1. Each Person Is the Blacksmith of Their Own Destiny
1
EACH PERSON IS THE BLACKSMITH OF THEIR OWN DESTINY
The clash of steel rang out across the training field as the twins’ sharp blades connected. The taller of the two warriors slid the weapon down quickly, creating sparks and nicking a barely visible band of flesh at the wrist. A spot of red appeared, rapidly soaking the green fabric, and there was an audible hiss uttered as the shorter twin backed off.
“You’ll pay for that, Stacia,” the injured sister grumbled from beneath her heavy helmet.
“Not today, my sweet sestra, Verusha,” the taller one replied. “Your pretty looks might charm soldiers into dropping their guard, but not me. True, you are better with knives, and you were Papa’s favorite despite his best efforts to hide it, but today I’ve got the drop on you. You’re slow, Veru. What’s the problem? Too much kasha this morning?
“Shut up, Stacia.”
“Why don’t you make me? Oh, that’s right. You can’t. I’ve been telling you to cut down on the pelmeni—unless, of course, your goal is to have some foreign prince pet you and call you his dumpling as you get fat and produce his pink-cheeked detkas.”
“That’s your life, Stacia, not mine. You were born first. It’s your destiny to inherit the throne. You know I’ve always wanted to leave the capital, lead the Guard, and see the far reaches of the empire,” Verusha said, spinning and kicking Stacia’s feet out from under her so she fell heavily into the soft dirt of the practice field. Before Verusha could strike a winning blow, Stacia rolled quickly, got to her knees, and lifted her shield.
“You know we don’t know who the oldest is,” Stacia said, blocking the blow.
Usually, in the case of twins, especially royal births, not one but several midwives are called in. The birth order is carefully monitored, and the babies are kept separate, with the firstborn identified by any notable physical features as well as a red ribbon tied around the wrist.
Somehow that red ribbon slipped off when the nursemaids moved the girls to the nursery. And as there were no discernible birthmarks cataloged at the time, it was anyone’s guess as to which twin was technically the eldest. The tsar and tsarina took it well, saying that sometimes providence steps in where people might go about making a mess of things. They believed it was their job to make certain their little girls didn’t covet the empire’s throne. Perhaps they’d done their work a bit too well, as neither of their daughters wanted to rule.
Though she often mocked her sister, Stacia knew it was all bluster. Veru was small indeed, but she packed a punch when it came to a fight. It was wrong to underestimate her. And many often did. This was what made her particularly effective and often deadly in conflicts. Her short stature made her especially lethal with a blade. She was exactly the right height to slip a sharp knife between gaps in armor, pressing it deep into soft bellies, muscled thighs, or even tender groins.
When their father had been alive, the empire had been at peace. He’d made sure they were well trained, and they often accompanied him on diplomatic missions. Then, after he died, the twins began taking more risks. They always made sure at least one of them was home, but every so often they’d sneak out with select groups of soldiers, never telling their grieving mother. It was how they coped.
One of Veru’s favorite knives suddenly made an appearance. Stacia gritted her teeth and twisted, thrusting her shield into Veru’s arm, ramming it into the ground so hard she dropped the knife. Sweat pooled between her armored shoulder blades, and she squinted as the salty drops stung her eyes beneath her helmet. Her sister was angry. Good . So was she.
As they circled, Veru spat, “You know I hate wearing dresses and putting on a show.”
“So do I.”
“Well, someone needs to take over. We’re turning eighteen soon.”
“That’s right,” Stacia said, swishing her sword slowly back and forth in invitation.
“You’re older.”
“Even if I was, you’re prettier. It’ll be easier for you to find an appropriate husband.”
That did it. Verusha’s bloodcurdling scream could be heard throughout the barracks, and curious soldiers rose from their beds to investigate. A vicious sword fight between the royal tsarevnas was a common enough affair that some returned to their warm beds, taking advantage of the early morning hour and the bit of warmth left from the fire made the night before, but others decided to stay and watch the spectacle.
The dawn was lovely. The air brisk with the promise of snow. Hot mugs of sbiten or spiced tea were passed from one pair of hands to another as the soldiers watched and traded coins and quiet bets on which sister would emerge the victor. They shifted back and forth to keep warm, stomping their boots and blowing out their breath in soft clouds, but they never clapped in appreciation, though they might have wanted to, over particularly exciting parries. It wouldn’t have been appropriate.
