Page 100 of A War Apart

Her lips formed a line. “A single battle and a cross-country march, and your men need time to rest? Are all humans so fragile, or only the males?”

Borislav stood, his eyes flashing. “You may bring necessary soldiers, Yixa na Chekke, but this alliance benefits you as much as it does us. If you wish to continue our friendship, you will not insult my decisions or my men again.”

I fought back a groan. Yixa’s poor impression of the tsar showed on her face. In the weeks we’d spent in the mountains, I’d learned that the Drakra considered men—of all races, not just their own—to be emotional and rash, ruled by their flesh. They valued logic and emotional control. If Borislav wished to continue the alliance, he would have to restrain his temper in front of the priestess and her people.

“Your majesty, if I may?” I asked. The tsar nodded permission as he sat down. “Lady, the tsar chose this spot, the ancestral seat of the Grand Duke, as his base of operations for a number of reasons, not the least being that it was a suitable place to remain while we waited for our allies to arrive. Abandoning Sevken—which he managed to take without bloodshed, due to the great loyalty the servants of the castle have toward him—would have been a risky decision while we were still limited in number. He was willing to risk being seen as weak while waiting, in orderto ensure that when we did attack, it would be from the best possible position. Now that you’re here, his patience has paid off, and we can attack without reservation.”

Yixa na Chekke appeared to consider my words, staring at me as the room remained silent. Then she looked at Borislav.

“Your ambassador has the mind of a female, your majesty,” she said, and I heard the compliment she intended. “All cool logic and consideration, with none of the heated desperation for honor that so many men have. You should ennoble him.”

The tsar frowned at her. “Indeed.” He gestured toward the large map in the center of the table. “I take it that you have an idea for our next offensive move?”

*****

The rest of the day was spent in talks with the Drakra, determining our next point of attack, what route we would take to get there, what order the companies were to travel in, and various sundry details. By the time they dismissed us, my eyes were swimming. I cast a longing glance down the hall toward my room, but there were orders to be given and plans to be made, so I dragged myself back out to the camp. The high priestess and the tsar had decided it was time to take the fight to Miroslav. We were headed to the capital.

The capital. I’d only be a matter of miles, possibly less, from my wife. It would be over, and I could take her home. We were close, so close to the end. Only a short time, and I could keep her safely chained to me for the rest of our lives.

Chapter thirty-five

Survivor of Barbezht

Mila

Ishifted the bag over my shoulder, hoping my nerves didn’t show on my face. I’d been summoned to the Tsarina’s Tower to meet both the tsarina and dowager tsarina. I hadn’t received any commissions from them yet, but this was my opportunity to make connections. There were bound to be secrets shared within the tsarina’s quarters that weren’t shared elsewhere. Information I could pass along to Tsar Borislav and his army.

I’d seen the tsarina and grand duchesses on occasion during my time at court, but the dowager tsarina rarely left the Tsarina’s Tower. As I approached the ornate golden doors that marked the entrance to the tower, I tried to picture the dowager’s face. Miroslav and Tsar Borislav were so different. Which one took after their mother?

The guards standing at attention near the doors let me in, and a footman led me up a narrow flight of marble stairs. At thefirst landing, the chatter of women’s voices came from behind another set of doors, these white with gilded scrollwork along the edges. The footman knocked, then opened the door.

“Sofia Stepanova, the seamstress,” he said, bowing to the two women seated on a low purple settee.

The dowager tsarina looked me up and down as the footman left. She had light skin and hazel eyes, and her round cheeks were pink. She looked nothing like her sons, save for her regal bearing. Tsarina Desislava, Miroslav’s wife, sat next to her, hands folded demurely in her lap.

I made a low bow and held it.

After a moment, the dowager tsarina said, “You may rise.”

I stood, noting the other women in the room. The grand duchesses, Miroslav’s young daughters, were nowhere to be seen, but I recognized several noblewomen seated around the room, sipping hot drinks from delicate white cups. Princess Alisa, a simpering smile on her face, sat near the tsarinas, and I did my best not to cringe at the sight of her. Hateful woman. I’d worked for her on several occasions, and not once had I heard a kind word leave her lips.

“I had intended to commission you for a betrothal dress for my eldest granddaughter,” the dowager tsarina began, “but it appears that won’t be necessary after all. Still, there’s no sense in wasting your talents nor our time. I would like to see your designs. I was quite taken with our cousin Alisa’s latest dress.”

A duchess tittered. “Yes, it was quite wrong of you, princess, to keep the seamstress’s talents all to yourself!”

“I could have died over the ermine trim,” a countess said.

“Lay everything out.” The dowager waved a hand toward an empty table.

I took my design book out and placed it in front of the tsarinas. As I began laying out my fabric samples on the table the dowager had indicated, two noblewomen approached.

“Did you hear about the battle outside of Sevken?” one of them asked the other in a low voice.

“It’s all over the palace,” the other replied. “I heard the Survivor of Barbezht fought.”

I went cold, nearly dropping the cloth in my hands. A survivor of Barbezht? They’d all been killed. Alexey had said they’d all been killed.

Maybe they were talking about someone who fought for Miroslav at Brbezht. But why would they call him a survivor? That term had been reserved for the rebels, the dozen or so men who had survived the decimation of Borislav’s troops. Miroslav’s men had never been called survivors of Barbezht.

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