Unloved, Undying

  When thin shafts of morning’s light touched the land once more, Rovetshi had become a town of corpses.

  Vasilisa watched from the parapets of the Gravemarsh Keep as the town’s residents, those who survived, worked to carry the dead beyond the walls. The sucking pits and watery holes made digging proper graves impossible, and there were too few vessels remaining to give the fallen a burial in the old tradition by setting them upon flaming boats into the Cherech. And so the dead were piled in dreadful heaps, and where the marshy plains were once low and level Vasilisa now saw three great mounds, and a fourth being was being raised in the distance.

  Below, the town was awash with hundreds, thousands of stories from those who survived - bits and pieces slowly came together of the desperate stand from last night, and already a legend was coming to life of the night the Gravemarsh turned loose its dead. And in the legend that was forming, the defiance of Vasilisa the Fair occupied imaginations and awe the most - when she had walked among the townsfolk in the early hours of the morning to help count the slain, she saw in many eyes a look of great wonder.

  The feeling of their awestruck gazes had made her skin crawl in a manner that was new to her - she was used to being held in awe as a noble lady, but there was a difference in how they beheld her now. The folk of Rovetshi looked upon her as though she were more than a princess - they looked upon her as though she were a god.

  Vasilisa the Fair made herself scarce in town as the morning wore on, preferring to watch from afar as the folk of Rovetshi worked to rebuild their shattered town. Most of the damage was confined to the outermost reaches of the town, near the gates and the docks where the dead men had crushed many shacks and buildings with their sheer, swelling mass when they surged through the streets. She saw many figures working along the fortified walls of the town, shoveling away debris and pulling the ruins of the great watchtower with dozens of ropes and a call of heave, ho!

  The sight of the broken watchtower on its side brought a familiar tingle to her fingers - a memory of her power. Vasilisa flexed her hands, trying to bring to her mind’s eye the memory of that unseen, fell grasp, but no force came to her power.

  It felt as though all her strength had fled once the morning had come…and when the slaughter had ceased. The death all around was electrifying, the scent and the noise intoxicating as the battle swirled into a horrifying dance. It had touched a part of her spirit she never knew existed before, and she had loved it, just as much as she had feared it.

  It begins with killing fear. Those had been Chirlan’s words. A dead man’s words.

  And what of the living?

  ***

  She had spoken with Lady Nesha by candlelight after the Apostle was dead, and once they were safely within the Gravemarsh Keep’s walls.

  “I remember the first time I saw it,” Nesha had said. She did not look at Vasilisa when they spoke. Her fingers were busy twisting the tarnished ring on her hand. “In Balai. You cried, and it was like you commanded the wind. You cut through Stribor’s men like they were paper - had it not been for that blood mage, you might have saved Vratislav.”

  “Lady Nesha, I’m-”

  “Do not say you are sorry,” she interrupted softly. “I will grieve…and then I will move on in time. We always do. I am not the only one who has lost someone they loved, and surely I will not be the last.

  “But it is those who still live, who still have a chance, for whom I am afraid,” she nodded slowly. “The hill, the ghosts. And then tonight. Three times I’ve seen you grasp at the cords of the world and tug them to your will.”

  The silence lingered.

  “You’re frightened of me,” Vasilis said. And perhaps you are wise for it.

  “I am,” Nesha replied honestly. “I am old enough to know that the gods give no gift without taking their toll.”

  Vasilisa looked down at her hands, bloodied and battered. Her veins lost their golden lustre, and the strength that abandoned her left only exhaustion in its wake.

  “Many more would have died if not for my strength,” she said. “If it means I will save those who cannot save themselves, let me shoulder whatever burden comes. Let me use what I must.”

  Nesha’s expression did not change. “That is what many before you have said. Many monsters.”

  She flinched. “Do you think me a monster?”

  “No,” said Nesha gently. She leaned forward slightly, and took Vasilisa’s hands into her own. “I think you are dancing with one. And a monster does not care if your steps are noble or false - all it cares is that the dance continues, and you will be swallowed by it.”

