Prince and the Throne (Fedosian Wars #2)

11. God

eleven

God

Through the window of his ivory hall, Fedya frowned at the grey sky—more snow, wicked winter, hard times for Bone Country made worse by the failures of the boy tsar. He still didn’t know what to make of the carnage of the House of Menshikov. Hoping to find his sister who’d been married to Lord Menshikov, he’d sifted through the bodies, and they’d been… grotesque. A two-headed man he’d found, the charred skeleton joined at the ribs sprouting two necks. Every intact remains they found had been marked by darkness. The death of the archmage and the fall of his synod had woken evil in Fedosia that had been asleep for centuries.

Saints have mercy and watch over your children in these dark times.

Naming the saints, Fedya thumbed the beads of his rosary. Carved from the bones of an elephant, a great beast from a faraway land, the rosary had been a gift from the archmage.

“Lord Pulyazin, what say you to the prince’s offer?”

Fedya tore his gaze from the heavy sky, suspended low like a summer fog—bad omen—and turned to the prince’s envoy sitting on the wooden chair with his legs crossed under the long white robe. The red baldric certainly caught the eye, and the longsword he carried as well.

“It sounds like blackmail, Grigori.” His hands clasped behind his back, and the rosary dangling, Fedya crossed the ivory hall. No reason, he was simply pacing. The leather soles of his fur boots softly tapped the wooden floor, and the eyes of the two druzhina standing guard by the door shifted to Grigori when the wooden chair creaked. But the tall man was only changing the cross of his long legs.

Long black hair, long black beard, and pale blue eyes as though haunted, Fedya had never cared for the appearance of the throne’s alchemy advisor. It was hard to call him a mage for Grigori had never been ordained by the church.

“It is your duty to answer when the throne calls, Lord Pulyazin,” Grigori said.

“Have I not answered enough of Her Majesty’s calls?” Fedya cocked his head. “My people cut wood for Her Majesty through the sowing and harvesting seasons because we are promised grain in return for our timber. The House of Pulyazin has never sent Her Majesty’s train empty, if you recall, but now that we ask what is owed to us, instead of honoring the queen’s deal, your prince makes demands, holding our grain hostage. This displeases me greatly, Grigori, I’m not going to lie.”

“His Highness will honor the trade, of course,” Grigori said. “He’s simply saying it will be expedited greatly if this conflict with the Guards… ceased. The prince must now move his forces from the border in winter to defend Krakova, a costly affair as you can imagine.”

“Lev Guard’s head by my blade is what you’re asking.” Fedya walked back to the windows. His wife and children were playing in the courtyard. Today was Day Solis and instead of going to church, he was being burdened by this unholy negotiation. He peeled back the white mink trim of his sleeve to touch the gold cuffs underneath, his alchemy pulsing through his veins as he did so.

Lev was a drunk and a degenerate, a disgrace to his family name. The boy’s life was nothing to Fedya if it meant food for his people, but dirtying one’s hand with Guard blood was surely a sin. The saints were watching.

“I’ll discuss it with my people,” Fedya said. “You’ll have my answer tomorrow… How will you be returning to the capital?”

“I’ll manage.” He smiled.

After Grigori followed the steward out to find a hot bath and warm bed, Isidor, the captain of Pulyazin druzhina, came into the ivory hall. Fedya was still by the window, his face tipped to the thickening clouds signaling bad weather.

The tall druzhina with leather armor and fur cloak brought Fedya a cup of hot tea.

“Thank you, Isidor,” said Fedya, taking the cup and enjoying the warmth between his hands. “It’s going to be a tough winter.”

“It’s Bone Country, my lord. Every winter is tough but we’re tougher.” The young man had a bright grin Fedya found pleasing. “Lady Anfisa is asking if my lord will be going to church with his family.”

“I am.” Fedya crossed the hall and set the cup on a small wooden table where Grigori had been sitting. “Dark magic, it leaves a stench.” He ran a hand over the crest of the carved chair and rubbed his fingers. There was nothing there, but it still felt like soot and grime. “I don’t like this mage. What do you make of him?”

“If nothing else, he’s a liar, my lord.”

