As the waning evening light would, too.
Rossa sighed. Her mother expected her home by nightfall. Never mind that there was nothing in this forest that was a match for her magic – her mother's word was law, and Rossa knew better than to disobey.
Besides, if she was late for dinner, there might be nothing left – Mother had been known to give their leftovers to the less fortunate in town. Especially if they were headed up into the mountains soon.
Rossa took a moment to dispel the spell on the squirrel, then buried the creature's corpse in a shallow grave beside the tree it had originally fallen from. Thief or no, it had helped her today, however unwittingly. And yesterday, for her father was right – she did need to be vigilant, not just for thieves, but for innocents who did not deserve to die.
Tomorrow, she would do better. And with that thought, Rossa straightened her shoulders and strode home.
Chapter 11
When Boris awoke, the chains were gone. Had he dreamed them?
A straw pallet crackled beneath him as he rolled over, sliding out from under what he recognised as his white cloak and onto the cold stone floor. The blinding headache he'd had in his dream was little more than a memory.
And Vica…
No, Vica was home in Rostov, where she belonged, with Lida. He could not have seen her here in Prislav, with some other man.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, before taking another.
It smelled like a battlefield in here. Had Igor neglected to clean his armour again?
"Igor? Where are you, boy?" Boris demanded.
"I'm here, Your Highness." The boy appeared, his eyes wide with what looked like terror.
If the boy would only do his job, he wouldn't have to fear punishment, but Boris didn't say it aloud. Let the boy figure it out for himself.
"Fetch me something to eat and drink," Boris said. "And then clean my armour."
The boy swallowed. "I…I can't, Your Highness. I can only give you this." He held out a bottle, small enough to fit in the boy's closed fist. "I'm to tell you if you wish to live to seek vengeance, you must drink this. Word reached us today that your brother David is dead, too. Cut down as he prayed for your father's soul in the chapel."
David was dead? But David was just a boy, and his only surviving full-blood brother, sent to a monastery to spend his life serving the church. No one could possibly want to murder David, and what man would kill a prince at prayer?
"Your brother did this. If you want vengeance, you must drink this," Igor insisted.
Boris's wits were slow, but those he'd begun to gather told him not to trust Igor. He dashed the bottle from the boy's hand, and it fell into the straw. "I'll drink no more of your poison, traitor. You gave me the tainted ale at the feast."
The boy bowed his head, but he did not deny it.
"Tell me where I might find my wife."
Boris prayed she was safe at Rostov, where she belonged.
The boy's eyes grew wide. He swallowed. Words seemed to fail him as he raised a shaking hand to point across the room. "She's there, Your Highness."
So he had not dreamed it. Vica was here.
"Get out," Boris snarled at the boy.
Igor scrambled away, bolting through the door before slamming it behind him.
Boris sat up, and, when his head did not threaten to explode, he rose to his feet.
A bundle of bloody clothes lay in the corner, as though someone had flung them there.
Please, let it not be her.
He forced himself to step closer. One step. Another. A third. Until he was close enough to turn the bundle over.
By all that was holy…
No, by all that was unholy.
Vica's mouth hung open in a silent scream, likely at the dagger buried in her breast that had stopped her heart. Her lifeblood stained her gown in rusty brown, wet and cold, for her spirit had fled many hours ago, while he'd lain senseless.
He shifted her body until he laid her out on the stone floor, then folded her arms across her breast. He should take the dagger out, and use it to take the life of his wife's murderer.
But what did he know about the man, aside from the guard uniform he'd worn?
Boris scanned the room, looking for some clue to the man's identity.
Only then did he see the second, smaller bundle.
His arms reached out of their own accord, before even his mind could stop him.
The bastard who'd killed his wife had cut Lida's throat, slicing so deep, he'd almost taken the little girl's head off.
Boris fell to his knees, cradling his daughter's mangled body to his chest, and wept.
Chapter 12
An eternity might have passed, or it could have only been a moment. Boris wasn't sure it mattered any more. He laid Lida's body beside her mother's, hands folded at her breast like the angel she surely was now.
He stared down at what had been his family, wishing with all his heart that he was with them now.
It would be so easy…
He had only to take the dagger from Vica's breast, still coated with the blood that had once given her so much life, and plunge it into his own heart. Two hearts, together forever.
The dagger felt so light in his hand, as cold as the death that awaited him, just one sharp thrust away.
But the balance was off…this was some other man's knife, an inferior blade to his own. Boris threw it down, and it clattered across the stone floor to land in the straw pallet he'd slept on.
David would have shaken his head, and told him it was a sin to take your own life. If Boris killed himself, he'd never see Vica and Lida again.
Or David, who was dead, too.
Dead by his brother's hand, if Igor was to be believed. Was his brother responsible for Vica's death, too? And little Lida, who had never been a threat to anyone?
The only brother here in Prislav who could have had a hand in their death was Sviatopolk. Their cursed new king.
