The Crown's Fate
Page 12
He walked a few paces in the direction of the mountain, the only thing left besides the grass here on this illusory steppe. Then Nikolai fell to his knees and bowed forward until his head pressed against the dirt. His hat tumbled off. A single despondent sob racked his shadowed body.
The long grass cut tiny scratches in his skin, as the wind whipped the blades at his face. He was not whole, and yet he could still be wounded. And the barrenness of the plains stretched into an empty, blurred horizon, promising an eternity of loneliness and confinement and misery.
“I’ll find another way,” Nikolai said. “Because, devil take me, I cannot stay here.”
CHAPTER NINE
At the same time, Pasha was walking through the center of the ballroom, where Vika’s Kazakh dome had been set up behind locked doors so the palace servants wouldn’t stumble upon the magical scene. He shook his head as he and his sister, Yuliana, wove in and out of the marketplace stalls for the umpteenth time this morning, listening to the conversations for any hint about a threatened rebellion against the Russians. “There’s nothing in here about Qasim or his revolt,” Pasha said.
Yuliana crossed her arms and kicked the edge of the dome. “Vika didn’t do her job.”
“Actually, she did what we asked of her, only you’re frustrated it didn’t turn out as you’d hoped.” Pasha winked, a small dose of teasing to ease the truth. “Perhaps there’s no information because there’s nothing happening in that part of the empire right now. Have you considered that you might be looking for trouble where it doesn’t exist?”
“Looking for trouble where it supposedly doesn’t exist is precisely what a good tsar needs to do. If you see it only when it’s obvious, then it’s already too late.”
Pasha’s stomach plummeted, and he stopped midstride next to a vendor selling silver earrings. Here it was again, the truth that he was not ready or fit to be tsar, that his sister was the one really keeping the empire afloat. Pasha’s major accomplishments for the day only included shaving (finally) and turning up in this ballroom when he was supposed to.
Yuliana cut across the dome to his side. “Mon frère, I didn’t mean to imply—”
Pasha held up a hand. “It’s fine. You spoke the truth.”
“It’s a particular flaw of mine.”
“No, it’s a relief to know you’ll tell me what’s real rather than kowtowing at my feet like everyone else in this palace. It’s a relief someone capable will be by my side to care for the empire.”
“You’re more than capable,” Yuliana said. “You have remarkable instincts about people. I’m good with hard facts and figures. We simply have different strengths.” She stood on her toes and pecked Pasha on the cheek.
“Do you think so?” he asked.
“I know so.” She smiled, which she did so rarely that it made the gesture worth all the more. Pasha’s stomach settled. Mostly.
“On that note,” he said, “I actually have another meeting to attend.”
Yuliana quirked a brow. “With whom?”
“Major General Volkonsky. He requested an audience.”
“Do you—”
“No, I can handle it,” Pasha said, for he already knew what his sister was about to offer. “Besides, it will give you more time to go through this dome at your leisure.”
Yuliana looked around the Kazakh marketplace, which had restarted itself from the beginning of the scene Vika captured. The conversations were commencing again, like actors rehearsing from the top of a play.
There really was nothing here. But Yuliana won’t let it go until she’s been through it a dozen times more, Pasha thought. He knew his sister well.
Just as Yuliana knew him. She nodded, agreeing to let him see Volkonsky on his own, because she understood that this was something Pasha needed to do to prove his capability to himself.
He gave her a cursory smile—although he was sure she could see his anxiety, only thinly veiled—and hurried out of the ballroom.
“His Imperial Highness, the Tsesarevich, Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov,” the young guard Ilya announced as Pasha arrived in the throne room.
Volkonsky was already there, standing at attention. He was only thirty-seven, but his military experience and fame gave him the gravitas of someone much older. His brown hair was neatly combed, his sideburns fashionably long yet tidy, and his dark-blue uniform was perfectly pressed. Medals clinked against one another on his chest as he bowed.
Pasha ascended the dais and sat on the throne. The velvet cushion beneath him was plush, but the gold armrests—sculpted as screaming eagles—were cold, even through his gloves. He tried not to look too uncomfortable.
“Please rise, Major General,” Pasha said.
Volkonsky stood upright. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Your Imperial Highness.”
“It’s an honor to have you in my court,” Pasha said. The major general was one of the most admired noblemen in Russia, and the Volkonskys were a dynasty descended from fourteenth-century nobility. “What can I do for you?”
“My men and I are looking forward to your upcoming coronation. And it is because of the changing of the throne that I’ve come today. I would like to propose that you reconsider your father’s policies regarding serfdom.”
Pasha tilted his head to indicate that he was listening.
Volkonsky nodded and continued. “Serfdom is essentially indentured servitude. England stopped the backward practice centuries ago, but here we are in 1825, still forcing peasants to work with no prospect of freedom. I’ve fought side by side with noblemen and serfs alike, and we are, at our core, the same. Serfs are men, passionate Russians, and they are as much responsible for the defeat of Napoleon and the continued greatness of our empire as I am. So why, in times of peace, do we not accord them the same respect?”
Pasha clutched the screaming eagle armrests of the throne as he tried to get comfortable with being in charge. But then he reminded himself that his father had lectured him on the issue of serfdom; it was not a subject that Pasha knew nothing about.
“I sympathize with your compassion, Major General. But the solution cannot be as simple as abolishing serfdom. It’s an issue that my father studied, and it is incredibly complex. Where would the serfs live, and how would they provide for their families, were they given their freedom from the nobles they serve? They would not be able to afford to rent the land they work, and therefore would not be able to generate enough income to feed their families and pay for the roofs above their heads. And there are so many more complications.”
