Shackles and Shards: Shattered - Chapter 11

This is a draft chapter. Contents may change between now and final publication. While this has been revised, it is not 100% typo proofed. This is still a draft; I am making it available early access.

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“Lord Bahusevich-los will be in attendance, as well as Lady Cieraskovich-los. Both are Niszki lords from Makarov,” Volkov tells her. “Their families were given their podzem lands five centuries ago from the Duke of Makarov. Their families were some of the earliest Niszki lords in the kingdom, and their fortunes sometimes eclipsed those of the Great Houses.”

Sresca does not care. The dukes of the Great Houses each had a handful of lords they had granted podzem lands to—gifts lands and the rights to keep militias and collect rents—over the six centuries of Tsvetokrasa’s existence under the Royal House of Yurikov. Lords that could have their own militias and could collect rents from the lands, their loyalty to their liege lord was nearly unwavering, and even those who disliked the agreement their ancestors had entered into could do very little except secretly sabotage their liege’s efforts. They might send only the bare minimum soldiers to a skirmish called by their liege or ensure that their soldiers arrived hungry, ill-equipped, and late. But they could never go against their liege directly.

On the other hand, the bezem lords—minor lords, those without podzem—could be more mercurial in their allegiances and change their loyalty on a whim. They had no lands, only titles.

But that system was gone. While many of the district boundaries of the Republic mimicked the lines drawn by the Great Houses and their Niszki Lords, it was not a perfect match.

She had been to three parties in the four days since Volkov had returned, and at each event, he had quietly pulled aside one or two former lords and introduced her to them as the lost princess. So far, all of the former lords he had introduced her to had been of the bezem class. They could not possibly have any soldiers or men-at-arms to offer Volkov’s cause, even if the militias had not been disbanded at the dawn of the Republic.

But these two Niszki lords might still have ties to trained combatants. While officially they could not keep a militia, they might be able to discreetly reach out to those who had formerly been in their employ. These two lords might be able to give Volkov more than just some hastily trained aclaerical prodigies. They might be able to covertly give him martially-trained fighters. If he cannot take down the Republic through subversion, he can take it down by force.

And then install her as his puppet-queen, all because she bears some resemblance to the deceased Princess Kyra. She touches the collar around her neck, the metal warm and smooth. But once she’s been established, then what? Before Mikhail the Boy-King, the throne bounced between cousins for over a decade. She could be set aside for a long-lost fifth cousin, one that is more pliable and maybe more believable. No, not set aside. Killed. She needs to find a way out of this before it gets to that.

“Hands at your side. Straighter,” Volkov says. “Shoulders back. Chin up.” His hand grazes down her arm, sliding across the expensive silk sleeves. Her dress is brand new, but it’s been designed based on the dresses of last century. The sleeves are entirely seperate and laced into her kirtle and overcoat. They are voluminous, long and conical with false inner sleeves inside that cuff at the wrists. He had watched as she was laced into it, muttering over and over again that this dress was a symbol of their return. A return to tradition, a return to the proper order of things. A return not just to the monarchy, but to the way things should be.

He has been having her parade around the room as he lectures her on who is who and which former lords he must impress the most. Which former lords she must not just impress, but convince that she is a princess born and raised.

“Excuse me.” One of Volkov’s staff knocks on the door and opens it slightly. “There is someone here to see you.”

“Who is it?”

But before the servant can answer, a man and woman enter the room, each with poise that Sresca can only hope to emulate.

Lady Ala Savink of Sekolov and Lord Pana Maksymenko of Khornov, a voice in her head says. They were both just children clinging to their parents when last I saw them.

With borrowed grace, she rises to her feet and holds out a hand to each. “Welcome, my lords. It is so good to see you again. Lady Savinka-los, Lord Maksymenko-los. I hope you each will forgive us for not greeting you properly at the doors. We had no idea you would be visiting us.” The words leave her mouth before she can ponder them, before she can mull them over and hope they are the right words, the words that will convince Volkov she is taking this seriously and give her the leeway she needs to make an escape. But the scions of the Great Houses just stare at her in shock, and she has no way to gauge Volkov’s reaction as etiquette will not allow her to look back over her shoulder.

He clears his throat. “Yes, our lady is correct. We had no idea to expect you. But you are welcome. Come, we can retire to my rooms and I will have the cook make us something. Would you care for some wine? I have a vintage from Garcelon that I have been saving for a special occasion.” He ushers all of them through a small door in the corner of his office, sliding it to the side and closing it softly behind them.

It takes no time at all for the chefs of the kitchen to complete a spectacular meal and place it on the opulent dining table in Volkov’s main chamber—a ‘gift’ from Petra, former guest rooms in the eastern wing. Sresca has to wonder if Volkov requests that they prepare a feast every morning just in case he gets unexpected visitors.

His rooms are far larger than Sresca’s, as is to be expected as her station is just that of a priestess while he is not just an elected member of the Republic’s forum, but a senior member who often presides over many of the proceedings. Yet it still feels odd that he lives surrounded by splendor even when he is a guest in someone else’s home. There is gold trim and filigree all across his walls, he has expensive pieces of art framed in pure gold, the rugs on the floor are of intricate silk designs, surely imported from Sua, and his curtains seem to serve as more decoration, rather than as a barrier to keep the cold drafts at bay. For a place he only spends the occasional weekend, he has had it made just to his expensive tastes.

Even the dining chairs are more than mere wood, they are plush and covered in cloth of gold; they might seem more at home in a sitting room or an office than a dining room. All of this grandeur hidden away from the rest of the residents and staff of the estate, all of it exposing his true intentions. He wants to return to the days of the monarchy; the days when there was no limit on the amount of wealth a lord could horde while the commoners toiled and struggled.

