Revolution and Rising

by Ripley Proserpina

  Anatoliy wasn’t so sure.

  Prince Pytor went on, ignoring his brother. “There are many who would step into the vacuum left by our brother. If they see Polya as a threat, they will try to eliminate her. The king’s death is an opportunity for Konstantin. We can rise up, or we can collapse.”

  Pytor walked to a nearby table, picked up Anatoliy’s service pistol and held it out to him. “You are an officer of Konstantin, bound to the oath you swore when you accepted that commission. Will you uphold it now?”

  Anatoliy reached for his weapon, sliding it into his holster. He placed his hand over his heart and bowed to the prince. “I will uphold my oath to Konstantin, and I would protect the princess with my life.”

  5

  Lukas

  Dara’s men slept in shifts. They walked around the cabin then sat by the door, smoking. Then they got up, walked around the cabin again, sat by the door, and smoked another cigarette. The other soldiers slept, some sprawled on the floor, some upright against the walls.

  Every night, Polya pretended to sleep, but really, she watched the soldiers. She watched the white smoke from their cigarettes curl toward the dark sky. She listened to them talk in low voices if there were two on watch. She pretended they were Anatoliy.

  Because they were the closest thing she had to him.

  They knew him. He was their Kapetan before he was her bear. Polya couldn’t bring herself to ask about him as the days passed, though. Instead, she found herself listening to some of what the soldiers said. Their voices began to take on unique shapes, rather than an insistent hum of noise.

  “You need to sleep, Princess.”

  Polya turned away from the window to see Dara sitting cross-legged next to her. She shook her head. “Not sleepy.”

  Dara reached out a finger, as if to touch her face, and Polya jerked away. His fingers curled into his hand before he pointed under his eyes. “Here. I can see your body needs it.”

  Her body might, but her mind couldn’t handle it. If she fell asleep, she would dream, and if she dreamed, it would be of Anatoliy. Of his blue eyes. Of the weight of his head on her shoulder. Of the chuffing noise he made when she amused or annoyed him. No. She couldn’t sleep.

  “What do you want us to do, Princess?”

  Polya shook her head. “I’m not your leader, Dara, but I think you should go home to your families.”

  Dara stared over her head, out the window. “The king is dead.”

  Another crack appeared in her heart, and she sucked in a breath of cold night air, trying to freeze it over. He had murdered Anatoliy. The king’s death had come too late. “Did you bury Anatoliy?” Polya’s voice broke, but she went on. “Like you told my uncle you would. Did you take care of him?”

  He looked down at his hands and shook his head. “I went back. Anatoliy was gone. They must have taken him away.”

  Polya choked, covering her mouth with her hand. She didn’t think she had tears left, but the idea of someone returning for Anatoliy’s body, for her beautiful, broken bear, was too much. Did one of her uncles take him? A trophy? Would they stuff and pose him?

  Polya let out a sob, turning her face to the floor and stuffing her fist in her mouth. She bit down hard, trying with all her might to keep inside the roar that wanted to escape. Her fangs sunk into her skin and the metallic taste of her blood filled her mouth.

  She wanted that hurt, needed it. So she stayed like that, face down in her blankets until she heard Dara cross to the door to begin his own watch. Then she turned her face to the wall, staring at the wood until she could no longer keep her eyes open.

  “I granted your wish.”

  The man who held her smiled down at her. His hair was a deep red, gleaming like fire, and his eyes were golden. His skin was pale, but his cheeks were tinted pink, flushed from the warmth of the ballroom and dancing.

  Polya gazed over his shoulder, watching the people swirl and dip around her. He was distracting her. Someone would arrive soon.

  “Do you think you’ll know him when you see him?”

  “Of course,” she snapped. The man laughed, though his hand tightened on her waist.

  The music stopped and they broke apart. Polya curtsied quickly, perfunctorily, waiting for the man to bow. He did, and then nodded at something. “I believe he’s arrived.”

