Revolution and Rising

by Ripley Proserpina

  The man shook his head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. That’s not how it works anymore. You found us.”

  Dara pointed his pistol at the man. “And we will leave.”

  The man stood his ground. “It doesn’t matter if you kill me. You’ve seen us. We can’t let you leave here to bring the government after us.”

  Thirty hammers on thirty rifles cocked, and then there was only the winter birds twittering in the trees and the wind moving through the branches. It caught her attention, distracting her from the soldiers, and she stared up at the cold winter sky.

  With a deep breath, her muscles bunched and she launched at the man. She grasped his shoulders, rolling with him to the ground, snarled and hissed in his face, and snapped her teeth an inch from his throat.

  His pulse hammered at his throat, and when he tried to speak the only sound he made was a wheezing moan.

  “We’re leaving here, do you understand?” Polya lifted her head, making sure every man holding a rifle on her saw her teeth. Her tail whipped behind her, slicing through the snow, an orange blur of motion. “Are you afraid?” She tilted her head to the side, and blinked the snow off her lashes.

  One man nearby dropped his rifle, scrambling in the snow to pick it up.

  Slowly, she stood, but the man beneath her stayed down. She stalked toward the man still fumbling to get his weapon into position. “Are you?”

  The man finally gave up, turning to dash through the woods. It didn’t matter to him that just moments before Polya was the prey.

  She leapt, landing on his back, and he screamed, a high-pitched terrified sound that somehow inspired the other men to cry out. “A demon!”

  “Help me!” the man beneath her cried.

  Polya roared. It was easy to tap into her anger. All she had to do was think about Anatoliy, about never seeing him again. Her roar shook the snow off the branches.

  Beneath her, the man bucked and twisted, his fingers clawing at the earth as he attempted to escape her.

  She lifted herself, just a little, and leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Run.”

  Like a shot, he took off, and he wasn’t the only one. Most of the former soldiers ran until the only people left were the babbling man on the ground and Lukas.

  Polya turned slowly, her head down, afraid of what she’d see on her soldiers’ faces. A gentle touch on her arm caused her to glance up.

  It was the soldier with Anatoliy’s eyes. “Well done.”

  11

  Waiting

  Anatoliy’s squadron triaged the men who’d intercepted them, but most of them were beyond the help they could give.

  “Do we leave them here?” the supplies officer asked.

  Anatoliy regarded the injured. “Cover them with blankets and make them as comfortable as possible. Their people will search for them, but we must move. I don’t want to face an entire town of armed citizens.”

  He nodded, and ran to do Anatoliy’s bidding. It didn’t take long for them to be ready to march again. As soon as they were in formation, Anatoliy whistled the command to move double time. He hoped the princes could keep up, especially Evgeny, who, while upright, remained pale and sick looking.

  There was no hiding a squadron of a hundred men. When Anatoliy was with his small team, men swept behind them, covering their tracks. He couldn’t do that now, especially when his main concern was putting distance between the soldiers and the town.

  A double-time march, while not a run, was still draining when the men carried heavy packs of supplies, and the horses hauled extra. Anatoliy watched for signs of exhaustion, and it wasn’t long before their panting drowned out the calls of birds.

  They wouldn’t be able to maintain the pace, but he pushed them as long as possible, driving them northward.

  Every so often, he allowed them to stop, catch their breath, and then they were off again. He hoped they could rest when they got to town, but he was afraid that they’d meet a similar group of townspeople.

  “Bogdan.” Anatoliy called the supplies officer to him. “I am taking a group to scout the town. Station men around the perimeter. I want them ready.”

  “Yes, Kapetan.”

  Anatoliy pointed to a few of the soldiers who looked the least exhausted, directing them to leave their packs and come with him. The wind picked up as they jogged toward the town, and for that, he was grateful. While these men tried their best, they were not stealthy. The roar of the wind covered the sound of splitting branches and shuffling through dead leaves.