Or rather when the limit that existed was merely “not more than the monarch will allow.” Which could be quite a lot in the cases of the monarchs favorites.

And my brother liked Volkov a lot, a voice in her head whispers.

Before she can interrogate it, the voice is gone and she forgets it ever spoke to her.

“Now, I know I introduced you to this fine young woman at the table with us as Lady Sresca-sol, a prietess of Dana,” Volkov says as the staff clears away the plates from the main course and prepares the table for dessert to be served. “But I wager you might recognize her from somewhere else.”

Lady Savinka cocks her head to the side. And from the way Volkov smirks as Savinka speaks, she says exactly what Volkov wants to hear. “She reminds me of the late Princess Kyra.”

“What makes you say that, my lady?” Volkov asks, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers.

“Her eyes are the same shade of brown, and her pale hair… A cool blonde only the royal family could claim to have, as pale as snow. Even the way she speaks and carries herself. If I did not know better, I would say you have raised the dead, Volkov. But only Blessed Dana can do that.”

“And what of you, my lord?” Volkov grabs the stem of his wine glass and sips slowly, glancing over the rim as Lord Maksymenko appraises Sresca.

“I would have to agree with Lady Savinka,” he says. “But if anyone can convince the High Priestess to bring a royal back from the grave, it would be you.”

Volkov sets his glass back down and raises both hands to eye level. “Now, there is no need for flattery. And there was no need to ask the High Priestess for any favors. You cannot raise someone from the grave if they never died.”

A heavy moment of silence presses down on Sresca and she struggles to draw in a breath against the collar hidden under the high neckline of her gown. She glances between the two dinner companions. They were both related to the last occupants of Great Houses. Had the monarchy not fallen, they would, by right, be great lords themselves right now. She remembers Lady Savinka as just a child, maybe five or six. She had only been brought to the palace once or twice, both times Lord Pavel Savinka of Sekolov brought her in hopes of finding a match for her. Her parents had both died of a mysterious illness when she was just an infant, and while they were still within the main branch of the Sekolov house, they had also been given podzem lands to bind them more closely. Eventually, however, Sekelov had felt like they had betrayed him one too many times and he asked permission to execute his cousins and take their daughter as his ward. He had been denied that permission, but their deaths shortly afterward were cause for suspicion. So much so, that gossip about it had reached even the shores of Fayn and Qaewi far to the south.

And now, her elder cousin dead himself, Ala Savinka sits across from Sresca, appraising her.

Panas Maksymenko has a far less tragic past, being the grandson of the former Lord of Khornov. His grandfather and father both refused to renounce their titles after the revolution, and had been caught very early on plotting—as Volkov is now—to overthrow the new republic. Panas Maksymenko now lives a very simple life. He had not even run for office as many of the former great lords and Niszki did.

He does not assess Sresca with the same critical eye. Perhaps he lacks confidence. The seams of his clothing are all fraying, and the overcoat is definitely at least a decade old. He has fallen, and fallen hard.

“Are you saying that this is __ the princess? That she survived?” It is Masksymenko that breaks the silence. “She survived and you found her?”

Volkov’s mouth curls into a wolfish grin. “You have seen her for yourself. A whelp that showed up on the doorsteps of the Temple of Dana seeking sancutary just a few days after the rebels launched their direct assault on the palace?” The story Volkov has made up for her, despite knowing Sresca showed up many years before that. But he needs a believable cover story for her. “And I do not recall hearing any news of Princess Kyra being inside the palace, did you?”

Maksymenko shakes his head slowly. “No, the rumor was that she was in the palace, but no body was ever found.”

“But the rebels had a funeral for her. They buried her.” Maksymenko leans back and crosses his arms. There is just a hint of hope in his voice, but it is mostly skepticism.

“Was the casket open? Did anyone see inside of it?” Sresca understands now why Volkov has managed to hold onto power despite the fall of the monarchy. He knows which questions to ask to lead people to the conclusion he wants them to come to on their own. Let them believe they were the one smart enough to realize whatever falsity Volkov wants them to believe. He never lies; he never tells them that Sresca is Princess Kyra. He knows the truth now that she is not.

But Sresca had briefly fooled him; and he is happy to let others fool themselves by offering them dreams that cloud their judgement.

“No one saw the body.” Volkov steeples his fingers in front of his chest and leans back. “No one. And with the monarchy restored, so too would your houses. Lady Savinka-los, rightful heir of the Great House of Sekolov, you would be not just restored to the position of your house but also granted the podzem your parents had kept until your cousin murdered them.”

“He did not—” She interrupts, but it seems like a force of habit rather than a sincere objection.

“Come, with Emperor Mikail, long may his soul rest in the embrace of Dana, no longer with us, we can say what we all know. Your cousin hired skilled the assassins of the Súilor Scáth to quietly kill them. But with our princess on the throne, you will inherit both the house of your cousin and the podzem of your parents, making you one of the largest landholders in the realm.”

“And what of me?” Maksymenko leans forward. “I have been forced into destitution.”

It takes every bit of strength for Sresca to not burst out laughing. She itched to ask him what he considered destitute; a memory tugging at the back of her mind of nights without any food or water.

Don’t worry about it, Zephyr says before she can even wonder how she has memories of both a life of poverty and of meeting these former nobles well before the fall of the monarchy. Just relax, play along with Volkov. We will find a way out of this.