  Polya turned. “There you are,” she cried, hurrying toward the young man framed in the arched and gilded doorway.

  “I’m sorry, tiger girl.” His blue eyes twinkled, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  Polya opened her eyes to the gray light. Something teased the edge of her consciousness, but as hard as she tried to hold onto the thread, it slipped through her fingers. It took too much energy, so she let it go, but it left her incomplete. More so than usual.

  “We’re walking today, Princess.” A brown scarred hand appeared near her, but she ignored it, and pushed herself to her feet.

  Dara handed her a piece of dried meat, and she tore into it hungrily.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, not meeting his stare.

  Dara was silent until she flicked her gaze to him. A small, sad smile turned his lips upward, and he nodded. “Ready?”

  Polya nodded. The other soldiers waited patiently, their packs on their backs and rifles held ready. Dara’s squadron traveled on foot, surrounding her on all sides. There were few chances to talk. The men seemed to communicate with grunts or hand-signals.

  The days stayed colder now, and the snow didn’t melt with the rising sun. It muffled their footsteps. The only sign of their presence was the white puff of their breath in the air.

  Polya stared at her feet or at the gray coat of the man in front of her. She kept her arms crossed, fingers curled under them. How did the men continue to hold their rifles? The metal must be freezing.

  Earlier, she’d noticed the ends of their gloves cut off, exposing their fingertips, but they held their weapons ready, and not a word of complaint left their lips.

  The man in front of her stopped suddenly, and Polya stumbled, trying not to knock him over, but a hand on her arm steadied her. When she glanced over, the soldier gave her a quick smile and dropped his grip. Even their breathing grew quieter as the lead soldier listened to whatever it was that made him pull up short.

  Polya heard it, too. It was the busy sounds that filtered along the fringes of a town or village. For so long they’d traveled without seeing anything except the odd cabin or lean-to.

  Dara kept them away from people, and Polya never stopped to wonder why. She wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since Anatoliy’s death. It could have been days or weeks, there was nothing that distinguished the time. Her pain hadn’t lessened, so that was no determinate.

  Polya studied the woods, wondering if she would be able to identify the forests near Breszelo, the town near her family’s summer home, Bishmyza. She found nothing familiar.

  The group split suddenly, and the man who’d steadied her earlier got her attention again, indicating she should follow him. She glanced back to see Dara with a small group of soldiers, heading in the direction of the noise.

  Some of the other soldiers stayed with her, but one of them backtracked, sweeping the ground behind them, eliminating their presence.

  “Sit,” another one said, gesturing to a fallen tree.

  Polya settled herself onto the trunk, exhaustion overtaking her. She wasn’t out of breath, but her entire being was tired. Her skin pressed down on her bones, and she felt heavy, like she could sink through the wood and into the ground until the forest covered her.

  Someone handed her a canteen, and though she wasn’t thirsty, she drank. It was easier to go along than argue. Arguing meant caring, and she didn’t. She handed the canteen back to its owner, unthinkingly looking up into his face. The soldier was young, with bright blue eyes that reminded her of Anatoliy’s.

  These were his men. If she watched them closely, she would probably see Anatol
iy in each of them. How much had he taught them? Was their silence in the forest his instruction? Did they hold their weapons the same as he would have?

  Polya shook her head. Such thoughts tested the ice around her heart.

  Around her, the men suddenly brought their rifles to their shoulders. Simultaneously, she heard the snick and click of bullets loaded, ready to fire. The young soldier pushed at Polya, forcing her to slide onto the ground. He moved his body in front of hers, shielding her from whatever it was that had them ready to fight.

  All at once, the forest seemed to crack and snap. One man emerged, and then another and another. They all held weapons trained on her soldiers.

  But these new men were not soldiers. They wore civilian clothes, and they were all ages, some middle-aged, like Polya’s father, and others creased and lined, old enough to be grandparents. There were also young people. A boy holding a gun was so young his weapon seemed as long as he was tall.