  They emerged from the forest facing a snow-covered field. While it was not night, the sun was setting earlier and earlier. The lights beginning to shine in the distance showed the position of the town and the number of buildings.

  He and the soldiers skirted the edge of the field. They ducked past a barn, steam from the animals’ warm breath pouring out of the gaps meant to be windows. Someone was inside, a farmer and his son perhaps. They spoke about milking and feeding and nothing that would lead him to believe they were part of a militia stalking the forest for intruders.

  On the horizon was the small town. It was only a few buildings huddled together. The smoke from their chimneys curled into the air.

  Anatoliy and the soldiers walked quickly, hiding in shadows or around corners. Anatoliy watched for armed men, for signs the town was guarded, but there were none. The only tracks were those between neighbors or a house and barn.

  The town’s main road was a muddy path, rutted and grooved from feet and wagon wheels. Small cottages sat next to each other, their tiny plots of land separated by hand-hewn fences. There was a hand-drawn sign announcing a general store, but from the family illuminated in warm candlelight, it doubled as a home.

  The largest building in town was the privnaya, a watering hole for the townspeople. Often, these places served food and spirits. It would not do for his men.

  While Anatoliy wanted to give them down time, a hundred men with hangovers and no way to pay for beer was not an option. Deciding the town posed no threat, he and his scouts returned to the men.

  When they returned, the soldiers were relaxed on logs or leaned against trees. They’d taken off their packs, but stayed as close to formation as possible.

  When Bogdan saw him, he hurried to him. “Kapetan?”

  “Set up camp,” Anatoliy said. The man’s body sagged in relief. “This town poses no threat to us.”

  There was a collective groan of relief from the men as they went about setting up tents, starting fires, lighting cigarettes, and making themselves comfortable.

  Anatoliy and Bogdan observed the work, along with a few other of the higher ranking officers. Once the men were settled, the officers gathered together with the princes to eat and discuss what had happened earlier.

  Evgeny sat on a small stool, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, smoking a cigarette and staring into the flames of the fire. Pytor fed small sticks into the fire, and Anatoliy realized the prince hadn’t relied on anyone to help him. Again, Polya’s father surprised him.

  If Prince Pytor hadn’t forced Polya into the Hunt, Anatoliy would have admired him. As it was, his feelings about Pytor were beyond complicated. On the one hand, he saw a man who, while noble, wasn’t entitled. He walked with the men, offered them cigarettes, and spoke to them in a friendly, if distant manner.

  But he was also Polya’s father. The man who had broken her trust, and her heart. He’d allowed her to be put in harm’s way over and over, and why? To murder his brother? That made him mercenary in Anatoliy’s opinion.

  He was a man who could not be trusted, even if he had Polya’s eyes, and showed kindness unexpectedly, like now, when he handed his brother a mug of coffee and squeezed his shoulder in support.

  Anatoliy loved Polya. If not for the Hunt, and the machinations of Pytor and King Aleksandr, they wouldn’t have met. And he would rather the pain of living without Polya, than the emptiness he felt before she rescued him.

  He moved close enough to the fire
to feel its heat, and pushed his hat back on his head to rub his forehead. What did it say about him that he didn’t even care how he met Polya, only that he met her at all.

  Pytor edged closer to Evgeny, his lips moving, and though he tried, Anatoliy couldn’t make out what the prince was saying. The voices of the soldiers and the sounds of eating and drinking made it impossible. Evgeny shrugged, or nodded, or shook his head. Sometimes he offered a word or two, but that was it.

  The prince did not look well. His face was hollow with deep circles under his eyes while his broad chest and shoulders curled inward, like he was folding into himself. Anatoliy observed them, standing up straighter when Pytor stood, touched his brother’s lowered head, and crossed to Anatoliy.

  “He has no memory of shooting the man.” Pytor sighed, sat, and held his hands out to the fire. “Nor does he remember leaving camp this morning. He remembers going to bed, and he remembers the aftermath of the attack. That is all.”

  Across the flames, Evgeny lifted his cigarette to his mouth, inhaling slowly. He held the smoke in his lungs and blew it out.

