The Crown's Fate
Page 75
Renata whimpered, both frustrated and disappointed, as she fell back all the way onto Nikolai’s bed, the cup—with its stubborn leaves—still in her hands.
“À la prochaine,” he had said. Until next time.
But it was impossible to tell if she would ever see Nikolai again. For the leaves were a tangled pile of pitch black in the inner circle of the cup, and the saffron thread hung separate, away from the rest.
What did it mean? Had Vika’s leaves not mattered? Or did they somehow make sense together?
The only thing Renata knew for sure about today was this: there would be death, lots of it, and it was going to be a tragic mess.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
The sun had barely risen when Vika stood outside the Winter Palace, its grand green walls and white columns muted, washed out in the early light. Soon, the troops would be asked to pledge their allegiance to Pasha. Soon, many of them would refuse. Vika adjusted her gloves.
At that moment, Poslannik skittered across the icy cobblestones, up the side of Vika’s gown, and onto her shoulder. He panted, having run across half of Saint Petersburg to reach her.
Her tiny messenger reported everything he’d seen at Nikolai’s house, ending with Renata falling backward onto the bed in despair.
No . . . She must’ve failed in changing Nikolai’s leaves. Vika squeezed her eyes shut.
“I wish there were a way I could save both Pasha and Nikolai,” she said to Poslannik. “I would give anything for that to be true.”
Poslannik nuzzled against the woolly scarf around her neck.
Be careful what you wish for, Vika had once warned Pasha.
But she didn’t heed her own advice.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Volkonsky inspected his soldiers. The regiment had gathered in their garrison, ostensibly to swear their allegiance to the tsesarevich. The men stood before him in fastidious lines, their navy blue jackets immaculate—down to the red trim along the edges and the polished silver buttons—and their white pants contrasted gloriously with their shiny black boots. The officers approached Volkonsky. Their uniforms were even more impressive than the common soldiers’, with gold epaulets upon their shoulders and gold braids and medals draped across their chests. They saluted.
“Are we ready?” Volkonsky asked.
“Yes, Major General,” the officers said. “The men have been instructed what to do.”
“Very well. Let’s begin.”
One of the officers strode over to the official who had been sent by the tsesarevich and informed him that the ceremony could begin. The man climbed up to a short dais before the troops.
Volkonsky hardly heard the oath, for the official was possessed of one of those unattractive, droning voices with which bureaucrats were often afflicted. Besides, Volkonsky was watching his soldiers, standing at attention. He caught only an odd word or phrase here or there. “Duty.” “Imperial Army.” “Mother Russia.”
The official launched into a long-winded speech about honor and the greatness of the Russian Empire. He lauded the men for their past service and for all they would do in the future. The troops began to cast sideways glances at one another. Volkonsky frowned. This was not the behavior he expected from his men.
After too many minutes, the official paused, then said in his most affected, grandiose voice, “Do you, the soldiers of the Imperial Army, swear your allegiance to His Imperial Highness Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov, future tsar of all of Russia, and promise to give your lives to protect the empire?”
Volkonsky pressed his lips together. The silence of the garrison will be resounding. And then we shall march onto Peter’s Square, joined by all the other troops in the city who are, at this very moment, also rejecting the tsesarevich’s oath. All these years of hoping for change, and the moment was finally here. Volkonsky was a man of rigid decorum and restraint, but even his heart skipped a beat in anticipation.
But instead of silence, the soldiers before him shouted, “We swear our allegiance to His Imperial Highness and the great Russian Empire!”
“What?” Volkonsky spun to look for his officers. They were caught off guard, too, looking at their men with mouths agape. Why hadn’t the soldiers followed his orders to reject the oath?
The official at the front of the room looked down his nose at Volkonsky. “Is there a problem, Major General?”
Volkonsky was without words. These were his men. He’d won their loyalty on the battlefield. They’d been frightened by the emergence of magic. Why hadn’t they followed his orders?
Then one of them, who was the size of a bear and just as furry, broke the lines of the soldiers. “I renounce the oath! To Karimov and a constitution!”
Volkonsky’s heart dared to beat again.
“I will march,” Bogdan shouted. “My loyalty lies with my commanding officers, and if they say march, I march.” He glared at the men around him. He didn’t spare the bureaucrat on the dais, who quickly busied himself with gathering his papers.
Volkonsky pulled himself together and ascended the dais. These are my men. They will listen if I stand before them.
“I march on Peter’s Square now,” he said, “and I demand a witch’s trial, a constitution, and Grand Prince Karimov on the throne. Who is with me?”
Bogdan threw a meaty fist into the air. “I am with you, Major General!”
The rest of the troops shifted in their places.
Volkonsky stared sternly at them. He was a war hero. He was their war hero. He would will them to follow him. “Who is with me?” he asked again, more forcefully.
A soldier in the front row said, “I am also with you, Major General.”
“You will need my flags,” one of the color guard in the back of the room declared. Others nodded and stepped forward with their regiment’s banner.
“As well as drums.” Several more soldiers saluted Volkonsky.
Confused conversation broke out across the room.
“Are we supposed to go with the major general right now? I thought we were blocking the coronation next month.”
“No, there was a change of plans, remember?”
“But we already gave our oath to the tsesarevich. I don’t want to be punished for disobedience.”
