by E. P. Clark
“Probably,” said Slava.
“I mean, do you think she was ill? Before her attack, that is? Do you think all the quarreling was a sign?”
“Possibly,” said Slava.
“Although she did quarrel a lot in general,” said Vladislava thoughtfully. “Like everyone else in our family. Oh well”—she shook off that melancholy thought—“let’s look over here.”
A closer examination of the shelves showed that what Slava had originally taken to be complete disorder did, in fact, have its own kind of order, and the shelf that Vladislava had indicated was devoted to books of wisdom and instruction. There were books and scrolls on treating diseases, recognizing edible mushrooms, running a household, training horses, recognizing magical gifts…
“Is this it?” asked Vladislava, holding up a dusty scroll cover. “It says,” she squinted at the faded letters, “The Art of Conquest. Miroslava Praskovyevna.”
“That should be it,” Slava told her. “Is there anything inside?”
Vladislava opened the case and peered inside. “Yes, and it’s quite new, too,” she said. “They must have put the new copy in the old case.” She shook out the scroll, and held it up. On the top was written, in fresh ink and a clear modern hand, “The Art of Conquest.”
“That’s it,” said Slava.
“Let’s take it back to my room! It’s too dark and dusty in here,” said Vladislava.
“Can I take some other books?” asked Slava. “There might be useful things in them…”
“Sure,” said Vladislava carelessly. Slava took the book on how to recognize magical gifts off the shelf, and then, impelled by some mysterious need for secrecy, took a book on horse training and one on plants of the Far North, and put the one on magical gifts between them, so that no one could see what she was carrying. She thought Vladislava might notice and ask her what she was doing, but Vladislava was already too engrossed in “The Art of Conquest” to pay attention to what Slava was doing. They left the library, carrying their spoils and sneezing violently from the dust all the way back to Vladislava’s room.
When they arrived, Olga and Oleg Svetoslavovich were already long gone, and food was waiting for them. Vladislava attacked the food and the lesson with equal enthusiasm, and spent the rest of the day reading through “The Art of Conquest” and quizzing Slava about battle strategy with slightly worrisome intensity, alternating with a disconcerting playfulness. Slava could not help but recognize something of herself in Vladislava’s unpredictable behavior, and wasn’t sure what to think of that. Once again she was assaulted with equal parts fearful revulsion and fierce protectiveness.
“Will you be my tutor when we’re in Krasnograd?” Vladislava asked at the end of the day. “You’re very good, even though you don’t know much about battle strategy. Was Miroslava Praskovyevna really your many-times great-grandmother? Because you don’t seem much alike.”
“We are not always like our foremothers,” said Slava, reminding herself that it was foolish to be offended by the words of a girl of ten, especially when she was saying exactly what Slava also thought. “You, for example, are not very much like your own mother.”
“That was very clever of you, Tsarinovna!” exclaimed Vladislava, impressed. “So will you be my tutor?”
“I might be your tutor about some things,” said Slava. “But I think you’ll need real tutors as well.”
“They might be stupid, though,” Vladislava pointed out. “Lots of tutors are.”
“True,” agreed Slava. “But the Krasnograd kremlin does have a few good ones. I’ll make sure you only get the best.”
“What will I learn there?” Vladislava asked. “More battle strategy, I hope. What about fighting? Will I be trained how to fight?”
“Perhaps,” said Slava. “Some noblewomen are, if they think they will have to lead their men into battle.” She didn’t say that, given the complicated relations between Krasnograd and the Severnolesniye, it seemed unlikely that her sister would ever give permission for the Severnolesnaya heir to be trained in battle strategy and fighting. Maybe Vladislava could be distracted or bought off with other subjects. Slava looked at Vladislava’s determined young face. It was not the face of someone who could be distracted or bought off, even at the tender age of ten.
“There is also history, geneologies, natural lore, the tongues and customs of other lands, riding, dancing…” she said.
“I only want to know useful things,” Vladislava interrupted, frowning intensely.