  Silence again. The candle flame danced perilously as a soft breeze blew through the chamber. Then, Nesha said, “Promise me something, my lady.”

  “What?”

  “When the time comes when you are on the edge - stop. Even if it hurts. Even if no one else understands.”

  ***

  She felt Vraactan stir within her heart as Nesha’s words echoed in her mind. The serpent’s presence coiled around her now, resting on her shoulders weightlessly, a dazzle of gold and black and deep purple hues. It seemed impossible for such violence to come from a creature so beautiful, so serene…but she needed only to clench her bruised and scarred hands to remind herself.

  I told you there would be fear, Vraactan hissed in her ear.

  Below, she saw a handful of men stacking logs around one of the corpse piles. Flames flickered to life beneath one heap - then another, and another

  “And yet, I am still afraid,” Vasilisa replied as she watched the smoke curling up to the cloudy sky. How many would be turned to ash? Where would they settle? “You did more than give me your strength - you took over my body, didn’t you? More than my body, you took a part of mind.”

  It was the only way to protect you. Else you would have become-

  “A monster. Something even worse than the Apostles.”

  Something more beautiful…and more terrible.

  She placed a hand over her pierced heart. For a brief moment, she had considered turning the Shargaz against the people that now milled about below. How stupid they had seemed. How frail. “Never again. Never my mind. Even if it burns me to the ground, let my mind be mine alone. Let the burden be mine alone.”

  When she glanced down at Vraactan for a reply, the serpent was already gone. And a knock on the chamber doors called her away from the terrace.

  The halls of the keep were filled with groans and feverish murmurs of the wounded. A boy no older than sixteen, green as spring grass, looked at her with a gaze far beyond his years as Vasilisa passed by with Serhij ahead.

  “We’ve finished preparing your vessel, my lady,” the headsman said quietly as they walked. “You may set sail within the hour, if the waters are calm. All that remains is to gather your guard.”

  Vasilisa's brow furrowed in contemplation. "Every man’s place should be defending their lord's people,” she insisted.

  “Which lord?” Serhij replied. “The one who lies mouldering in his chambers, taken by the devil? Pah, my militiamen will remain here, of course, but the druzhinniks are sworn to serve the crown. Their place should be defending the Grand Prince’s daughter. And you impressed many into your service last night, if you would have them follow you.”

  Serhij’s tone became grave as they entered the courtyard, choked with the wounded. Only a handful of folk-healers remained to float between the dozens of men laid out on stretchers and cots. As she walked past, a few warriors feebly reached out to her, whispering for prayers and health - not knowing her domain was only in destruction.

  “I understand your concern for the town,” the headsman muttered. “But consider this - your safe arrival to Belnopyl will serve our people far better than a handful of swordsmen remaining at their post.”

  He rummaged through his satchel and pulled out a crumpled roll of parchment, hastily sealed. “Rovetshi is far from the capital, and ever farther still in the minds of those who rule. It must be you to tell them, else they won’t listen at all. Please, my lady.”

  The headsman offered the letter to Vasilisa, waiting for a reply. After a moment of consideration, she took it in hand. “Very well,” she spoke, her voice resolute. “Choose three, perhaps four druzhinniks - no more. If the rest would follow my command, then tell them they hold this keep in my name, and will answer to Lady Nesha of Yerkh in their Grand Princess’ stead.”

  The widow of Yerkh had chosen to remain in the Gravemarsh Keep, exchanging the burden of leading peasants to safety for the burden of her grief. She would go no further - that much Vasilisa knew - and one part of her felt relieved at the prospect. The air between them had grown heavy with their weight of loss, and of words unspoken - what could she say to comfort Nesha? She could not think of anything, and whenever she passed by the boyar’s wife in the courtyard or in the halls of the keep she felt like a ghost, hoping to pass by unseen.

  “The southern lady?” Serhij said with a raise of his eyebrow. “She is mad with grief, I would say.”

