Page 127 of A War Apart

“Yes, your grace.”

He gestured for us all to sit. “We’ll meet the tsar in the courtyard when he returns.”

“And if he fights?” Lada asked. A fair question. I couldn’t imagine Borislav stepping down quietly after all he’d done to get here. He’d managed to cause so much destruction on his own. What would be the results of a battle between Borislav and Radomir? They could turn the palace to rubble between them.

“Otets willing, he won’t.” The prince placed his wand on the table. “But I’ll be prepared if he does.”

Fyodor Yakovlevich cleared his throat. “If he doesn’t fight, will you allow him to step down peacefully?”

“I will allow him to step down, yes, and I pray he does.” His tone was sincere. “But if he refuses to accept his Disinheritance, even if he doesn’t fight, I will see justice done.”

My eyes widened in alarm. I’d seen Borislav’s version of justice.

Radomir noticed my distress and clarified. “Beheading. A swift, painless death. I won’t slaughter traitors.”

“Of course not, your grace. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” I knew that. Radomir was an honorable man, if not as charismatic as his cousin.

A knock sounded at the door, and Yakov stepped into the room, followed by most of the remaining commanders. He quirked a brow at me, and I nodded.

Yakov bowed. “Your grace, we’re yours to command.”

“Thank you, Yakov Aleksandrovich.” He rose. “We should adjourn to the courtyard, in case he returns early.”

My sword knocked at my side, a comforting weight, as we followed the prince through the palace halls. As we stepped outside into the cold air, I tightened my metal fingers around my sword hilt, leaving it sheathed. Things could happen quickly, and I didn’t want to be caught unawares.

The sky was clear over the palace, the sun glinting brilliant gold off the onion-shaped domes. In the center of the courtyard was the sickening fountain I’d seen the day before, viscous red liquid pooling around the feet of the two figures in its center. The liquid didn’t bear the metallic tang of real blood, but the sight still made me shudder. Would blood run over the cobblestones this morning?

I bowed my head in silent prayer that the transfer of power would be peaceful.

As time crawled by, I couldn’t stop my thoughts from dwelling on Mila. She’d understand, eventually, why I’d made the choices I had. Even if it took weeks, months. Her anger would be worth it, as long as she was alive to be angry.

An eternity later, the palace gates opened. Borislav approached, staff in hand, flanked by the remaining commanders.

His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of us waiting for him, armed and standing at attention. As he entered the courtyard, he stopped by the fountain. “What is this?”

Radomir took a step forward. “You’ve gone too far, Borislav.”

“Treason.” His nostrils flared, and he clenched his staff tighter. “After all I’ve done for this country, you turn on me.” He met the eyes of each person in the courtyard, ending with me. “And you. I made you, and you’re betraying me.”

“Only Otets can make someone,” Radomir said. “Han Antonovich is doing what he feels is right. As am I. As is every man here.”

“You would make a Disinheritance of me?” The tsar’s voice was deadly calm, but I could sense the roiling fury beneath it. My mouth went dry as I remembered what he’d done the last time I saw him so composed, so angry. Remembering the massacre in the throne room. I glanced at Yakov, but his attention was fixed on the scene before us. He stood next to Lada, their hands clasped together.

“I told you I wouldn’t hesitate to do what was right for Inzhria.” Radomir took another step toward his cousin. “Will you accept your Disinheritance?”

“I will not.”

I drew my sword, moving to stand next to Radomir. Behind me, the other commanders drew their swords as well. Borislav glanced at us, his lip curled, before returning his gaze to Radomir.

“You cannot win, Borislav.” Radomir’s words sent a chill through me. Similar, so similar to what Borislav had told his brother.

“You cannot take what is rightfully mine. Inzhria is mine,” he hissed.

“Inzhria belongs to Otets,” Radomir said. “Surrender. Accept your Disinheritance, and end this.” He raised his wand.

“Never.” Borislav raised his staff, and the not-blood from the fountain shot toward us, sharpening into frozen spikes.

“Back!” Radomir roared. He waved his wand, and the spikes hit an invisible wall. They crashed to the ground amidst the sound of rushing wind.

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