Page 59 of A War Apart

“Exactly.” Even though there was nothing real between me and Alexey Grigorovich, I couldn’t help feeling like I was being unfaithful to Han.

The shadows around us lightened. “Well, no sense dwelling on things we can’t change. Stay busy, and try not to think about it. Take one step at a time.”

“Thank you, Izolda.” It was a relief to have someone else to confide my worries in.

“No problem.” She grinned. “C’mon. I need to get these to the laundress before the baroness starts missing me.”

Chapter twenty-one

Battle Joined

Han

Looking down from the entrance of my tent, I could see Miroslav’s camp, the multicolored tents a stark contrast to the snowy horizon they sat upon. Many of the tents, I knew, housed the nobles of the court, but they gave the appearance of a much larger army than had been reported. In comparison, Tsar Borislav’s army was miniscule.

The battle lines were forming on the field, but off to the side, opposite the ice wall, was a hastily-erected platform where the nobles were gathering with their retinues. The platform was positioned far enough from the armies to prevent collateral damage, but close enough that the occupants would be able to see the outcome of the battle as it happened. As though war was a jousting tournament, to be enjoyed while drinking spiced wine.

In Miroslav’s camp, a few figures moved about. I peered down at them from my spot in the doorway of my own tent, squinting to see better.

“She’s not there, you know,” Yakov said from his cot inside the tent.

“I wasn’t looking for her,” I lied. Objectively, I knew Mila wouldn’t have traveled with the court—as a trade worker, there was no reason for her to leave the palace—but I couldn’t help hoping for a glimpse of her.

“Sure, you weren’t.” Groaning, he stood and stretched. “Prophet’s balls, why do battles always have to be soearly?”

“You could always go back to sleep after the tsar dismisses us.” Borislav and his brother had agreed to talk terms before the battle. A meaningless gesture, everyone knew, but one that must be made. The tsar had requested Yakov and I join him for that meeting.

He snorted.“Da,with cannons going off halfway down the hill. That’ll be easy.”

“Get dressed,durachok.The tsar’s waiting.”

A short while later, we rode from camp with the tsar, Prince Radomir, and several of the tsar’s advisors. Passing through the shadow of a plateau formed by the tsar’s magic, I glanced up. At the top of the structure, I knew, was a cannon and the team of men to operate it. In front of the platforms, soldiers stood silent in formation. An ice abatis jutted out of the ground, angled toward the enemy. I shivered at the sight, picturing the bodies that would soon be broken on the frozen spikes.

Miroslav’s retinue reached the center of the battlefield at the same time we did. Revulsion turned my stomach as I saw the tsar’s brother for the first time since Barbezht. This was the man who had taken my hand, who had slaughtered and caused suffering for so many.

I looked sideways at Yakov, knowing his mind was in the same place. His teeth were clenched, knuckles white on his horse’s reins. His gaze bored into Miroslav, who wore a scowl beneath his shining black fur hat.

Miroslav’s party was no bigger than Borislav’s, but while Tsar Borislav’s advisors were simply dressed, Miroslav’s were dressed too finely to be anything but nobles. I didn’t recognize any of the noblemen, but that wasn’t surprising. Aside from the first uprising, I’d never traveled beyond Tsebol.

Behind the small group of nobles was an enclosed sleigh. It was simple, almost rustic, and the windows were covered so no one could see the occupants. As the black-hooded driver halted the horses, a sense of dread crawled up my spine.

Tsar Borislav nodded in greeting as the two parties drew to a stop. “Brother.”

Miroslav’s scowl deepened. “Borislav. Are you ready to submit?”

The tsar’s voice was quiet. “You know I can’t do that. You’ve forfeited your rights as Heir of the Sanctioned, Miroslav.”

“Iam the Heir,” Miroslav hissed. “You can’t take that from me.”

Radomir cleared his throat. “The Prophet said, ‘If the Heir burdens his brothers and does not follow the precepts of Otets, his brothers are to make a Disinheritance of him.’”

The nobleman nearest to Miroslav spat on the ground. “Superstitious drivel used to excuse treason. The tsar rules by birthright, not by some divine nonsense.”

Something about the spitting nobleman left a bad taste in my mouth. His face was red, his hair and beard a dusty orange. The expression he wore was one of pure contempt. He looked at me, eyes snagging on my missing hand, and a wicked grin crept across his face. I clenched my fist and turned back to my tsar.

“You’ve surrounded yourself with unbelievers, Miroslav.” Borislav spoke calmly, as if addressing a child. “You’ve used the Gifts of the Blood against those you were charged to rule, and you’ve overburdened the people with taxes to support an army in times of peace. Otets—”

“Times of peace? Is that what you call this, when you raise an army against me?”

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