by E. P. Clark
“Is that…Is that Krasnograd?!” cried Vladislava, pointing at a golden dome glimmering dully in the distance.
“Yes,” said Slava. “That is the Empress Tower. It rises from the Empress’s quarters in the kremlin, and is the first thing that any traveler to Krasnograd sees.”
“And when will we see the rest of the city?!” demanded Vladislava.
“Soon enough,” said Slava, trying to sound soothing despite the rapid beating of her heart. All the calm of the morning was gone. It was strange, she thought to herself again, with what would have been a grin if she hadn’t felt so sick and her mind hadn’t been circling around and around with the fevered repetitiveness of fear, how quickly and unexpectedly her mind could change itself. Yesterday she had dreaded her arrival in Krasnograd as if it were some herald of doom, then at breakfast she had been so impatient to reach Krasnograd she had wanted to run all the way there, and now that she was here she just felt ill, and wished she could lie down in the sleigh and somehow disappear and end up somewhere else…perhaps Lesnograd…No, certainly not. What terrors could Krasnograd possibly offer that would be worse than what Slava had already faced this winter? She instantly regretted trying to comfort herself with that question. Surely, she told herself, a grown woman would know better than to ask a question like that, because worse terrors could always be imagined.
“Will we get to go over all the city this afternoon?” asked Vladislava, wriggling with excitement.
“It would take us more than a single afternoon to go over all the city, even in good weather,” Slava told her. “We’ll start exploring tomorrow, I promise.”
“Tomorrow!” cried Vladislava in disappointment.
“First you must see the kremlin,” Slava told her. “It will be well worth your time.”
“And have a bath,” said Olga. “And probably be introduced to the Empress, or some such thing.”
“Indeed,” said Slava. “I must announce Vladislava and her position immediately.”
“Will I get to meet the Empress?” asked Vladislava.
“Most likely,” said Slava.
“And…what do I do?” For a moment Vladislava’s usual expression of supreme self-confidence faltered.
“Bow down to your boot-tops, and say you are honored on behalf of yourself and your family,” said Slava.
“And then what?” asked Vladislava anxiously.
“And then go and stand beside me,” said Slava.
“Oh, that’s easy enough, then,” said Vladislava, her face clearing.
“Yes,” Slava agreed, trying to convince herself of it as well. “Easy enough.”
“Oh look! Is that the city walls?”
“Yes,” said Slava.
“And is that the gate?”
“One of them,” said Slava.
“Will there be guards?”
“No doubt,” said Slava.
“Real Krasnograders!” squealed Vladislava. “I’ve never met any before!”
“I’m a real Krasnograder,” Slava pointed out.
“You are? Oh, of course, but I meant real Krasnograders, not just a Tsarinovna,” explained Vladislava.
“Oh, of course,” said Olga, rolling her eyes.
Vladislava was about to say something angry in reply, but Slava smoothed over the difficulty by pointing out that her family was not, in fact, originally from Krasnograd but from Pristanograd, while most of the gateguards had had mothers in Krasnograd for twenty generations or more, and then they were riding up to the gate and had to end the conversation anyway.
The guards were not very keen to come out from under the gate and into the rain, and were questioning people in a rather perfunctory manner, but Olga’s party was large enough, and unusual enough, to merit special interest. The guards came out from their shelter and demanded to know who they were and what their purpose was in Krasnograd.
“Olga Vasilisovna Severnolesnaya, returning from the Midnight Land in the company of the Tsarinovna,” announced Olga grandly. Slava guessed that she had been running over in her mind what to say and how to say it all morning, and was hoping to produce an impressive effect.
“Where is the Tsarinovna?” demanded the guards, giving Olga a suspicious look.
“Right here,” said Olga, pointing to Slava, who was sitting beside her.
“I really am the Tsarinovna,” said Slava, rising from her seat. “Returned from the Midnight Land, just as Olga Vasilisovna says. And I would prefer not to stand around in this rain any longer than I have to.”
