Prince and the Throne (Fedosian Wars #2)

12. Lover’s Heart

twelve

Lover’s Heart

Lev staggered down the hall in his mother’s red dress, high, high, high, and flying through the clouds while he laughed. Life was shit in the east. What was there to do but to get fucked? The marble statues of twenty-foot saints holding their favored relics wrapped around the pillars, and the clatter of Lev dropping his gold cup on the stone floor when he fell echoed through the grand hall. Twelve fireplaces burned, and the hall was still freezing. The ceiling was too high, and the windows were too tall was Lev’s guess. He crawled onto the dais and sat up on the gold crested chair, hiking one leg over the gilded armrest—all of it cold.

He peered into his cup but sadly he’d spilled his wine. “Steward, wine!” he yelled, and his voice echoed, wine, wine, wine.

While the frigid old man with a flourished cloak fulfilled Lev’s request, Lev squinted at the shapes waiting for him. He was supposed to meet people, but he’d forgotten who.

Apraksin retainers with the crest of a silver dagger on their leather armor, all right. Their lords Vasily and Dariy, all right. Vasily Apraksin had been with him when Lev and his entourage rode up to the Menshikov and found them… dead. Vasily was a good fighter, a young but proud northern lord, and Lev had known him since childhood. His humor was stupid but he was a friend.

Dariy, Vasily’s older brother, was a loser, however. He gifted his heirloom Apraksin steel to win the favor of a sentinel whore named Dominik. Lev sincerely hoped Dariy got his money’s worth, but the man was the butt of a sad joke.

Who else? Skuratov retainers, of course, and Semyon. Handsome in his iron cuirass, the emerald of his cape made the blond hair shine. Lev smiled at him.

Then he found a face he didn’t recognize and frowned. He pointed. “Who are you?”

“Captain of Lord Fedya’s druzhina, Isidor of Pulyazin, my lord,” Konstantin answered and startled Lev. He hadn’t seen the tall knight because he blended in so well with the saints.

“You are late, my lord,” Isidor said.

“Oh, it speaks,” Lev said.

“You are late, my lord,” Erlan bent and whispered and scared Lev. Another knight he hadn’t seen, and the giant bastard was on the dais, right by his chair too. This hall, like all other halls at Usolya Fortress, had too many statues and they were hard to tell from people when the sun was glaring in his eyes through the arched windows.

“You said morning.” Lev pointed at the sun. “It is morning.”

“That’s the west, my lord,” Erlan whispered again.

“Morning, evening, same difference for the sun never sets on the Guards,” Lev proclaimed. “You say I’m late, but it appears your lord never arrived, Izda of Pulyazin.”

“Isidor, Lord Lev,” the druzhina corrected.

“Whatever. What do you want?” Lev blinked, then gulped wine to clear his head. It did not help.

The druzhina turned to Vasily, confused, then returned his attention to Lev. “Did you not request a meeting with the House of Pulyazin, Lord Lev?”

“With Fedya, yes, but you’re not him.” Lev stumbled on his hem as soon as he got up and Erlan caught him.

He thanked the knight and had been walking away when he heard Isidor grumble, “You’re surely joking. I rode for two straight days to come here because you called, Lord Lev.”

“I’ll tell you a joke.” Lev turned. “Once there was a duck whose name was Quack-Quack. All Quack-Quack did was fuck, fuck. There also was a red fox whose name was simply Fox. Then Fox ate Quack, the end. The moral of the story is life isn’t funny. It’s stupid nonsense, then you die. Don’t be a duck, but if you’re going to be one, be Quack and not the hens he fucked.

“Goodbye, Isidor of Pulyazin.” Lev threw up his arm. “Best get going, a two-day ride you said.”

“I can’t tell if this is outrageous or you’re simply odd,” said Isidor.

“That’s the charm,” Lev said, walking out. “I’m a jester. Laughing is the correct response.”

Lev lounged pleasantly warm in his bed, the logs cracking in the fireplace, and with a lantern by his bedside. He was reading not in his mother’s dress but in cotton sleep trousers and shirt. Wool socks and felt slippers, legs crossed at the ankle, he flipped the page when the door opened, and Semyon came in.

He hid his face behind the book. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” sighed Semyon. He hung his cloak and crossed the room to sit at Lev’s table, helping himself to the cold dinner Lev hadn’t touched.