Mmm, Fedya remembered. When Grigori first appeared in the Fedosian court, having suddenly gained the queen’s favor, the archmage had asked Fedya to confirm Grigori’s identity because the mage had claimed to be from a ghost town wiped by the plague decades ago and buried under snow. Though Fedya couldn’t name the inhabitants of the small settlement, he was more than certain no grand mage had been born of it. He would have heard had there been a light user in Bone Country.

“May I speak honestly, my lord?” Isidor asked.

“You always should,” Fedya said.

“I’m not an educated man, my lord, but I don’t think we should be slaying the last of the White Guards. They say the House of Sun is the guardian of light. Darkness may befall Fedosia should we commit such a sin.”

“People can’t eat faith and lore, Isidor.”

“Neither can they negotiate their way to the stars with grain, my lord.”

Somberly, Fedya considered the truth of the young man’s words. He shook off the unease and headed for the door to join his family in the courtyard, and made it down the hall with Isidor behind him before another druzhina strode toward them, bringing a message from The Church of All Saints in Krakova.

The archmage’s death had plummeted the church into disarray and courier pigeons hadn’t been flown for months. Fedya took the small scrap of paper carrying the archmage’s seal, though he hadn’t been notified he’d been succeeded, opened it, and saw what the urgency had been.

The Chartorisky Port burns. The House of Silver is no more. The Boyar Duma are hereby notified Daniil Chartorisky has made an attempt on the crown prince's life. He is wanted for high treason. If found, kill on sight.

It was signed, Luminary Matvey. Fedya knew Matvey, a man of common birth but of honest heart. The difference between a mage and a plain parson was the mastery of the light alchemy and not the strength of their faith.

“Pigeon flew here?” Fedya clarified.

“The post came with a rider from Usolya,” the druzhina answered. That made more sense.

“The throne has broken the treaty with its lords.” Fedya knocked his tongue, displeased, then said, “Let Lady Anfisa take the children to church. Another business has come up for me.”

“Yes, my lord.” The druzhina rushed off.

“What is the business, my lord?” Isidor asked.

“I need solitude. I must think.”

Fedya left Isidor in the corridor and headed to his study.

What am I to do, Mother?

She used to say, ‘Listen to the saints, they will guide you’, but the only voice speaking in Bone Country was the howling of the winter winds.

Fedosia was a wide expanse. The further east you went, the further north you’d also be, and everything northeast of the Black Ore Hills of the Skuratov was considered Bone Country for it was frozen white most of the year. Mountainous terrain for hundreds and hundreds of miles, the north bred tough, but even the strongest still must eat.

The Pulyazin castle covered in snow was indistinguishable from the jagged grey peak it perched upon, and Fedya was skating on the frozen lake in the valley, trying to remember the freedom he felt as a boy, when he saw Isidor riding along the bank. The druzhina dismounted, then skated toward him, his alchemy seamless as the ice forming under his boots propelled him across the lake without effort.

“Lady Anfisa sends word she’d like to stay overnight at the church,” Isidor said, gliding alongside Fedya. “She heard of the Chartorisky’s misfortune and would like to pray for Lady Zoya and Lord Daniil.”

Fedya nodded. Anfisa was his second wife and many years younger than him. Daughter of Lord Vietinghoff, she grew up in Krakova and would have known the Chartorisky well. The loss saddened her, no doubt. Though he’d loved his first wife, she bore him no heirs and went to the stars a decade ago. Before his Anfisa blessed him with three young ones, Fedya had considered calling Ignat back, though the boy was a harlot and nothing but trouble.

“Also, word from the Apraksin, my lord,” Isidor said.

Lake Saikhan was a mile and a half deep, but the ice was so clear they could see the bottom as they skated over it. On a sunny blue day, the below would mirror the above, but today, it was just endless grey and white, sky and earth.

“Which Apraksin?” asked Fedya.

“Dariy, my lord. He would like to try again to arrange a meeting between my lord and Lev of Guard.”

The Guard had been requesting to meet with Fedya and the last time he’d sent Isidor in his place.

“You’ve met Lev. What was your impression of the boy?” asked Fedya.

