The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  “Is my father awake yet?” Peshek asked.

  “He is in his room, sir,” the man stammered. It was more than suddenly being roused from sleep that unnerved him so, Peshek was sure, but he did not want to take the time to inquire. He needed to speak with his father at once.

  He did take the time to stop at the gilded alcove that served as the god house and reverence to Ywane, who had gained his godhood when he hid the family from a warlord by burying them all and drawing them alive again from the earth. It would be wrong, now of all times, not to acknowledge his protection.

  His father’s house was a place of dark wood, well fitted and beautifully carved, although he could only catch glimpses of the fine decorations as he marched through the narrow halls and up the zigzagging staircase with his flickering lantern. It was a new house with fireplaces and chimneys rather than fire pits, and windows in every room. He could hear some vague noises of the servants stirring, but mostly the house was quiet and dark. He knew his father’s door by the thin line of light that showed underneath it. Peshek knocked and did not wait for a reply before he pushed open the door.

  Pachalka Ursulsyn Rzhovyn sat close to the low fire in an elaborately carved chair. Peshek had a brief moment to regard his father and think that he had not changed much from when they had last met. His long face was a bit leaner under its gray beard and his hair was a bit whiter, but his body was still powerful as he pulled himself to his feet and crossed the room to the door in three strides.

  And swung his fist against Peshek’s jaw so hard that Peshek reeled backward and slammed hard against the wall.

  “How dare you!” shouted Colonel Pachalka. “How dare you come here after what you have done!”

  “Father …” gasped Peshek when he could speak again. He tasted blood.

  But Pachalka’s fist came down again, and Peshek’s head cracked back against the wooden panel.

  “Traitor!” spat Pachalka. “You betray your empress, your family, your very gods! There are no words low enough for what you have become!”

  “No, Father!” Peshek held up his hands. He could feel the warm thread of blood trickling down from his rapidly swelling lip. “I swear …”

  Pachalka lashed out again, but this time Peshek was ready for it and managed to block the blow with his forearm and shove his father backward, just far enough so he could dodge aside and put half the length of the room between himself and the old man.

  Pachalka panted hard in his rage and Peshek seized the moment. “Father, listen to me. I swear, all I have done, I have done in the empress’s name and at her command. I don’t know who told you it was otherwise …”

  “They came here looking for you not two days ago. Your own men. If I could have told them where you’d gone, I would have.” The words grated against Peshek’s skin, all the more painful because his father spoke them. Pachalka’s fists opened and closed at his sides, seizing on the empty air and strangling it, over and again.

  “What did they tell you?” His lip was thickening and his words slurring, but at least father was talking, not raining down more blows.

  “That you left your post and your duty without leave.” Which was surely sin enough in the old soldier’s eyes, and Pachalka all but spat as he said it. “That you’ve been carrying messages for a band of traitors in their fine castles who would use the words of this madwoman roaming the countryside saying she’s the true empress to throw our rightful ruler down from her throne.” His breathing was harsh in the room and Peshek could see nothing of his face but shadows and the firelight gleaming in his eyes, and for that moment he was glad. He did not want to see the fury twisting his father’s visage as he looked at his son.

  “Honored Father,” said Peshek, holding out his open hand. “I swear on my mother’s grave that it is not true. It is part of a web of lies being woven over Isavalta by Kacha and his allies here and in Hastinapura. I came here to tell you all. I beg you to hear me.”

  Pachalka stood like a statue where he was, and for long, agonizing series of heartbeats, Peshek thought his father would call down the servants to hold him fast. But then, Pachalka said softly and sternly, “I am listening.”

  Peshek could not hold back his sigh of relief. Ignoring the pain in his mouth and the iron taste of blood, Peshek told his father how the empress had come to him in her need and what she had ordered him to do, and how he had done his best although he had agonized over it, but how he had seen where his duty lay, and how she had slipped from his charge, leaving him to spread word of her plight, and of Isavalta’s, against her return.

