Revolution and Rising

by Ripley Proserpina

  Her father nodded. “It is. No one in my family imagined a revolution, though it has been brewing since the time of my grandfather. They were so confident in their ability to quell dissent they placed the means for our overthrow in the very center of our subjects’ city.”

  Polya examined the walls and windows. Unlike the Imperial Palace, this one seemed to have fared better. Why hadn’t it been stormed and looted the way the palace had?

  “Do you think they’ve emptied it?” she asked Papa quietly.

  “No,” he answered, but then shrugged. “Perhaps. It will depend upon the loyalty of the guards. The armory is a secret among them. The reason this palace has not suffered the same fate as the Imperial Palace is because it is also the center of Konstantin’s bureaucracy.”

  Dara snorted. “Of course. Since every man and woman has been here at some point for licenses, permits, to pay taxes or fines, they believe they’ve seen its entirety. In this, at least, your family has shown some foresight.”

  “Very little,” Anatoliy mumbled and Polya smiled. She reached for her tail, remembering at the last second she was hiding it and smothered her smile. Panicked, she studied her surroundings to make sure no one had noticed her slip up.

  She couldn’t smile here, couldn’t risk holding her tail in her hands and stroking it against her lips to soothe herself, the way she always had. If she gave herself away, she gave away all of them. And that could mean their deaths.

  Most of the people on the streets bypassed the building, continuing on their way to their homes. “We have to be careful,” Polya whispered to Anatoliy. “We’ll draw attention to ourselves if we walk into the building. Look.” She gestured with her chin toward the steady stream of men and women shuffling through the slush.

  With a final squeeze, he released her hand to sidle closer to Dara. He said something to his friend, but it was too low for Polya to make out.

  They were close to the main entrance. Polya noticed the stone steps, the way they were worn smooth and rounded out from generations of men trudging up them. Her father stepped toward the stairs, but Dara made a sound and Papa stopped.

  Polya walked in the men’s wake, but her gaze remained glued to the entrance. Did men still go to work there?

  Were there people in Konstantin trying to keep up the facade of normalcy by returning, day after day, to an unneeded and unpaid position?

  Novo-Mikhailovsky ran parallel to the St. Svetleva River. Polya knew this, though she’d never seen it. She wondered if it was like the Imperial Palace.

  Long ago, she’d seen paintings and sketches of a celebration held on the river. Lanterns hung off of boats as they waited by a set of stairs that seemed to be built right into the river

  Footmen held out their hands to help ladies from the boats, but what Polya remembered were the lights. The bright stars in the royal blue sky, and the golden orbs held aloft as the ladies and lords reclined in their finery.

  Dara and her father moved ahead, but Anatoliy held back. He took her hand again, wrapping her fingers around his arm.

  “Dara knows a way in. A less obvious way.” His gaze cut to hers. When Polya didn’t answer, he smiled confusedly. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she answered, her fingers tightening where they held him. She didn’t want to distract him with her thoughts, but the fact was, as soon as he looked at her, she forgot everything but him. Nothing mattered except Anatoliy and his bright blue eyes.

  He was alive. For however long Polya had left on earth, she would be grateful for the miracle of his presence.

  Dara led the way now, sliding past people while Papa kept his head low and shoulders slouched. Polya kept her head down too, but Anatoliy had her firmly in his grasp. Trusting him to guide her, she kept her eyes on her feet.

  “We’re going to walk past Dara and your father,” Anatoliy said quietly. “Then we’ll turn around and come back.”

  Polya peered up and then back down at the ground. Papa and Dara had broken away from them and now strode confidently toward the palace. Their steps didn’t falter, but nothing about them seemed suspicious. At least to Polya’s eyes. They didn’t skulk or glance from side-to-side as if expecting to be stopped.

  Nervously, she watched Dara approached a small wooden door, knock and enter. Neither one of them glanced back before the door swung closed behind them.

  “Head down,” Anatoliy whispered, and she jerked her gaze to the cobblestones. The slush was soaking into the seams of her boots, and her feet squished with every step. Leaning a little heavier on Anatoliy’s arm, she wondered how much further they had to go.