They also didn’t debate so much on the skills of the sisters, for each one had defeated the other often enough, but they did discuss other factors that might decide the outcome of the duel, such as which sister fought better in certain weather conditions, with the light in her eyes, or with a certain weapon. And they shared opinions on who had a lingering injury, what might be a distraction to either sister, or perhaps which one was doing a better job riling the other.
Above all else, one thing was certain: not one of them, not a single soldier among all the Royal Guard, was disloyal to the tsarevnas. It was a shame the twins had lost their father in battle. The men blamed themselves for the tsar’s death. When Andrey Mikhail Stepanov II insisted on leading the Guard into war, they’d tried to stop him. But just like the twins, there was no persuading the tsar on a different course once he’d set his mind to something.
Another half hour passed, and neither sister was ready to concede, though both were bloody and tiring. It was a time when mistakes were made. The men began to shift uncomfortably. The women sensed it. Almost as one, they stepped apart, each nodding to a man on the sidelines who rushed forward to take their swords. Veru raised tired arms to remove her helmet but felt it lifted from her head before she touched it.
A soldier stepped to her side and began loosening the clasp tightening her chest plate. He glanced up with warm brown eyes and offered a shy smile before nodding. “Tsarevna,” he said deferentially. “You fought well.”
“Thank you, Nikolai. Did you sleep last night?”
“A bit better with the tonic I made.”
“Good.”
He lifted away the breastplate, and Verusha let out a long sigh, pulling at the sticky tunic clinging to her chest. When Nikolai glanced up to see what he could help with next, his entire face and neck colored a bright red before he quickly looked down at his feet.
Verusha laughed softly. “Can you bring those back to the palace, Nikolai?” she asked.
“Of course, Tsarevna,” he immediately answered.
“There’s no need to call me that around the men,” Verusha said softly, wrinkling her nose. “I want them to think of me like one of their own.” Then a bit more loudly, “Veru is fine with me. We’re all soldiers here. At least until I rise to the rank of captain,” she added.
“Ha!” Stacia said from beneath her helmet as she struggled to get out of her own armor. Two soldiers stood by waiting to help, but she insisted on doing it alone. She didn’t want a man touching her. The very idea of it made her extremely... uncomfortable. It wasn’t that she didn’t like men or appreciate them, but she refused to fawn over them or use them like Verusha did. She hated the way men’s eyes fogged over when they saw her sister or how they couldn’t seem to focus on her words, only on the way her body moved.
No man had ever looked at her that way, and she never wanted them to. She didn’t even know what she’d do about it if one ever did. Veru would laugh endlessly if Stacia ever told her how she truly felt. Though Stacia could appreciate Veru’s “talents” when it came to distracting men, it being useful in negotiating contracts and diplomatic sessions, she honestly couldn’t see much use for beauty otherwise.
Finally wrenching her helmet from her head, she grimaced as she combed her fingers through the sweaty, frizzy mass of curls that had escaped from her braid and pulled the thick bulk of it away from her neck, letting the nearly frigid air cool her quickly. She shivered and gathered the pieces of her heavy armor, trudging up the path behind her sister and her sister’s minion. Her stomach growled, but she pressed her hand against it, willing it to stop. She’d grown thin since her father’s death, and her mother kept harping on her about it, but she just didn’t have an appetite. Stacia ate when it was necessary, but otherwise considered it a nuisance.
She could hear the men shuffling back to the barracks, preparing for their assigned duties, and envied them. How easy would it be to live among them? Yes, there were battles and skirmishes to fight, but not as often as before. Most of the Guard led simple lives. They trained; fulfilled their duties; advanced as far as their ambition, skill, and intelligence allowed; saw much of the empire; and were free of the mundane toils that limited most.
There were no children to care for. No wives to support. There were no farms or animals to tend to. Essentially, being a member of the Guard meant freedom. And freedom was what she craved beyond anything else. If she took on the role of tsarevna, not only would her entire life be a series of meetings, which was bad enough, but she’d seen firsthand what the pressure had done to her parents. They were the two most intelligent people she had ever known, and there were still days she’d seen her mother cry when she couldn’t figure out a problem.
