The King's Daughters (13 page)

"Whose horses are these?" I asked Diego as he pulled beside me.

"Khuan's and Lilloh's mounts. Wild ponies of the steppes; they don't look like much but I'm told that they can run for days on end. Hard as nails, those are."

"Could be true. They look quite rugged." I watched the ponies until our horses were ready; then we rode toward the village.

* * *

By galloping most of the way, we had made good time. And now that the village was in sight, we slowed our horses to a brisk trot, allowing them a bit of a rest. I rose up on my stirrups to get a better look at the village. Made up of about forty log houses and numerous outbuildings, this enclave, seemingly lost in the middle of the frozen forest, had an oppressive air of gloom and misery, as if it was plagued by misfortune. I pitied the people who lived there. When we entered the village, I noted that most of the houses were in good condition—a few others, however, were falling apart. One stone building was reduced to little more than a ruin.

"Charming," I said, as I rode in front of its crumbling stone walls.

We were reaching the square at the center of the village, when a group of peasants rushed out of the crumbled building and encircled us. Dressed in thick wool clothing covered with coats or vests made up of mismatched pieces of leather, fur, or goat pelts, they resembled a pack of wild men. Every one of them, I noted, was armed with a different kind of farming implement: pitchfork, spade, or sickle. The sight of those improvised weapons was unsettling, to say the least.

"Lords, lords!" said the man in front, a gray-haired fellow with sunken cheeks and bright blue eyes. "Finally someone comes to our aid."

Diego and I exchanged intrigued glances.

"What is the matter, my good man?" I asked, careful to be as polite as possible—after all the man was carrying a pitchfork.

Wiping his red bulbous nose on his sleeve, the peasant then grinned broadly, exposing three lonely teeth. Well, that explained his sunken cheeks, I thought. "Noblemen from faraway countries, we're in luck," the man told his companions before turning back to us. "I'm glad you're here. Maybe you can help us. Bears are preying on us at night. Huge beasts. So far they killed four of our people."

"When was the last attack?" I asked.

"Last night."

"Can we see the victim?"

"Yes," said the peasant. "Follow me."

He led us to a nearby house. Inside we found two women busy washing the dead body of an older boy. Weeping could be heard in the other room.

"The mother," whispered the gray-haired man. "The boy's the miller's son, Sergei."

I walked to the table and studied young Sergei's wounds. Claws had sliced open his chest, and the flesh of his throat was all torn up. Without a doubt, this was the work of the same creature that had killed the people of the castle. I directed my attention back to the gray-haired peasant who had guided us here. "What's your name, my good man?" I asked him.

"Dimitry."

"Can you show me where the killing happened, Dimitry?"

"Sure, come along."

Leaving the house, we proceeded in the direction of the ruins. Behind a mound of rubble stood the remnants of two walls; a long block of stone lay near the foot of the eastern one.

"The bear hid there." Dimitry pointed to the space behind the stone block where the snow had been flattened.

I closely studied the tracks. I could see where young Sergei had entered the ruin and where the bear had pounced on him, shook him, dragged him on the ground, and finally killed him. The blood and the tracks told me the whole sordid story of Sergei's last moments. Then the bear had left. I strolled along the remaining two walls of the ruins, studying its construction. This building was old, far older than this village. The timeworn carvings on the wall depicting strange and exotic creatures appeared to have been chiseled out of the stone hundreds of years ago. Something red on the ground caught my eye. At first I thought it was blood—and it was—but I had found a bundle wrapped in a piece of bloody linen. Obviously it didn't come from this kill. Gently pulling the bloodstained bundle apart, I exposed its contents, a small heart, like that of a sheep or a goat. "What's this?" I asked, indicating my gruesome discovery.

The villagers exchanged nervous looks. An uneasy silence settled among this previously noisy group. I watched the men nod at each other. Then as if they had reached a mute agreement, Dimitry stepped out of the group and said, "This ruin used to be a temple. The heart's an offering to the gods."

"Pardon me," said Diego, "but I thought the new god didn't need offerings."

"You're right," conceded Dimity. "In these parts, though, the old faiths are still upheld and the old gods worshiped. Priests and priestesses still come once in a while to perform ceremonies. We thought one might come last night, that's why the boy was sent to the temple with the offering."

