The Crown's Fate
Page 13
“So you mean to do nothing?” Volkonsky asked.
Pasha frowned. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t attempt to make changes. But he couldn’t commit to anything because he knew there was more to this conversation that was being left unsaid. The Imperial Council had warned the late tsar that some of the aristocracy returning from the Napoleonic wars had, despite fighting for Russia, been seduced by the democratic philosophies of the West. They didn’t like Russia’s autocracy, and abolishing serfdom was only one of their requests. They wanted to get rid of the monarchy entirely.
Pasha ran his hand through his hair. He couldn’t help it, as unroyal as it may have seemed. “How does this fit in with what men like Pavel Pestel have advocated, namely revolution and assassinating the tsar?”
Volkonsky bowed his head. “I swear on my honor that I do not subscribe to Pestel’s radical solutions, Your Imperial Highness. If anything, I am partial to the idea of a constitutional monarchy. We would work together with you as the tsar, not against.”
Pasha didn’t even need Yuliana here to know that was a lie. A constitutional monarchy would make the tsar all but a figurehead. Of course, that was preferable to Pestel’s desire to have Pasha dead.
“I will consider carefully every possible path for the future of our people and our empire,” Pasha said as he straightened on the throne, trying his best to respond the way his father would have. “But I ask that, as someone with long-standing ties to the imperial family, Major General, you convince those who share your views to be patient and give me time. Let me be clear, however, that there will be no constitution. The tsar is the tsar.”
Volkonsky stiffened. Then he dipped his head. “Of course, Your Imperial Highness. I am, as always, at your service.”
Pasha nodded and dismissed him. His guard, Ilya, showed Volkonsky out of the throne room.
When Ilya returned, Pasha beckoned him.
“You’re the best of my men at tracking people,” Pasha said, for Ilya was the only one of his Guard who had any sense of where Pasha was (approximately a quarter of the time) when he snuck out of the palace. The rest of the Guard were helpless in the face of Pasha’s knowledge of secret passageways and disguises. “Whenever you’re not on duty here with me, will you keep an eye on Volkonsky for me? Report to me anything he does that is contrary to the tsardom, and don’t let anyone else know I’ve asked this of you.” It was the best Pasha could think to do, strategically. Act like Yuliana. But he had to force himself not to squirm in his throne, for acting like his sister was uncomfortable to say the least.
Ilya hesitated for a second. Probably because it was no small task to spy on a man like Volkonsky. But then he saluted. “Yes, of course, Your Imperial Highness. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
When Ilya was gone, Pasha jammed his hands back into his hair. He hoped he’d done all right with this meeting, because for once, he’d wanted to attempt something like this on his own. Perhaps all the constitutionalists needed was the sense that the crown was listening and would work on improving things. There had been too much stubbornness and enmity between the tsardom and the constitutionalists in the past.
Pasha might never have been good at strategy and war, but he was, as Yuliana had pointed out, adept at understanding and charming people to his side. At persuasion and compromise.
I hope Yuliana is right, he thought. Because I’m not just training to be tsar anymore. I actually will be tsar soon. And I can’t muck this up.
CHAPTER TEN
Aizhana looked down at her son, asleep in the grass and dirt. She’d once curled in despair like that, too, when she had been abandoned by her lover, left unwed and pregnant, utterly ruined. But this was Nikolai, and though she hadn’t known him for long, she had observed him enough to recognize that this was not like her son. Was the weight of the Game and ante-death finally too much for him to bear? It was a great deal to handle, even for a boy as strong as he.
And yet, ironically, this sad turn of events—Nikolai’s inability to save himself—could be the opportunity Aizhana was waiting for. He needs me now, she thought.
Aizhana lowered herself gently to his side. She smiled and brushed a lock of hair out of his face. Even as a shadow, his features were elegant and refined. “What a beautiful boy you are,” she whispered.
His principles held him back, made him think it was wrong to murder for his own gain. But he shouldn’t have to be relegated to existence in a dream. Nikolai deserved more.
He could be tsar.
I have energy to spare, and no qualms about obtaining more. Aizhana watched her sleeping son. Sometimes, the young did not know what was best for them. But that was what mothers were for. Aizhana lifted her hand and placed it on the back of Nikolai’s neck. She was careful not to scratch him with her brittle nails.
He stirred but did not wake.
Good. Sleep, and soon you will feel stronger. Better. Aizhana closed her eyes, too.
But she did not rest. Instead, she felt the current of energy inside herself, some of it gray like the beetles and maggots she’d siphoned it from, and some of it black from the people she’d killed to obtain it, for she’d slaughtered them out of anger and vengeance. Her methods stained the energy with their darkness.
Just a little bit of my energy to sustain him, she thought. He won’t even notice. She smiled. I’m doing what a mother ought to do.
Then she sent a trickle of energy from her own body, through her fingertips, toward Nikolai. His shoulders tensed around his neck where she touched him. There was opposition, and Aizhana’s energy pooled at her fingers like a funnel that had been stopped.
“Shh,” she said. “It’s all right, my darling. It’s only a little, until you get more of your own.”
Nikolai’s shoulders remained taut for another moment, and then the tension released, as if the muscles, like the rest of him, were too fatigued to fight back.
The gray-black energy in her fingers burbled as Nikolai’s resistance disappeared, and it dribbled into him like a liquid parasite, pleased to find a new host.
“There is too much of Saint Petersburg and its rules about honor in you,” Aizhana said. “But this is good, for my energy will give you more of my spirit, my fight. You should be tsar, my son. Pasha sent you to your death and tried to take away all that mattered to you—your magic and the girl you love.”