“You will be granted full rights to ascend as heir to the House of Khornov, taking over for your much-missed grandfather, Lord Artem Maksymenko,” Sresca says, no longer in control of her own voice, another presence coming forward and helping her. “Having spent much of my life after my brother’s death living in Sekristall, tucked away in the forested hills of Khornov, I can already tell you are prepared for the responsibility of ruling over the region that has become a second home to me.”

“You remember my grandfather?” He asks; he is the same age as Sresca, if she remembers correctly. But she can hear the child in his voice still. Nearly 30 winters and he is still the youngster who strutted uncertainly around the palace hoping he was impressing his imposing grandfather.

“Of course I remember him. He was one of my staunchest defenders when the anti-merchant faction started those vile rumors about me, hoping to discredit my brother without directly insulting him. You were at that private dinner I had with him, were you not? He had that delicious candied fruit from Janeuq.”

Volkov’s jaw drops slightly before he masks it with his glass of wine. He clears his throat. “Private dinner?”

Sresca laughs. “Yes, Lord Maksymenko-los invited me on the pretext of showing me his new horses.”

Pana Maksymenko’s eyes widen. “That’s right! And my dog—”

“—he tried to steal the steak right off my plate!”

Ala Savinka tilts her head to the side before raising her glass. “To the princess, returned to us by the grace of Dana.”

Volkov raises his glass and smiles, but the smile does not reach his eyes. “To the princess.”

“Now, I know this is a happy reunion, but I do have some business I must address with you aside from my finding of the princess.”

Savinka says nothing. Maksymenko, mouth full of wine, gestures for Volkov to speak.

“I have some policies I plan on putting forth before the Forum. I know I do not have the votes for the policies move forward, let alone become law.”

“Then why are you proposing them?” Maksymenko asks, his voice curious and a little shocked. Sresca supposes he is not used to being consulted on governmental matters.

“Because the newspapers will write about them. And I have a few journalists who I know will write about my bills… Not favorably, but will give them a credence of respectability. They will make them palatable even to those who might usually reject the ideas outright.”

“What sort of policies?” Savinka asks.

“Things like cutting back funding for the social programs, diverting funds from education elsewhere, and removing anyone originally from Garcelon or Janeuq currently living here.”

“That definitely will not have support in the Forum.” Savinka taps a long fingernail on the table.

“No, but it does not have to. I am merely acclimating the people to the idea. And I am promising those that agree with me that if our party gets the numbers it needs in the Forum, we will work to pass laws like it. And more.”

Volkov allows the dinner to continue without saying much, allowing the rest of the company to reminisce about the days before the republic. But after the former—and perhaps soon-to-be—lords depart, he grabs Sresca by the wrist, his grip tight. “What was that about?”

She tries to pull away but knows he won’t release her until she answers. “What do you mean?”

“Private dinners? Dogs stealing steaks? What are you Lord Maksymenko-los playing at? Did you make that up? Are you communicating with him behind my back?”

“I… I don’t know what you mean. I have no idea what you are implying.”

“We’ve established you are nothing but a pretty girl who resembles the princess, and my staff have been able to use make up and fancy dresses to keep up the facade. But that dinner party either never happened and you made it up with him for some reason, or you know things about the princess that I do not. Which is it?”

Sresca shakes her head. “I was just making a guess, I was just hoping that maybe something like it happened. If it didn’t, I could just say it must have been another lord.”

Volkov recoils, his hand releasing Sresca’s wrist. “That is more clever than I took you for. Perhaps you are the perfect princess afterall.”

“I have a question for you,” Sresca seizes on the slight advantage. “You mentioned all those rather extreme policies. Would you actually implement them?”

“No. I wouldn’t. That’s for the monarch to do. But right now, we need to work on getting enough members in the Forum that will go along with me and vote first and foremost to restore the monarchy.”

“You are using those policies as bait to get a governing body of your choice? You wouldn’t actually try to remove anyone who isn’t Tsvetokrasan by birth?”

He grins. “We are going to the opera in just a few days. I will have a dress sent to you. I expect you to wear it. You are dismissed, your Highness.”

**

“It’s propaganda,” Oksana says as the carriage pulls up to the opera house. “It is absolutely ridiculous. But this play is more than just a play, it’s—”

Oksana has been arguing the entire way to the opera house. Sresca does not know who she is arguing with, as no one is contradicting her. The opera they are going to see made its name in the lead up to the rebellion and was a vital piece of resistance art. Sresca has never seen it, only ever heard of it. The opera is the work of several people, a collective of artists who had resisted the monarchy through their creative works. One person wrote the score; another composed the lyrics. They had costume designers, set designers, as well as all the performers from their enclave of artists. No one was paid during the first run. Any donations that people wanted to make were used to help those who were destitute, no matter the reason.

Emperor Mikail had not liked the musical to begin with, for he and his advisors were the villains. Well. Not technically, but close enough. But when he learned that the money people were donating to the production company were helping the people he refused to help himself, he flew into a rage.

The scene flashes before Sresca’s eyes before it can be blocked out; an advisor telling him that it might not be the best idea to go to the opera. He had asked what it was that everyone was gossiping about behind his back, and the fool of an advisor who told him it was an opera paid for it as he divulged more and more details to his questioning liege.

Why would I remember that?

Zephyr surfaces to the top of her consciousness, his voice laden with fatigue. Do not worry about it. Just placate Volkov. Perhaps we can find a way to get a message to someone from the Temple tonight. Keep an eye out.

It had been over a decade since the show was last performed. This performance is part of a revival tour to celebrate the upcoming anniversary of the formation of the Republic and the first free elections in Tsvetokrasa.