  “She is still an able leader, able enough to shepard her folk this far north without quarrel.” After a pause, she added with a smile, “And of course, she has an able magister to call upon for advice.”

  Serhij gave an uncertain smile and departed - though not for long. When he returned, four men followed.

  “The finest sword-hands of the Gravemarsh,” the headsman announced. “Or of those that remain. They were the first to volunteer themselves into your service, my lady.”

  The first druzhinnik to step forth had a thin, narrow face marked on one side with a six-spoked wheel - the symbol of the Lightning-Lord. “Demyan, my lady,” he said with a voice like gravel in a basin. “My sword is in your service, from now until the end of days - and may the crows take me for their sport if I fail.”

  The druzhinnik bowed his head, and the others followed his example. Those who were behind Demyan were all evidently juniors in the ranks of the Gravemarsh’s guard - touched lightly by age unlike their leader, whose hair was thin upon his head, and whose beard was more gray than brown.

  “Our swords are yours, by Heaven and the Mother Earth,” they all intoned after Demyan, and then they gave their names.

  “Oleg of Vodubruisk,” spoke one, his voice muffled behind a metal visor, but through the eye slits Vasilisa saw his blue eyes shone with awe. “Yours to command, always.”

  The next druzhinnik to speak was the youngest - younger than herself, she guessed. “P-puh…Polynkin, my lady,” he stammered. “Of Rostonich.”

  A rough slap across his back knocked the young druzhinnik’s helmet askew, and the third druzhinnik chuckled as he strode forth, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “Kirill of Denev, my lady,” he said with an easy smile. “I was fighting beneath the walls when you stopped the tower from crushing me to pulp. Pledging my sword would be an honor - even if I reckon you don’t need our lot to protect you…”

  “...and yet protect Lady Vasilisa we shall,” Demyan reminded. “How would it look, if our lady was to return to Belnopyl alone and without an honor guard?”

  “Your swords are all welcome in my service,” Vasilisa said softly. “You have your supplies? Good - we should leave soon if we’re to make good headway while the sun is still out.”

  News travelled fast of their coming departure from the city. By the time they set out from the keep the narrow streets were already packed full of onlookers and well-wishers. Whispers abounded as she walked the path to the docks, her new guard pushing ahead like a keel through water.

  A few voices cried, “Lady Vasilisa! Fair Lady Vasilisa! All hail!”, while others tried to reach out and touch her as if they would be blessed. Only the shields and shouts of her tiny druzhina kept them at bay, but even so she saw Polynkin nearly pushed over by the impetuous crowd. The human wave flowed with them down to the docks, where a small keelboat bobbed gently in the murky Cherech. Its deck was laden with supplies, and nearby stood Marmun directing the work of Khavel and Valishin as they loaded the last of the provisions. And watching it all, seated atop the low cabin roof, was Austeja.

  The Vorodzhi princess scrambled down as she saw them approaching, and fell to one knee. “My She-Bear of Belnopyl, Lady Vasilisa-”

  Demyan scowled. “Enough of the She-Bear nonsense, bolotnitsa. Speak in the way of civilized folk, or do not speak at all.”

  Vasilisa raised a hand to silence Demyan. Little love was lost between the Vorodzhi and those who descended from Raegnald’s countrymen - the former considered the latter invaders, and likewise the latter saw only savages and tricksters in the former.

  Austeja rose and bowed her head apologetically, though Vasilisa saw a thin smile upon her face. “None know the tricks of the waters as well as the Vorodzhi, my lady. I would be your shield and your guide along Cherech the Mighty, if you would have me.”

  Two royal bloodlines to open the gate. A foul, terrible knife.

  “How could I refuse?” she motioned for the Vorodzhi princess to rise. She cast her glance to the keelboat, where Marmun, Gastya, and the masons Khavel and Doru sat by the oars. “And you, will you come as well? My stolid oarsmen to take us up the Cherech?”

  “We’ve come too far from home to sit back now, the way I see it,” quipped Marmun as he ran his hand across the back of his bald head. “I’ve nothing and no one waiting for me south - not anymore, at least.”

