by E. P. Clark
“It is good that you reminded me,” Slava told her. “Prasha must be dealt with.”
“You’re not going to let her be Tsarina, are you?” Vladislava asked anxiously. “She’d be terrible, I’m sure!”
“I fear you are right,” said Slava. “I must think on this, and perhaps take council.”
“Which means no more questions from you!” Olga told Vladislava.
“Vladislava’s questions are always welcome,” said Slava. “Sometimes they lead straight to the heart of the matter—as in this case. But now you should rest.”
“I’ve had enough rest!” said Vladislava. “I’ve just spent more than a week locked inside a cell! I’m tired of rest!”
“In that case, take a pony and go riding,” Slava told her. “The park is no doubt ankle-deep in slop, but you could still stretch your legs a little.”
“Can I take a pony and go riding?” asked Olga, perking up and looking less fearful of Slava’s sudden elevation, now that she had spoken such sensible words.
“By all means,” said Slava, smiling. “All of you should go out, if you wish.”
“Maybe you should take a pony and go riding, too,” Olga suggested.
“I’m afraid I might throw up on its neck, poor thing,” said Slava. “All my morning sickness has just come rushing back, even though it’s afternoon.”
“Oh! Well, in that case, you should rest. You’re no doubt tired after your…exertions.” Olga suddenly seemed to remember everything Slava had just done, and fell back into confusion.
“Yes, and very hungry, too, in between the sickness,” said Slava with a smile, in order to dispell the confusion before it became awkwardly permanent. The thought of losing Olga’s good-humored affection was more than she could bear right now, or probably ever, but she knew that if she told Olga that directly, she would just embarrass Olga even more, so she held her tongue and satisfied herself with grinning and raising an eyebrow. Olga grinned back.
“I’m hungry too,” said Olga. “I don’t think I’ve had anything but stale black bread for days now.”
“It was so hard, we had to hold it in our mouths to soften it up before we could chew it,” Vladislava confided. “At first it was fun, but by the second meal it wasn’t so fun any more, although we tried to make a game out it. We also tried to make a game out of how often the guards would come, and when, and how often your sister would come see us.”
“She came to see you often, then?” Slava asked.
“Oh yes, every day, sometimes twice. She’d come and shout threats and so on at us, and then she’d get all upset and sometimes cry. She really hated us.”
“I see,” said Slava. She didn’t even feel that guilty that her first thought at this information was that it meant there were witnesses to Vladya’s craziness—not only Olga and Vladislava, who as witnesses were rather suspect (or so the princesses would think), but probably lots of guards as well. She thought of her sister making such scenes in front of the guards, and tried not to cringe. She asked herself how there had not been a rebellion before she had even arrived. Because the guards wouldn’t know how to rebel if you explained it to them in words of one syllable, she answered. And apparently the princesses didn’t know how to take action, either…And this was the empire she had inherited.
They came to a door that led out from between the walls to a small side corridor. “If you go down that way, you’ll come to some back stairs, which will take you to the kitchens, which open out onto the stable yard,” Slava told the others. “I’m sure if you tell the grooms you have my permission, they’ll let you take some ponies—horses, even.”
“I’m sure—Tsarina,” said Olga, giving her a slightly odd look. At first Slava thought it was because, of course, Olga knew the kremlin rather better than she did by now, having spent the past several weeks—before she was put in the dungeons, that is—exploring it, while Slava had merely been mooning about, fantasizing about futures that now would never come to pass, but then she realized that it was because she had said “I’m sure.” A Tsarina didn’t need to state something so painfully obvious. “I’m sure” implied that there was a possibility of doubt, and there could be no possibility of doubt in any of Slava’s statements, from this day forward.
“Enjoy your ride,” Slava said. “Rest yourselves after your bitter ordeal. And join me for supper this evening. We have much to talk of.”
“We will be honored, Tsarina,” said Olga, and shepherded Vladislava away. Dima followed, after giving Slava a glance that was both considering and sympathetic. Slava smiled in reply, and, after a moment, Dima smiled back, before turning and going after Olga and Vladislava.