I frowned. "I must admit that I'm not very familiar with your gods. Can you tell me to which god this temple is dedicated?"

"Oh, to several of the local ones. Mirekia, Samu, Laki. There are many of them."

"Ah." I nodded, wishing I knew how to change the subject without being impolite or looking uninterested in their beliefs. Perhaps I should ask one more question—for courtesy's sake. "Tell me, Dimitry, do you pray to the old gods too."

He shrugged. "Old, new. I pray to all the gods. It's a good safeguard. Anyhow, the gods did nothing to protect this boy from the bear. Animals usually don't have much respect for temples and gods."

I couldn't agree more. "Well, that explained why the bear hid here. The smell of food attracted it."

I walked along the bear's tracks. At one point they merged with a horse's tracks. "Diego, could these other tracks belong to the mysterious rider we saw last night?"

Diego shrugged. "Hard to say."

"Baba Yaga," murmured a man.

"Yes, it's the Baba Yaga," said another.

I frowned. "Dimitry, what's the Baba Yaga?"

Dimitry spat on the ground. "A witch! She lives in the woods."

I stared at the horse's tracks. "A witch riding a horse?"

"A magical colt. She has three of those," shouted a man on my left. He wore a vest made of white sheep fleece. "I saw her riding ahead of the bear."

"Really! A witch on a magic horse." It took me everything I had not to roll my eyes at such nonsense. "And you saw her, you say. What's she like?"

The man's face paled. "Er . . . I saw the horse. It was dark . . . too dark to see her face, but it was her. The legends say she does those things. She rides . . . she does it for real. The tracks prove it happened."

I walked to the tracks, stamped my foot at different places between the horse's trail and the bear's and declared, "Look. Now the tracks say that a man accompanied them. Or maybe it was the witch's pet goblin who just dropped by."

Dimitry kneeled beside the imprints. "I see what you mean. These tracks could've been made at different times. There's no way of telling." He looked up at me. "Still, this doesn't solve our bear problem."

I peered at a large, flat stone. Some of the bear tracks surrounding the stone seemed older than others. "Has the bear hid there before?"

Dimitry nodded. "Yes, it has. Three times at least."

"Then why not dig a trap there? Chances are good that you'll catch the beast."

"We would, if the ground wasn't frozen. We tried everything else, stalking the beast, setting snares. Nothing works. We're out of ideas."

I stared at the snowy ground behind the stone blocks. Surely there was a way one could dig. The man beside me had I shovel. I borrowed it, walked behind the stone, and tried planting the shovel in the ground. Useless, it kept bouncing off as if I were trying to dig through solid rock. I stared at the snow in frustration.
If only we could thaw this ground, I'm sure that a trap—
"Thaw the ground! We'll thaw the ground."

"The ground won't thaw until much later in spring," said a skeptical-looking Dimitry.

"Fire melts snow and ice. So if we build a big enough fire right behind that stone block and let it burn for a couple of hours, it should thaw the ground, don't you think?"

Dimitry's face lit up. "Yes! It will. Good idea. We'll do that right away."

With all the manpower assembled outside, building the fire took no time at all. Soon flames engulfed the entire back end of the old ruin.

"Once the fire dies off, we'll dig," Dimitry said. "But until then come warm yourselves inside with us."

* * *

Dimitry's home was warm and surprisingly clean, despite the thick layer of smoke floating above our heads. I supposed that was the reason why all the seats in the house were so low to the ground, so we could sit beneath this dark cloud. The smoke had also given the plaster walls its deep amber color, a pleasant welcoming hue, I found. The smell of wood fire and stew which impregnated the air wasn't displeasing either.
It certainly smells better than the castle's rotten stench,
I thought, staring at the cauldron of stew boiling over the fireplace.

Comfortably seated on a low wooden bench at Dimitry's table, and surrounded by a dozen peasants, I felt at ease and relaxed for the first time since I set foot in Sorvinka. I never imagined I would enjoy the company of the common man this much. I even found myself laughing at their crude stories.

"You must be hungry?" said Dimitry.

"A little," I said—I was starving.