  Her anxiety had filled her with energy when they’d stepped off the train. But now it was dragging at her, wearing her down. As if recognizing her fatigue made it worse, she stumbled.

  “Hold on, tiger girl.” Anatoliy wrapped his arm around her waist to support her, but grazed her injury. Hissing, she wrenched her body away from the pressure.

  Stupid!

  The man in front of her turned around, alarmed by the sound she’d made.

  The sound of an animal.

  It only took a moment for the stranger to recognize her. His gaze dropped to her lips pulled back from her teeth before he studied her face.

  “Tiger Princess?” he asked. He grinned, revealing a gummy, toothless mouth. His face was grimy, as if he spent his time shoveling coal into a furnace. Near his eyes were clean lines of skin. Whoever he was, he smiled often. “It is the Tiger Princess!” he yelled.

  The man threw up his arms, waving them about to get the attention of the people around them. “It is the Tiger Princess! Look here! She’s returned!”

  Anatoliy’s arms were steel for a moment, and then he dropped them. “When I say, ‘go,’ I want you to run,” he told her.

  “No.” Never. She would never leave him again.

  “Polya, please,” he said and Polya came to a full stop. She faced Anatoliy, taking his face between her hands. “No, Anatoliy. I will never leave you again.”

  A hand flashed past her, pulling her from Anatoliy. It was the man who called out. He gathered her hand to his face, raining kisses on the back of it. “Bless you. Bless you.”

  Of all the things Polya expected to happen, it wasn’t this. A crowd began to gather around her, all of them reaching for her, touching her. Her scarf was ripped off her head, not maliciously, but to better see her.

  Shocked, Polya stood still, allowing the people to touch her. Their hands skimmed her hair, her shoulders.

  “Careful!” Anatoliy’s command boomed over the hushed voices whispering their thanks to her. “She was injured,” he said when the whispers abated. “Please be careful.”

  Noises of upset rippled through the crowd, but their hands gentled and disappeared. Where was Anatoliy? His voice had been nearby, but she couldn’t see over the people. The crowd seemed to be ever-moving, shifting position, allowing new people to get close once they’d laid eyes on her.

  “Anatoliy?” she called out.

  “Make room,” someone said. “Make room for the man.”

  The crowd parted and Anatoliy slid through. His eyes were wild, and his jaw clenched tight. Everything about him was tense, but he smiled at the people who let him by. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you.” He sped up when he saw her, reaching out before they were close enough to touch. “Stay still,” he told her. It was as if they were the eye of a storm. The people moved around them, thanking her, telling her their stories.

  One story bled into the next, until it all became a blur. Every story became the same story, every face the same face. But the people’s affection was genuine. For now at least.

  Far off, a shrill whistle had Polya lifting her shoulders to her ears. It came again, and again, and the people around her began to whisper anxiously. “You have to go!” one exclaimed.

  “Go!” another whispered before they took off.

  Polya linked her fingers with Anatoliy’s. “What do we do?”

  “Co
me on!” A woman, red-cheeked and kind-eyed, touched Polya’s arm. “Bring your man and follow quickly.” She hurried into the crowd, glancing once over her shoulder to make sure Polya followed.

  The whistles were coming faster now, and from all directions. Feet pounded against the pavement, and a shrill yell sounded from the edge of the crowd.

  “Go!” Anatoliy told her, giving her a little push toward the woman. “Hurry!”

  Polya held onto him. She wouldn’t go anywhere without him. Grasping at her scarf, she attempted to pull it over her hair while she ran, but she shouldn’t have worried.

  Everyone was running. Everywhere was chaos.

  Ahead of her, someone screamed and like a flock of birds, the crowd veered in another direction. What was happening?

  Gunshots rang out, one after another, and Polya ducked. A man fell, not three lengths ahead of her with a grunt. Distracted, her gaze left the woman’s back, and when she glanced away from the still-form, she couldn’t find her.