“Were you just outside? You brought the winter in.” Lev rolled out of bed, took his book, and went to sit by Semyon. “You’re upset.”

“No,” he said while being upset.

Lev lay his head on his folded arms on the table and sighed. Both the Apraksin boys, Vasily and Dariy, were the runts of the litter of seven brothers and didn’t have the authority to promise Lev a single goat. They had their personal retainers which put together amounted to a few dozen. Semyon’s family disowned him for just being here, Lord Skuratov making it very clear he would not be taking sides in the conflict, meaning he’d already chosen the Shields. There was too much profit to be made from the queen’s railway which was still being laid with Skuratov iron.

Chartorisky, Durnov, Vietinghoff, those were Shield allies already and Lev didn’t have a chance in hell with them, but he’d hoped the eastern lords would support his claim. All had gone to shit following the Menshikov incident, which he still didn’t understand. Sometimes he wondered if he’d just been high and imagined Bogdan had two heads. Had he been alone, he would think so, but to this day, everyone who’d been with him swore by what they’d seen, including Semyon, but he was slowly losing his faith in Lev.

You’re a fool for having one in the first place. What made you think I could pull this off?

In the spring when the earth thawed and the Bone Country stopped being absolute misery, the Shields would take their train and come for Lev. The only reason they hadn’t done so already was they didn’t want to lay siege to Usolya in the winter. He was a realist and knew this to be the truth. He wanted to live a little the last year of his life but people like Semyon got disappointed he wasn’t better and didn’t try.

“You actually think I can win, don’t you?” Lev turned his head and propped his chin on his arms.

“Not this way, you won’t,” Semyon said, chewing some measly bread and wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Everyone sniveled all the time, their noses running. It was so cold that the blade stuck, and the soul wept while the tears froze on the face.

“You should go home, Syoma. Apraksin too.”

“Lev, you realize they’ll kill you?” Blond brows furrowed, so serious when he was angry. But Semyon didn’t have any menace. His hair was the same tone as his skin and from a few paces back, you couldn’t tell if he was moving his brows, or if he even had them.

“Yes. Which is why you shouldn’t be here,” Lev said.

Shoulders hunched, Semyon sat somberly and quietly while Lev spilled some salt on the table and fiddled by tracing symbols on it.

“Look,” Semyon said after a while. “I’m not leaving you. So if we’re dying, I suppose we’re doing it together. But it would be nice to have a few more men.”

“No one I don’t know by their first name is going to fight for a brat from Krakova, Syoma. It’s a dream. Leave it be. It’s annoying.”

“You just need to convince a couple of people.” Semyon reached across and put his hand on Lev’s shoulder. “Then a couple more, then a couple more. It will get easier each time, and once you have enough people, others will come to you without you asking. That’s how it is. You can do this. You’re charming when you want to be. Out here, people have had nothing but hardship all their lives, and especially the last four years. Their kin are dead. Men are eating their dogs and parents are burying their children. They are starving, Lev. All you need to do is tell them it’s the prince’s fault, you hear?

“People love the church. Promise them hope. Promise them a spot among the stars. Promise them the queen’s granary. Tell them there’s food in Krakova. Say anything and they’ll believe you, Lev. If you’re losing, it’s only because you want to.

“You’ll bring a golden age to Fedosia. The throne is yours, take it. The Shields are burning this country. Tell us you’ll save us.” He pounded his chest. “It’s true whether you believe it or not.”

Lev wished he wouldn’t say things like that, wouldn’t look at him the way he did… It made him feel guilty for wanting to lie down and die, and it ruined his peace of mind. He stared at the salt.

“You’re not alone.” Semyon cupped Lev’s nape as though he meant to be tender, but then just shook him by the neck till Lev laughed. Then he noisily slurped cold soup and spoke while chewing. “Light inside dark? The times we live in?”

Lev blinked, sat up, then realized Semyon was talking about the symbols Lev doodled in the salt. “Oh, it’s a soul encased in shadow. It means darkling.”

“What’s that?” Semyon pushed away the empty bowl and reached for the plate of smoked herring.