  “Where is his pistol?”

  Pytor turned, watching him for a moment before facing the fire again. “I have it.”

  Anatoliy reached into his pack for hardtack. He bit, tearing it with his teeth before answering. “Good. I think it is best if he is unarmed for the moment. He will be safe with you and the men.”

  Pytor narrowed his eyes. The firelight flickered off his face, making the gold in his hair flash. He nodded. “I know.”

  “Can he make the journey, or should we find a place where he can recover? We could leave men with him for protection.”

  Pytor shook his head. “No. He’s fine. Or he will be. I wouldn’t leave him alone right now. Not just for his sake, Kapetan.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He is a brave man and a leader. Konstantin needs him.”

  Anatoliy didn’t answer. He did not care about Konstantin. He cared about someone slowing him down, and keeping him from Polya.

  “You look familiar.” The words had him glancing up quickly. He caught Pytor studying him intently. “Have I met you before? At parties? Your father perhaps? You are noble.”

  “I don’t believe you would know me,” Anatoliy answered. Pytor continued to stare at him, and Anatoliy faced the fire.

  “How old are you, Kapetan?”

  Anatoliy cleared his throat, and glanced at Polya’s father, raising an eyebrow. Surprisingly, the prince’s cheeks flushed.

  There was a loud bark of laughter behind him, and he swiveled in his seat, smiling at the relaxed faces of his soldiers. He sighed. “Twenty-four.”

  “Ah.” Prince Pytor smiled.

  “Why?”

  Pytor shrugged. “You hold yourself with confidence and you command respect. But in the firelight, you look very young. I wondered if you were close in age to my daughter.” As he uttered the word, the smile left his face. He put his face in his hands and then left them fall between his knees. “Did you… Were you one of the soldiers present when my daughter was poisoned? Did you know the bear?”

  Anatoliy curled his fingers into his fists and crossed his arms, shivering despite the heat from the flames. He nodded. “I was.”

  “And the bear?”

  “Anatoliy,” he whispered.

  “That’s right. She loved it. I could see. My tiger girl was wild. Of course she would tame a bear.” He chuckled, but the sound was without humor. He shook his head. “Do you think you can find her?”

  “I know I can.” Anatoliy had no doubt. No matter how long it took him, he would find Polya.

  “Good,” Prince Pytor whispered. “That’s good.” He stood up, peering again at Evgeny. “I’m going to our tent to make sure my brother gets some rest. He is looking peaked.” Pytor turned once more to Anatoliy, bowing his head slightly. “Goodnight, Kapetan.”

  “Goodnight, Your Highness,” Anatoliy answered.

  With a gentleness that belied the prince’s willingness to risk everything, he wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders and led him to the tent. Anatoliy watched until they disappeared into the darkness.

  But he remained by the fire, staring into the flames, reliving the moments when Polya flung her arms around his neck, stamped her foot and demanded her father call him, “Anatoliy.”

  She’s my tiger girl. What her father said was untrue. She was Anatoliy’s tiger girl.

  12

  Wishes and Curses

  When the darkness began to clear from Polya’s mind, it did not bring light. It brought awareness and emotion, all of the things she’d tried so hard to bury deep inside her.

  She couldn’t glance at the soldiers now without seeing Anatoliy. The one with his eyes, his name was Lev, and he was funny and kind. For some reason, he’d taken to walking at her side when Dara had to scout ahead.

  The others would close in around her without Dara saying a word. Boris. Ilia. Daniil. Pavil. Oleg. The two Marats—Tall Marat and Little Marat.

  With their names came a reality Polya wasn’t ready to embrace. She was alive, and she was fighting, whether she wanted to or not. Dara promised to bring her to Bishmyza, but once she’d left the babbling man and Lukas, his eyes fixed on her back like he was an arrow and she the target. Something had changed.

  It wasn’t until she and the soldiers stood, staring at the curling smoke of a distant town, that Polya could put her finger on it.