“All those things are useful,” Slava told her.
“Dancing isn’t useful!”
“Oh no, dancing is perhaps the most useful of all,” said Slava. “If you cannot carry yourself like a princess on the dance floor, how can you carry yourself like a princess on the throne? If you cannot lead a man on the dance floor, how can you lead many men into battle? Do not underestimate the value of dancing, Vladislava.” As she was talking, Slava had to suppress a grin: she, too, had at one time protested the value of dancing, which she had loathed—and still did not care for to this day. In fact, the usefulness of dancing had not crossed her mind until this very moment. Truly, the wise were right, Slava said to herself, fighting harder and harder not to laugh at her own pompous seriousness: in order to know something, one must try to teach it to others.
“Well, if you put it like that…” said Vladislava, without much conviction. But just then a serving woman came in and said it was time for supper, and they went down to rejoin the others.
Chapter Five
Supper was a very subdued affair. Olga had sent word that she had gone back with Oleg Svetoslavovich to spend the evening with her people, and Vladislava’s father had had another fit and was unable to leave his rooms, so it was just Slava, Vladislava, Lisochka, Vasilisa Vasilisovna, and Andrey Vladislavovich at the table. Vladislava’s face pinched down into an expression of sullen suffering as soon as she entered the room, Slava made a solemn oath to herself to remain silent as much as was humanly possible, Lisochka picked at her food in ashamed depression, Vasilisa Vasilisovna sat there twitching nervously, and Andrey Vladislavovich seemed sunk into a state of impotent rage. It appeared that Oleg Svetoslavovich’s shouting had, in fact, had some small effect, although Slava was not optimistic about its long-term effectiveness, given her own previous failure and the current sulkiness of everyone else at the table. No one ate very much, and Slava and Vladislava both excused themselves as soon as possible.
Once back in her room, and having dismissed her maid for the night, Slava pulled out and dusted off the book on magical gifts. There was no reason, she told herself sternly, for this fluttering she felt in the pit of her stomach. It was just a book, and it was perfectly logical for her to read it. She had come to Lesnograd to consult with its sorceresses, and since the sorceresses were absent, she would consult with its library instead. And it was unlikely that there was much of use in such a book anyway. What was it likely to have that the books she had read from the Krasnograd library didn’t have already, and in much more detail?
Nonetheless, and to her embarrassed amusement, she found herself opening the book with the same awkward gentle care and breathless excitement she would have felt at undoing the shirt of a lover for the first time, when she was still wondering about the exact color and texture of the hair on his chest…She wrenched her mind away from such thoughts and back to the matter at hand, although not without smiling her way through the first few sentences in a way that made it very hard to concentrate on the words on the page.
And in fact, the words on the first few pages were not very interesting at all, and certainly much less entertaining than a lover, even—or maybe especially—an imaginary one. There were the same usual platitudes about farseeing, and foreseeing, and beastspeaking, and the efficacy of prayers to the gods, without anything that Slava had not read a dozen times already. But then, just as Slava’s eyelids were starting to droop, and she was beginning to think she should just put down the book and go to bed, she read:
>
Our great foremother Miroslava Praskovyevna was known for her ability to farsee, and her prowess in battle, but on her deathbed she said that her greatest victories came from her ability to read the hearts of others. It is this gift that gave her line its name, “Mirrorface,” and it is this fickle gift that has flared in and out of the Zerkalitsa line ever since. Its singular nature has led some sorceresses and learned women to speculate that it is not a true “gift” at all, as it has little to do with magic, and the gods and magical creatures do not, to the best of our knowledge, possess it. Neither magic nor prayers can control it, and it seems remarkably impervious to every attempt to influence it, despite its seemingly soft nature. Miroslava Praskovyevna herself called it her double-edged sword, one that cuts the bearer as much as those on whom she wields it. Images, she said, leave their traces on the mirror that reflects them, long after the original has walked away and forgotten what she has seen. Our first Empress gave a special blessing to all her descendants who inherited this most painful of gifts, along with the secrets to harnessing its power and turning it on others.