His brother's betrayal stabbed him sharper than any knife. No, Sviatopolk was no brother of his. Not kin or blood or anything to him. He was as destined for death as any Bisseni raider who dared set foot on their kingdom's soil
Vica, David, Lida…had Sviatopolk killed their father, too? Such a vile traitor might do anything to secure the throne.
But he would not have it, Boris vowed. He cursed Sviatopolk's name, and cursed that he'd ever called the worm brother.
No more.
He'd bury the inferior blade in his brother's breast, and make him bleed. For Vica.
Boris headed for the pile of straw where he'd last seen the dagger. He donned the cloak, still miraculously white in a room so steeped in blood. Then he clawed though the bed, desperate to find the blade, but his hand closed around a bottle instead.
The bottle Igor had given him. For vengeance.
Boris uncorked it, and sniffed at the contents.
Liquid sloshed, sending the scent of bitter herbs wafting up his nose.
Vengeance did not smell like much more than a simple tonic, if that's what this was.
Yet there were poisons that could not be discerned by smell alone, like whatever Igor had put into his ale at the feast.
Ale Igor had told him not to drink, now he remembered. Did that mean this new elixir would help set things right?
Or send his soul spiralling up to heaven to rejoin his wife and daughter?
Carefully, Boris corked the bottle and set it on the floor.
He took a cloth and washed his wife's face, then did the same for his daughter. Long he looked at them, memorising every detail, for if he succeeded in this, he might never see them again.
But it would be worth it, to know they were avenged, and their souls could rest.
Until they were, his soul would never rest.
He leaned over and kissed Lida's cheek, like he'd done so many times before.
Never again.
Swallowing, he moved to kneel beside Vica, Princess Slavica of
Rostov, a woman he'd been blessed to call his wife, if only for a little while. He touched his lips to hers, wishing fate had allowed them one last kiss. For letting her die instead of defending her, he did not deserve one, but men have always wished for more than they deserved, he knew.
Boris uncorked the bottle, and raised it high. "For you. For David and Lida and my father, but most of all for you, Vica. May your place in heaven be assured, as I send the man responsible for all this to hell."
He drank.
The potion was barely a mouthful, yet it burned his mouth like molten metal, coating his throat in liquid fire until he could not even scream at the agony.
Still it burned, invading his blood, spreading through his body like wildfire, until he could bear the pain no more and the world went white.
Chapter 13
They hadn't been on the road for three days when Rossa noticed the first flakes of white on her horse's mane. "Mother, it's snowing," she said in wonder, holding out her hand to catch some.
Mother frowned. "It's far too early for snow. We must ride faster, to get there before the pass closes."
Reluctantly, Rossa put her glove back on and urged her mare to pick up the pace.
It was still snowing when they stopped for the night, settling in white drifts anywhere that was open to the sky. Mother found a clear spot under some trees to pitch their tent, and Rossa set to work. Everything was fine until she backed into a tree branch that dumped a load of snow on her.
Rossa swore, then bit her lip and cast a shield, pushing it out a few yards to encompass the tent, her mother and the fire her mother was attempting to light. "Stay," she told it.
And it did, like a big, invisible, dome-shaped tent that kept the snow out. It slid down the sides, instead, until it formed a wall high enough for Mother to notice.
"Did you do that?" she asked, wiping a sooty hand across her brow. The firepit remained ominously dark.
Rossa nodded. "I can light the fire for you, too, if you like. Just…don't tell Father."
Mother rose clumsily from her crouch. "And why in heaven's name would I not?"
Rossa ducked her head. "Because he doesn't think magic should be used for mundane things. Cookfires and pitching tents and things that most people do without magic. He says…"
"Your father says a lot of things. And while I admit he knows more about magic than me, given both his mother and sister were enchantresses like you, I've seen him use magic for plenty of mundane things. In fact, every fire he's ever lit while travelling uses a magic candle that his mother gave him when he was a boy. A candle he keeps in his magic travelling bag, with all manner of other things." Mother sighed. "Perhaps he means that you should not take your magic for granted, to use such power without thinking about it first. To consider whether to use magic, or to stay your hand. My friend Tola, Swanhild's mother, always thought twice before using magic, because her husband used to beat her if he caught her casting a spell. Even after he died, she'd hesitate. She still warded her shop, though, and she used her magic to save Swanhild, though it cost her own life, in the end." She wiped away tears. "Oh, look at me, crying over the dead, though it's been nigh on twenty years since I last saw her. More, maybe, as it was before you were born. The last thing we talked about was your father, and how she thought I should…give him a chance."
If she was anything like Swanhild, Tola had probably said something far more crude than that. But she'd been Mother's friend, and Mother still mourned her, so Rossa kept her thoughts to herself.
"Your father slept in the tower room, and then Raphael did, when Zoticus moved into my chambers. I thought you might like the tower for yourself, this time. I sent word up to the castle to have rooms prepared for us, so it should be ready for you. But if you don't like it, I'm sure we can move your things somewhere else," Mother said.