  The numbness was gone, and she was afraid. In her mind, she counted the bullet holes in the silken-papered wall back in Vaskova. Over and over she imagined a family facing an angry village.

  Mer Popov’s face was her father’s, his wife’s—her mother’s. And the servants and villagers who’d mown them down became the cook who crossed herself each time Polya met her in the long hallway.

  Lukas’s words echoed in her brain. Konstantin is changed.

  “There’s no right and wrong,” Polya said to herself, earning a glance from Dara.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, after gesturing to Little Marat and Lev to scout on either side of the town.

  “If Konstantin is at war with itself—if the people are rising up—they are not wrong to do so. They should not murder. There’s no justice met by murdering a boy.” Polya’s voice caught. For a second she could feel the fear of the little boy. Hadn’t she faced a firing squad not long ago? “No one will win. Do you have family, Dara?” she asked suddenly.

  “I do,” he answered quietly. “Mother. Father. Sister. They live in St. Svetleva.”

  Bishmyza’s yellow walls, hazy in her mind’s eye, shimmered and disappeared. “We should go to them.”

  “What?” His fingers fumbled with his gun before he righted it. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you should protect them. This is a revolution, and the innocent are fodder. Like Anatoliy.” Polya took a deep breath. “No one else should lose the people they love. Anatoliy would want you free to protect them.”

  Dara shook his head. “No. He’d want me to protect you.”

  Polya smiled. Maybe. Anatoliy put her safety ahead of his, but would he ask the same of Dara? She wasn’t sure. The one thing Anatoliy never was, was selfish.

  “The town has a telegraph.” Polya pointed at thick black wire running between stripped trees. “You should at least send them a message to let them know you’re alive.”

  Behind them, someone coughed quietly. Lev. “Dara,” he said. “We’ve found a squadron of soldiers. A few kilometers to the south. They seem to be coming from the Hunt. Little Marat recognized the prince.” Lev’s blue eyes cut to Polya, and it took her a moment to realize what he meant.

  “The prince. My father?”

  Lev nodded solemnly. “Yes. They aren’t trying to hide.” There was something else in his voice, a loaded note that Polya couldn’t identify but which spoke to more information. Information he didn’t want to share with Polya. Dara picked up on it as well.

  “Excuse us,” Dara whispe
red, and stepped aside to speak to Lev. Together, heads bent, they walked away. Polya turned back to the town, squinting at the edges, trying to make out the campfires or signs of an army. The wind blew, shaking the trees and blowing the newly fallen snow around Polya’s ankles.

  She closed her eyes and lifted her chin. The cold air raced along her throat, chilling her skin, and she shivered. The wind picked up, and she wrapped her arms around herself, pretending for a second it was Anatoliy’s massive paws.

  When he’d rest his chin on her shoulder, he’d huff into her ear, tickling her and raising gooseflesh on her skin.

  What do you wish for? It was as if the voice was carried on the wind.

  Father Stepan.

  For a brief second, she wondered if he’d made it out of the Hunt alive. Had he attached himself to her father or had he found another prince to whisper cruel suggestions to?

  Polya leaned her ear against her shoulder, rubbing the skin as if she could wipe away the voice, and as she did, she caught sight of Dara.

  He and Lev stood, staring at her, and Dara’s face, usually tan from the sun, was white as snow. She saw him as he must have been before he was scarred, the skin tones matching perfectly. What had he learned that had drained the blood from his face?

  “Dara?”

  He started forward, and stopped, as he if both wanted to come to her right away, and dreaded it. “Polya.”

  Instinctively, she hurried to him, gripped his elbows and stared up into his face. What was it? Her father? Were the soldiers hurting him? Had they risen up like the soldiers they’d just left in the woods behind them?

  “Polya,” Dara said again. “I have to go. Stay here with Lev. The others are coming with me to scout the squadron they found. I need to see something.”

  “I’ll go, too.”

  “No!” he answered too quickly. “Not yet. I’ll go first, and if—I’ll return quickly. I promise.”