  “There!” Anatoliy had surged in front of her. A break in the buildings appeared ahead. Another gunshot sounded, and someone cried out. She didn’t want to see, but instinctively she looked behind her.

  A mass of humanity ran behind her. Many of the faces were turned, like hers, to see what was coming, what was nipping at their heels.

  Her arm was yanked hard as Anatoliy dragged her into the dim alley. The gap was narrow, so tight that both Anatoly and Polya had to turn to the side. Her back scraped against one side, while her chest touched the other. If whoever was shooting found them here, there’d be no way to escape the bullets.

  Anatoliy moved like a flash. As quickly as the steep walls had blocked out the daylight, he’d hauled her out. Screams and cries still filled the air, but they were muffled now. A row of buildings stood between them and their attackers.

  “This way.” It was the woman, and she gestured to a building. A man peered from a doorway, then jerked his head back in. “Hurry.” Hands on her hips, the woman huffed, sucking in air.

  “Do we go?” she asked Anatoliy, who walked slowly toward the woman.

  “We don’t have a choice,” he said. “Where else do we go?”

  He held something in his hand, aimed toward the door.

  A gun.

  Polya growled. “I’ll go first.”

  Startled, Anatoliy glanced back at her. “You’re insane if you think I’m letting you go in first.” And with that, he stepped through the doorway into a dark kitchen.

  The woman stood, mopping her brow with a handkerchief. The door shut behind them quietly, and a voice asked low, “Did anyone follow you?”

  Polya had walked right past the man, and hadn’t seen him. Now, she faced him, angling her body between him and Anatoliy.

  “I don’t know,” Anatoliy answered. His grip was tight and unyielding. Despite Polya’s resistance, he moved around her, protecting her.

  She didn’t like this. It made her feel weak and worried. They were equals, she and Anatoliy. Neither one of them was more important than the other.

  Not true. She wasn’t more important than Anatoliy. It was tearing her up inside each time he put himself in danger because of her.

  “It is too late now, Misha,” the woman said. “There was no choice. Do you know who this girl is?”

  The man, Misha, sidestepped Anatoliy but came up short when Anatoliy lifted his revolver. “Don’t,” he warned.

  Misha held his hands up. “I won’t hurt her,” he said.

  Polya’s sight was beginning to adjust to the darkness, and she could make out the man squinting at her.

  “It’s the princess!” the woman said excitedly. “The Tiger Princess.”

  Face heating, Polya glanced at Anatoliy. But his gaze hadn’t left the man. He held the gun ready, and squeezed her hand.

  “The princess?” The man’s face went white. “And you brought her here? They’ll kill us, Mother. Before they kill her.”

  “Who will?” Anatoliy asked. “Who was that in the streets?”

  “That is the People’s Army,” the woman answered. A chair scraped against the floor as she pulled it away from the tiny table. She sat and sighed. “Murderers and thieves. They claim to want the best for the citizens of Konstantin, but anyone who disagrees with them disappears. We don’t know who they are.”

  “They keep their faces covered now,” Misha continued. “In the beginning, they didn’t. I recognized one of our neighbors. Doesn’t live in this neighborhood anymore so I couldn’t say if he was still part of it, but the first time they gathered, I saw him.”

  “What do they do?” Polya asked, though she had an idea. Like they had in the small towns around Konstantin, they raided and pillaged. They took what they wanted.

  “Create fear,” the woman answered. “Control the citizens through fear.”

  “To take want they want,” Misha said, and threw himself into a chair next to his mother. “They’ll be as bad as the king was.”

  “But now the princess is back.” The woman smiled at Polya. It was a smile of relief and hope, but it all it did was twist Polya’s stomach into knots. “And maybe the bear? Did he return with you?”

  The bear.

  “The bear did not survive the Hunt,” Anatoliy whispered. His voice made Polya want to latch onto him and never let go. The bear didn’t survive the Hunt, but Anatoliy did. He was alive. He was with her.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said, sadly. “We were so taken with him. After everything. But we are so glad you survived, Your Highness.”

  “Yes,” Misha answered. “And now you have returned to St. Svetleva. So, what will you do?”