Slava turned the page with bated breath.
The magical properties of certain herbs have long been known…
“What!” cried Slava. Luckily, it seemed that all the servants had long gone to bed, and no one came running to investigate her shout. She paged through the rest of the book hastily, but saw nothing more of interest.
Annoyed, she put the book down (hidden under the book on horse training and the one on plants of the Far North, just in case the serving girl who came in in the morning knew how to read and took it into her head to spread it all over the kremlin that the Tsarinovna was reading about magical gifts and the news somehow reached someone who wished Slava ill and would be able to use this information against her, although how that would be possible Slava didn’t know, but she hid the book anyway), blew out her candle, and crawled into bed, but her head was whirling too much to allow her to sleep. She had known that her family name was supposed to mean that they were the mirror that reflected only reality, of course, but she had never heard that that had been explicitly tied to her own unwelcome gifts, or that Miroslava Praskovyevna had shown any sign of them. From what everyone around her had always said of the first Empress, she had been hard as horseshoes, wholly without feeling—the exact opposite of Slava’s shrinking nature. She was supposed to have had an unerring sense for the truth, it was true, but it had always been described as something cold, unfeeling, like the sense of a snake for striking…Slava had always resented that her cold rough blood flowed through her, Slava’s, tender veins. She could not possibly have been anything like Slava, not possibly…but it seemed that she was. Which, Slava reflected, should be a good lesson to her not to jump to conclusions.
Sleep, unsurprisingly, was a long time coming. Slava kept imagining what she would say if she could speak to Miroslava Praskovyevna, and how Miroslava Praskovyevna would respond. Most of the time, she imagined Miroslava Praskovyevna telling her she needed to toughen up and stop whining so much, in a voice that sounded very much like her sister’s.
But she was also my mother’s foremother, she reminded herself. My mother, who is so kind—well, sometimes, except when she’s not—also has Miroslava Praskovyevna’s harsh blood running through her gentle heart—or was it Miroslava Praskovyevna’s blood coming out when she was being unkind? And Slava remembered dozens of incidents in which her mother had demonstrated an unsuspected, although understated, strength of character, putting her foot down and making sure that things went the way she wanted them to. How many times had she made her uncooperative councilors and princesses stop their infighting and toe her line? How many times had she quelled obstreperous foreign dignitaries with a single look? How many times had she checked Slava’s sister in her arrogant excesses? Not to mention her occasional cruelties to Slava herself…although those seemed to be due more to weakness rather than strength of character. But in any case, in the end, had she not refused the pleas of her princesses, councilors, and her own daughters, and retired to a sanctuary to contemplate the will of the gods and the patterns of the world in peace? Slava’s sister had always counted their mother weak because she gave so much, to those who asked and those who didn’t, but really, Slava saw, their mother had been strong, often much stronger than either of them, and her failures, while spectacular (at least in the case of her care of Slava), had been fewer than those of many mothers…Miroslava Praskovyevna would not look down upon her too much, Slava thought…Perhaps her mother had received Mirsoslava Praskovyevna’s special blessing…Armor against the double-edged sword…
WE would have given you armor, said the golden-eyed leshaya. Armor of ice, against which all weapons would freeze and shatter.
Armor is heavy, Slava said, more to herself than the leshaya. Heavy and clumsy. The steppe warriors and those from the Hordes rarely wear more than a chainmail shirt, and some of them go into battle in nothing more than flowing silk, in order to confuse and evade their enemy.
What happens if they are struck? asked the leshaya.
They rarely are, Slava told her. They are so strong and quick. And if they are struck, often as not the weapon becomes tangled in the folds of their clothing, or if it does pierce them, often as not it draws the silk in with it, and can be pulled back out again with ease. Or so they say. I do not know: I am not a warrior.
We are all warriors, said the leshaya, and fixed its golden eyes upon her. You made a promise, it continued after a moment.
Yes, said Slava.
You promised you would give us everything, everything we needed, everything we asked for, it said.