Pasha frowned. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t attempt to make changes. But he couldn’t commit to anything because he knew there was more to this conversation that was being left unsaid. The Imperial Council had warned the late tsar that some of the aristocracy returning from the Napoleonic wars had, despite fighting for Russia, been seduced by the democratic philosophies of the West. They didn’t like Russia’s autocracy, and abolishing serfdom was only one of their requests. They wanted to get rid of the monarchy entirely.
Pasha ran his hand through his hair. He couldn’t help it, as unroyal as it may have seemed. “How does this fit in with what men like Pavel Pestel have advocated, namely revolution and assassinating the tsar?”
Volkonsky bowed his head. “I swear on my honor that I do not subscribe to Pestel’s radical solutions, Your Imperial Highness. If anything, I am partial to the idea of a constitutional monarchy. We would work together with you as the tsar, not against.”
Pasha didn’t even need Yuliana here to know that was a lie. A constitutional monarchy would make the tsar all but a figurehead. Of course, that was preferable to Pestel’s desire to have Pasha dead.
“I will consider carefully every possible path for the future of our people and our empire,” Pasha said as he straightened on the throne, trying his best to respond the way his father would have. “But I ask that, as someone with long-standing ties to the imperial family, Major General, you convince those who share your views to be patient and give me time. Let me be clear, however, that there will be no constitution. The tsar is the tsar.”
Volkonsky stiffened. Then he dipped his head. “Of course, Your Imperial Highness. I am, as always, at your service.”
Pasha nodded and dismissed him. His guard, Ilya, showed Volkonsky out of the throne room.
When Ilya returned, Pasha beckoned him.
“You’re the best of my men at tracking people,” Pasha said, for Ilya was the only one of his Guard who had any sense of where Pasha was (approximately a quarter of the time) when he snuck out of the palace. The rest of the Guard were helpless in the face of Pasha’s knowledge of secret passageways and disguises. “Whenever you’re not on duty here with me, will you keep an eye on Volkonsky for me? Report to me anything he does that is contrary to the tsardom, and don’t let anyone else know I’ve asked this of you.” It was the best Pasha could think to do, strategically. Act like Yuliana. But he had to force himself not to squirm in his throne, for acting like his sister was uncomfortable to say the least.
Ilya hesitated for a second. Probably because it was no small task to spy on a man like Volkonsky. But then he saluted. “Yes, of course, Your Imperial Highness. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
When Ilya was gone, Pasha jammed his hands back into his hair. He hoped he’d done all right with this meeting, because for once, he’d wanted to attempt something like this on his own. Perhaps all the constitutionalists needed was the sense that the crown was listening and would work on improving things. There had been too much stubbornness and enmity between the tsardom and the constitutionalists in the past.
Pasha might never have been good at strategy and war, but he was, as Yuliana had pointed out, adept at understanding and charming people to his side. At persuasion and compromise.
I hope Yuliana is right, he thought. Because I’m not just training to be tsar anymore. I actually will be tsar soon. And I can’t muck this up.
CHAPTER TEN
Aizhana looked down at her son, asleep in the grass and dirt. She’d once curled in despair like that, too, when she had been abandoned by her lover, left unwed and pregnant, utterly ruined. But this was Nikolai, and though she hadn’t known him for long, she had observed him enough to recognize that this was not like her son. Was the weight of the Game and ante-death finally too much for him to bear? It was a great deal to handle, even for a boy as strong as he.
And yet, ironically, this sad turn of events—Nikolai’s inability to save himself—could be the opportunity Aizhana was waiting for. He needs me now, she thought.
Aizhana lowered herself gently to his side. She smiled and brushed a lock of hair out of his face. Even as a shadow, his features were elegant and refined. “What a beautiful boy you are,” she whispered.
His principles held him back, made him think it was wrong to murder for his own gain. But he shouldn’t have to be relegated to existence in a dream. Nikolai deserved more.
He could be tsar.
I have energy to spare, and no qualms about obtaining more. Aizhana watched her sleeping son. Sometimes, the young did not know what was best for them. But that was what mothers were for. Aizhana lifted her hand and placed it on the back of Nikolai’s neck. She was careful not to scratch him with her brittle nails.
He stirred but did not wake.
Good. Sleep, and soon you will feel stronger. Better. Aizhana closed her eyes, too.
But she did not rest. Instead, she felt the current of energy inside herself, some of it gray like the beetles and maggots she’d siphoned it from, and some of it black from the people she’d killed to obtain it, for she’d slaughtered them out of anger and vengeance. Her methods stained the energy with their darkness.
Just a little bit of my energy to sustain him, she thought. He won’t even notice. She smiled. I’m doing what a mother ought to do.
Then she sent a trickle of energy from her own body, through her fingertips, toward Nikolai. His shoulders tensed around his neck where she touched him. There was opposition, and Aizhana’s energy pooled at her fingers like a funnel that had been stopped.
“Shh,” she said. “It’s all right, my darling. It’s only a little, until you get more of your own.”
Nikolai’s shoulders remained taut for another moment, and then the tension released, as if the muscles, like the rest of him, were too fatigued to fight back.
The gray-black energy in her fingers burbled as Nikolai’s resistance disappeared, and it dribbled into him like a liquid parasite, pleased to find a new host.
“There is too much of Saint Petersburg and its rules about honor in you,” Aizhana said. “But this is good, for my energy will give you more of my spirit, my fight. You should be tsar, my son. Pasha sent you to your death and tried to take away all that mattered to you—your magic and the girl you love.”