  What was it her father had told her? Hold onto hope. The last two times she’d been recognized by people, she’d been offered care and shelter. There were still good people in Konstantin.

  But the mechanics of holding back the tide of a revolution? That was lost on her. She didn’t know where to start.

  “Innocent people are dying,” she began, and stopped. It sounded ridiculous, stating the obvious this way, but she didn’t know how else to start. “I don’t want anyone else to die.”

  Misha stared at her as if she was the silliest thing he’d ever seen. Here she was, a spoiled and pampered princess, stomping her foot because the world was too ugly and mean for her. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, ignoring the way the material of her dress dragged across her irritated back.

  “I’m not naive.” She defended herself to this stranger. “I saw what the world is capable of.” She wavered where she stood.

  “Polya.” Anatoliy pointed to a chair. “Sit, please.”

  Misha pushed a wobbly chair from beneath the table. “Please, Princess. Sit.” He studied her while she seated herself carefully, holding herself upright from the knobbed back. “It won’t collapse under your weight,” he added when it was clear that was how she’d stay.

  “She was injured, Misha,” his mother scolded. “Stop being rude. We appreciate you returning to the capital. Whatever help you can give, I’m sure will be welcome.” It was the sort of platitude a mother gave her child, kind but patronizing, though Polya was certain it wasn’t the woman’s intention.

  “How do you think I could best help the people of Konstantin?” Polya asked them. “You have a home here, and seem comfortable enough.”

  Misha shook his head. “There is no food in the city. The trains are running, but the People’s Army—they take the supplies before they can be distributed to grocers. Everything is sold on the black market now. Any money with the king’s face is worthless, so people are trading anything they can find. Most are desperate.”

  “Who is in charge of the People’s Army?” Anatoliy asked. “And the government?”

  “Laborers, mostly and some of those revolutionaries from Misurka Square. They tote around books by philosophers they’ve never read, pointing to it as the framework for a fair government,” the woman answered. “My boy is smarter than all of those fools.�
��

  “Mother.” Misha laughed, and his cheeks flamed.

  “Are you with the Army?” Anatoliy asked, moving in front of Polya so there was a barrier between her and Misha.

  “I am not,” he replied. “Though many of my neighbors are. It doesn’t matter that we grew up together and were friends. Everything has changed now.”

  Polya touched Anatoliy’s sleeve, and he glanced down at her. Whatever he saw on her face had him kneeling next to her. “What? Are you unwell?”

  Polya’s fangs dug into her lower lip as she worried it. Keeping her gaze on Anatoliy, she began to speak. “Do you think I could do any good by speaking to your neighbors?”

  “No,” Anatoliy answered at the same time as Misha’s mother. It didn’t pass her notice that Misha did not chime in.

  “No, dear,” the woman continued. “They’re young men full of heat and anger, and they don’t listen. I’m afraid they would see you as a threat.”

  “I will not risk it,” Anatoliy continued.

  “What if I told them about the Hunt, and Aleksandr’s cruelty not only to the people, but to his family? I could tell them about my father and Uncle Evgeny, how they killed him to stop him. I could tell them about your soldiers, Anatoliy. About what good men they were and how they gave their life trying to save a village full of strangers.” Polya’s voice caught, but she continued. “Lev has a wife somewhere in the city, and Boris had a son. All these men, these soldiers they are fighting, they have families.”

  “I don’t think they’ll care about all that, Polya,” Anatoliy said. “It is one thing to say these things in a telegram, but I won’t risk your safety by presenting you as a prize to a leaderless army.”

  The fight went out of her, exhaustion overtaking every muscle. She propped her elbow on the table and rested her head on her hand. Her back burned and itched, and her stomach clenched.

  “We need to go. Can you hold on a little longer?” Anatoliy asked. He studied her, gaze roving her face, and she nodded.

  “You should stay a little longer,” Misha announced. He pushed back his chair and limped toward the dirty window. He pushed aside the curtain and stared into the courtyard. “People are still inside for a reason. After the Army comes the marauders. You’re safe here for now.”