Yes, said Slava.
Do you still hold to your promise?
Yes, said Slava.
And will you deliver?
Slava reached out and took its rough-barked hand. What do you need? she asked.
Oh, many things, it said. Its slender branches curled around her even slenderer fingers, so that she saw how soft her skin was, and how softly the leshaya held her. But now, it said, gazing into her gray eyes with its golden ones—to see. To see as you see. The world of women is pressing closer and closer about us, and we must learn to read them as you do. We must see what you see.
Then look, said Slava.
***
Slava was awakened the next morning by a serving woman shaking her shoulder with the fearful, squeamish expression of someone handling a lizard. Even in her half-asleep state, Slava couldn’t help but be both offended and amused.
“Wake up, Tsarinovna, wake up,” the serving woman was whispering. “It’s late, Tsarinovna, wake up.”
“What time is it?” asked Slava groggily. Pre-dawn light was already filtering through the windows.
“Time for breakfast, Tsarinovna,” said the serving woman, retreating with grateful relief. “The others are already gathering at the table.”
“Oh…” Slava sat up, and discovered that the room was spinning.
“I don’t think I want any breakfast,” she said weakly, and lay back down.
“No, no, Tsarinovna, get up, the others are waiting…” cried the serving woman in despair.
“I think I’m ill,” said Slava. She looked up, and saw that the ceiling was swinging back and forth. “No, I know I’m ill,” she continued, and closed her eyes to try to regain the strength that speaking had cost her.
“No, Tsarinovna, no, you can’t be ill…” said the serving woman desperately. Through her fever-sharpened ears, Slava heard her rush out of the room.
I can’t believe I’m ill, Slava said to herself, annoyed. Even the voice in her head sounded weak. Then, thinking back on the past few months, she corrected that to I can’t believe I’m ill NOW. Well, better here than the tundra.
After an indeterminate amount of time, the serving woman returned, with another woman whose clothes smelled of herbs.
“Feeling poorly, are we?” she asked, staring down at Slava with good-natured interest.
“I hope I’m the only one feeling poorly,” Slava said. She started to laugh at her own feeble joke, but had to stop when everything started to spin again.
“They say you’re a Tsarinovna. Is that true?” asked the herbwoman, putting her hand on Slava’s forehead. She had very kind, motherly hands, which made Slava feel better just by their touch. Unlike the serving woman, she did not appear to be frightened by Slava’s title at all.
“Yes,” said Slava.
“Are you often ill, Tsarinovna?” asked the herbwoman, peeling back one of Slava’s eyelids.
“No,” said Slava.
“How do you feel, Tsarinovna?” continued the herbwoman, feeling Slava’s chin and throat.
“Dizzy and tired,” Slava told her. “Everything’s spinning, and my head hurts.” She was going to say that she hardly had the strength to talk, but she thought the herbwoman might be able to guess that by the sound of her voice.
“Did you drink much last night, Tsarinovna?” asked the herbwoman, leaning over and pressing her ear into Slava’s chest.
“No,” said Slava.
“Did she?” the herbwoman asked the serving woman sharply.
“N-n-no,” said the serving woman. “No one brought her anything.”
“Could you be with child, Tsarinovna?” asked the herbwoman, feeling Slava’s stomach.
“Alas, no,” said Slava, and tried to smile to show it was a joke.
“You’re sure, Tsarinovna?” asked the herbwoman.
“Alas, yes,” said Slava. “I lead a quiet life.”
“And all those handsome men around you, too, Tsarinovna,” said the herbwoman, feeling Slava’s pulse. “When did you begin to feel ill?”
“Just now…when I woke up…I must have slept late, and then when I tried to get up, I felt so weak and dizzy…”
“But you felt fine last night, Tsarinovna? Did you sleep well?”
“I couldn’t sleep at first, but then I fell asleep, and I had the dream…” Slava’s mouth felt so weak it had trouble forming the words, and she couldn’t blame the herbwoman for suspecting her of drinking.