“Of course, Tsarinovna! Right away, Tsarinovna! Misha! Why are you standing around like a blockhead! Call the others, and then run and announce the Tsarinovna’s arrival this instant! Come under the gate, Tsarinovna! We’ll have an escort for you right away, Tsarinovna!”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” said Slava, foolishly. The guard shuddered in horror at the thought of her going through the streets of Krasnograd without an escort, and tried to argue with her without giving the appearance of arguing with her, so that Slava was forced to give in for the sake of his sanity, and they stood there blocking the gate for what seemed like a long time but was in fact not long at all, while an escort was assembled from the guards warming themselves in the guardhouse.
And very soon they had passed under the city walls, and were in Krasnograd itself (to Vladislava’s uncontainable delight), and driving through the muddy, slushy, icy spring streets. Slava’s heart was beating even faster than before, much to her annoyance, and she couldn’t slow it. She couldn’t tell how much of it was joy at being home, and how much was dread of her meeting with her sister and everything that that entailed.
“Is that it? Is that it?” Vladislava demanded at each turn, expecting to see the kremlin around every corner, and every time that Slava told her no, they still had a ways to go, she grew even more excited.
“There it is,” Slava was finally able to say. “That’s the bottom of the Empress Tower.”
“OH!!” screamed Vladislava.
“By all the gods!” said Olga, annoyed. “It’s just a tower!”
“Every true Zemnian heart loves the Krasnograd kremlin, noblewoman,” said one of the guards. “It’s only natural for the little princess to feel it.”
Olga looked like she wanted to say something in reply, probably something about conceited Krasnograders and their mistaken belief that they were the real Zem’, when everyone knew that the real Zem’ was in the far North, but she managed to restrain herself from emitting anything more than a sigh.
A guard of honor was waiting for them at the kremlin main gate, along with a crowd of curious onlookers. Slava could hear them speculating—as they bowed down to their boot-tops, just in case—over whether the Tsarinovna really was in the party, and deciding that if she was, then she must be the woman sitting next to the tall, redheaded noblewoman, and lamenting that their Tsarinovna wasn’t more noble-looking, and then an argument broke out over whether or not the Tsarinovna was a good Tsarinovna, and then mercifully they were past the crowd and being handed out of the sleighs and led inside the kremlin itself.
More guards were waiting for them inside, along with the Mistress of Ceremonies, who, unlike everyone else, recognized Slava at first glance and came rushing forward with cries of joy.
“Tsarinovna!” she exclaimed, bowing down so low Slava feared she might hurt herself. “Allow me to kiss your hem!” And, much to Slava’s embarrassment, she did in fact snatch up the hem of Slava’s dirty cloak and kiss it before Slava could stop her.
“I am delighted to see you, Yarmila Kseniyevna,” Slava told her, once she could get a word in edgewise. “And delighted beyond words, of course, to be back in my beloved native kremlin.”
This led to a lengthy string of pleasantries, which finally concluded in the serious business of who Slava’s companions were and where and how and for how long they should be housed.
“Olga Vasilisovna, younger daughter of Princess Severnolesnaya; her men; Yevdoksiy
a Anastasiyevna, our guide to the Midnight Land; and my new ward, Vladislava Vasilisovna, granddaughter to Princess Severnolesnaya and daughter to her heir.”
“A ward! You have taken on a ward, Tsarinovna? Oh, how marvelous!” cried Yarmila Kseniyevna, with apparent sincerity. “Welcome to Krasnograd, little princess!”
“I am honored to be here,” said Vladislava with quite respectable politeness, and even accompanied her words with a bow that was not at all bad.
“And so polite, too!” exclaimed Yarmila Kseniyevna, causing Vladislava to glow with pride. Slava wondered how often Vladislava had ever had occasion before to glow with pride over her own good behavior. Not often, she suspected. “We shall arrange a special room all for you, sweet little princess, right by the Tsarinovna’s chambers.”
“That sounds lovely,” said Vladislava. “Truly, your hospitality exceeds even the Tsarinovna’s kind descriptions of it.”