“I don’t know, my lord.” Confusion shaded Isidor’s face. “Lord Lev wore a woman’s dress and appeared drunk. I couldn’t tell if he was insulting the Pulyazin or if that was the way he was. I don’t know much about court or courtiers and didn’t know if his demeanor was considered… acceptable.”

“He’s probably mocking me.” Fedya grimaced. That helped him decide. “Tell Dariy I’ll take the meeting. Usolya is a formidable fortress. If we’re invited to it, it saves us the trouble of breaching it when I take the boy’s head.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Isidor but didn’t leave and followed Fedya as he skated around an ice boulder.

“What is it?” Fedya asked.

“Will we not anger the saints, my lord?”

“The Shields have murdered the archmage yet they haven’t been stuck dead,” Fedya said.

“They have, though, my lord. Their queen is dead, and their heir is mad. Breaking their treaty with the nobility of Fedosia, the Shield reign appears to be at its end.” He had a point, as he always did.

“Accept the meeting, nonetheless,” said Fedya. He’d assess the boy for himself. Bend the knee or take his head, he’d decide then.

The evening brought welcome news. A Durnov train with a hundred tons of grain had rolled into Khenter. A far cry from the three thousand tons owed, but it had been a good faith gesture from the prince, much appreciated, while Fedya happily ordered half the grain to be distributed to the people. Half would go to the granary of his Ivory Fortress.

The prince had sent him a chest of silver along with a letter carrying the throne’s seal. It must have been dictated by a child, for the message simply read: Thank you for your support in these dark times. I shall honor my mother’s trade and more trains will follow. I was saddened to hear of your sister’s passing. Also, relay to the eastern houses I have no plans of aggression toward the Boyar Duma so long as they do not pick up arms against their throne.

Signed, Prince Nikolas of Red Shield, Heir Apparent of Fedosia, Commander of the Imperial Army.

Commander, Fedya sounded and tasted the word. Duke Rodion must be dead for the prince to claim command of the Shield forces. The boy was making a name for himself, commendable in Fedya’s opinion. Then the dilemma returned with a heavy sigh. What should he do about Lev Guard? The fate of his house hinged on this single decision.

A new ball of trouble falling into his lap as soon as he tossed one up for tomorrow, Fedya walked his halls tired of the juggling act.

The Ivory Fortress was designed with many smaller rooms meant to trap and manage heat, and the dining room was no different. It had a modest table, wall to wall wool carpet, and the fireplace was larger than the window. His only guest was Grigori and the prince’s envoy sat at the other end of the table from the lord, all the chairs between them vacant.

Fedya enjoyed a slice of pickled watermelon with his wine, a splendid burst of taste in his mouth after a long day, while his guest had potato salad with bread. The roast duck remained untouched between them. It had been frozen for months and brought out because of the special guest.

“Will the lady not be joining us?” Grigori asked.

“Anfisa went to church. Today is Day Solis,” Fedya said. Through the one small window, he frowned at the dying light, trying to recall how many druzhina accompanied his wife and children. Wolves were large and ferocious in the north, unlike the small and downtrodden ones of the west. Anfisa would forget that and venture out after dark, sometimes even taking the small ones for a ‘walk’.

“Tell me, Grigori, why does the prince wish for Lev Guard’s head? Though uncustomary to eradicate a great house, such as the Chartorisky, without the Boyar Duma, it’s Fedosia.” Fedya shrugged with a single shoulder. “The Chartorisky may have allies in the west, but in Bone Country where a man can’t eat silver coins, no one cares for the house of do nothings except for my soft hearted wife.

“The same can’t be said for the Guards. Bone Country is built on old faith. Evil roams these hills after dark, and the church, which is inseparable from the Guards in my mind, keeps the light on through the long winter nights. The fate of the Menshikov bears witness to how darkness never leaves, not truly, and only waits for the retreat of daylight. So, produce for me, Grigori, a compelling reason to soil my hands with Guard blood other than grain. Death comes whether you’re full fed or starved.