“Excuse me, miss,” someone says and approaches Sresca before she can even properly step out of the carriage. “Are you aware of your rights as a voter?”

The man helps her down and pulls her to the side, shoving a pamphlet into her hand. “You simply rank your choices. If you want candidate A the most, you put a 1 next to their name. Your next pick gets a 2 next to their name—”

“She is well aware of how to vote,” Volkov says, grabbing Sresca’s wrist and yanking her away from the government official. There is about a dozen of them outside the opera house, each approaching the opera goers and handing them information guides on how to vote and how the ranked-choice system works.

“You would think everyone would know by now how to vote,” Oksana says. “But this is exactly my point. Even more propaganda. Monarchy bad, democracy good. We get it. No need to hit us over the head with it.” Her fingers twitch and a brief flicker of light dances between her pointer finger and thumb. “Why do we even have to be here?”

“Optics,” is all Volkov says before placing a hand on the crook of Oksana’s elbow and raising an eyebrow at Petra.

“My lady,” Petra says, bowing low before Sresca. “May I have the honor of escorting you in?”

Hanging back in the shadow, staying as out of sight and inconspicuous as possible, Kiut Tshu watches. She will be joining them, but from a distance. She’s a bodyguard, not a member of their party. But Sresca wishes she were closer. Some part of her wishes it were Kiut Tshu taking her arm and leading her inside.

But another part burns; she swears there will be scorch marks under the sleeves of her dress, singed fingerprints everywhere Petra touched her. She will need to wear her long-sleeved temple robes for months to cover the welts growing on her skin under Petra’s grasp.

Volkov has dressed her up again, not a gown of the previous century with contemporary updates, but a gown of the current fashion. Her make up is not done as it has been for all the dinners and parties where Volkov parades her around; make up meant to enhance the features of the Royal House of Yuriki and hide any features that would mark her as an imposter.

He is not here to show her off as his princess but rather assess her ability to navigate what he calls ‘high society.’ She remembers all the times that Volkov chastised her to throw her shoulders back, keep her back straight, her chin high, and her waist level. She glides across the courtyard of the opera house on Petra’s arm, her ears pricking as more government officials chatter around them; some explaining how to vote in the upcoming election, others explaining how to collect the monthly universal basic income payments and weekly food stipends.

“This is probably what I dislike most about him ,” Petra says, voice soft.

“What?” Sresca says, not letting her eyes wander in Petra’s direction, fearing that she will never look away if she does. Petra is far too beautiful in hir fitted suit.

“Food assistance. I think it’s a wonderful thing the Republic has done; ensuring no one goes hungry.”

“He wants people to starve?” She struggles to keep her voice down.

“He is of the opinion that if you cannot provide food for yourself, you do not deserve to live.”

“That’s not his call,” Sresca says. “That is for Dana to decide. This is why She allied Her Temple with the revolutionaries. They promised to leave Death in Her hands by providing for the people, ensuring the poor, disabled, and elderly did not die because they could not work.”

“I don’t think Volkov prays to Dana anymore.”

The doors to the opera house swing open for them and the chatter of the crowd inside makes it nearly impossible for them to continue their conversation without raising their voices.

It is gaudy , is Sresca's first assessment. But not nearly as gaudy as Volkov’s chambers. There is gold filigree, but it is not taking up the nearly every surface. But everything from the glittering chandelier to the plush velvet curtains looks like it belongs in another time.

She takes it in while Petra hums under her breath, a slow but evocative melody that pulls on Sresca's heart until the world around her stops feeling real. She is wrapped in chiffon or tulle from head to toe, the world outside her cocoon seems far away and hazy, the noises dampened and the smells faint. She wants to claw the fabric off of her, shred it with her fingernails and free herself.

But her body is moving on its own, guided through the crowds and up the grand staircase by Petra. Her fingers do not even twitch.

“Of course,” she hears herself saying with a lightness in her voice she does not recognize. “I have always wanted to attend an opera. And doing so with you is like something out of a story book.”

Petra glances at her, an eyebrow raised. “What do you mean?”

“I grew up feeling like a caged bird, unable to spread my wings. But you were always there, sometimes it felt like you were the key to my freedom.”

“Lady Sresca-sol, please do not torment me further.” Hir hand curls tightly around Sresca's arm, but the grip is awkward with hir long but oddly-jointed fingers not quite managing it.

“I do not mean to torment you, I just…”

But Petra looks away, eyes forward as they make their way to the box that Volkov has reserved for them. “I know you are not her. There is no need to play pretend like you do with the other nobles. You aren’t her… But sometimes you say things that no one else could know.”

Sresca, even if she could say something, doesn't know what to say. But whatever force is possessing her does. “Let us just enjoy this evening. You shall be my knight, rescuing me from the villain.”

Petra smirks. “No, we’ve already established that I am the villain.” They take their seats and Petra wraps hir arm around Sresca's shoulders and pulls her in, hir thumb brushing against the collar hidden under her gown. “But I will find the key.” Barely above a whisper. “I won’t keep you prisoner longer than I have to. I will figure something out. For both of us.”

Sresca spends the whole of the opera fighting to break out of whatever bindings she is trapped in, watching as her body betrays her, leaning into Petra, allowing Petra to place a hand on hir knee, allowing that hand to move closer and closer to her waist, glancing quickly over at Volkov to see if he notices.

It’s not that she doesn't enjoy the touches, it’s not that she doesn’t want Petra. She does. But not here. Not now. Not like this. And yet she can’t stop herself, she can’t stop giggling and smiling and batting her eyelashes.

