The Fallen Queen

by Jane Kindred

  four again where Aeval cannot reach, and yet she reaches, she cuts

  again. Then you come. She cannot sever this one. This cord is strong.

  You take the flower of the fern.”

  I clutched at the buried locket. My extremities were growing

  numb from the cold.

  “Did you spin the cord of my brother, also? And the Tsarevich

  Alexei? Were those cords cut short by Aeval?”

  The syla looked at one another and shrugged.

  “You must know! Was my brother’s cord cut short? Do you know

  where he is?”

  The wind whipped up and wailed across the rooftop. The gust

  took the syla into the air, where they swirled like a swarm of white

  bees, then scattered in the night.

  “Nazkia! What are you doing?” Vasily hurried toward me from

  the dacha path. He grabbed me from the stool and I collapsed in his

  arms, my feet too frozen to hold me. He swept me up and ran into

  the dacha where he peeled off my damp clothes on the bearskin rug

  before the fire and spat the waning flames to life. The fire blazed with the fuel of his emotion while he rubbed at my numb limbs. Feeling

  began to return to them.

  He warmed my face with his firespirit hands. “What were you

  doing out there?”

  “Th-thinking. I needed fresh air.”

  Vasily scowled. “Next time you need fresh air it had better be

  spring.”

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  “Do you think—?” I gasped at the ache in my fingers as the icy

  numbness melted away. “In the book—it said they never found her

  bones.”

  “Whose bones?”

  “Anastasia’s. Do you think she escaped?”

  Vasily paused in trying to warm my skin and brushed my damp

  curls from my eyes. “Does it matter?”

  “Do I matter?”

  “Of course you matter.” He kissed me fiercely, then shook his

  head. “You have to stop thinking about her. About them. It will drive you mad.” He pressed his hand against my cheek, his palm so broad

  it cupped my jaw. “And no, I don’t think she escaped.” His gruff voice was a soft whisper. “I remember reading in the paper a few years ago…

  they found the bones. The last grand duchess’ and the boy’s. They’re all accounted for, and they’re buried in St. Petersburg.”

  I wept anew, for a family I’d never known, and Vasily cradled me

  in his arms until I slept.

  §

  I awoke late with the sun, wrapped in Vasily’s limbs on the

  bearskin rug.

  When I lifted my head from his chest, Vasily smiled at me. “Hello,

  sleepyhead. Not much daylight today. But the days will be getting

  longer again. Yesterday was the solstice.”

  Resting my chin on my folded arms against Vasily’s chest, I stared

  into the fire. “Yesterday was my birthday.”

  He smiled. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have made you a

  feast.”

  I shrugged, remembering my last birthday and how simple

  everything had been. My greatest concern that day had been a tantrum

  because no one would ride with me through the snow.

  “How old are you?” Vasily asked.

  “Eighteen.”

  He paused while tucking my curls behind my ear. “Bozhe moi.”

  I knew this meant “my God.” It was a silly phrase coming from an

  inhabitant of Heaven, and particularly from a demon. “You told me

  before. That you were only seventeen. I can’t believe I forgot.”

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  “What difference does it make?”

  Vasily smiled and almost blushed. “Since I’m a demon taking

  advantage of an angel? None, I suppose. If damnation were possible,

  I’d have already earned mine.”

  Rolling onto my side, I kissed him and propped my head on my

  hand to study him. “It’s not as if you forced me, Vasily. If anything, I seduced you.”

  “That’s true. You little trollop.” He winked, and I pinched his arm.

  When he drew up on his elbow, his expression turned serious, and

  my stomach tightened. “Nazkia, you need to know something. I love

  Belphagor.” He spoke the words as if he were breaking my heart.

  I almost laughed. “I know you do.”

  “You understand, then?” He was visibly relieved. “That what we

  have is… that I’m not…”

  “That you don’t love me?”

  Frowning, he reached out to stop the tear sliding down my cheek.

  “You’re very dear to me.”

  I tried to smile at him. “It’s not that I want to be something more.

  I just… feel very alone.”

  Vasily drew me against his chest. “You are never alone. I—” He

  paused at the sound of a knock on the door. Hope leapt into his hazel

  eyes, but I grabbed his arm, gripped with fear.

  Before either of us could respond, the door swung open. I tugged

  the undershirt down over my legs and Vasily jumped up, ready to

  defend us. Both of us gaped at the cheerful greeting from the traveler who’d shared our train from Vologda. Knud glanced at our lack of

  attire before unloading an armful of packages on the kitchen table.

  Vasily wrapped a blanket around his waist. “What in hell are you

  doing here?”

  “Belphagor sent me.” The gypsy spoke in the angelic tongue. He

  looked me over, and I pulled the other blanket up to my shoulders. “I

  gather you’re not his nephew after all.”

  §

  After Vasily and I had properly dressed, we returned downstairs

  to find tea laid out.

  “I apologize for deceiving you the first time we met.” Knud

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  poured the tea while we sat around the table. “Belphagor arranged to

  meet me before you left Vologda without knowing I was the contact.

