Russia
The sleep took him the way it had in Brogan’s house. He woke to eat the small meals served to him and fell back into unconsciousness immediately afterward.
His new warm clothes kept him upright, but during his small snatches of wakefulness, he could tell he was slipping fast. The inside of his coat was slick with sweat, and he shivered.
His coughing had frightened his coach empty again.
But they were in the middle of nowhere, and Victor visibly had money and was very much still alive.
They couldn’t dump him in the wastes like he could tell the train staff very much wanted to.
When they finally arrived in Irkutsk, they ushered him off the train through the back so he did not have to walk the length, potentially infecting people with his illness as he went along.
Victor didn’t try to explain his situation at all. He just said thank you and tipped them well.
It was night when they arrived. The wind was blowing hard, kicking up dry snow to swirl in small twisters through the street.
Victor’s coat was too warm on the train, but in this weather it was perfect. He could feel his heart rate slowing and his fever going down, but it was not enough.
His head spun, worse than the very first night of this, and each step was agony. It was like he was walking through thick mud.
Victor braced himself against the wind and clung to a light post.
He knew Yaroslav’s house wouldn’t be far if he could get to a carriage. It would have been a short walk to the man he was back in Germany. But now, burned to the quick from magic and labor, Victor’s joints would not take him there.
People shied from him again. He could feel their eyes on him even as his own pinched closed. They cleared a path for this horrific sight as Victor struggled across the busiest part of town.
He managed to follow the smell of horses to a stable, then paused to prepare himself. He wrapped the scarf as much as he could around his sunken cheeks until his eyes were all that could be seen.
Then he stood as tall as he could, gathering his strength, and turned to his task.
So bundled and covered, they couldn’t perceive the wasting of his flesh and the sweat that coated him even now. Victor’s voice was strong and his posture erect; they couldn’t see his knees trembling above his fur-lined boots.
They balked at his request to be taken to Yaroslav’s house, trying to wave him away at first. But when Victor produced the last of his money, the rest of the savings kept on his body, a small fortune to these small-town people, they relented.
It was such an offer, they didn’t feel comfortable taking more than half.
He sat in the back of the carriage. The driver looked over his shoulder at Victor in suspicion for the entire ride.
Twenty rubles for a thirty-minute walk. Victor could understand.
The carriage driver brought him all the way to Yaroslav’s door, at Victor’s urging. Even though it was clear he wanted to abandon him at the bottom of the hill that lead up to Yaroslav’s house. The instant Victor stepped out, he drove away quickly, horse neighing at the whip on its back.
Victor watched him go, the light of his lantern fading into the dark.
Yaroslav’s house was tall, made of stone and dark wood. Beautifully crafted and intimidating, a true magician’s home. Victor grasped the knocker in trembling hands and banged against the door.
It was silent. He peered around the outside of the house, but all the windows were dark.
Victor knocked again, then looked back out at the town behind him.
It was too many paces, through thick snow and unpaved road.
He could see the golden lights. It was still early enough to get a tavern room, to pay the last of his coin to die on soft sheets.
But Victor knew he wouldn’t make it all the way. His heart beat rabbit-fast in his chest, and he pounded on Yaroslav’s door.
“Please!” he screamed, voice hoarse. “Я здесь!”
But the door stayed closed.
Victor sank to his knees, then fell to his side to rest against the steps. He wasn’t too cold: he could wait here, sleep a bit, and try knocking again in a while.
The coat he had been given was so good and warm, only his eyes felt the chill. Victor pulled his scarf down to cover them.
He tried not to cry.
He’d made it this far; he could wait a while. He was man enough to try again, when he had enough rest.
He just needed to rest.