  Through it all, his father simply stood where he was. The shadows that veiled his face flickered as the fire danced in the hearth.

  “Can you prove what you say?” he asked finally.

  For an answer, Peshek untied his sash. With his knife, he slit the end of the cloth open and then he drew out the folded and wrinkled letter written in the empress’s hand, signed and sealed with the soaring eagle that was the imperial crest. He watched as his father unfolded the letter and slowly, carefully read its contents.

  At last, Pachalka lifted his eyes from the paper, but did not look at Peshek. Instead, he stared for a long moment into emptiness. Then, with trembling hands, he handed it back to his son. Peshek found he could breathe again. If his father had not believed the letter to be genuine, he would have kept it to be used as evidence against Peshek at the martial tribunal.

  His father’s hands were still trembling, something, Peshek realized with a shock, he’d never seen before, as Pachalka turned and retreated to the chair he’d occupied when Peshek first came in. A silver mug of something, probably beer, waited on a side table and Pachalka downed its contents in a single draft. When he set it down again, his hands no longer shook.

  He turned to face Peshek again, hands and eyes steady and his shoulders straight and square.

  “Forgive me, my son. I should have thought better of you.”

  Peshek shook his head. “There is nothing to forgive, Father. How could you doubt such honorable men? Especially when they told the truth. I did desert my post.”

  “Will you sit, Peshek?” His father gestured to another chair.

  “Gladly, Father.” Peshek dropped into the offered seat. In another moment he would have been the one trembling. He had not known he was so tired until this moment.

  Pachalka returned to his chair. He was composed, but also more grave.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to shelter you, Peshek,” he said, his hand curling into a fist on the arm of his chair. “It is known there is a reward for you, and one of the servants is sure to talk.”

  “I thought as much.” Peshek sighed. “In truth, it was one of the reasons I used the front door. I was hoping, when I’ve said my piece, you might throw me out that same way.”

  A knowing gleam lit his father’s eye. “And send Kabak to meet you and bring you back in secret.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  “And what is this piece you wish to say to me?”

  Peshek leaned forward, pitching his voice very low. “The empress will come back. The House Guard must be ready when she does.”

  Pachalka did not flinch. “But not before.”

  “Unless other orders come, no.”

  Silence settled over the room. The fire crackled and sparked in the hearth, but Peshek and his father remained silent, considering strategies, searching for possibilities, divining the difficulties, and there were many.

  “You had best go,” said Pachalka softly. “It would not do for you to be here too long.” He stood. “Ywane will guide you, my son, and after the moon has set, Kabak will meet you by the goose pond.”

  And I will drag my father into a plot that could mean his death, thought Peshek as he embraced Pachalka, receiving the old man’s kiss on his cheek. And if I did any less, I truly would be guilty of betrayal.

  The house was dark when Ingrid stole back up the path to the front door. Fortunately, there was more than e
nough moonlight to see by, so she did not have to be bothered with a lantern. As softly as she could, she crept up the stairs to her bedroom, closing the door lightly behind herself.

  “Ingrid, are you out of your mind?” came Grace’s furious whisper. “Where have you been?”

  Ingrid nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled around to see Grace sitting up in their bed, the covers drawn up around her chin against the chill. Even in the dim silver light, Ingrid could see the anger on her face.

  Ingrid put her hand over her heart, as if the pressure could slow its beating. “Grace,” she began, hurrying to the bedside so she did not have to speak above a whisper. “I’ve been to see Avana … Avan.”

  Grace’s eyes grew round. “You are out of your mind,” she snapped. “You almost have Papa won over. Are you going to throw it all away now?”

  Ingrid lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked under her. “Grace, listen to me. I’m going to ask you to believe something very difficult.”

  “More difficult than a ghost?” asked Grace lightly.

  “Yes.” She told her sister then, everything that Avanasy had told her. Grace sat as still as a statue, listening.

  “You can’t mean it,” whispered Grace when Ingrid had finally finished. “You can’t truly mean to go with him.”