  “And cousin and I are out of work,” said Doru as he puffed out his chest. The wound he took from a longaxe at Balai had already become an ugly scar - one he would no doubt embellish until the end of days. “If Belnopyl was sacked, my lady, then you would need some masons, wouldn’t you?”

  Vasilisa nodded. “We have all come far, and I farthest of all, even if it is on a journey home. Very well, if the gods and the river are kind then you shall behold the Pale Walls and the Thousand Canals…if they remain unspoiled.”

  As the keelboat slipped its moorings, the people of Rovetshi erupted into cheers. The enraptured crowd followed them along the quay, waving kerchiefs and tossing bundles of dried flowers into the river like offerings to the Cherech speed their passage. Vasilisa stood at the prow, looking back as the long oars dipped the waters and pulled them away from the shore. Austeja took the rudder with Oleg, and guided them into the current.

  Soon the town of Rovetshi slipped backward, slowly disappearing into the low-hanging mists and high marsh grasses. As the city faded away, Demyan stood by her side, silent and unmoving. Polynkin wiped his eyes and tried to hide the shaking in his hands. Kirill muttered something under his breath. One by one, the druzhinniks turned away from the city and looked out towards the journey that lay before them - waters black and deep, and silver mists as far as the eye could see.

  At last, when the final silhouettes of the Gravemarsh Keep’s towers were fully faded from sight, Vasilisa turned her gaze forward to the north. To home.

  ***

  In the mists of the Gravemarsh, they could see little beyond the hull of the boat as they made their way north. A handful of times Vasilisa glimpsed outlines of hanging grasses, or a flash of silver fish scales in the black water’s depths. But otherwise, all there was to see was endless, monotonous gray, and all there was to hear was the gentle creaking of the boat, and the steady huff of the freeholders as they rowed.

  While the other druzhinniks quickly settled into an uneasy calm, Austeja remained wide-eyed and alert. As they drifted along the marsh, the Vorodzhi princess’ eyes flicked to and fro across the gray expanse as though she could see something the others could not.

  On occasion, she would hastily jerk the rudder one way or the other to steer them off some unseen danger, though only once did Vasilisa see what she had been trying to avoid when their boat passed narrowly by the shadow of a felled tree. But on all other turns and corrections, she saw naught. Perhaps that was the mark of a truly skilled navigator, Vasilisa thought, one who could make a journey fraught with perils seem so uneventful it was almost boring.

  At length, their passage through the Gravemarsh grew steadier, and eventually Austeja locked the rudder in place and allowed herself to lean back over the edge. There was little talk anywhere along the boat. Each member of their company seemed lost in their own thoughts, and shared little with others.

  Eventually Vasilisa felt either curiosity or boredom get the better of her, and she slowly went from the prow of the riverboat to sit by Austeja, who jerked upright in the presence of the Grand Princess.

  "You wish to speak with me, my lady?"

  "I do," admitted Vasilisa as she studied the Vorodzhi tribeswoman. She had imagined the bog-dwellers to have seemed more...alien, perhaps. But with her shirt of scales and her helmet laid aside, Austeja looked no different from the Klyazmites she shared the journey with. The only difference seemed to be her blue eyes which, at a turn of the head, looked speckled with gold.

  "I have heard a great many things about the Vorodzhi tribe, though I do not think I had ever seen you in my father's court."

  "We are a shy folk, my lady," admitted Austeja with a sigh. "If we do not want to be seen, it shall be so. But I had seen you once, though it was only a glance."

  Vasilisa did not hide her surprise as Austeja continued. "It was some time ago, during the year of the high floods. Your father held a great gathering of boyars in the summer, and he counted even my people's chieftains among those invited. I saw you during the melée, by your mother's side."