As often as her father had praised Stacia’s cleverness with strategy, Stacia had never once beaten him at any game, not unless he let her win. She just knew, deep in her gut, that she wasn’t smart enough to do their job. There were too many people to take care of, too many neighboring countries, too many languages to know, too many laws. When she even thought about taking charge, she’d bend over just to catch her breath.
Knowing she’d fail and disappoint her parents and the entire empire and end up destroying everything her parents had worked so hard to build was the one reason Stacia knew she could never be the tsarina. It had to be Veru.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love her country. She did. She’d lay down her life for it. She just needed to serve the best way she could. And that was with her sword. Her sword, shield, and sweat. Stacia caught the scent of her own perspiration as she finally pulled away her chest plate. All she needed to do was win her freedom by convincing Veru she was the best choice. That was what she wanted. Well, that and a hot bath.
At least there were still some things about the palace she enjoyed. The luxury of a hot bath drawn by someone other than herself was something any exhausted and aching-muscled soldier would relish. But since the death of her father, Stacia found she felt little pleasure in anything. Sometimes she even feigned illness to avoid the evening activities planned by her mother or the social fetes she was expected to attend. She knew her mother had more of a right to grieve than she did, and Stacia was also aware that it wasn’t fair to leave everything for Veru and her mother to handle, but it was difficult to make herself care.
Occasionally, she allowed the guilt over such things to stifle the little enjoyment she did find, but not today. On this morning, she would take her time and enjoy the water until it cooled. After all, she was going to win her freedom from rule and beat her sestra. And winning meant she should allow herself a little reward.
* * *
As Stacia contemplated her impending ablutions, Verusha and Nikolai were deep in conversation about the recent fight.
“Your ribs might be bruised on the right side,” Nikolai said. “Your stance was slightly off, and you guarded that side during the fight.”
Veru nodded. “You’re probably right. They’re tender. I’ll need them wrapped.”
Nik’s neck colored, but his expression was rigid and determined. “I can do it. You know I’ve been apprenticing in medical training. You’ll have to remove your tunic though. Perhaps it would be better to do it out of sight of the others. Maybe in the stables?”
Taking the training had been Verusha’s idea. His heart had stirred with excitement to learn that she’d wanted him proficient in a specialty that would make him an even more valuable commodity on the battlefield, and as a bonus, it also gave him an excuse to attend to her constantly.
Though they were separate during his lessons, he consoled himself thinking of how much a future Guard leader would rely on a battlefield surgeon. He might even be called upon to save her life someday.
Considering it briefly, Verusha shook her head. “Thank you, Nik, but no. I’ll have my nurse do the wrap. It won’t likely be as tight as yours, and she’ll probably tell Mother, but it would be better if I wasn’t found in a compromising position, no matter the excuse.”
“You’re right, of course, Tsarevna,” Nikolai immediately replied. “You know I would never wish to harm either you or your reputation.”
“Relax, Nik,” Veru said with a sincere smile, a special one she used only with those she truly cared for. “I know you’ve always had my best interests in mind. Now, quickly, before we get to the palace, tell me what else you saw. And don’t pull any punches. This is important. I need to beat my sister. I know you notice everything.”
“I do,” Nikolai replied quietly. It wasn’t true, of course. Nik didn’t notice everything, but he liked her thinking he did. He only seemed to know everything because he watched the tsarevna Verusha with near obsessive fixation. He’d been in love with her since the moment he’d met her.
It had been his first day on the practice field when he’d been pitted against her. He’d had no idea he was sparring with one of the famed tsarevnas. An orphan, Nik had joined the Guard as soon as he was eligible at age fourteen. Back then, she’d been only twelve, but she was already strong despite her diminutive size. He’d thought it an insult to be pitted against the smallest trainee in the Guard, but Veru had taken no time at all to knock his skinny self to the ground not once but ten times.
The final time, she offered a gloved hand and removed her helmet. The shock at realizing he’d been bested by a girl—and a tiny one at that—wore off quickly when she smiled and introduced herself. “Sorry about that, Nikolai,” she said. “I’m Tsarevna Veru. I hope there aren’t any hard feelings. The other recruits all knew to look out for me and would have gone easy on me. You didn’t. I appreciate that.”