Volkonsky looked to one of his officers and said quietly, “Detain the bureaucrat. We’ll deal with him after the coup.”
“À la prochaine,” he had said. Until next time.
But it was impossible to tell if she would ever see Nikolai again. For the leaves were a tangled pile of pitch black in the inner circle of the cup, and the saffron thread hung separate, away from the rest.
What did it mean? Had Vika’s leaves not mattered? Or did they somehow make sense together?
The only thing Renata knew for sure about today was this: there would be death, lots of it, and it was going to be a tragic mess.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
The sun had barely risen when Vika stood outside the Winter Palace, its grand green walls and white columns muted, washed out in the early light. Soon, the troops would be asked to pledge their allegiance to Pasha. Soon, many of them would refuse. Vika adjusted her gloves.
At that moment, Poslannik skittered across the icy cobblestones, up the side of Vika’s gown, and onto her shoulder. He panted, having run across half of Saint Petersburg to reach her.
Her tiny messenger reported everything he’d seen at Nikolai’s house, ending with Renata falling backward onto the bed in despair.
No . . . She must’ve failed in changing Nikolai’s leaves. Vika squeezed her eyes shut.
“I wish there were a way I could save both Pasha and Nikolai,” she said to Poslannik. “I would give anything for that to be true.”
Poslannik nuzzled against the woolly scarf around her neck.
Be careful what you wish for, Vika had once warned Pasha.
But she didn’t heed her own advice.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Volkonsky inspected his soldiers. The regiment had gathered in their garrison, ostensibly to swear their allegiance to the tsesarevich. The men stood before him in fastidious lines, their navy blue jackets immaculate—down to the red trim along the edges and the polished silver buttons—and their white pants contrasted gloriously with their shiny black boots. The officers approached Volkonsky. Their uniforms were even more impressive than the common soldiers’, with gold epaulets upon their shoulders and gold braids and medals draped across their chests. They saluted.
“Are we ready?” Volkonsky asked.
“Yes, Major General,” the officers said. “The men have been instructed what to do.”
“Very well. Let’s begin.”
One of the officers strode over to the official who had been sent by the tsesarevich and informed him that the ceremony could begin. The man climbed up to a short dais before the troops.
Volkonsky hardly heard the oath, for the official was possessed of one of those unattractive, droning voices with which bureaucrats were often afflicted. Besides, Volkonsky was watching his soldiers, standing at attention. He caught only an odd word or phrase here or there. “Duty.” “Imperial Army.” “Mother Russia.”
The official launched into a long-winded speech about honor and the greatness of the Russian Empire. He lauded the men for their past service and for all they would do in the future. The troops began to cast sideways glances at one another. Volkonsky frowned. This was not the behavior he expected from his men.
After too many minutes, the official paused, then said in his most affected, grandiose voice, “Do you, the soldiers of the Imperial Army, swear your allegiance to His Imperial Highness Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov, future tsar of all of Russia, and promise to give your lives to protect the empire?”
Volkonsky pressed his lips together. The silence of the garrison will be resounding. And then we shall march onto Peter’s Square, joined by all the other troops in the city who are, at this very moment, also rejecting the tsesarevich’s oath. All these years of hoping for change, and the moment was finally here. Volkonsky was a man of rigid decorum and restraint, but even his heart skipped a beat in anticipation.
But instead of silence, the soldiers before him shouted, “We swear our allegiance to His Imperial Highness and the great Russian Empire!”
“What?” Volkonsky spun to look for his officers. They were caught off guard, too, looking at their men with mouths agape. Why hadn’t the soldiers followed his orders to reject the oath?
The official at the front of the room looked down his nose at Volkonsky. “Is there a problem, Major General?”
Volkonsky was without words. These were his men. He’d won their loyalty on the battlefield. They’d been frightened by the emergence of magic. Why hadn’t they followed his orders?
Then one of them, who was the size of a bear and just as furry, broke the lines of the soldiers. “I renounce the oath! To Karimov and a constitution!”
Volkonsky’s heart dared to beat again.
“I will march,” Bogdan shouted. “My loyalty lies with my commanding officers, and if they say march, I march.” He glared at the men around him. He didn’t spare the bureaucrat on the dais, who quickly busied himself with gathering his papers.
Volkonsky pulled himself together and ascended the dais. These are my men. They will listen if I stand before them.
“I march on Peter’s Square now,” he said, “and I demand a witch’s trial, a constitution, and Grand Prince Karimov on the throne. Who is with me?”
Bogdan threw a meaty fist into the air. “I am with you, Major General!”
The rest of the troops shifted in their places.
Volkonsky stared sternly at them. He was a war hero. He was their war hero. He would will them to follow him. “Who is with me?” he asked again, more forcefully.
A soldier in the front row said, “I am also with you, Major General.”
“You will need my flags,” one of the color guard in the back of the room declared. Others nodded and stepped forward with their regiment’s banner.
“As well as drums.” Several more soldiers saluted Volkonsky.
Confused conversation broke out across the room.
“Are we supposed to go with the major general right now? I thought we were blocking the coronation next month.”
“No, there was a change of plans, remember?”
“But we already gave our oath to the tsesarevich. I don’t want to be punished for disobedience.”
Volkonsky looked to one of his officers and said quietly, “Detain the bureaucrat. We’ll deal with him after the coup.”