  How dare these people threaten her soldiers? Her tail slapped the ground, a flash of orange from the corner of her eye that caused the snow to erupt in a puff of white.

  The young boy’s eyes trained on her and widened. He dropped his rifle and pointed. “It’s the princess!”

  The other men swung their rifles in her direction then lowered them. Twenty pairs of eyes landed their gazes on her tail, and then twenty rifles lowered.

  The men, as one, went on bended knee, their heads bowing. They took off the hats they wore and stared at the forest floor.

  Her soldiers mirrored her confusion. When she met the gaze of the young man with Anatoliy’s eyes, he shrugged before training his attention back on the civilians.

  The noise from the village grew louder, surrounding both the men and the soldiers. For a moment, Polya wondered if they had somehow backtracked into town, but a second later she realized the town had come to them. Person after person spilled into the forest. Men, women, children… goats. All of them, save the goats, red-cheeked and out of breath. Polya’s soldier lifted his rifle to his shoulder, and the other soldiers followed suit, until one-by-one the villagers kneeled in the snow. Some of them made the sign of the cross, reminding Polya of the housekeeper and cook who called her a demon. Behind the villagers, pushing them out of the way, came Dara and his men. They took in the scene, wide-eyed.

  Slowly, the words the villagers spoke became clearer.

  “Bless you, Your Highness.”

  “You saved us.”

  “Thank you.”

  Over and over, different words with the same sentiment. An old man crawled forward on his knees, reaching for Polya.

  “Halt,” her soldier told him, but the other villagers, seeing the old man, began to follow suit. The children tripped over each other, running at Polya and when they came close, reached for her skirt or shawl.

  The soldiers surrounded her quickly. Dara barked out orders that became increasingly difficult to hear over the sea of people.

  “Stop!” a voice cried out, and amazingly, the people listened. The sudden lack of sound was jarring.

  A man pushed through the tangle of arms and legs, emerging breathless in front of Polya. He dropped to his knees inches from the rifle aimed at him.

  “Forgive us, Your Highness. We’re your subjects, just… overwhelmed by the honor you show us by visiting our town.”

  Polya waited for someone to correct him. She had no subjects. She bestowed no honors.

  Yet no one spoke.

  Polya glanced at Dara, searching for help, but he offered none. “I’m sorry, sir. I think you have mistaken me for someone else.”

  The man glanced up and Polya caught her breath. His face was familiar, though she couldn’t place it. His hair was dark, and his eyes brown, but somehow they captured her own. As much as she’d have liked, she couldn’t look away.

  “Princess Polya,” the man clarified, proving to Polya he knew who she was. “You defied the king and tamed the bear. Because of you, we are embracing our destinies.”

  Polya reached for her tail, holding it tightly in her hands. There was a collective gasp and the noise grew again. Whisper after whisper passed along like a building wave of sound.

  The sign of the cross was made over and over again, and still the people stayed on their knees in the snow.

  “Please,” she finally offered, “stand up. You shouldn’t kneel before me. I’m not your leader.”

  “You honor us,” the man repeated, standing slowly. The rest of the village followed suit.

  Polya couldn’t see where the mass of people stopped. Had the whole village found her?

  “My name is Lukas Vronsky. Please, will you let us feed and shelter you for the night? We have wrested control of our village from the king’s men, and can promise you it’s safe.”

  Polya waited for Dara to speak, but he appeared as flummoxed as she.

  “Thank you,” she told him, when it became clear she was on her own. “But I am anxious to get home.”

  “You won’t make progress in this weather,” Lukas said, and for the first time, Polya noticed the rapidly falling snow and sudden drop in temperature. “Please let us give you a hot meal. Your soldiers can rest before you continue.”

  All she felt was the pain of Anatoliy’s loss. Her worry had been to get home. Not concern for the men protecting her. But Dara’s men had been in the field as long as she and Anatoliy. Perhaps longer, as they were the group that traveled with him when he’d been under the king’s thumb. When had they had a moment to rest, to sleep uninterrupted?