"Bring the man food, good woman," shouted Dimitry.

Kathia, Dimitry's wife, a solidly built woman with a round red face that exuded goodness, set a steaming bowl of soup in front of me.

Damnation, it was borscht. The joy I had felt at receiving a meal evaporated.

Noticing my grim look, my host said, "Try it. Kathia's borscht is the best."

I looked at the red soup. At least this time it was hot. I took a sip, smiled, and drained half the bowl. This borscht was sweet, rich, and delicious. It tasted nothing like the horrid brew I was served at the castle. I noted a variety of vegetables in the mix; there were also small pieces of meat. Smacking my lips, I declared, "Dimitry, this is indeed the best borscht I've ever eaten."

"Oh, you're just saying that to be nice," said a blushing Kathia. "I'm sure you've eaten better at the castle."

I shook my head. "The castle's borscht is vile."

Diego frowned. "Mine was fine. Yours must have been tampered with. As I recall, Lars seemed quite determined to see you eat it."

"Now that you're saying it that might be why it tasted so foul."

"Tsk-tsk-tsk,"
gave Dimitry while lighting a long bone pipe.

As I watched the peasants' reaction, something Dimitry had said earlier came back to my mind. "Dimitry, when we arrived at the village you said that you were in luck because we were foreigners. What did you mean by that? Are the Sorvinkian noblemen unwilling to help their people?"

"No, that's not it. We feared you might be some of the young ones, the duke and his friends. Every time they come to the village it's to do no good. Gallop through our gardens, chase our livestock, threaten our people. They're a bad lot. And the duke is the worst among them. That boy has the temperament of a wild dog. The thought that one day he may rule our country keeps us awake at night." Lost amidst a cloud of aromatic tobacco, Dimitry snorted in disdain. "As for our
noblemen,
most aren't Sorvinkian anymore. So why would they care for us?"

"I don't understand."

"Take our last kings for instance. Their name, Anderson, the name they so proudly want to continue to carry the crown, it's not even a Sorvinkian name. It's Tatilion."

"Really! I didn't know that."

"I'll explain it to you." Dimitry began telling the story of how the Andersons, warlords from Tatilion, an annex province of Sorvinka, came to take the crown about two hundred years ago through war, political alliances, and clever marriages. According to Dimitry, since Sorvinka had become an Empire, the noblemen of this country had become more interested in politics than the welfare of their own people. "There are a few old Sorvinkian names remaining though, the Molotoffs, the Sochskys, the Kauvchneivs. But for the most we're now ruled by Tatilion nobility."

"That's true for most dynasties, Dimitry. My father, the Sultan of Telfar, was only half Telfarian. And the new sultan, my brother, has even less Telfarian blood. (Actually he had none.)"

Dimitry nodded. "We understand that this is a common thing. . . . "

I sensed that there was something else behind his hesitation, something left unsaid . . . too dangerous to say perhaps, especially for a peasant.

"You mentioned the name Molotoff. Did you mean Baron Vladimir Molotoff, the one-armed general?"

"Yes—that's a good man!" proclaimed a red-cheeked youth from the end of the table.

Dimitry darted irate eyes at the youth, who immediately sunk in on himself.

Mmm . . . interesting.
"Dimitry, do you think the baron would make a better ruler than King Erik?"

The room became dead silent. Looking dreadfully serious, the peasants began glancing at one another with growing nervousness. Dimitry remained calm however. After having pondered over my question for a moment, he said, "The man has commanding qualities besides his Sorvinkian name. He's a good solider, brave above all. He respects our traditions and customs, and is a devoted follower of our old faith. Plus, he has three sons—all fine boys with good heads on their shoulders . . . " Dimitry paused, then fixing his eyes onto mine added, "But as for would he make a better king, no one knows. Power changes people, even the best of them."

I was truly impressed by Dimitry's careful wording; a skilled diplomat wouldn't have done better. And I, who thought peasants and commoners were less intelligent than nobles. I was ashamed of myself. These people might lack refinement and worldly knowledge, but they didn't lack intelligence—I knew that now. I would never look at them the same way again . . . with the arrogant sense of superiority of a prince. I bowed my head respectfully at my host. "Well said, Dimitry! Well said!"