  Ingrid nodded. “I do.” Those two words made it all real, and Ingrid felt an unexpected rush of freedom wash through her. This was her decision. For the first time in her whole life, she had made a choice for herself alone, and it felt … fine. “I’ve promised. I only came back to get some things, and to tell you. You will have to find something to tell Mama and Papa …”

  “No, Ingrid.” Grace seized her hand. “You can’t leave me like this.”

  Ingrid smiled sympathetically at her sister, patting her hand and setting it down on the quilts. “If I married, I would leave you anyway,” she said reasonably.

  “But not like this. You cannot leave me alone here. What am I going to do without you?”

  “I know this is sudden, Grace, and I know it is strange, but I have given Avanasy my promise, and he has given me this.” She held out her hand so that Grace could see the ring.

  Grace just struck her hand away. “I’m supposed to be the flighty one. I’m the one who is supposed to get into trouble with men, not you, Ingrid. We need you. I need you. Everything will fall apart if you’re not here.” She wrapped her arms around her knees and looked away, her jaw working back and forth.

  Ingrid could not believe what she was hearing. After all this time, after all they had been through together. They were sisters. They had always stood together, against Papa, against everything …

  “Grace, I thought you would be happy for me.”

  “How was I supposed to be happy with you running away in the middle of the night and leaving me here?”

  “Grace …” Ingrid reached for her, but Grace jerked her whole body away.

  “You don’t even care what they’re going to do to me when they wake up and find out you’re gone,” she muttered.

  Which was too much, even if she had upset Grace with the suddenness of her plans. That was just too much. “How can you of all people, after everything that has happened, say I don’t care?”

  Grace wasn’t looking at her. She just stared at the blank, dark wall and snapped, “If you cared, you would persuade this Avan, or Avanasy, whatever he calls himself, to stay here.”

  Bitter understanding crept into Ingrid’s veins. She stood and turned away from her sister, rounding the foot of the bed to the linen press. “I don’t have time to sit here and argue with you, Grace.” She pulled out a clean sheet and laid it on the foot of the bed. Her clean dress and petticoats came off their hooks, and fresh linens and the thickest wool stockings she owned came out of the dresser drawers.

  “I can scream,” announced Grace. “I can wake up everybody, and Papa will lock you in here.”

  Ingrid couldn’t bear to look at her sister. “All my life,” she said, tying her bundle closed. “All my life, I have looked after you. I have stood between Mama and Papa for you more times that I can count. I have asked for nothing from you until now. Why are you doing this?”

  Grace crawled across the bed to Ingrid. She looked like a little child, kneeling there on the covers, wisps of hair coming loose from her fair braids. “Because I can’t lose you. Because I don’t know how to live without you to lean on.”

  “Then that is my fault,” breathed Ingrid, pressing both hands against her bundle. “And I’m sorry. But I’m going. You’re a good girl, Grace. You’re smart. You’ll manage.”

  She lifted the bundle up and started for the door, biting her lip hard to keep back the tears. This was not the parting she had wanted from Grace. She had known it would be hard to say good-bye, but this reproach, this bitterness. It was too much, and she had to leave at once.

  “Ingrid, I’m seeing things.”

  Ingrid froze, her hand on the doorknob. “What?”

  “I’m seeing things. Since the night with the ghost. I’ve been seeing things, and I’ve been having dreams. Sometimes they come true.” She paused and her voice dropped even lower. “I saw Leo’s accident before it happened. I saw the scythe slip. That’s why I was so upset when it happened. I think he … I think the ghost did something to me.”

  Ingrid pivoted on her heel and stared at her sister, who still crouched at the foot of their bed. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  Grace huddled in on herself again. “I didn’t want you to think I was going mad.”

  “Grace, you should have told me.” Ingrid rushed to her and seized her shoulder. She could not help it. She had protected Grace for too many years to stay distant from her at this moment. “We could have asked Avanasy. He would know.”