The long grass cut tiny scratches in his skin, as the wind whipped the blades at his face. He was not whole, and yet he could still be wounded. And the barrenness of the plains stretched into an empty, blurred horizon, promising an eternity of loneliness and confinement and misery.
“I’ll find another way,” Nikolai said. “Because, devil take me, I cannot stay here.”
CHAPTER NINE
At the same time, Pasha was walking through the center of the ballroom, where Vika’s Kazakh dome had been set up behind locked doors so the palace servants wouldn’t stumble upon the magical scene. He shook his head as he and his sister, Yuliana, wove in and out of the marketplace stalls for the umpteenth time this morning, listening to the conversations for any hint about a threatened rebellion against the Russians. “There’s nothing in here about Qasim or his revolt,” Pasha said.
Yuliana crossed her arms and kicked the edge of the dome. “Vika didn’t do her job.”
“Actually, she did what we asked of her, only you’re frustrated it didn’t turn out as you’d hoped.” Pasha winked, a small dose of teasing to ease the truth. “Perhaps there’s no information because there’s nothing happening in that part of the empire right now. Have you considered that you might be looking for trouble where it doesn’t exist?”
“Looking for trouble where it supposedly doesn’t exist is precisely what a good tsar needs to do. If you see it only when it’s obvious, then it’s already too late.”
Pasha’s stomach plummeted, and he stopped midstride next to a vendor selling silver earrings. Here it was again, the truth that he was not ready or fit to be tsar, that his sister was the one really keeping the empire afloat. Pasha’s major accomplishments for the day only included shaving (finally) and turning up in this ballroom when he was supposed to.
Yuliana cut across the dome to his side. “Mon frère, I didn’t mean to imply—”
Pasha held up a hand. “It’s fine. You spoke the truth.”
“It’s a particular flaw of mine.”
“No, it’s a relief to know you’ll tell me what’s real rather than kowtowing at my feet like everyone else in this palace. It’s a relief someone capable will be by my side to care for the empire.”
“You’re more than capable,” Yuliana said. “You have remarkable instincts about people. I’m good with hard facts and figures. We simply have different strengths.” She stood on her toes and pecked Pasha on the cheek.
“Do you think so?” he asked.
“I know so.” She smiled, which she did so rarely that it made the gesture worth all the more. Pasha’s stomach settled. Mostly.
“On that note,” he said, “I actually have another meeting to attend.”
Yuliana quirked a brow. “With whom?”
“Major General Volkonsky. He requested an audience.”
“Do you—”
“No, I can handle it,” Pasha said, for he already knew what his sister was about to offer. “Besides, it will give you more time to go through this dome at your leisure.”
Yuliana looked around the Kazakh marketplace, which had restarted itself from the beginning of the scene Vika captured. The conversations were commencing again, like actors rehearsing from the top of a play.
There really was nothing here. But Yuliana won’t let it go until she’s been through it a dozen times more, Pasha thought. He knew his sister well.
Just as Yuliana knew him. She nodded, agreeing to let him see Volkonsky on his own, because she understood that this was something Pasha needed to do to prove his capability to himself.
He gave her a cursory smile—although he was sure she could see his anxiety, only thinly veiled—and hurried out of the ballroom.
“His Imperial Highness, the Tsesarevich, Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov,” the young guard Ilya announced as Pasha arrived in the throne room.
Volkonsky was already there, standing at attention. He was only thirty-seven, but his military experience and fame gave him the gravitas of someone much older. His brown hair was neatly combed, his sideburns fashionably long yet tidy, and his dark-blue uniform was perfectly pressed. Medals clinked against one another on his chest as he bowed.
Pasha ascended the dais and sat on the throne. The velvet cushion beneath him was plush, but the gold armrests—sculpted as screaming eagles—were cold, even through his gloves. He tried not to look too uncomfortable.
“Please rise, Major General,” Pasha said.
Volkonsky stood upright. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Your Imperial Highness.”
“It’s an honor to have you in my court,” Pasha said. The major general was one of the most admired noblemen in Russia, and the Volkonskys were a dynasty descended from fourteenth-century nobility. “What can I do for you?”
“My men and I are looking forward to your upcoming coronation. And it is because of the changing of the throne that I’ve come today. I would like to propose that you reconsider your father’s policies regarding serfdom.”
Pasha tilted his head to indicate that he was listening.
Volkonsky nodded and continued. “Serfdom is essentially indentured servitude. England stopped the backward practice centuries ago, but here we are in 1825, still forcing peasants to work with no prospect of freedom. I’ve fought side by side with noblemen and serfs alike, and we are, at our core, the same. Serfs are men, passionate Russians, and they are as much responsible for the defeat of Napoleon and the continued greatness of our empire as I am. So why, in times of peace, do we not accord them the same respect?”
Pasha clutched the screaming eagle armrests of the throne as he tried to get comfortable with being in charge. But then he reminded himself that his father had lectured him on the issue of serfdom; it was not a subject that Pasha knew nothing about.
“I sympathize with your compassion, Major General. But the solution cannot be as simple as abolishing serfdom. It’s an issue that my father studied, and it is incredibly complex. Where would the serfs live, and how would they provide for their families, were they given their freedom from the nobles they serve? They would not be able to afford to rent the land they work, and therefore would not be able to generate enough income to feed their families and pay for the roofs above their heads. And there are so many more complications.”
