Vraactan
The town was as dark as pitch by the time everyone fell back to the boyar’s towerhouse to report their findings.
“Entire place is empty,” said Gastya as he and Marmun sat in the empty hall of the tower. “Not even any mice left scurrying about. It’s like everyone and everything just up and left. They still left their silver and other such things behind…”
“The big boats are all gone,” Khavel reported despondently. He and his cousin must have taken a dip in the water, because the two masons were dripping wet and shivering when they arrived.
“All’s left is a river skiff, down in one of the workshops on the pier,” Doru followed. “Looked like they were mending a patch in the hull and left it half-finished. I didn’t see any problems, but I dunno if it’s good for the waters if they didn’t bother to take it…”
“We can take a look at it come morning,” said Vratislav, seated at the boyar’s table alongside Vasilisa, Nesha, and Yesugei. “Valishin…you helped repair a fishing boat once, didn’t you?”
The young farmer woke up from his dozing with a start. “Wha-? Y-yes, my lord. Was my cousin’s before-”
“Good. Come morning you can take the others and see if you can’t get that boat sail-worthy. We either get to Gatchisk by boat, or not at all.”
The burning of the countryside meant there would be no shelter to be found along the roads - or if there was, their occupants’ willingness to host eleven travelers pathetically short of coin would be sorely lacking. And at their sluggish pace of travel towards Gatchisk, two days would easily turn into six - six days and nights sleeping in forests or plains, exposed to the cold nights and hard, rough ground.
Yesugei wondered whether it would be easier to leave behind the peasants - now that they were within the safety of the walls and well-provisioned, it wouldn’t be abandoning them if he and Vasilisa were to take off on their own. It would be easy to simply take their share of the supplies and head out - some of the peasants might object, but none seemed like they would try to stop them from leaving.
He gave Vasilisa a sidelong glance as she listened to Vratislav speaking. He had noticed Vasilisa’s growing attachment and sense of duty to the peasants even over their short travel to Balai, but something had changed in her demeanor after they descended from the tower’s roof. It was in her eyes - she no longer looked upon the peasants as merely subjects, but as companions - people to whom she owed loyalty, whether out of duty or out of honor as their liege lady.
Here’s hoping this new honor won’t get us killed, he thought as he studied Vasilisa’s thoughtful expression. Remember what’s at stake, Vasilisa.
The memory of the Apostle’s leering, empty-eyed visage still haunted him, as did the strange vision that were not his own, of the blindingly-bright spirit whose whispers shook the earth and brought nearly to tears. The two creatures could not have been farther from one another - yet were they both Apostles, or two different spirits, equally malevolent in their nature?
The disappearance of the townsfolk did not seem like the work of a helpful, kind entity - a strange sense of menace hung over the air in Balai, the sense of desperate whispers and smothered fear drenched in the paved streets and walls of every building.
If Sergen were still alive, he could have communed with the spirits of the land, or raised one of the western tengri for advice. But Sergen is dead, Yesugei thought as he caught himself. Sergen is dead, and there is nothing you can do about it. Move on.
The conversation in the great hall turned to the topic of the coming night. The gates to the town were sealed solidly, but there were far too few of them to man the walls along their entire length, much less keep a rotating watch throughout the night. Instead, Vratislav had advised them to hole up and guard only the towerhouse, whose ten-foot stone walls were short enough for two people to keep watch over the town from all directions. There was a single heavy gate to the east - reinforced by iron brackets like the outer walls - as well as a smaller postern door to the south hidden by foliage that opened to a dirt path leading to the pier.
Yesugei took charge of planning the watches for the night, setting Valishin, Marmun, Gastya, and Khavel to take two-man shifts. One man would always keep the horn close by to warn the others of danger, though Yesugei wondered what would come to pass if anyone did show up.
None of the peasants looked to be of fighting spirit, besides Rudin, and they still only had enough weapons to arm half of their number. Although it was easy to conclude that standing and fighting would give the whole group better odds of survival than routing, in practice few men were able to override their primal desires and terrors - especially if faced by trained killers while half of their own side wielded farming tools.
