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When my heart finally stopped beating like a douli drum, I asked what I hoped was a casual voice, “Who was that, anyway?”
“Kazimir Vladimirovich, childhood friend of Tsar Miroslav.” She wrinkled her nose. “Now the baron of Arick, by no merit of his own.”
Kazimir Vladimirovich. The man who had murdered my child. And he was a friend of the tyrant. I felt a spark of something that resembled satisfaction. It hadn’t been the right time to tell Tsar Borislav what had been done to me, but perhaps I didn’t need the tsar to make justice for me. I could make it myself.
My body still trembled, but my mind raced with anticipation. I could make him pay for what he’d done and serve my tsar all at once.
Chapter sixteen
Radomir, Prince of the Blood
Han
After the first time, I found it easier to tell my story. Every day or two, the tsar and I reached a new town, where the local Blood Brothers had arranged for a meeting with anyone who might be sympathetic to the cause. Sometimes one of the priests made a speech beforehand; other times they simply introduced me. We met in temples, in taverns, in houses. In some towns, dozens came; in others, only a few. The response, no matter the number, was overwhelmingly positive. In every town, I heard new stories of people who had suffered under Miroslav’s reign. Some families had been unable to pay the new taxes to support Miroslav’s army. Others were still angry over the loss of loved ones in the last uprising. In one town, soldiers had come through and taken over half of their crops, leavingthem with little to survive the long, harsh Inzhrian winter. Borislav, having heard of this on our arrival, wrote in code to Lord Ilya’s castle, asking for emergency supplies to sustain the town. When I told the men of that town what the tsar had done for them, every man in the room had been on his feet, declaring for Borislav, before I had finished speaking.
“Eight towns visited, and every man you spoke to agreed to join us. Han, you must be the Prophet reborn,” Borislav said when I returned to our small room in the temple after the latest meeting.
I flushed at the slightly blasphemous praise, taking a seat on the simple bed across from him. “I’m just telling my story. They’re rising up for you.”
“Be that as it may, your words are what brought them to me. I could have chosen no one better to accompany me on this journey.” He rose, looking out the window at the night sky. Nearby, the bells chimed for polnoch, the midnight service. “We’ll be at my cousin’s estate tomorrow. I had thought to approach him myself, but knowing Radomir, I can’t be sure he wouldn’t send me to my brother on first sight.” He turned back to me. “I must, once again, rely on you to speak for me.”
“I am yours to command.”
He took a ring off his pinky. It was gold with a small ruby. “I will go with you as far as I can tomorrow. Two of the Brothers will accompany you to my cousin’s dacha, where you will ask him for a private audience. When he grants it—and he will grant it. Radomir denies the Blood Brothers nothing—give him this and ask him to grant me a safe reception, to hear my tale from my own mouth. Have him swear on the Gifts of the Blood; he’s a pious man and would never forswear himself. Once he has sworn, send the Brothers back for me, and I will join you promptly.”
I took the ring. “I will.”
“You are a true and loyal friend, Han.”
“Thank you.” I pulled off my coat and belt, not bothering to remove my pants before lying down. I would need the extra warmth. The room was already cold and likely to grow colder overnight. I’d seen a fine layer of frost on the ground as I walked back to the temple this evening. “I’ll bid you goodnight.”
“Otets guard your sleep,” the tsar said, blowing out the candle and looking back out the window.
Despite the cold and the stiff bed I lay on, the sound of temple bells and the smell of incense wafting from the nearby altar room lulled me to sleep.
I woke the next morning to the bells of utrenya, the dawn service. After a simple breakfast of unsweetened kasha with milk, the two Blood Brothers and I began the walk to Prince Radomir’s dacha. Unlike the beginning of our journey, I wouldn’t go to the prince in disguise. I wore my own clothes, setting me apart from the Blood Brothers who flanked me.
According to Tsar Borislav, his cousin would remain at his country estate until Prophet’s Day, the holiest day, when we celebrated the Prophet first appearing to Tsar Fima. The prince, apparently, always remained home for the holiday, preferring to celebrate in his own way, rather than to join in the celebrations of the court. As he held the most power in the tsardom after the tsar himself, he was rarely denied.
I knew little about Prince Radomir. In Borislav’s first rebellion, he had sided with Miroslav, though he was rumored to have distanced himself from Miroslav after the events of Barbezht. I said a silent prayer that his apparent break with Miroslav would bode well for our cause. With the number of men at his command, his support could ensure our victory, and his enmity could ensure our demise.
I scanned the estate as we trekked along the winding cobblestone road up to the dacha. The house sat in the middle ofa sprawling, frost-covered field. Made of wood, the house wasn’t fortified, but it didn’t need to be. Dachas were made for peace-time. In times of war, the nobles would retreat behind the heavy stone walls of their cities and castles, as would any other citizens lucky enough to have access to such protection.
Though it wasn’t fortified, the estate was set up much like a castle. To the left of the main house was a bathhouse, steam rising from the roof. To the right was a small chapel, the door painted red and a gilded hawk on the steeple. In the back, I could see a large set of stables. The walls of the main house were yellow, the roof a deep green, and delicate carvings surrounded the windows.
A servant let us into the house, his eyes lingering on me as though he wondered what business I, a travel-worn commoner, could have in the home of the highest prince of the land. Looking around at the clean, well-kept hall we had entered, I wondered the same. Who was I to ask a prince for anything, even as a messenger for the tsar?
“We seek an audience with his highness,” one of the Brothers said.
The servant gave a reverent bow. “May I ask on what business, honored Brothers?”
The Brother’s answer was curt. “Private.”
He nodded and disappeared through a door on the opposite side of the room. He returned a few moments later and said, “Follow me.”
He led us through the corridors and outside again, into the courtyard behind the house. My nerves were a stone in the bottom of my stomach as we stepped back into the cold morning air. In the middle of the courtyard stood two men and a large black stallion. The first man, a servant in the same livery as the man who had greeted us, held the horse’s foreleg, rubbing its neck and murmuring. The second man was a noble, as evidencedby the fine make of his blue kaftan and black ushanka-hat. His gaze was fixed on the horse. In one hand, he held a wand; in the other, a small piece of iron. He closed his eyes, muttered something I couldn’t hear, and tapped the horse’s immobilized foreleg.
The stallion whinnied, tossing its head. The servant continued stroking its sleek neck, and after a moment, it calmed. The nobleman stepped back and tucked the wand and iron into his pocket. “Take him back to the stable. Let me know how that leg progresses. I’ll be back to check on him later tonight.”