When Slava arrived in her chambers, she discovered Masha, Manya, Anna Avdotyevna (Masha and Manya were cringing on the far side of the room from her), Yarmila Kseniyevna, and Boleslav Vlasiyevich (who had been relegated to a corner near the door, so that he wouldn’t dirty Slava’s carpet with his boots) all waiting for her in the front room.
“This is a fine gathering,” she remarked as she entered.
“Tsarina!” cried Anna Avdotyevna, and bowed down to her boot-tops. All the others hastily copied her, although, Slava noticed, they all looked more at the snow hare and the snow fox than at her as they did so. The snow hare and the snow fox quickly sized up the room, and made their way without any hesitation over to the fire, where they curled up on the floor in evident enjoyment of the warmth.
“Tsarina!” repeated Boleslav Vlasiyevich, coming out from his corner, in complete disregard of the state of his boots and her carpet. “Where is your escort! Why do you not have an escort!”
“I had an escort,” said Slava cheerfully. “But I sent them to go pony-riding, so I could return to my chambers in peace. A vain wish, I see.”
There was an awkward and unpleasant silence. Slava reminded herself that Tsarinas were generally advised not to joke, in case they confused their subjects. And she also remembered the leshaya’s words, and allowed the feelings that were pouring in all sides from those around her be transformed into what they needed to hear, and suddenly the right words came spilling out.
“Truly, Boleslav Vlasiyevich, your concern for my safety is commendable, but it so happened that I had to a walk a corridor on my own. But it is of no matter, I assure you. Today is a day of great changes, and we cannot expect all the ordinary patterns and protocols to be observed.”
“About that, Tsarinovn…Tsarina,” said Anna Avdotyevna and Yarmila Kseniyevna together.
“Yes?” said Slava.
A lengthy discussion on the advisability of her moving into her sister’s chambers followed. Anna Avdotyevna and Yarmila Kseniyevna argued that it was both right and proper that she should transfer to the Empress’s chambers as soon as possible. Whenever he could get a word in edgewise, which was rarely, Boleslav Vlasiyevich seconded their opinion, saying that the Imperial chambers were more easily guarded than the Tsarinovna’s rooms. Slava attempted to convince them that she preferred her own apartment, at least for the present, but, despite their excessively respectful language and their many bows, they seemed incapable of hearing a word she said, and Slava saw that though she could make them hear her, she would have to speak very strongly, too strongly for the present moment, to open their hearts and their ears, and decided to let the matter rest for the moment.
“What of my sister?” she finally asked instead.
“I beg your pardon, Tsarinovn…Tsarina?” said Anna Avdotyevna.
“What of my sister?” she repeated. “Where is she now? I would not cast her out of her own chambers without ensuring she has somewere to go. And who is attending to her? What state is she in?”
“She is in her chambers, Tsarina,” said Boleslav Vlasiyevich. “Valery Annovich and I brought her there ourselves, and left her in the care of two maids, a healer, and half-a-dozen guards.”
“And Valery Annovich?” Slava asked, temporarily diverted from the matter at hand by her curiosity over his fate.
&nbs
p; “I released him, Tsarina. I hope you are not displeased.”
“Not at all,” said Slava. “I merely wondered what had happened to him, that was all.”
“No doubt he has gone off in search of Serafimiya Svetlanovna,” said Boleslav Vlasiyevich. Slava thought she detected a slight eye-roll as he said it.
“No doubt!” said Yarmila Kseniyevna. “Poor thing, she’s been pining for him desperately ever since he left. It was so cruel of him to leave her like that…”
“In my opinion, he came back much too soon,” said Anna Avdotyevna sharply. “I saw the bruises on her neck—and the rest of her body.”
“And you did nothing about it?” cried Slava. “You just stood idly by with your arms folded, wondering how the story would end?”
“I believe your new Captain,” Anna Avdotyevna gave Boleslav Vlasiyevich a mistrustful glare, “attempted to reason with him, or rather, he battered him a few times in the practice yard, but of course it did no good, and we soon put a stop to it. Valery Annovich is son and husband to princesses. He deserves better than to be bruised and shamed by some…some peasant’s son.”