It is not until the opera is over and they are back in their carriage that she regains control of herself, whatever entity was puppeting her retreats.

Don’t worry about it, Zephyr tells her. Forget it.

The carriage moves through the streets quickly, their coach urging the horses forward as if they were late for something.

With a heavy thump, Petra drops to the floor of the carriage, body still and eyes closed as if suddenly struck on the head.

“What is wrong with hir?” Sresca cries as she tries to maneuver herself to help the unconscious electrarch at her feet.

“Poison?” Volkov whispers before knocking on the roof of the carriage. The horses pick up their pace and they race back to the estate.

**

Sresca hesitates before knocking on the door to Petra’s rooms. Sie had been taken right to the infirmary when they arrived back at the estate from their outing, but sie had already awoken before that and kept insisting sie did not need medical attention. Eventually, a medic did see hir and concurred that sie had nothing obvious ailing hir and it might have just been stress.

But still, Petra agreed to rest for a few days. Just to be sure.

“Come in,” Petra's voice is strong, unwavering.

Sresca grasps the doorknob and slowly turns it, bracing herself for more gold and velvet.

But the rooms of the would-be duke are sparse. Almost utilitarian if it weren’t for the muted green silk bedding. That is the only luxury Sresca can spot; silk sheets and blankets. But they are so common in Tsvetokrasa for their ability to hold heat, it is hardly surprising.

“Are you feeling any better?” Sresca asks.

“Much better now that you are here.” Petra beckons for Sresca to approach, patting the empty spot on the bed beside hir.

She blushes but says nothing.

“After how you behaved all night at the opera, you're going to be shy now?”

Sresca blinks. Opera? I do not recall going to the opera. When did we go? Why don’t I remember?

Zephyr says nothing, but she can feel him in her mind and she takes a breath. “I am sorry if I disappointed you.”

“No, it is not disappointment. But confusion. I keep telling myself you are not Kyra. And even if you were, you aren't my Kyra. But that doesn’t mean I do not want to…”

“To what?” Sresca leans in closer to Petra, her stomach in knots and her cheeks hot, an unbearable ache settling into her chest. She wants Petra, she shouldn’t. She can’t. She’s a priestess of Dana and she longs to be the Rose of Oblivion, to forget everything about her past and herself and once hollowed out, allow herself to be filled with the desires of the Goddess.

But that doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy what time she has before then.

She tries to tell her heart to stop pounding, but she is imagining her hands unbuttoning Petra’s shirt and exploring the muscles underneath.

She shouldn’t want Petra, though. Sresca isn't sure anymore what system of government might be best for Dana's people, but she knows it’s not monarchy, she knows it's not something run by Volkov, and that makes Petra… Not an enemy, no… but not an ally. Not when sie is, for the time being, going along with it.

But does it matter?

She swallows down her fear and reservations, inching closer still to Petra.

“Oh Goddess,” Petra says, also leaning into Sresca and placing a hand on top of hers. “I want to try. I want to devour you, I want to hold you, I want to run my fingers through your hair and whisper in your ear that I will always protect you. Even if you aren't Kyra. Even if you are not a princess, you will still be my queen and I shall serve you in every way.”

It is too much for Sresca, all too much. That kind of devotion, that kind of promise, that kind of love is too much.

She steps away, she steps back, she retreats. She flees to her meadow.

“Then serve me,” Mira says, putting both her hands on Petra's chest and tangling the loose shirt in her fingers. “Undress me, touch me.”

“Whoa. Whoa, wait up a moment.” Petra backs away, holding up her hands. “Too fast. Too fast.’

Mira recoils. “What do you mean? It’s nothing we haven’t done before. And your hands were all over me at the opera. I thought we had something. I thought we could be something more.”

“Yes, and I want that. I do. But let me court you, let me chase you. We do not need to race to the end. We shall go slowly.”

“But like I said, that day in the snow, we already—”

“That’s before. Before I fully knew… Back when I still believed you were my Kyra. I spent years courting my Kyra. Let me have as long as I need to court you, too, Sresca.”

Mira pouts, shoulders slumping, confused as to why she was rejected. “Fine.”

Petra smiles. “Thank you, my lady. I shall send word when I have a plan to impress you.

**

Her doors are locked and she is not expeting anyone to visit her. She sets the plant on her desk. It’s not flourishing; it’s far from its natural habitat and she wonders just how far plants—or other creatures—can go from their ideal climate before they start to wilt. But the kitchens allowed her to have this small herb plant from their gardens after she explained it was needed by Dana.

She still feels guilty. But it wasn’t exactly a lie. She adds a little water to its pot and watches as the leaves slowly unfurl a little. She wants there to be no room for doubt when she is done with this experiment.

With an unsteady hand, she reaches for her talisman. It’s already warm, already pulsing. She made sure to collect as many echoes as she could. Painful, some of them were. Painful, violent, and eerie. She experienced the deaths of lohyue and kattu, but some of the deaths she couldn’t place. It was like they were both, but also neither. But as the memories faded, so too did the strange feelings of being in a body she didn’t recognize.

Zephyr had told her to slow down, she didn’t need so many echoes for the experiements she was doing. She didn’t need to experience trauma after trauma. But she didn’t understand, she doesn’t understand his worry. How can the trauma affect her if she forgets it after it happens? All she is left with is a vague outline and a flash of an impression.

How can something like that hurt her?

She shakes her head, hoping he does not intrude upon her working tonight. She tugs at the power in the talisman and reaches for the shadow of the plant. She pulls on it, just on the shadow of a single leaf, a gentle yank.