“And now, if you would be so kind as to lead us to someplace where we could refresh ourselves, Yarmila Kseniyevna,” said Slava, trying to speak loudly enough to cover up the sound of Olga choking with laughter over Vladislava’s unusually fair words. “I fear it has been a long hard journey, and the weather has been most unpleasant for days.”
“Oh, of course, Tsarinovna, of course, and the bathhouse is already heating, so your people will be able to bathe while we prepare their rooms…But meanwhile, Tsarinovna, your gracious sister, the Tsarina, is most anxious to see you, so if you come this way…Your people will be well cared for, I assure you…”
“Of course,” said Slava. “Where is my sister?”
“In the Hall of Council, of course, Tsarinovna, the Hall of Council, and many of her princesses are there with her, anxious to see you…And in fact, if Olga Vasilisovna would be so gracious, I’m sure the Tsarina will be anxious to see her as well, as would her sister princesses…Did you really go all the way to the Midnight Land?”
“We did, and all the way back, too, although the leshiye, bandits, and bad weather did their best to stop us,” said Olga cheerfully. Slava could tell she had intended to shock Yarmila Kseniyevna with her words, and was very pleased with herself for managing to do so.
“Leshiye! Bandits! The Empress—and the princesses—will be most anxious to hear your story, Olga Vasilisovna. This way, please.”
Olga gave a regretful backwards glance at the others, who were being led off in the direction of the bathhouse, but could not manage to refuse Yarmila Kseniyevna’s certainty in her own obedience, and so followed along behind Slava meekly enough.
“I wish we were cleaner,” she whispered to Slava, as they made their way down the corridors. “I wish we didn’t smell like we’d been driving in the rain for days.”
“It could be worse,” Slava whispered back. “We could smell like we’d been driving in the sun for days.”
“So true,” Olga agreed. “But it’s still a bit awkward, facing down an Empress and a whole pack of princesses in dirty traveling clothes. I almost wish I were wearing a gown right now.”
“Well, I’m wearing a gown—or what was once a gown, of sorts—and it isn’t bringing me much comfort,” Slava whispered to her. “But look at it this way: we’ll be facing down an Empress and a pack of pampered princesses in the clothes of real travelers and adventurers.”
“So true,” Olga agreed again, cheering up. “If they’re not impressed by our looks, that only shows they don’t know enough to know they should be. My head for beheading, half of them have never gone farther than their estates, and then only in good weather. They’ll probably even be secretly envious of our rough appearance.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” said Slava.
Their whispers were broken off by the sudden appearance of Boleslav Vlasiyevich, who came skidding around the corner and bowed breathlessly in a way that suggested he had run from wherever he had been in order to catch them before they entered the Hall of Council.
“Tsarinovna!” he cried, straightening up and taking a step towards her. “You returned!”
“As you see, Boleslav Vlasiyevich,” said Slava.
“You are…I mean, you are most welcome to Krasnograd, Tsarinovna, and we are all overjoyed at your safe return…should you not be going to your chambers?”
“The Tsarina is waiting, Boleslav Vlasiyevich,” said Yarmila Kseniyevna, giving him a stern look.
“The Tsarinovna has been travelling all morning in the rain,” said Boleslav Vlasiyevich. “Time can be found for her to change into dry clothes.”
Yarmila Kseniyevna began to swell up at that suggestion, and Boleslav Vlasiyevich’s temerity at offering it, so that Slava felt obliged to intervene before a quarrel could break out. She knew that Boleslav Vlasiyevich was not nearly so fearful of the kremlin functionaries as they felt he should be, and he tended to rub them the wrong way. It would be embarrassing to appear before her sister after her long journey with the sounds of squabbling surrounding her.
“I thank you for your gracious concern, Boleslav Vlasiyevich,” she said, forestalling whatever Yarmila Kseniyevna was about to say, “but I am not at all chilled, and I feel it my duty to greet my sister with all speed. Once I have greeted her and assured the comfort of my companions, there will be ample time for me to see to myself.”
“You’re soaked through, Tsarinovna!”