  Austeja smiled at the distant memory, and then laughed. "Not all the things your people say of the Vorodzhi are entirely untrue - for one, we are not as wealthy as Raegnald’s kin, nor have we ever raised castles and walls of stone as grand as Belnopyl. When I arrived with my father it was the first time in my life I had seen such high walls, and seen such wealth as your boyars decked themselves in. Gold, silver, gemstones I never knew even existed…so much opulence, but all I remembered thinking back then was 'now, cast any of them into the Cherech and we’ll see how they swim’"

  A smile came to Vasilisa's face as well. But even as she laughed, the memory dealt a sudden pang of sorrow. She longed as she had never longed before for home - for the windowsill where the birds sang just outside her chambers, whistling in the branches of the Elder Tree. Austeja frowned, noticing her sadness, but Vasilisa brushed it aside as she turned to face the tribeswoman again.

  "You'll get to see those high walls again," she said with a smile. "But what about your home? Hrabr had said he sought your chieftain’s heir - do you have no brothers?”

  The tribeswoman gave a grim smile. "Indeed. A curse and a blessing, I suppose. If I’d been born a son, I would have already been sent to join some lord’s druzhina to learn the civilized ways of rule. When Hrabr struggled into our village, I’d feared he planned to take me for his bride!"

  Vasilisa bit back a laugh. “How small that fear must seem now, eh?”

  Austeja nodded. “If only…though I dare say, I’d much prefer seeing my lady kill demons over any wedding, no matter how fancy. And I much prefer the gift I have now over any dowry.”

  She leaned down in her seat and displayed her sword - a short iron blade nestled in a worn leather scabbard, whose only decoration was a carved ivory pommel carved in the shape of a roaring bear. "This was the blade my father had sent me out with - the sword our ancestors received when we swore our oaths to serve the masters of Belnopyl. Though in our language, we call your city the Sacred Hollow."

  "Why so?" Vasilisa asked.

  Austeja raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Do you not know of the passages that run beneath your city?"

  "Do you mean the tunnels, the catacombs?" Mariana had told her enough stories of those: Belnopyl’s rulers had added many underground halls over the centuries. Some, to bury the dead; others were secret bolt-holes to escape invaders, or passages where one might spy on the plots of visiting boyars and magisters…

  “No,” said Austeja, her voice dropping to a low hush as she leaned in close. “The tunnels of men beneath the city reek of death. I mean the hollows that run truly deep beneath the earth. The ones that have known a time before Raegnald’s ilk strode upon the hill, cut down the Elder Trees, and raised their hall.”

  Austeja paused, quickly looking to her side for eavesdroppers. Demyan was chastising Polynkin, Oleg was sitting by the sail, and Kirill was busy stringing his bow.

  When she was satisfied no one was listening, Austeja leaned in so close Vasilisa could see her own reflection in the tribeswoman's eyes. "My lady...the hollows I speak of were not carved by mortal hands. They are the veins of the earth, the lifeblood that pulses beneath your city's streets, and the sacred womb of our world, where a goddess once resided.”

  Vasilisa leaned forward, her eyes wide with anticipation, urging Austeja to continue.

  "Some say…" Austeja continued, her words measured and deliberate, "...that the goddess herself formed the hollows, carving them for her children. It was her chosen dwelling place, a sanctuary where she could weave her tapestry of life.

  "You Klyazmites, the blood of Raegnald and the invaders from beyond the sea, call this goddess by a foreign name - Mokosh the Earth-Mother," Austeja explained with a tint of disdain. “But only the old tribes of this land know her true name: Vaal.”

  The name carried a strange power as it left her lips. To Vasilisa, it sounded with the undercurrent of a thousand other voices, as though all who had uttered the name across past and present were whispering it in unison. The crystals in her chest grew warm at the sound of the name, and thrum with the change that came over the air. Within the name Mokosh, there was ceremony and ritual - within the name Vaal, even just the name, the very air became charged with unseen dread.

  Austeja stared down at the black waters as if she were peering into those earthen depths themselves. Her eyes glowed with a strange fervor Vasilisa had not seen before - as though some power was roused with the memories. "It was within the darkness of the Sacred Hollows that Vaal breathed the First Breath into the world. It was from those hollows where the first flowers bloomed and the first beasts emerged. Vaal breathed life into the world, and it spread by her will, unending and pure.