The plant moves to follow it’s shadow. She smiles and tries another leaf, wondering just how far she can go with this power.

A knock at the door interrupts her concentration and she loses her grip on the plant’s shadow. With a groan, she goes to her door. “Who is there?”

“It’s Petra.”

Sresca wishes sie had come at a better time. “One moment.” She grabs her robe and hastily wraps it around herself, hoping she is at least a little presentatble.

“How can I help you?” She opens the door just a hand span, her foot rest on the back just in case she needs to close it again quickly.

“I wanted to come and talk to you. About us.”

Sresca looks back at her desk and the plant waiting for her. She can finish her experiments later. “Make yourself comfortable,” she says, opening the door wider and gesturing to the sofa near her hearth.

Petra takes a seat and pulls a wine bottle out of hir bag, setting it on the table. “I only brought one, but I figured you would either have glasses or wouldn’t mind sharing. It’s from Valencia.”

Sresca takes a seat beside Petra, not sure how far she should be. Too close and Petra might get ideas, too far and Petra might take offense. She had never learned this kind of social etiquette at the Temple. She hoped that no matter what, Sresca would not be upset. She also does not know what to do about the wine. She does not have glasses, but if she says she is fine with sharing then—

“Relax.” Petra interrupts her thoughts as if sie somehow knew Sresca was anxious. “I came here to thank you.”

“Oh?” Sresca takes a deep breath. One. Petra’s loose red-brown hair. Two. Petra’s freckles and the strange marks on her forehead. She should ask Petra about them sometime. Are they scars? No. No, she needs to ground herself. She needs five things she can see. Three. Petra’s—

“Stop with the worrying. I wanted to thank you for what you said the other night. That you were fine with taking things slow?”

“The other night?” Things she can smell… One. The smell of the wine. Two. The burning oak logs in the hearth. Three. Whatever earthy soap Petra uses to wash hir body and hair.

“Yes, when you came to my rooms? The day after the opera?”

Rooms? Opera? What is she talking about? I don’t remember any of that. Except, she kind of does remember. It sounds familiar. It sounds like something she should remember, but her mind is sluggish and slow to pull the memories to the surface from wherever they are buried.

“Oh. Yes. I remember now.” She does not remember at all.

“Yes, well. Thank you. I want to court you, like a knight courts a princess. But there is no need to rush into bed. Thank you for understanding. I want you, too. But let’s enjoy the journey there, first.”

Sresca has no idea what Petra is talking about, especially since she definitely remembers already having a romp with Petra. “Of course. We can enjoy the journey.”

“Like I said the other night, I know you’re not Kyra. You’re not my Kyra. But I do like you. Kyra will be a ghost that haunts me likely for the rest of my days. But I am sure you have ghosts, too. That does not mean we cannot find a shard of happiness right now.”

Sresca nods, still trying to figure out how she lost several days worth of memories and why Petra seems to want to reset their relationship. How did she lose so much time? But some part of her does stir at Petra’s declaration. Despite her confusion and fear, she is happy to hear Petra confess to still be attracted to her.

“Anyway, Volkov told me you are almost ready to be presented to the people.” Petra takes a swig from the bottle of wine and then holds it out to Sresca. “Do not worry about it, though. We will figure something out, my princess.”

She holds up a hand and shakes her head. Petra shrugs and takes another sip. “Why are you working with Volkov to begin with? Wasn’t your father in favor of dissolving the monarchy?” She does not want to ask the question, but she needs to know the answer.

“I do not know if we are at that point in our relationship yet.” Another swig of wine. “Let’s just say he has something of mine. But I will get it back. But I can’t move against him overtly until I’ve secured what he stole.”

“Is it something that I can help with? Or that the Temple can help with? My sister is the High Priestess—”

“Your sister… I’ve met the High Priestess, but she is always wearing that shroud.”

“Yes, it is customary as part of her office.”

“Ah. I suppose High Priestess Marija must have been on excellent terms with my father. She didn’t always wear it when we would go to visit her.”

“I am sure my sister would be on as good of terms with you as her predecessor was with your father. The Temple can help; whatever Volkov has…” Her hand makes its way slowly to Petra’s knee; a reassuring gesture that Petra ignores.

“Maybe.” Sie rises and finishes the rest of the bottle of wine, setting it on the table once empty. “I have a long today tomorrow. I must be going. I am sorry that this was not the romantic evening I had hoped it would be. But I swear to you, I will find a way to make it up to you.” Petra holds out hir hand and Sresca places hers in it. With a flourish, Petra bows to Sresca, gently kissing Sresca’s hand. “Until then, my princess.”

She watches Petra go without another word, waiting for the click of the door to let her tears flow. She has no idea why she is crying. Nothing Petra said—or didn’t say—should be causing her pain right now. And yet she cannot hold the tears back; a deep sorrow borrowing into her chest and squeezing her lungs.

But she has an experiment to finish.

One more try. One more leaf. She again focuses on the echoes stored in her talisman, bringing them up and reaching toward the shadow. She wants to pull more, she wants to see if she can pull hard enough to make the whole plant move with it. But the entire leaf comes off and falls to the desk. She releases the shadow and pushes her chair back, standing up. “I didn’t mean to…”

The leaf on the desk shrivels quickly, as if a whole season passes by in an instant. It is dust before Sresca can fully comprehend what she has done. She reaches for the plant’s shadow again, and rips at it. The shadow comes lose, disconnecting from the plant, and the plant withers and dies.

**

“You need to be trained in basic defensive aclaerical practices,” Oksana says to her.

“And offensive? We were working on various forms of attacks.” Sresca asks her.

