit better then.”
“I wish I was too.” Stas didn’t elaborate further as to why out loud. After their overland journey, he was sure Nell understood his own trepidation about being shipped alone to Switzerland as he did hers about being sent to England.
“But, look,” he spoke again after a moment’s thought. “If we could handle being kidnapped in the African desert, and then facing the jungle alone; if we could survive encounters with Thags and their superstitions...,” Stas paused momentarily, still not liking to think about the more mystical events he had witnessed during his adventures in India.
“If we can survive those things, we’ll get through this too. It’s only a move. Nothing about it can threaten us.” He said the last few sentences as much to himself as to Nell, trying to draw some confidence from past experience to quell his own uncertainty.
Nell remained silent for a moment, then asked a question in response. “Stas, when will we see each other again?” She moved to sit on the same bench where Stas was sitting, staring forlornly out the window at the ships’ hulls the carriage was now passing.
“Nell, I can’t say for sure. But we’ve already been reunited in Madras. That’s one time already since we left Port Said. We may not see each other again for years. Now, I don’t like that either,” he sighed. “After all that we shared, I know we’ll have a reason. One day, we will find a way.”
Nell turned to face him. “You promise?”
“Yes.”
She allowed a brief smile to cross her face. “Then I know we will.”
As she spoke, the carriage slowed and came to a halt in front of a large grey-hulled ship. It was clearly in the final processes of being loaded.
“This must be it.” Stas sighed. The two climbed out of the carriage’s cabin. Coolies started to unload their trunks from the rear of the carriage and moved the luggage off to be loaded onto ships docked lengthwise next to the quay. Stas looked around for the couple that his father and Mr. Rawlison had told them they would be meeting.
After a moment, he saw a middle-aged man and woman standing together. They wore slightly worried looks on their faces. A handwritten sign that read ‘Nell Rawlison Stanley Tarkovski’ was in the woman’s hands. Ignoring the incorrect spelling of his name, Stas waved to them. Both pairs started towards each other, meeting in the middle.
“Nell? Stanley? It’s nice to finally meet you.” The man, who was dressed in a tan suit, greeted them, shaking Stas’s hand. His accent was mostly British, yet it carried a clipped lilt that suggested he had spent decades on the subcontinent. “Richard Rawlison.” He introduced himself, releasing Stas’s hand. “My wife, Joan.” He indicated the woman with the sign who wore an off-white Victorian dress. The woman smiled at Nell.
“We’re so happy to finally meet our little niece in person, and to get to spend the next few weeks at sea getting to know her,” she began. “My brother has written us about your adventures in Africa and how he found you near the end of your journey. We’re looking forward to hearing more from you about it.”
Nell looked up at them, nervously attempting to keep a smile of her own affixed to her face.
“True,” Nell’s uncle confirmed. “We really are. And your stories from the Raj too. But I’m afraid we don’t have all day to stand and chat. Your caravan was a couple of hours late getting into Bombay, Nell. I’m afraid your friend’s ship leaves within the hour.” He gestured to the ship and gangway behind them, then reached into his suit coat pocket and handed Stas a ticket, which the Tarkowski knew had been paid for with funds wired from his father.
“It’s time that he be going,” Nell’s uncle continued after handing over the travel document.
Nell cast a pleading look up at Stas, who, furrowing his brow, placed a calming hand on her shoulder. He then looked up to address the couple that would be taking charge of his younger friend on her own sea voyage.
“You’ll be taking Nell to England?” he confirmed.
“Correct,” Richard answered. “We’re taking her to my older sister’s place near Hampton Court. She and her husband will look after her, after we return to Bombay a month later.” He continued, grousing. “I have no idea what those idiots I left in charge at the Royal Geographical Institute are going to bungle while I’m away. If you could just see how inaccurate the maps of Chittagong, or the Sindh/Gujarat borderlands that they were drawing when I left yesterday were….”
“Yes, dear,” his wife cut him off. “But you know your sister has been after you and your younger brother to come and visit. And, with her daughter having just passed away, ki
lled by those awful Thags….”
“Of course, darling. We had to go. I know. And it works out fortuitously that we’ll be able to see Nell safely there in the process. But our ship doesn’t sail for another four hours. Right now, we need to make sure that Mr. Tarkowski makes it onto his own in time.”
The cartographer directed his attention away from his wife, to his niece and her friend.
“If you’re going to say your goodbyes, it’s best you do so now.”
The departing youth turned to face Nell, bending down so that he could look the younger girl directly in the eye. He could see that her outward mien had faltered; her eyes were beginning to water. Lightly, he placed his hands on either side of her shoulders.
“Remember my promise,” Stas said quietly.
“I will.” She choked softly and rushed forward, throwing her arms around his neck. They embraced while looking past each other. After a bit, when Stas stood back, he saw her face was wet with tears.
Stas stood up. Joan moved forward, bringing Nell by her shoulders to the front folds of her dress. The girl wiped her eyes as the woman did so. With nothing more to be done, Stas walked up the gangway. At the top, he paused just before entering. Looking back, he glimpsed Nell still standing in front of her uncle’s wife, waving at him.
Stas waved briefly back with a pained frown on his face. Then, he turned, gave his ticket and passport – which listed him as holding refugee status within Her Majesty’s realm – to the waiting porter. He followed on into the ship that would take him home, to a continent he had never visited.
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