Nik stuttered a lame response. “Right... no problem. You beat me soundly. I can promise I didn’t hold back at all.”
She’d then helped him to his feet and dusted off his armor for him. “And he’s humble too. I like you, Nik. Stick around. We’ll meet again.”
As she headed back to the barracks so the next pair of soldiers could enter the practice field, Nik thought, I certainly hope so.
It had been a good thing that he was so obsessive in watching her because Nikolai quickly realized the young tsarevna Verusha Irena Vasilia Stepanov wasn’t kidding when she said the other soldiers held back. At first he assumed it was due to her royal status or to her diminutive size. He knew it wasn’t because of her gender. There were many other female soldiers in the ranks, and she did fight against some of them with success.
But the more he watched the rapidly blossoming tsarevna, the more he realized the true issue at hand. Verusha wasn’t becoming merely pretty; she was truly breathtaking. Even when her hair was damp with sweat, and the dust from the sparring field coated her skin, there was no denying her beauty. Male or female, in love with her or not, which Nik suspected most of them were, not a soldier in the Guard had a wish to damage a royal commodity so precious and valuable.
The one who scarred that beautiful face or disfigured her lush form would be remembered throughout the empire as the most dastardly, most careless, most reckless, most unpatriotic creature who ever walked the earth, and surely he or she would find no resting place or kind soul to console them for such a mistake. Over time, the only one who truly fought Verusha in the way she craved was her sister.
Not even Nik could bring himself to accidentally mar her lovely skin despite his willingness to do absolutely anything to please her. But when he began holding back in sparring, he saw how his actions made her special smile disappear, and he decided then he’d simply throw the match in every competition from that point onward.
That way she wouldn’t feel as if he was treating her any differently. When she realized just how truly terrible a fighter he was, she took pity on him, began giving him pointers, and her special smile came back.
It became a careful dance for him. He had to slowly improve in the areas she tutored while secretly training on his own so that he could become so skilled with weapons that he would never ever risk an accidental nick or scratch when she taught him. He felt the most fear when she fought her sister, and his fellow soldiers felt as he did, at least on some level.
When the time came for the culling, a year after his training had begun, he despaired at the idea of being cast aside. He knew the others thought him barely competent enough to keep around. With Verusha’s support, he was allowed to remain a Guard member after those deemed unqualified were cut loose and sent home.
Though many teased him, calling him the tsarevna’s pet or prize pig, he smiled each time he heard such comments and simply raised his glass with a wink or replied, “I’ll take it!” with such enthusiasm it always garnered a laugh. He knew it implied something more to their relationship, but he found he didn’t mind it so much and liked to imagine she wouldn’t mind it either if she knew he was being mocked for their friendship.
Over the next few years, Nik had become someone Verusha relied upon heavily. She’d grown to rely on him as a sparring companion, then as a friend and confidant. Secretly, Nik hoped for more. He knew it was highly likely she’d be married off to a royal good-for-nothing someday. That she would inherit the throne. It was best for diplomacy and the empire, he knew. And Nikolai considered himself as loyal to the empire as the next. It was the reason he’d joined the Guard.
Well, that and guaranteed meals.
But even so, maybe someday, somehow, the tsarevna might come to love him back. Such a thing was possible. Love wasn’t exclusive to royals. Marriage might be, but not love. Perhaps they might find it together. At least for a while. He’d try to tell himself it would be enough. But if she ascended to the throne, her marriage date would be pushed forward all the quicker. Even if Veru arranged for him to stay at the palace, the likelihood of his continued presence in her life was slim to none.
It was more probable he’d be shipped off with the Guard on their next venture. Veru would soon forget all about him, begin popping out royal progeny, and he’d be an old friend who stopped by for a visit every once in a while, or, even worse, a headstone in the military cemetery who might—and that was if he was very lucky—get a yearly visit and flower from the royal gardens.
His best option would be to get Stacia to take over as tsarina. Then Veru could be head of the Guard, and he could insert himself as her right hand.