Rossa remembered the tower room, and how Raphael would lift her up to see out the windows so she could gaze out over the countryside. When she was little, it had seemed like watching the whole world. Something God might do, and not mere mortals like her. Now, she knew she hadn't even seen the full extent of her mother's lands.
Mother, who knelt in the dirt to light her own fire, to cook their meal, because it never occurred to her to rely on servants to do what she could do herself.
As long as she didn't expect Rossa to cook. At best, she'd burn everything to cinders, and at worst, she'd poison them all, herself included. The last time she'd tried, Father had caught her in time to keep her from killing anyone. He'd said she was just like her aunt, who couldn't cook, either, and told Mother to keep Rossa out of the kitchen.
"I'm sure the tower room will be fine," Rossa said. It wasn't like she'd spend much time there, during her waking hours. She'd be training, much like she did at home. Because when her father returned, she intended to be ready. "Shall I light that fire for you now?"
Chapter 14
Earth and damp and…was that wet dog he smelled? Wet fur, anyway, musky and earthy, like he'd been hunting too long in the forest.
Hunting?
Boris opened his eyes to darkness. No, dimness, for he could faintly see the outlines of walls that no sane builder would ever knowingly construct. Things stuck out of the wall and ceiling and sometimes even the floor, jagged like teeth that intended to devour him when the monster whose mouth he'd stumbled into developed an appetite.
Was he in hell, then?
No, hell would be hotter, instead of just a pleasant temperature.
He lay in a cave, then, upon a pile of half-rotted leaves, with a stream trickling in the darkness, real darkness, deeper inside. Now, if he could only find the dog…
Boris scanned the cave.
There, in the corner. Something that might be an emaciated dog, curled up in exhaustion, a bag of bones clinging to life.
Boris approached cautiously, not wanting to scare the beast so that it would bite.
Yet the closer he got, the less it looked like a dog, or any animal at all. A bag of bones, perhaps, but their owner had departed life a long time ago.
Boris picked up the sack and emptied it onto the ground. Metal clunked and clanged into a pile at his feet, catching what little light there was like no bones he'd ever seen.
Atop the pile was a crown he'd only ever seen on his father's head, on special events. His mother's crown lay in the tangle of items, too, along with what looked like a collection of the crown jewels.
Sviatopolk might sit on the throne, but he would never wear his father's crown, Boris thought with satisfaction.
The rightness of this thought, combined with the memory of his own hands stuffing the crowns into the sack, told him he'd been the one to steal these things, and he'd planned it to spite his brother.
Everything else was hazy, though, until he'd woken up here. His last clear memory was of drinking Igor's potion, which hadn't poisoned him after all.
Ah, but he'd said someone had ordered him to give Boris the potion, hadn't he? That mean Igor hadn't prepared the draught himself, and likely had no idea what it would do when Boris drank it.
A dog whined.
Boris shifted to a crouch, reaching for a sword that wasn't at his side, where it should be. He cursed his own stupidity for stealing the crown jewels, yet forgetting to procure a sword.
Another whine, as shadows crowded at the cave's entrance.
Not one wet dog, but a pack of them.
The thought had barely coalesced in his mind before Boris realised his mistake.
They weren't dogs at all, but a pack of wolves.
He scrabbled at his belt, only to realise that not only had he forgotten his sword, he'd neglected to don a belt, too. It was a blessing he'd remembered to put on clothing at all, for without the thick fur garments he wore, he'd surely freeze to death in the chilly autumn evening.
One wolf stepped forward, the leader of this war band, and it gave a snarl.
Boris stared at it, reaching down for the jewelled sceptre his father had once
told him had been a gift from the Emperor of Byzas.
He prayed that his father, and the long-dead emperor who had given this gift, would grant his arm and the sceptre the strength to defeat these enemies, so that he might survive to take the crown jewels somewhere safe.
The wolf leaped.
Boris swung the sceptre.
The wolf flew over its packmates and straight out of the cave.
The rest of the wolves attacked as one.
Afterwards, Boris couldn't say what had happened. He'd felt rage and a haze had come down over his eyes, and when he'd been able to think again, two wolves lay dead at his feet, while a third tried to drag itself away when both of its back legs were clearly broken.
Boris considered the injured wolf for a moment, then seized the sceptre and brought it down upon the beast's head, ending its pain. No animal deserved to suffer so.
Only when he was certain the third beast was dead did he go back to examine the other two. Both bore deep claw marks, like some great beast had slashed at them until they'd punctured something vital. Yet the only beasts Boris had seen were the wolves themselves, which did not have claws like that.
If anything, he'd think a lion had been here.
Boris tried not to laugh. There were stories of lions in far-off lands, but he'd never seen one outside of books.
He shook his head and headed out of the cave, hoping he might wash the sceptre in the stream. It wouldn't do to have the crown jewels caked in blood.
He followed the tiny stream down the hill, until it widened into a pool big enough to immerse the sceptre in. He leaned over, wondering at the hulking shape he saw reflected in the water.
By all that was holy, it was a –
Boris overbalanced and fell in, shattering the reflection and driving all thoughts from his mind, except the most immediate question of how not to drown.
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