  "Yet…" Austeja continued, "...even as Vaal loved her creations, they could never love her in return in the same way. Not even men, whom she gifted with higher thought in the hope that they might understand her love.”

  Austeja's voice trailed off. Vasilisa felt a sorrow weigh on her silent heart, and wondered how it must have felt - watching ever far away, watching from above, but always at a distance. The dizzying heights of the stars and godhood might almost seem a curse, she wondered, to be so far, so distant, and so alone - unable to die, but unable to truly live.

  “And so,” Austeja spoke at length. “Knowing she would never be truly understood or loved, Vaal departed from the plane she had sown with life. And in her departure, the cycle was complete - for in leaving, the endless font of life left the world as well, and so the final gift bestowed upon us all by Vaal…was the gift of death.”

  The waters lapped quietly against the side of the riverboat. Austeja's eyes met Vasilisa's, and the princess saw that within them, the speckles of gold seemed to be glowing, each tiny point a shining pinprick like a star in the night sky.

  “That is why we hold you and yours so high, my lady,” Austeja spoke stiffly, remembering the titles and courtesies of nobility. “Your father and mother…they understand that they are the stewards of an ancient legacy. Once, our people made pilgrimage to the Sacred Hollows - but it has been an age since, and only stories of where the Hollows might be found remain.”

  Vasilisa took Austeja's hand in hers, and fixed her with a determined stare. “When we make it to Belnopyl, we will search for these Hollows,” she said with a smile. A foul, terrible knife. “Things are changing in this world - the dead rise from their graves, men turn into beasts, and spirits roam the land. If these could happen, why couldn't the Hollows be found by a woman wise in the lore and legends of her people?”

  Austeja beamed, and as they sat in the silence of the drifting boat, the mists of the Gravemarsh soon receded, giving way to the full sight of the water-logged plains.

  The druzhinniks sensed the passing of the mists as well, and Demyan drew out from the covered roof with the rest of the warriors to hold the perils of the marsh in awe. Towering above forests of reeds like the mountains with grasses at their feet, they beheld the rotted hulks of trade ships that had run aground against hidden muddy islets, long abandoned and claimed by moss.

  And with the passing of the mists, they saw the sun was well past its zenith - the cleared skies were a bright canvas of deep red and violet, but already the light was grasping, giving way to the darkness of night. They had floated for almost half a day, and in utter peace where many others met a watery, muddy grave.

  The wrecked ships passed them by like ghosts, and eventually the land about them began to change - the muddy ground began to grow firmer, and soon trees started to appear on either side of them, their branches weighed down by long-hanging lichens. They were approaching the edges of the Gravemarsh, and by the coming of the morning, Vasilisa judged they would be free of its muddy grasp entirely.

  “Good work, bolotnitsa,” grunted Demyan with a low tone of respect. “It would seem your people know the tricks of their land well indeed - or the gods smile upon you with their luck.”

  Austeja did not reply. The other druzhinniks however, were less reluctant to give their praise to the Vorodzhi girl. They moved to chatter with their fellow warriors as they continued to float ever freer of the Gravemarshes' domain, and soon laughter and talk sprang to life aboard the riverboat once more in the wake of the mists.

  Demyan however, remained concerned and dour, keeping his armor and weapons at the ready. Vasilisa knew his worry - the danger of their passage through the Gravemarshes was of suckholes, hidden mudbanks, and the concealing mists. Soon, they would be entering the open plains and forests of the principality and there, they would face even worse danger - men, whether bandits or rebels, fighting over what scraps of the royal domain they could claim.

  They would be crossing into a land of starving wolves, and Belnopyl’s walls remained ever far from their reach.

  As they continued to drift gently along the Cherech, Vasilisa sat and listened to the faint lapping and gurgling of the waters against the boat and gnarled tree-roots that jutted out on either side of the banks. Eventually, she felt herself nodding, and then fell into an uneasy sleep - dreaming of forgotten hollows and unloved, undying gods.