Still, the towerhouse was well-prepared to withstand a small siege if need be - an exploration of the battlements and barracks turned up piles of heavy stones, a large pot for pouring boiling water onto attackers, and several more arrows which sat forgotten in barrels along the wooden catwalks.
As they talked and Yesugei put together a small map to show the four watchmen where they ought to patrol, Rudin, Nesha, and Valka set about preparing the food they had gathered and poached for a late supper. The kitchens were blessedly left half-stocked, and so soon the smell of roasted goose and vegetable stew drifted up into the great hall. Yesugei felt his own stomach grumble from hunger, and he saw the prospect of a good meal had stolen away his men’s attention.
When the food was finally ready and carried up, the peasants all looked like starved puppies as the roasted goose passed them by. Rudin set the goose before Vasilisa first, before passing it along the boyar’s table and only then to the peasants. The fat bird was more than enough for everyone to get a piece - even so, Yesugei saw Vasilisa gingerly take only a small cut of meat for herself when the goose was presented.
Her appetite remained astoundingly little, but she didn’t relent even when both Vratislav and Nesha encouraged her to eat her fill to meet the day ahead. No-one else talked as much as they all ate, and Yesugei knew that even Vratislav and Nesha’s fussing was more a way for them to put off thinking about their own fates and futures than any sycophantry.
Everyone set off on their own separate ways once they all finished - Valishin and Marmun to the walls, Vratislav, Nesha, and Vasilisa to the upper chambers, and the rest of the peasants to the lower commons where the servants slept. Yesugei lingered alone for a little longer, savoring the greasy taste of the gooseflesh and the hearty stew before heading to the upper chambers.
When he poked his head inside, he saw Vratislav and Nesha already sound asleep. Unburdened from the stresses of the waking world, the boyar and his wife looked almost ten years younger. Within the clean walls of the towerhouse, Yesugei felt his skin crawl as his own filthiness, and resolved to find a tub of water, anything to clean himself before resigning to sleep.
When Yesugei found the bathhouse, Vasilisa was already there, halfway through lighting a fire beneath the heating stones. Her cleaver leaned against the wall, nearly toppling as he stepped inside. She turned, her face reddening.
“I’m setting a bath—do you mind? Wait your turn,” she snapped.
“You’ll turn the water black by the time you’re done,” he replied. “I’m not bathing in your filth.”
“Neither am I!” she huffed, turning back to the fire. “And you’re filthier—go last.”
While she focused on the fire, Yesugei silently slipped out of his boots and stepped into the tub, robe and all. The mud caked onto his robe instantly began to cloud the bath, followed by swirls of crimson blood. Ignoring Vasilisa’s muttered protests, he sank in up to his chin, savoring the soothing relief on his battered skin.
A splash broke the quiet as Vasilisa climbed into the tub with a shiver, shooting him an annoyed glare.
“You’re an ass, you know that?” the Grand Princess muttered as she pulled her knees up to her chest in the tub. The dust and dirt of the road slowly dissolved off her silk dress, and their combined filth and suffering mixed until it was indistinguishable. Blood and blood, dirt and dirt, grief and grief washed away bodily.
The closeness of the bath bothered neither of them - in the Devil Woods, the princess had peered into his soul. She had known him and his mind in a way that not even a lover could. Everything else seemed trifling, by contrast. For a while - a long while - the two of them sat in total silence until even the slowly lapping surface of the bathwater stilled.
“What are we doing here?”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Yesugei’s question came softly as he stared up at the plain wooden ceiling of the bathhouse, slowly rapping his wrinkled fingers along the edge of the tub.
“What do you mean?”
“This…this whole mess.” He gestured with one hand about them. “How did we get here? Why us? Why you?”
“You know as well as I that I don’t know.” Vasilisa said. She curled herself up even tighter, causing her knees to pop up from the surface of the water like two small islands. “I-I don’t know. None of this should be happening, none of it.”
“Before all of this…” Vasilisa caught herself, and gave a small, rueful smile. “Ah…before all of this…I was afraid my parents were going to marry me off to some steppe khan. Maybe one of your brothers? Maybe even you.”