“Merchant’s; peasant’s sons don’t train with swords in boyhood,” said Boleslav Vlasiyevich, but only Slava seemed to hear, or to notice the sour look he gave Anna Avdotyevna. Slava had to resist the urge to slap herself in the face. Her reign was only a few hours old and already her councilors were at odds.
“Besides, every woman must learn to rule her own husband,” continued Anna Avdotyevna, warming to her theme. “Otherwise she will never be anything but a sniveling little girl. We are not Westerners, to let our men do what they please, simply because it pleases them.”
“But that is exactly what we do!” said Slava. “We raise them to be spoiled and vicious, like mistreated dogs, and then we set them upon our daughters and wait to see how things will turn out. It is unkind—no, it is wrong—for all parties. Serafimiya’s own mother would not step forward and save her…And now you…” She suddenly remembered that Boleslav Vlasiyevich was present, and that her words must give him pain, and stopped, but when her gaze inadvertently strayed his way, for once she could read him easily as he shrugged as if to say, “You’re right.”
“I see you take your princesses’ welfare to heart,” said Anna Avdotyevna. “That is a good thing, as long as it does not go too far. We cannot allow them to go soft, out of a misguided sense of pity. Boleslav Vlasiyevich! I command you to watch over him—and her. Neither of them can be trusted to look after their own good. But you are to not to lay a hand on Valery Annovich, do you understand?”
Boleslav Vlasiyevich looked at Slava.
“Anna Avdotyevna is right,” said Slava, calming herself as much as possible. “Watch over them, if you please, Boleslav Vlasiyevich, and, er, try to avoid doing anything to Valery Annovich unless he really, really deserves it. But above all let us keep an eye on them. I fear that neither of them can be trusted in this matter.”
“Or any other,” muttered Anna Avdotyevna, flaring her nostrils and pretending to ignore Boleslav Vlasiyevich’s amused look.
“No doubt you are correct,” agreed Slava. “But back to more important business”—she waited until they had all wrenched their minds away from contemplating the idiocy that was the romance between Serafimiya Svetlanovna and Valery Annovich—“where is Prasha?”
“I beg your pardon, Tsarinovn…Tsarina?” asked Anna Avdotyevna and Yarmila Kseniyevna together.
“My niece,” Slava explained. “Praskovya Vladislavovna Tsarinovna.”
“Tsarinovna no longer, Tsarina,” said Anna Avdotyevna.
“Exactly, Anna Avdotyevna,” said Slava. “Where is she? This has been a terrible day for her; I would not have her left alone and neglected. She should be given access to her mother. And I would speak with her myself.”
“Excuse me, Tsarina, but I must ask…” said Anna Avdotyevna. “Are you still…These recent trying events…Are your hopes…”
“Still intact, to the best of my knowledge,” Slava assured her.
“Thank the gods, Tsarina!”
“Yes,” said Slava, somewhat dryly. “But you see what this means for Prasha. At the moment she is still my heir, and therefore heir to the throne, but if I should…if all my hopes should be rewarded with an heir…”
“Surely the gods will send you a girl, Tsarina!”
“So they say,” said Slava. “But this is a terrible blow to Prasha.”
“Praskovya Vladislavovna was never meant to sit a throne of any size,” said Anna Avdotyevna decisively. Yarmila Kseniyevna and Boleslav Vlasiyevich both nodded in agreement, and then stopped guiltily.
“She has never, perhaps, shown those qualities one would hope for in a Tsarina…” said Slava. “But nonetheless this is a terrible blow to her. I would have her found and brought to her mother, and I will visit them both shortly.”
“It shall be done, Tsarina,” said Boleslav Vlasiyevich. He bowed and left. He seemed rather less upset about the day’s events than Slava would have expected, but why that would be so she could not say. Perhaps he had never had any particularly deep loyalty to her sister. She wondered how deep his loyalty to her would go, and wrenched her mind away from that painful thought.
“Meanwhile I would change,” she said instead. “These clothes have seen rather hard wear, and are not fit for a Tsarina.”
“Masha! Manya!” snapped Anna Avdotyevna. “What are you cowering there in the corner for! Go!”
Masha and Manya fled to the bedroom with the air of people fleeing a forest fire.