  “We can go now. You can tell him …”

  Ingrid saw the sudden light, the sudden hope that filled Grace’s face as she said that, and she realized what was truly happening here. Grace was trying to work on her. Anger sparked inside her. “I don’t believe this,” she said, pressing her hand against her forehead. “I knew you would say anything to Papa and Mama, but I did not believe you would try this nonsense with me.”

  “It’s the truth. I swear.”

  “Then it’s too late,” Ingrid told her. “I’m leaving. Now. This minute.” She turned away. She couldn’t look at Grace anymore. Not like this. Not with all that was hanging in the air between them.

  “They’ll never let you in the house again,” said Grace desperately.

  “Then you’ll have to remember me in your prayers, as I’ll remember you in mine.”

  “You promised me, Ingrid.” Real anger touched Grace’s voice, and it wrung Ingrid’s heart. “You promised you would always be here for me.”

  Now. You must leave now, or you never will. Ingrid gripped her bundle more tightly. “You promised me too,” she said without turning around. “You promised me we would always be best friends. This is not how a friend talks.”

  She left the house without pausing to close the door. Grace would see to it, or she would not. Ingrid ran down the track to the road, dashing the tears from her eyes.

  She is only startled. When she has time to think it over, she will regret her words. She truly understands, she just does not want me to go. Later I will find some way to get word to her. Perhaps, when the troubles are over in this Isavalta it will be possible to send for her.

  Clutching those thoughts like she clutched her bundle, Ingrid ran through the dying night to the docks.

  The light of a single lantern guided her down the pier to Avanasy’s boat. Avanasy himself was nothing but a silhouette in the false dawn, crouched on the deck coiling a rope. At the sound of her hurrying footsteps and her ragged breathing, he straightened up. Ingrid saw him fully in the lantern light and froze.

  This was not Avan the fisherman who had sat so many evenings at her mother’s kitchen table, drinking coffee and passing the time.
This was a Cossack, this was a prince. He wore a wide-skirted coat of rich black. Two dozen silver buttons fastened the front of it. Elaborate silver embroidery adorned the high collar and wide cuffs. A cloth of silver sash circled his waist. There must have been a knife belt underneath that, because she could see the sheath with the dagger’s handle protruding from the top of the sash. The coat’s hems brushed the tops of polished leather boots and worked leather gloves encased his hands. A peaked black cap with yet more silver embroidery covered his hair.

  Ingrid stared, and for an awful moment felt every inch the poor, pale, country girl.

  But the loving eyes were all Avanasy’s, as was the welcoming hand that reached up to help her step into the boat.

  “Is all well?” he asked.

  “No,” she admitted. “I had a scene with Grace. She is angry at me for leaving.”

  Avanasy touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” But I am glad you are not asking if I would rather stay. Even as she thought that, she knew in her heart they were already well beyond such questions. “Is there a hold? Let me stow my things.”

  Avanasy nodded toward the hatch. “Take the lamp. I must get us ready to cast off. The men will be coming soon, and we must be away before then.”

  The men, and Papa with them, if Papa is not already on the way.

  She climbed down the stout ladder. Ingrid had lived all her life around boats, and she knew a well-made craft when she saw it. Avanasy’s boat was clinker-built, but stout and strong. The cordage, casks and extra canvas were all neatly stowed. The chests from his cabin had been tied into place below one of the two bunks. Ingrid hung the lantern on a peg and stowed her own meager bundle in one of the cabinets built into the bow. This was a boat meant for fairly long journeys. Ingrid closed her mind against the idea of how long a journey she had just embarked on. She reclaimed the lantern and returned to the deck.

  Avanasy stood in the bow waiting for her. As she emerged he smiled, but still managed to look grave. “Now there is one last thing I must require of you for this journey.”

  “And that is?” Ingrid tried to keep her voice light, but was not sure how well she succeeded. This night had already asked a great deal from her, and she was beginning to feel weary with all her trying.