When they parted at the secret door to the palace, she squeezed his upper arm and gave him a tired smile. He encouraged her to rest, and her small shoulders relaxed. It was some consolation to know it was him she listened to and that he was her closest advisor and confidant. As the door closed behind her, he frowned, his jaw set. Had her stance changed just as she entered the house? It looked like she might have a slight limp or perhaps a broken toe. She wouldn’t hide such a thing from him, would she? If so, why?
As he turned, heading for the royal armory, he made a mental note to watch her walk more carefully the next day. Perhaps he’d even insist on looking at her feet himself. He didn’t like the idea that she’d hide something from him. The tsarevna should know by now that I can be trusted with anything. Yes. I’ll simply have to insist. It won’t do to have her feet compromised.
Nik rehashed the fight, wondering if there was something he’d missed that might have damaged his precious tsarevna. His hands clenched into fists. It was that awkward Stacia’s fault. If she would just be more careful with her sister. It wasn’t that Nik particularly disliked Stacia; it was simply that Stacia didn’t treat her sister with the respect, care, and admiration she deserved.
In a perfect world, Stacia would rule, and Verusha would become captain of the Guard, taking Nik as her right-hand officer. They’d end up sharing more than just a hot mug of sbiten on cold, dark evenings and, eventually, she’d realize she couldn’t live without him in her life.
If Tsarevna Stacia would just accept her calling in life, he’d be happy to bend a knee and place a hand on his chest, pledging his loyalty and support. True, her height and abrupt manner with men made her the more difficult sister to match. But Stacia wasn’t unsightly—besides, when did that ever stop a man wanting power? Stacia was... regal . That was the word.
Stacia took after her father. She was too tall. Too proud. Too imposing. Too... unbending. And what man wanted an unbending, unsmiling, cold woman for a wife? Regardless, Nik was certain a match could be made somehow. There were many interested in furthering status and linking their lands and countries to the empire. Someone would come forward. Though that someone would have to be a special man indeed if he could learn to tolerate Tsarevna Stacia.
Nik shifted the armor as he walked, thinking about what kind of a man it would have to be to marry such a woman. She’d hold him beneath her thumb for sure. Verusha often complained that none of the soldiers wanted to fight her fairly, and she wasn’t wrong. But it was also true that there weren’t too many willing to take on Tsarevna Stacia. Not because they didn’t want to mar her skin either. No. They didn’t want to take her on because she was just that good.
Often, she ended up fighting the female soldiers. Stacia relaxed a bit more around them, but she seemed to have something to prove when she fought the men. She became almost bitter and cruel. It was as if she was determined to end them as quickly as possible to get her opponents out of her sight. It was almost humiliating to be beaten by her. It wasn’t so much training as it was an experience in dodging targeted lightning strikes. When it was over, the struck man wasn’t certain he ever wanted to go outside again.
Nik dropped off the armor for cleaning and polishing, leaving strict instructions. He’d be back later to check to make sure they’d followed through properly. They often didn’t do as thorough of a job as he liked, so he picked up the armor early and polished it again himself. He liked gently rubbing the oils into the metal and imagining it was Verusha’s lithe form instead. It also gave him a great deal of pleasure to know his hands had been the last to touch the metal that would cradle and protect her body the next time she fought.
As he headed back to the barracks, his mind turned again to the impossible, a life with Verusha. That meant the next order of business would be to get Stacia to accept her place on the throne. It was a tall order for a too-tall woman. But his happiness depended on it. After all, the empire would need a successor.
At the same moment, Stacia was sinking down into a just-too-hot bath, groaning as the water covered each inch of her body. Inevitably, her thoughts went down the same track. The empire needed a successor. But she wasn’t thinking of the future or of a marriage or a child; she was thinking of the now. How could she convince her sister to do the most natural thing? Marry and rule.
Verusha was pacing her room wondering how her own sister could be so obstinate. Stacia was the strategist. She was much more capable of running an empire. Veru stopped in front of a family portrait and stared at the lines in her beloved father’s face. Her vision blurred. They’d been young in that painting. Even then Stacia looked like their father, while Veru took after their mother. How could Verusha convince her stubborn sister that she was the one destined to rule?
The answer came to both sisters at the same time. As the two young women lifted their heads, they smiled in anticipation.
They’d fight.
And the loser would inherit the throne.
Unfortunately, the best laid plans, excellent though they may be, often go awry.