“The people will be wishing to see you, Tsarina,” said Yarmila Kseniyevna. “A public appearance…Perhaps an audience, and a feast…A proclamation to the square…”
“Tomorrow,” said Slava. “You are right, but let it be tomorrow. Today I will see my sister and my niece, and then I will sup with my companions in my chambers, and retire. It has been a long day.”
Yarmila Kseniyevna looked as if she were about to argue, but before she could get anything out, Anna Avdotyevna said briskly, “And quite rightly, Tsarina. Go change, and when you are ready to see your sister, I will make sure your niece is also there waiting for you. Come, Yarmila Kseniyevna: let us leave the Tsarina in peace. There is much to be done.” She put her hand on Yarmila Kseniyevna’s shoulder and ushered her out of the room in a way suggesting that any resistance was futile. Yarmila Kseniyevna, after a quick bewildered backwards glance at Slava, allowed herself to be led away.
Slava wondered with amusement how much of the governing of Zem’ had been accomplished by Anna Avdotyevna under her sister’s reign, and how much was likely to be accomplished under her own. Quite a lot, she suspected. She started over towards her bedroom. The snow hare and the snow fox leaped up and trotted after her.
We want to see our new quarters, the snow fox told her. We should ascertain whether they are fit lodgings for us, or if we need something a little finer. Perhaps you will have to move to the Imperial apartments after all.
I thought you lived in a den in the snow, Slava replied.
So? asked the fox. She darted ahead of Slava and into the bedroom. Masha and Manya shrieked.
“It is nothing; it is only my companion,” Slava assured them.
“Like a pet, Tsarinovn…Tsarina?” asked Manya, and turned bright red and bowed down to her boot-tops three times before Slava could stop her.
“Sort of,” said Slava. “They will be lodging with me, it seems.”
Feathers, said the snow fox, with a deep sigh of happiness, and leapt onto the bed and curled up on a pillow. Masha and Manya shrieked again and twitched in a way that suggested that their intense desire to protect Slava’s pillow was warring with their intense fear of the snow fox.
“She can sleep there,” said Slava.
Of course I can; who would dare stop me? said the snow fox, snuggling deeper into the pillow. The snow hare leapt up onto the bed and took a position on another pillow. It was a good thing, Slava though, th
at her bed had more pillows on it than any sane woman could ever possibly want or need. There would be enough for both her new companions, and to spare.
“Won’t they…won’t they…fight, Tsarina?” asked Manya, bowing nervously.
She means, won’t I try to eat the snow hare, explained the snow fox smugly, rejoicing in her own mental acuity.
She won’t, said the snow hare.
The snow hare is right, alas, said the snow fox. I won’t try to eat him. He is a brother, or something like that, so I can’t. Those of us in the gods’ service cannot do harm to each other. Well, not easily, anyway.
And if she tried, she would fail, added the snow hare.
The gods would stop her? asked Slava.
No, I would.
You think you would, said the snow fox.
“They won’t fight,” Slava assured Manya. “They’re in the service of the gods, and therefore must live in harmony.” She wasn’t entirely sure herself what that meant, but Masha and Manya seemed to find the words very wise and comforting, and so, nodding their heads sagely, they turned away from the bed and the animals luxuriating in it and to the important business of dressing Slava for her private audience with her sister (now presumably half-witted) and niece.
This turned out to be a complex process, with much agonizing on the part of Masha and Manya, and many disparaging comments about Slava’s current gown, which she had borrowed from her mother.
“It is a sanctuary robe,” Slava told them as they held it out at arm’s length and pursed their mouths disapprovingly. “It is not supposed to be fine. It is supposed to keep me from being naked. And riding in the arms of a leshaya has left it rather worn.”
“Yes, of course, Tsarinovn…Tsarina,” Masha bowed hastily, “but I think it should be…be…”
“Put to better use,” suggested Manya.
“The scullery maids always need more rags,” said Masha.
“Well…” said Slava. She knew that they were right and that she couldn’t go around wearing it, now that she was Tsarina, but the thought of turning her mother’s sanctuary robe into scullery rags seemed somehow indecent. “I would rather save it,” she said finally. “It has served me well, and on a day of great import. Set it aside and keep it safe.”