  “The men could use a rest,” Polya replied softly.

  Dara glanced at her quickly, shaking his head to disagree and Polya narrowed her eyes at him. Now he had an opinion? Well, it was too late for that. He was going to eat soup and have someone’s grandmother fuss over him and that was that.

  Her tail twitched in her hands, and she let it go.

  Lukas smiled widely and clapped his hands. “She’s coming!” he called out, and the village immediately cheered.

  Villagers wrapped their arms around the blue-eyed soldier, leading him through the forest. He peered over his shoulder at her in confusion, but she smiled. She was doing the right thing. The men needed rest. They could sleep here, and then in the morning, they could continue to Bishmyza.

  6

  Mer Popov of Vaskova

  Polya waited for the villagers to leave before following in their wake. She moved slowly, watching as the soldiers were clapped on the shoulder or offered a cigarette or flask. Some of them looked back at her, uncomfortably. Dara stayed with her.

  “I apologize, Princess. They started up the hill before we were even close to the village.”

  “We have look-outs,” Lukas interrupted. The villagers flowed around him like he was a rock in a stream. “They recognized the princess.”

  Polya pressed her lips together and reached for her tail. A tremor ran through her body. Had she made the wrong decision and put them all in harm’s way?

  “Why do you have lookouts?” Dara asked.

  “We’re waiting for the government forces.” Lukas glanced at Polya and blushed. “We never expected to find the princess.”

  Dara raised an eyebrow. “Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice that we are government forces?”

  “Yes,” Lukas said. “But you are the ones who tried to help her when she was poisoned. If she travels with you willingly then we trust you.”

  “That is naïve—and dangerous.”

  “We aren’t soldiers.” Lukas shrugged. “We only have our instincts.”

  The three of them emerged from the forest and came to the edge of the village. It appeared to have been built into the hillside, with the farms on the outside and smaller houses in the center.

  The wooden buildings were rough, but had bright spots of colors. Most had bright blue shutters or doors. Some were bordered by small wooden fences, saplings balanced and crisscrossed to keep in the livestock. The roads were muddy, all converging into one lane that le
d to an onion-domed, whitewashed church. The next largest building was a stone house, painted a bright white, with huge columns leading to a gilded entrance.

  The disparity between the church, the house, and the rest of the village was pronounced. Polya paused, gaze sweeping over the hillside. As the line of people walked toward the stone house she made an inarticulate sound of confusion.

  “That was the mayor’s house, but Mer Popov was removed by the townspeople.”

  Polya never heard of such a thing. The governors were appointed by dukes or barons. Then the governor appointed the mayor. The villagers were all serfs, at the mercy of the mayor and governor, and ultimately, the lords. They most certainly did not remove a mayor appointed by their lord.

  “How is such a thing possible?” Dara stopped, eyeing Lukas with distrust. He moved his finger closer to the trigger on his rifle.

  Lukas’s gaze trailed from Dara’s face to his finger, and he held up his hands. “How is it possible,” he asked, refocusing on Dara, “that you have come to have the princess in your care? Why is she not with the prince? Or the bear? Where is the bear?”

  “The bear is—”

  “I was promised safe passage to my home,” Polya interrupted. “The soldiers are accompanying me. There was chaos”—Anatoliy’s lifeless body flashed through her mind and she drew in a sharp breath—“after the Hunt. They are helping me.”

  Lukas studied her carefully, as if he wanted to ask more questions but thought better of it. “Mer Popov,” he said, lip curling as he spoke the name, “was nothing but cruel and tyrannical. We had little food, and less safety. Your bravery inspired us, Your Highness. We will not be held under the thumb of men who rule for no other reason than the luck of their birth.”

  They arrived at the mayor’s home. Up close it was even more grandiose and ornate. The columns were topped with carvings of leaves and grapes, and edges of the windows and doors were gilded.

  Lukas led them up the steps, gesturing to the entrance as if he was mayor himself. As she stepped inside, Polya gasped. The house was in ruins.