Yesugei stifled a chortle, not wanting to wake the boyar and his wife just outside. “Even me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” said Vasilisa innocently as she stretched out, staring off to the side at the heating stones. “Just…couldn’t ever imagine myself being married off like that. My father pushed for it once, my mother didn’t care for it - perhaps she didn’t appreciate her own father giving her away, even if she did end up loving Igor of Belnopyl.”
Ah yes, your grandfather. Naizabai of the Quanli. Yesugei tilted his head, watching her from the corner of his eye. “Who’s to say you wouldn’t have ended up the same? Loving whoever you’d be promised to?”
Vasilisa exhaled through her nose as she poured a ladle of water over the heating stones, sending up a cloud of hissing steam. “Perhaps. But now we’ll never know.”
Strands of damp hair clung to her neck and cheeks, her face pensive in the flickering light of the hearth. The steam softened the sharpness of her features - her high cheekbones, the arch of her brows, her full lips, pressed into the barest trace of a smirk. Far away from Tosont, in the hush of the bathhouse, she almost looked like a proper royal beauty.
She looked like the girl she might have remained if fate had been kinder.
“You would’ve given any husband of yours a hard time,” Yesugei murmured, his voice touched with wry amusement.
Vasilisa’s head snapped toward him, a frown tugging at her brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He gestured vaguely, running his fingers over the water’s surface. “Just that I don’t envy the poor bastard. You’re tall – even compared to men. And strong. You could stand on even ground with any husband.” His gaze flickered over her—how the wet silk clung to the lines of her broad shoulders, her toned arms, the curve of her collarbone. “Or knock him flat on his ass.”
Vasilisa blinked, frowned, then—realization.
Her face reddened slightly as she crossed her arms over her chest, splashing the water. “You—stop staring.”
He huffed a laugh, letting his gaze linger for a fraction too long before turning away. “What? It’s not as if you’re covering anything I haven’t seen before.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re a dead man.”
“I already am,” he replied dryly.
The warmth of the bathhouse pressed around them, thick with steam and the scent of damp wood. Silence stretched between them, more comfortable than before.
Vasilisa broke the quiet the second time, her voice quiet. “Was there anyone promised to you? Some other princess from some other far-off land, perhaps? I heard tales from the merchants of immortal emperors ruling over fortress-cities, and the sun-worshippers who make their homes out of pure marble. Did none of them promise you one of their daughters?”
He exhaled, leaning his head back against the tub’s edge. “No one.”
Vasilisa gave a thoughtful hum. “No one at all?”
Yesugei shot her a look, sensing implication in the way her voice carried the hint of a smile. “Not for lack of choice, I assume you.”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Of course, of course. A dashing prince of the Horde wouldn’t be without prospects.”
He chuckled, but said nothing more. His amusement faded as he let his head tilt back again, eyes tracing the wooden beams above. The rise and fall of the steam made the ceiling seem to shift, and he felt his head beginning to spin.
“It all feels like another life, doesn’t it?” he murmured. “Worrying about marriages, titles, royal lines. So long ago.”
A great horde. A great ulus to the east, a Great Khan, and me, the ninth son. Yesugei thought, but a deep bitterness in his silent heart also spoke.
“And now…what? My brother is dead. My comrades are dead. And the old enemies of my tribe still lurk in every corner while new nightmares fall from the skies,” he muttered as he ran one hand through the water, watching the clouds of blood and grime swirl.
Suddenly, the waters felt as though they were drowning him. The crystal in his chest throbbed with pain, a sharp reminder of past agony. Sorrow spilled into his mind, and his head spun with the weight of it. Visions assaulted him—Kaveh’s face twisted in torment, flesh melting in black fire, and his own corpse, decayed and cursed, strewn across foreign plains.
“And me…what am I now?” he murmured. “Am I even still me? Or was I born again, out there in the Klyazmite plains?”
His thoughts spiraled into chaos, his mind searing as if melting. Feverish or cursed, he staggered to his feet, only to be struck by a wave of weakness that pulled him back into the water.
“I think…the water’s…” he slurred, his voice fading as a terrible hissing filled his skull. He sank lower under Vasilisa’s worried gaze.
“Vasilisa…”
***
“Yesugei!”