“No.” Oksana rolls her eyes and lets out a deep breath. “We shall be pausing that for now. Volkov-li says it is unbecoming. ‘A queen should not engage in battle,’ he told me.” She lowers her voice slightly and takes on the grating drawl Volkov employs with a hint of mockery.

“And you agree with him?” Sresca raises an eyebrow.

“How many times were various royals attacked? Killed? A shield is not enough. But I’m just the aclaerical expert.” She crosses her arms and blows a strand of hair from her face. “What would I know about queens and royals.”

Petra, who has been reclining in Oksana’s chair with hir feet on the aclaere instructors desks springs to hir feet. “No. Sresca needs to know both. She needs to be able to attack any enemies that come at her, too.”

“I agree. But. These are his orders. Sorry. I will be teaching her how to create barriers and maybe some healing tactics, too. But he does not want her learning anything beyond that.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Even Mikail was taught basic offensive tactics,” Petra says, fury still written on hir face.

“And he’s dead, so what good did they do him? He needed more than ‘basic’ tactics.” Oksana shrugs. “But I am teaching her how to erect barriers. You going to let me do that or not?”

Petra does not protest anymore, merely resumes hir position at the desk and picks up one of Oksana’s many tomes, smuggled into the country from nations that don’t have such strict bans on using aclaere.

“Now,” Oksana says, returning her attention to Sresca with a smile. “We need to make you a Focus. Think of a flower, or a tree. Your favorite one, perhaps.”

“Like a rose?”

“Exactly.”

“The rose will be your Focus. You must pluck the leaves; that is how you draw upon the aclaere.”

“But won’t that eventually kill the rose? Isn’t there another way?”

Oksana raises an eyebrow. “No, the leaves will grow back in time. You have to learn how to pace yourself, though. Do not worry about it, you’ve been unconsciously doing it for some time now. But today we really need to be able to control it more precisely. By using a Focus, you control just how powerful your attacks or barriers are.”

Sresca does not want to let on that she can draw upon the echoes, and that the Evenstar had mentioned other sources of aclaere. Obscura is not a form of power she wants in Volkov’s hands. Oksana had asked multiple times about the aclaerical tactics Sresca had used the night she tried to escape, but Sresca has been firm; she does not remember how she did what she did or even what exactly she was doing. It all just happened too fast.

She follows Oksana’s instructions, closing her eyes. As soon as the light is blotted from her sight, she is in her meadow. She had not meant to come here, but she takes a deep breath of the clear and fresh air and tries wonders if there are roses here she can use.

She doesn’t have time to explore that thought further, though, before she is jolted out of her meadow by a slap on her hand. Her eyes open and Oksana is standing next to her with a ruler in her hand. “You need to find it quicker than that. At least a dozen attacks could have hit you by now.”

“Hey! What did Sresca do to deserve that?” Petra says.

“Same thing the rest of the students do! Slack off!”

“You do that to all the students?” Petra asks.

“All of them who are lazy. I’ll have none of that in my school.”

“Are they lazy or are they just not following the lesson because they don’t understand something?” Petra closes the book and leans forward, elbows resting on hir knees.

“Lazy! I grew up poor just like them, I didn’t get to where I am by being lazy! They have no excuse. I bettered myself at the Temple, and they will better themselves, too, if they know what is good for them. I’m helping them.”

Petra glances between Sresca and Oksana, expression unreadable. “You’re right, Oksana. Just go easier on them today.”

Oksana shrugs and turns her attention back to Sresca. “Now, try again.”

“I’m not sure what I am supposed to do, though. Once I’ve plucked a leaf, how do I use it?”

Petra chuckles but doesn’t say anything.

Oksana rolls her eyes. “It’s different for everyone but try to imagine holding it to your skin and absorbing it.”

“Where on my skin?”

“Wherever you feel most connected.”

Sresca still does not understand. “Connected to what?”

“To the world, to other people, to everything living. You are part of a larger system in this world, where do you feel like you are connected to it? Where do you feel that connection most?”

Sresca has never felt connected to the world, though. She wonders if she is supposed to. If everyone feels like they are part of something, some web of life and meaning. She has always felt like she was outside of, looking in on it. Like there was a barrier between her and the world.

And she never felt like that was wrong. It felt like safety, it felt like protection. And now she must connect, she must enter it.

“But I can use aclaere without all that, that’s what I’ve been doing,” she says.

“Yes, but this way lets you control it better.” She throws up her hands. “Fine. Fine. Tell me how you have been doing it.” Oksana crosses her arms.

“I don’t know, I have no idea.”

“Use it for me, I will try to figure out how you are doing it. Maybe we can refine your method.”

She has to show Oksana something. She has to show her anything that isn’t obscura. “Offensive tactics?”

“Sure. I won’t tell if you don’t, just let me watch you.”

She draws on the aclaere around her, in the air around her, in the earth below her feet, even from the flames flickering in the candles. She gathers it inside of herself and focuses it until it becomes a single point, a single entity. And then she releases it as a blast of wind.

Oksana’s jaw drops. But she does not look angry, she does not look like she is about to yell. She looks excited. She claps her hands together and rushes to her desk, pushing Petra’s feet out of the way and opening one of her drawers. She pulls out a quill and ink, opening a book on her desk and flipping through the pages. “Do that again.”

“But—”

“Just do it again. And then tell me everything,” she says, not looking up at Sresca. “I want to know how you did that. Do not leave any details out.” She dips her quill in the ink and starts writing. “I wish I had been paying closer attention before.”