  The Romani underground wanted to know more about you, so they

  sent me on ahead.”

  “Romani?” My pulse quickened at the sound of this word, and I

  wondered if it had something to do with the imperial family.

  “The Roma—gypsies.” Knud held the spoon over my teacup.

  “Sugar?” When I nodded, he dumped in two teaspoonfuls. He smiled

  at me and reached for Vasily’s cup. “That was a fine disguise, by the

  way. I honestly believed you were a boy. Belphagor didn’t bother to

  tell me any different.”

  Vasily snatched the spoon from Knud’s hand and sweetened his

  own tea. “What did Belphagor bother to tell you?”

  “He told me he wanted me to get him into Kresty.”

  Vasily slammed the spoon down. “The fuck he did.”

  I looked from one to the other. “What’s Kresty?”

  Knud hovered with the creamer in his hand, and Vasily gave him

  a threatening look until he set it down. “It’s a prison.”

  “It’s hell,” Vasily said with a growl. “And I swear I’m going to tear

  your tongue out if you don’t sit the fuck down and start telling the

  truth.”

  Knud sat, poured milk into his tea, and stirred it. “Ya govoryu

  vam pravdu. ” I am telling you the truth. I was surprised to realize I understood him.

  “I thought you didn’t speak Russian,” said Vasily in the same

  tongue.

  “And I thought your girlfriend had a penis. But maybe you did,

  too.”

  I ch
oked on my tea.

  Vasily patted me on the back before replying with a phrase I could

  not make out: “Tebya ne ebut, ty ne podmakhivai.” He looked across the table at me and sipped his tea. “Nastya speaks a little Russian now,”

  he said, apparently assigning me a new alias to be used with Knud.

  Knud continued in the angelic tongue. “Belphagor wanted to

  negotiate with the Seraphim. He felt prison was the only safe place.”

  “The Seraphim?” I felt sick. “Why?”

  170 JANE KINDRED

  Knud spooned sugar into his tea. “He had what they wanted.

  Some kind of angelic ring. He thought they’d be willing to pay a great deal for it.”

  My fingers tightened around the handle of my teacup, and my

  stomach rolled with the grim recollection. In The Brimstone, before

  my world fell apart, I’d offered my ring to the demon to win back my

  crystal. He’d had it all this time.

  The gypsy seemed oblivious to my churning thoughts. “He told me

  to give you a message.” Knud pulled a piece of paper from his pocket

  and read: “‘There’s been a small hitch, but my parlay is proceeding

  with confidence. I’ll do my best to see that Malchik’s position remains secure, and with any luck, we can all retire like principalities.’”

  Vasily gave me a look I could not interpret. “Which malchik?”

  The gypsy squinted at him. “Come again?”

  Vasily reddened and took the note from Knud to peruse it.

  “Capital M.” He glanced at me. “He means you. So where is Bel now?”

  “In Elysium, I expect,” said Knud. “The Seraphim agreed to his

  terms. He was on his way to take the ring to the queen when I saw

  him last.”

  “The queen?” My heart sank. “What queen?”

  “Queen Aeval, the wife of the new principality.”

  This was also something I’d suspected, but it made my stomach

  turn to hear it. I set down the sweet bulochka. I heard Kae’s voice in my head —Because I will rule the Heavens— and felt again the steel of his sword ripping out of me, spilling blood into my throat. I ran to the washroom and retched as if from the pit of my soul.

  When the syla had told me of their lost Queen Aeval, I knew she

  must have been the Lady my cousin was seeing in secret before he lost

  his mind and slaughtered us. Because I can.

  I had nothing left to vomit, but I convulsed again over the toilet,

  seeing Ola clutching her gaping, plundered womb while her husband

  cut her down like summer wheat.

  When I returned to the table, Vasily and Knud seemed to have

  come to an understanding. The gypsy had given him some private

  message and laid to rest any doubts Vasily might have harbored.

  Whatever Belphagor meant to do, Vasily was certain he’d never

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  betray me to the Seraphim, but a cold fear like the winter wind of

  Arkhangel’sk seeped into my bones.

  It didn’t matter if the demon didn’t give me up directly; he’d put us

  all in danger, and had left me vulnerable. The Seraphim might be able

  to arrest me if I wore the ring, but they couldn’t harm me. Belphagor

  had taken the one thing that might have protected me and put it into

  the Seraphim’s hands. In leaving me vulnerable, he’d left Vasily more

  so—and by Belphagor’s own admission, it was for his own gain.

  Whether it was overconfidence in his skill at the game or a

  compulsion that drove him to it, he had no right to take this risk.

  Vasily had assured me Belphagor had long since given up any

  thought of extorting ransom from Helga for my return. Months had

  passed, in any event, and she’d made no attempt to contact us. I feared she was dead. But no matter what rationale Belphagor had used

  to convince himself of the rightness of this course, it would lead to

  nothing good.

  I was outraged at the foolishness and arrogance of it all, but kept

  my outrage to myself. Vasily needed to believe Belphagor knew what

  he was doing to keep from succumbing to despair. I couldn’t take

  that from him. But I couldn’t allow the Seraphim to hurt Vasily again.