Vasilisa lunged, grabbing Yesugei’s clammy arms before his head could sink into the filthy water. As she pulled him out, she saw his eyes were rolled up into his head—unconscious. His breathing was low and shallow, and his wounds did not appear to have reopened. She sighed in relief - only exhaustion laid him low, not any curse.
As she propped his arms against the tub, something shifted at the edge of her vision—a shadow crawling across the floor. Turning, she realized it wasn’t a shadow but a serpent slithering over the wooden boards.
“You’ve grown bigger since we last met.”
The serpent, now thick as her arm, was quadruple its former size. Its iridescent scales seemed to have grown brighter and more vibrant with age. She detected the faintest flicker of recognition in its eyes from its otherwise expressionless face as the serpent rose up to glance at her. Despite Yesugei’s collapse, she felt at ease seeing an old, if brief, friend.
“I’ve been eating well,” the serpent replied its soft voice, its tongue flicking in and out as it tasted the air. “The predators here hunt their own kind, not serpents. Our kind slither by unnoticed, while the great beasts of the world clash.”
Vasilisa gave a grim smile, adjusting Yesugei against the tub before extending her arm. The serpent coiled around her forearm and was surprisingly heavy - she struggled to lift it to match her gaze.
“What do I call you now? You can hardly fit on my arm now - somehow ‘little serpent’ seems no longer apt.”
“You could always just call me ‘serpent’, I suppose.” The serpent slowly crawled around her arm, brushing its cool scales along her skin. The scales shifted in color and hue with the flickering light of the bathhouse fire. “We serpents do not usually keep names - our kind rarely care enough to give one another titles.”
“That seems a sad existence, not having anyone to care for you enough to give you a name.”
“Most serpents have none who care for them. But I…I had a name, once.” The serpent’s head rested in the open palm of her hand, and Vasilisa carefully stroked the top of its smooth, sleek head with her scarred thumb. The serpent gave a relaxed sigh.
“You did?” she asked curiously. “What made you lose it?”
“The only ones who called me by it disappeared,” replied the serpent, its eyes closed as Vasilisa continued to stroke its head.
Vasilisa let her finger smoothly play across the serpent’s head for a little while longer before asking, “I could call you by your name. It only seems fair - you call me ‘Vasilisa’, not ‘human’. What is your name?”
The serpent’s eyes opened slowly, and it turned its head to meet her gaze. “I think you might already know.”
Up close, she realized the serpent’s eyes were a deep black-and-purple color, tinged with veins of gold that reminded her of the twisting roots of a tree. Golden eyes…golden eyes…
She found herself sinking into the black and purple void, memories drifting by her as she saw the long-haired Chirlan’s eerie smile, his singer’s voice, his golden claws sinking into her heart. She remembered his soft voice whispering through the darkness as she faded away, whispering a quiet prayer.
Take within all you can bear,
No other soul the weight to share.
And gods of mine: fire, earth, and stars above.
Accept my blood, my spirit, and my love.
The pressure on her chest released suddenly, and Vasilisa gasped as her mind shot back into her own sopping wet body. She scrambled to pull herself up out of the filthy tub. As she regained her bearings, she realized she was alone in the bath - no sign of the serpent, nor Yesugei.
She felt a word - no, a name - tumbling around in her confused, groggy mind as she dried her dress off the best she could and placed her trembling fingers close to the fire of the heating stones.
In the flickering flames of the fire, the serpent’s name came into focus.
“Vraactan…” She whispered, her only audience the crackling flames.
One of the logs split apart, releasing a hiss as the fire spread over and consumed it whole.
The silence of the bathhouse was interrupted when she heard heavy, rushed footsteps coming from outside. The door to the bathhouse burst open, and Vasilisa spun around to see Yesugei standing in the doorframe, his bow and quiver in hand.
“Something’s wrong, someone’s coming. I warned the others but we need to move-”
Before he could say more, a sound came shuddering through the towerhouse. It was one of the peasant watchmen blowing on the hunting horn, sounding intruders. Sounding danger.
“Get up! We need to move, now!”
Vasilisa hurried to her feet after Yesugei, and snatched the giant Apostle’s cleaver from the wall as she trailed after the nomad. The horn blared again, and it sounded like death.