“The Menshikov had been stocked for the winter, sitting smugly on the grain they’d hoarded, but did that save them, I wonder, or if the grain burned with their defiled bodies.” Realizing he was tired of juggling, Fedya let the balls drop on the floor. The warm embrace of a beautiful wife and worry for his young children had made him soft, but this was Bone Country where faith and hardship defined a man.

“Wolf, wolf, cries the church.” Grigori pushed his plate and loaded herbs into a wooden pipe with a silver bite. “Yet no one has seen one in centuries. Lev burned the Menshikov in their sleep and arranged some black bones to frighten fools like you, Fedya. Not even an honest day’s work, fusing corpses with alchemy, since much of the remains were eviscerated by the fury of the black powder.”

“You call me a fool in my own house, zapadnik?” Westerner, Fedya sneered at Grigori. “What do you know of faith? Pleasant weather makes for wise cracking cowards and heathens.”

“If your answer is no, simply say so, Fedya. No need to preach. Though it may be Day Solis, this is hardly a church. You don’t have the gold to be a mage, the title has been bought and sold like cows on the market for centuries. It is meaningless.”

Then Grigori mumbled in a foreign tongue and Fedya pitched a chalice at the mage’s mouth because it had sounded like the language of spells.

Grigori touched his split lips, then grinned with bloody teeth. “It’s not a curse, you fool. It’s just Elfurian. ‘Your saints are dead,’ I was saying.”

“And that wasn’t a chalice, you fool, only a distraction,” Fedya said.

The commotion called the druzhina and they burst through the door. Fedya, who was at the head of his table and facing the door, gestured them down. Blood spurted from the mage’s mouth, a vomit of red frozen slush running down the front of his white cloak. His breath steamed.

“That’s death fever,” explained Fedya, finding another chalice to sip wine from. “It’s the body’s reaction to being stabbed with Pulyazin ice.”

Underneath the table, the floor and the legs of the chairs were frozen, and ice spears like grotesque crystals painted in blood protruded around and through Grigori. The mage’s haunted eyes widened before his head slumped over.

“Well, that’s one way to answer, my lord.” Isidor strode by the mage, grimacing as he passed. His eyes fell on the duck, and Fedya gave him the nod.

The druzhina slid the plate of duck along the long table and away from the blood and sat down beside Fedya to eat.

Andrei, another druzhina, pulled Grigori’s head back by the hair. No one would ever survive Fedya’s alchemy, but the man was going to make certain and cut the mage’s head off. Andrei twisted and reached for his saber with his free hand, the other holding up Grigori’s head. For a fraction of a beat, Fedya thought he saw the mage’s eyes pop open, but in the exact instance, Isidor obstructed his view by getting up and reaching for a piece of cheese across the table.

Isidor sat back down, and Grigori was gone. The red ice remained. Andrei held his neck, blood gushing through his fingers. Silently, he pointed at the door, then collapsed.

Fedya sprung up and his chair fell back with a great noise.

“Find him.” Fedya shoved Isidor. “FIND HIM!”

They locked down and upturned the Ivory Fortress, spent too much time only to find the remains of two young women, Anfisa’s maids, dead. The bodies were hideous and unrecognizable but for the clothes. Their hair turned white and their flesh dried and peeled back to reveal the teeth, their death looked old, though Fedya had seen them alive this morning.

“What devilry is this, my lord?” the men whispered. Those who wore protection amulets of the saints pulled them out and kissed them, tipping their eyes to the star beyond the stone roof, beyond the storm clouds.

“I don’t know. Some dark art,” Fedya muttered for he’d never seen such a thing.

Druzhina yelled from down the corridor, “His horse is gone, my lord! And the stable master is slain!”

Cursing, Fedya gathered his men. He wouldn’t have chased a dark practitioner at night had his wife and children been safe at home. But they weren’t.

The blizzard had swallowed Grigori’s tracks, but Fedya had a sinking feeling, a knot in his gut. No one could weather through a northern blizzard out in the elements, and there was only a single shelter for miles.

“The Church of Light,” he whispered. If he was wrong, he didn’t care, but if he was right…

Anfisa, I’m coming. Don’t let the darkness in.