  Crouched over the toilet in my misery, I’d reached a decision, and

  nothing he could say would change my mind. Though it was the last

  thing in the world I wanted—in this world or any other—it was my

  duty as a daughter of the House of Arkhangel’sk to defend the throne.

  With or without the portal spell, I’d fulfill the syla’s words even if I had to summon the Seraphim myself. I’d take the flower of the fern

  and return with it to Heaven.

  But I wouldn’t return for Heaven’s sake alone. I’d return for Azel,

  to find him if he lived. And I’d return to keep Belphagor’s mad scheme from bringing Vasily down with him. For better or for worse, I would

  spoil Belphagor’s hand.

  172 JANE KINDRED

  Shestnadtsatoe: The Pleasure of the Crown

  When Belphagor opened his eyes, the darkness told him the

  Seraphim had left. That he actually hoped for an instant it was the

  floor of his cell in Kresty was a bleak indicator of his mental state. He’d braced himself for death by fire at the Seraphim’s hands. He hadn’t

  anticipated a life sentence in the bosom of their tender mercies.

  Because the queen forbade them to kill or maim him, they’d

  tempered their radiance. Instead of burning his flesh, they’d scalded it, holding him under the water in a tub until their heat caused the water to boil. They’d submerged him repeatedly until he’d nearly drowned,

  the boiling water filling his mouth and throat. He’d passed out then,

  apparently, for he’d found himself on the floor of Heaven’s gulag,

  naked, every part of his body engulfed in fiery pain.

  A metal grate in his door slid open with a screech and light struck

  him. Belphagor cringed, his eyes aching, and shut his scalded lids

  against the brightness. Someone shoved a plate of gruel through the

  grate, then left him once more in darkness. Belphagor wished he could

  ignore the meal, but his stomach gnawed with hunger. He had no idea

  how long it was since he’d eaten, but he suspected days had passed

  since his last meager breakfast at Kresty. He’d been too anxious to eat more than a bite or two on the train.

  His hands and ankles were shackled separately behind him.

  Belphagor rolled onto his side and dragged himself by degrees to

  the plate, gritting his teeth through the pain. He then shifted onto his knees to bow over the plate and eat. He was hungry enough that the

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  tasteless, soupy consistency was of little consequence. At least it was possible to swallow despite the pain in his throat.

  No sooner had he satisfied his hunger, however, than he regretted

  it. Whether because the gruel was spoiled or because of his physical

  state, his intestines immediately cramped. His jailers had left him no bucket to relieve himself. He managed to pull himself to a corner

  before the gruel came back from both ends. Weakened by his ordeal

  in Kresty and the additional ministrations of the Seraphim, he didn’t

  even have the strength enough to move himself away from his mess

  after his body had violently expelled it. Darkness swam over him once

  more, and he embraced it.

  §

  “You must truly be Heaven’s most pathetic creature.
” The voice

  intruded into Belphagor’s unconsciousness. He lifted his head to find

  Principality Kae standing over him, holding a kerchief to his nose.

  “Our queen has need of your services.”

  “And she sends Your Supernal Majesty?” Belphagor asked,

  incredulous.

  The principality frowned at him. “She does not ‘send’ Us. We

  come of Our own accord. We find you… curious.” He gestured to the

  Ophanim outside the door. “Clean this demon up.”

  After unshackling Belphagor and mercifully dunking him under

  a cold bath instead of a hot one, the attendant angels gave him a

  grey prison gown and ushered him barefoot out into the snow in the

  custody of the principality. The Ophanim hovered behind them, just

  far enough beyond his peripheral vision not to make him sick with

  their constant motion.

  Belphagor couldn’t rest his eyes on the bright snow or the sky, so

  he squinted at the principality. The angel was warmly attired in leather gloves and a heavy grey cape lined with fur. Beneath, he wore a long,

  double-breasted black wool coat, with matching breeches tucked into

  polished black leather boots. A charcoal fur cap sat at a jaunty tilt over his pale blond hair tied back in a short, bobbed tail. He was startlingly handsome in a somewhat repulsive way, like an artfully embalmed

  corpse.

  He stared at Belphagor with empty grey eyes in a manner nearly

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  as unpleasant as the gaze of a Seraph, though at least this was painless.

  Belphagor remembered the hole that had appeared in the angel’s

  chest, effusing blood after her shade returned to her corporeal form.

  This man’s sword had done it.

  “You have not even bowed before me.” The principality’s tone

  hovered between fury and disbelief.

  Belphagor hesitated, wondering if it was too late for the obeisance.

  There was something in this man that could not command respect.

  Things could hardly go worse for him, he supposed. “Don’t you mean

  before ‘Us’?”

  The principality sneered. “The Seraphim do my bidding. You’d be

  wise not to make an enemy of me.”

  Belphagor almost laughed. Was he actually threatening to have

  his minions defend his honor? “If I’m not mistaken, the Seraphim do

  your wife’s bidding. And I believe I have already made an enemy of