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“I have heard what my brother did to the survivors.”
The memory of burning flesh filled my nose, and the sound of Benedikt’s screams echoed in my ears. I shook myself, trying to escape from the memory. “My friend, Captain Benedikt Ivanovich…”
Borislav nodded. “Boris Stepanovich told me of the captain’s death. He was a brave man, and he did not deserve to die like that. But while I’m grateful for the captain’s loyalty, I bear no ill will toward the men who chose not to follow him to the grave. Allegiance to a dead tsar benefits no one, and you could not have known I had survived.”
The tsar turned to the desk behind him, reaching for a pitcher and two mugs. He poured the drinks and handed one to me.
I raised it into the air. “To the true tsar.”
Borislav bowed his head in humble acknowledgment. “Tell me, Han Aleksandrovich. Most of the survivors died following the battle. How did you survive?”
I took a sip and swirled the water around in my mouth, thinking of how to begin. I’d done all I could to forget the events of Barbezht, but they were never far from my mind.
“After your brother pronounced our sentence, they marched us out of the camp and cut us one by one. A few men tried to fight. One of them lost his whole arm. Another lost his head. There was less fighting after that.” I took another drink. I hadn’t told this story to anyone. Not even Mila knew everything that had happened that night. Only my fellow survivors and the men who had maimed us. “I managed to stay conscious through it all, thank Otets.” Yakov had passed out, and I knew that if I did the same, I wouldn’t wake back up. “I worked with a couple other survivors to bind our wounds and cauterize them.” I shuddered at the memory. I’d never felt pain like that before, the red-hot iron on my open wound. I could still hear the sizzle of burning blood, smell its sickening metallic odor.
I shook myself out of the memory and went on. “I traveled with a young boy named Yakov, the blacksmith’s son from my hometown. Between the two of us, we made it home—barely. My parents had died a few years before the war, so I was alone, but my steward was there. He sent for Mila, my betrothed—even though I ordered him not to—and for Yakov’s mother. Between the three of them, they nursed us back to health.”
I hadn’t wanted Mila to see me like that, missing my hand, my face disfigured from the scar I’d received in a previous battle. I’d been furious with Kyril Kyrilovich for summoning her, but thesteward had ignored my anger. “She deserves to know,” he had said.
“I wouldn’t have survived without Mila,” I said softly. I’d done everything in my power to make her leave me. I told her I was crippled, a traitor, unable to work. I told her I didn’t want her. She hadn’t listened, of course. The day after I returned from Barbezht, she made me marry her in a bedside wedding. I smiled wryly at the memory. At my brave, headstrong wife.
“She sounds like a rare woman.”
“She’s my life.” My smile faded. “She made it through that time stronger than ever, but she’s changed.”
The tsar frowned. “How so?”
I set down my cup and looked into the tsar’s dark eyes. “My wife was attacked, your majesty, by some deserters from your brother’s new army. We were expecting our first child, and the attack caused our son to be stillborn.”
His face grew stormy. “You aren’t the first to suffer at the hands of this abomination my brother calls an army, but I will see him dethroned and rectify the wrongs he has committed.”
***
Mila
I glanced out the window at the street below. It was already dark, and Konstantin and Ulyana sat in the parlor with me, keeping a light conversation. I pretended not to see the worried glances Ulyana cast my way, or the slight furrow in Konstantin’s brow every time a horse passed the house.
“Did Han mention when he would be back?” I hoped my voice sounded nonchalant.
“I’m sure he lost track of the time.” The baker’s smile was a touch too wide. I didn’t know what he was hiding, but I didn’t like it.
“He’ll probably be back any minute.” Ulyana stood. “I’m just going to make sure his supper’s still warm. Can I offer you a hot cup of sbiten?”
I shook my head. My mother had always ordered the cook to make sbiten when we received bad news. I couldn’t drink the spiced honey water without thinking of my sister’s illness or my father’s death. “No, thank you. I think I’ll retire.”
“Of course. Rest well.”
I slipped into the small bedroom and sank down onto the bed. Where was Han? And why was Konstantin behaving so strangely? As I undressed for bed, I gnawed on my lip. Maybe someone had recognized him from the fight after the market. The nobleman—whose name Ulyana hadn’t known—had seemed to consider Han’s punishment sufficient, but maybe the soldiers hadn’t agreed. If they’d seen him, they might have taken the opportunity to enforce their own brand of justice. I’d been so eager to get away from my house, from the memories of the attack, that I hadn’t stopped to think about the danger Han could still be in.
“Idiot,” I muttered to myself.
Han should have thought of that as well. Whyhadhe been so insistent on coming to see Konstantin? He hadn’t offered an explanation, and distracted as I had been, I hadn’t asked. If I hadn’t known him better, I might have assumed he was looking for information on the men who’d attacked me, but that wasn’t like Han at all. He wasn’t vengeful, no matter how much we’d been through.
The door behind me opened, and I turned to see him enter the room.
“Where have you been?” Anger overtook the rush of relief I felt. “We expected you back hours ago.”
“I’m sorry, Milochka. I lost track of the time.”