“Oksana-salor!” The door to Oksana’s office bursts open and a kattu having no more than twelve winters barges in. “Oksana-salor! I’m so sorry but it’s Gregor… He collapsed; he’s not breathing!”

Oksana drops her quill and almost trips over her own feet as she races out of the office and into the main instructional room. Sresca and Petra follow after her.

The student is laying on the ground, a handful of other children around him. He is motionless and Sresca cannot make out any rising and falling of his chest. But what she does feel is an echo and the presence of Dana. The Goddess is here, come to collect the young Gregor and lead him into Her embrace.

This did not have to happen, Dana whispers, suddenly before her, shrouded and cloaked but there. In the old days, we had ways of ensuring no one used all of their aclaere at once. We had other ways of using it, safer ways.

He plucked all of the leaves from his Focus, Sresca replies.

If that is what the people of today have chosen to call it, then yes. He drew from his own life force until he had used all of his days. He was pushed too hard. You are my eyes here, my daughter. You must see what lies behind this, what lies hidden even deeper. And you must stop it.

It’s Volkov, she says. He’s behind it.

No, there is more. There is much more—he is just one part. But I cannot walk the living world freely. Find the answer for me.

Is this why I failed? You had a larger mission for me to complete first?

No, my daughter. But if you journey down this path, you will learn the reason and perhaps the remedy.

Dana touches the boy’s forehead, ignoring all of the people around him. No one else sees her, no one else hears her.

I cannot take him. There are cracks in her voice.There is nothing for me to take. He is lost. Even in death, a little life still lives. Enough for me to take to the asphodaer, enough to be cleansed and then reenter the cycle. But there is nothing here, nothing at all.

Goddesses should be above crying, they should be above sorrow and remorse, even the Goddess of Death should be above things like emotions. They are above mortals, above everything else. But the emotion in the Goddesses voice is painfully mortal.

Hierarchy is the natural order, Oksana had said. Gods are above us; and appoint others who stand above the rest.

But this Goddess; her heartache seems mortal. It seems far to poignant, far too raw and untamed.

**

Many might call Tsvetokrasa the Kingdom of Snow—the Land of Perpetual Winter, and those that are more frightened of the land that took the death goddess as their protector often call it the Frozen Waste. A common misconception held across Ahnlisen is that the Tsvets do not know of autumn or spring, let alone summer.

But there are many parts of Tsvetokrasa that do experience the seasons, in their own chilly way. Krylla has vast farmlands surrounding it—farms fed by the waters of the hotsprings found in the mountains, nourished during the few months of summer when the snow is less frequent. Harty root vegetables make up most of the farmers harvests, but it was a particularly snowy winter twenty years ago that first formented the unrest among the citizens, and then another wickedly brutal winter just a few years later that gave rise to outright rebellion.

But Ognyena knew nothing of the discontent brewing in the same streets she wandered that year. I had been keeping her safe from as much as I could; shielding her from cruelty in alleyways and in doing so, I had sheltered her from any knowledge of the flames flickering in taverns and inns, nor those quietly fanning them. When a woman clothed in the dark robes of the priestesses of Dana approached her, I considered stepping in. But then the woman smiled, and Neshka had never seen an adult smile at her so kindly—without a lie hiding behind their teeth. “Child, do you need help?”

“I…” Ognyena had been crying, her eyes nearly frozen shut and her lips chapped and dry. She instinctively pulls her knees closer to her chest and hides her hands behind her back, fearful that the woman could somehow figure out just from her hands alone that she had made a fire for herself earlier.

The woman crouched down, looking into Ognyena’s eyes. “I will not harm you.”

Neshka continued her silence, shaking both with fear and cold. I still do not know why she was so terrified. But I suppose just as I kept secrets from her, perhaps she could keep some from me.

“My name is Mother Marija, I am the High Priestess of the Temple at Sekristall. What is your name, my child?” The woman sat down, not caring that the snow was dark with soot and mud and her pristine robes might be ruined.

“Ogneshka. How are you a mom?”

The woman smiles. “I am the Mother Superior, not a mom. It is the name of my job, you might say.”

Ognyena relaxed, her feet once again sprawling out to the sides as she adjusted her position to sit on her knees. “What do you do in your job?”

“I help people who are really sad and need to cry.”

“Oh. I have never heard of that before. Can I do that, too?”

“If you want to. You would have to ask your parents to bring you to the Temple either here or in another city.”

“Temple?”

“A place for the gods. You would need them to take you to a Temple of Dana.”

“I do not understand. What are gods?”

“Do you have parents? May I speak with them?” The woman squinted at the mittens with holes in them, the shoes without laces, and the jacket missing three buttons.

“I…” She bit her lip. “They are not very nice unless I bring them money. Do you have money you can bring them so they don’t yell?”

The priestess sighs. “Yes, I can do that. Where do they live?”

She led the priestess through the streets, relishing the warm hand clutching hers. The priestess spoke to her of many things she did not understand—tthe difficult summer that was almost upon them, the Boy-King being nothing more than a puppet for something called a Volkov, and how it was her job as a Mother Superior to comfort everyone who would be sad in the coming years… but most importantly, she spoke of how Ognyena could do this job, too. How Ognyena could come live with her at whatever this Temple was… if only her parents would consent.

When our parents said no, screaming at the priestess to leave, I knew I could not let her bear the abuse that night alone. I wish I could forget what he did. But I can’t. At least Neshka does not have to remember anything more than the sadness of watching Mother Marija—a woman she had wished was her mother—walk out the door without her.

---

This is a draft chapter. Contents may change between now and final publication. While this has been revised, it is not 100% typo proofed. This is still a draft; I am making it available early access.

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