All the old feelings of pleasure at his obvious concern, annoyance at his assumption of the right to be concerned about her, puzzlement over his motives, and worry that he was playing some deep game against her, surfaced in Slava’s chest, and made her say more curtly than she would have liked, “My duty calls me, Boleslav Vlasiyevich.”
“Of course it does, Tsarinovna.” She thought he might be laughing at her a little bit, and also rolling his eyes. “Well,” he said with another bow, “at least allow me to escort you and your companions to the Hall of Council.”
“We thank you, Boleslav Vlasiyevich,” she said, and they started off again, this time with him in front. Olga was grinning and trying to catch Slava’s eye, but Slava staunchly ignored her, and soon they were drawing close to the Hall of Council and Olga was no longer in a mood for laughing.
The hum of conversation was audible even from outside the closed doors of the Hall of Council. Slava’s heart, which had calmed down during the initial greetings, began thumping painfully in her chest, despite her brave words. She knew that she was about to be stared at by many people, most of whom had always been happy to make her feel bad. Yarmila Kseniyevna opened the doors.
There was a noise like a strong wind in the forest as all the princesses turned to look as Slava and Olga came in. Even, Slava saw, her sister jumped to her feet as Slava came through the door.
“Slava!” she cried. “You have returned!”
Slava bowed.
“Oh, come here, come here!” Slava’s sister ran to the edge of her dais. For a moment Slava thought she was even going to step down, but she stopped herself and only held out her hands entreatingly. “Oh Slava, you’re back!”
Slava made her way uncertainly over to the dais and stood there awkwardly as her sister bent down and flung her arms around her, kissing her several times before pulling her up onto the dais and embracing her again. She was, Slava noted with shock, shedding genuine tears of joy. Slava had a hard time believing this was the same sister who had taken such pleasure in causing Slava’s public humiliation during the murderer’s trial. If she had gone tumbling down the Hall of Council like an acrobat at a celebration, her behavior could not have shocked Slava more.
“And you’re well?” she demanded, holding Slava out at arm’s length and examining her. “You’re well? How thin and tired you look! My apologies, sister: I’m sure it is to your honor. It must have been a long hard road. But you are well?”
“Perfectly well,” Slava assured her, having found her tongue. “And so is Olga Vasilisovna. Some of our companions suffered on the journey but, thank the gods, it seems they will recover completely.”
“The gods are good!” declared Slava’s sister fervently. “They bless our family daily! Here!” And she turned Slava to face the assembled princesses and held her out to her side at arm’s length, like a prize horse on show. “Princesses! Your Tsarinovna has returned from her perilous journey! Give her welcome!”
There was a frenzy of bowing and cheering. Some of it even seemed heartfelt. Slava stared down at them in a daze. Her sister let it go on for some time, before raising her hands and drawing an instant hush.
“And now,” she said, “let us hear her story. I know you must be tired from the road, dearest, most beloved sister, but please, if you would be so kind as to deign to give us a few words, the briefest of descriptions…”
“Truly, Olga Vasilisovna should be the one,” said Slava. “It was her journey, after all; I just followed along…” But she spoke too softly for anyone to pay her any attention, and her sister and all the princesses, and even Olga, who seemed perfectly happy to stand at the edge of the dais and be ignored, all stared at her in breathless anticipation until she found herself forced to speak in order not to disappoint them.
“After we set out, we travelled for many days with few difficulties,” she began. To her annoyance, she could hear her voice trembling with shyness. “We overnighted with Princess Malogornaya, who, who,” Slava could no longer contain herself, “who brings shame to the title ‘Princess!’”
There was a brief chorus of cries in agreement, before Slava’s sister held up her hands again and called for silence.
“But we were able to carry on unmolested, nonetheless,” Slava continued. “We…” She decided to skip over everything that had happened before they reached Naberezhnoye. There was no need to bring up her strange dreams and visions, or the warnings of Princess Primorskaya, just yet. “We arrived in Naberezhnoye unharmed,” she said after an awkward pause, “where we engaged the services of Yevdoksiya Anastasiyevna as a guide. She served us well, and has done us the honor of continuing with us to Krasnograd.”