Moonless, starless night with nothing but the dark, howling wind. Fedya encased his lantern in ice to amplify the light. The wet barrage of snow in his face made it impossible to open his eyes. Squinting, he’d been riding against winter when his horse put his leg in something and sent him over the saddle.

He’d been galloping at full speed and had lost his druzhina behind. His horse wasn’t getting up and he didn’t want to leave the loyal creature to the wolves and ended its fear before picking up the lantern, forging forward on foot through snow so deep that his leg sank to the knee with every step. He’d also ridden off the trail, he realized.

He looked back but there were no lanterns behind him. He had no idea where his men were, but he had to continue. He formed a shield from clear ice and held it in front of him to be able to see but in his haste leaving the fortress, he hadn’t worn gloves, and now the ice burned his skin.

A rider blew by him. Thinking it was one of his druzhina, Fedya yelled. The wind tore his voice inches from his mouth, but the rider turned, and it was an Apraksin retainer. A voice at the back of his head cautioned Fedya the man had been riding without light, but he wanted that damn horse.

“Come here, boy! I need that horse!” Flailing, Fedya screamed but he couldn’t even hear himself over the wind. “Horse!” He pointed.

The rider whipped his horse and came for him, holding out his hand, as though two grown men were supposed to saddle the sad looking mount he had. Meaning to yank him down, Fedya reached for his hand, then froze. The Apraksin wore their alchemy on their gauntlet and his was… The gold was ruined and black.

Then he realized the horse was missing flesh in parts, and its naked ribs were showing. An ice spear formed in his hand, and he thrust through the rider’s neck. It turned and screamed at him, the jaw dislocating like a snake.

Fedya didn’t think himself a coward, but the thing had startled him, and he ran. Trekking through deep snow, he was being run down by a soulless devil on a dead horse when a druzhina plowed into the rider and wiped him from God’s earth.

“My lord!” Isidor jumped down and surrendered his horse to Fedya. His druzhina had finally caught up.

“What the hell was that!” Fedya yelled.

“The devil, my lord!” Isidor boosted Fedya up the saddle.

As many as the trees the damned soulless were everywhere. Fedya had been torn from the world of the sane and plunged into a horrid tale told to scare children. Had he not seen them with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it. But as sure as the naked blade in his hand and steaming breaths of the galloping horse, the dver was wide open, hell on the other side, and the soulless crawled his lands.

In his peripheral, he was losing men left and right, but when one of these bastards pulled Isidor down, Fedya circled and charged with a spear. He nailed the bastard, through and through, but something grabbed his horse from under the snow, tearing its guts out. Then he was in the fray, fighting alongside his men, not a death he would regret had his wife and children not been on his mind.

Heaving, his breath steaming, Fedya thrashed. His blade got stuck on Apraksin armor, and he lost it, so he used an alchemy weapon. Apraksin greysteel would always bite into Pulyazin ice. They were famous for their forges after all. So he had to use a spear and find flesh because it wouldn’t go through armor and the fighting had become futile… A losing battle trying to fend them off.

The man beside him fell, and when Fedya picked up his sword, a wolf leaped from the dark and bit his arm. The snarling creature got a mouthful of fur cloak, no flesh, but the blood and the fighting were drawing starved wolves.

Something shoved him. Another pulled him down. Anfisa had been carrying and he’d been hoping for another daughter. A waking dream of his wife came to him, the woman humming carelessly in the sun, on green grass, and among wildflowers, while he stabbed up with a dagger and warm blood spilled on his face.

“My lord! My lord!” Isidor screamed somewhere. The wind wouldn’t tell him where.

On his back, Fedya was being dragged through the darkness by a horse or a man, he couldn’t say. He’d gotten stabbed and felt his life draining. Anfisa, Anfisa, the only thing on his mind, when a sudden daylight blinded him. As bright as heaven, the sun rose over Bone Country at night.

His hand on his wound, Fedya rose first to his knees, then got up and stood in awe. The forest on fire, the soulless burned, and rolling on snow didn’t appear to help them. He’d been so close. He could see the Church of Light. The damnedest thing, the sky above them was still black and the light was coming from the church.

God, he thought, I see God.