“A children’s tale for one,” said Lev. “But according to Soful, Uncle said it on the day he died. So, I’ve been looking into it. From what I gather, it’s a vengeful spirit caught in shadow alchemy. The soul is energy, light as we call it, yeah?” Lev illustrated writing it in the salt because Semyon looked puzzled. “Once you lose the physical vessel that sustains your energy…” Lev realized he was overcomplicating it when Semyon arched a brow. “When your body dies, your soul goes to the dver and crosses over, hopefully to a good place, yeah? But this thing, darkling, is a person who died very angry, and his soul got absorbed by shadows. He doesn’t cross over because though he has no body, he has a shadow and exists inside it…” Lev rolled his eyes and grunted when Semyon made a shadow dog on the wall with his hand. “Oh, never you mind.”

“No, I’m listening. A haunted shadow killed the archmage. How, though? Where did it come from?”

“The most common cause of death among mages isn’t murder or old age,” Lev said. “It’s fucking with magic beyond their ability. Whether that’s someone testing a poison on himself, an incendiary spell blowing up in his face, or summoning a haunted shadow he can’t control, that’s how most mages die. They’re always looking to immortalize their name in the light codex. Three miracles to sainthood and don’t forget a new spell counts as a miracle.”

“You think the archmage caused his own death?” Semyon asked.

“I think so. Unless he’d been fucking with it, why would he know such an obscure thing? As far as I can tell, it’s only been cast once before, ever. I always thought it wasn’t the Shields, but Father just… He hadn’t been simple minded. He just made an unfortunate call, which we all do from time to time.” Lev bit his lip. “This conflict is meaningless. Father died for nothing. He caused others to die over nothing. And now I’ll die as nothing. How’s that for good news?”

“It may have started over nothing,” said Semyon. “But it won’t be fought over nothing. People want a Guard tsar. It’s fate.” He took his hand. “It’s your destiny. I’ll fight for you, Lev, preferably with a few more men at my side.”

“Ah, you’re a fool.”

“That’s because you’re so bright. Everyone is a fool compared to you.”

“Get out of here with that.” Lev pulled his hand and got up. He would get Semyon killed and he couldn’t stand it. “Please find something better to die for.”

He’d left his wine bedside and was fetching it when he heard, “Is this the darkling book, then?”

“No.” Lev filled his cup and touched the wine to his lips. “It’s the life chronicle of a mage who lived five centuries ago. The ‘darkling book’ appears to have been lost during the Elfurian War. Pity. It was written by the acolyte who summoned it, or cast it, depending on the mechanics of it. She went mad and wrote on her own skin. That would have made an interesting read.”

“So, it’s a diary?” Semyon was flipping through the pages when Lev turned. “Why is it in the language of spells, then?”

“Because we’re pompous assholes.”

“It’s amazing you can read this. It’s just shapes.” Semyon put the book aside.

“It’s just symbols of alchemy, like the one you have on your armor. We’ve assigned sound to it. That’s all.”

“You can speak and understand alchemy?” Semyon looked bewildered.

“Come on, Syoma, that’s what spells are. You knew that.” Lev sat on his lap facing him and put his arms over his broad shoulders. “Instead of writing it, we’re just saying it, because some spells take hundreds of symbols. When you speak it whole, it’s incantation, but you can shorthand it to a single word if you understand all the alchemy it contains. You do it in here.” Lev tapped his temple with his free hand. The other holding his drink. “Dragon’s Breath, for instance, contains fifty-seven symbols. No one’s got time for that.” He hooked his elbow around Semyon’s neck. “Recently, I’ve found the longest spell I’ve ever seen. The fucker is an entire codex with three thousand four hundred and one symbols. I’m calling it Illuminate.”

“What does it do?” Semyon took Lev’s cup and set it aside, pulling him closer and bringing their hips to touch.

“It’s gold expressed as light.” Lev liked to talk with his hand and demonstrated a bloom, but instead of going through the convoluted explanation of what a soulless was, why they corrupted gold, and how the gold being light altered the interaction, he simply said, “It vanquishes evil,” and freed his chattering mouth for a kiss.

“Sounds like a useful thing,” Semyon said.

Yeah, Lev had thought so too. But the spell would just collect imaginary dust in his mind as one more worthless shit he knew. When they said alchemy couldn’t create gold, they meant the cost was exorbitant and couldn’t be settled by more gold.

“May I see it?” Semyon whispered, his strong hand callused by years of sword practice, the steel kind, stroking Lev’s gold locks. His other hand found another kind of swordplay.

“What?” Lev muttered, suffering the peril of the blood draining from the brain.

“The illumination, may I see it?”

“Not unless you want to die. The spell costs a lover’s heart, and I ever only had one of those.”