Tiger’s Tale (The Tiger’s Curse #1)

3. Death Answers Before It Is Asked

3

DEATH ANSWERS BEFORE IT IS ASKED

The twins found their mother collapsed on the floor and immediately summoned the doctor. At his insistence, the tsarina finally broke the news of her illness to her beloved girls. To say their mother’s secret hit them hard was an understatement. Though neither twin despaired outwardly at the announcement, as both of them had trained extensively as soldiers and had become accustomed to death and saving grief for private moments, Mila could see the distracted stumbling in Stacia’s pacing and the telltale trembling in Veru’s hands.

After she dismissed the vrach, sending the physician to procure her various medicines, her daughters quickly took places at her side. Despite her best efforts to hold them back, tiny glistening tears began leaking from the corners of her eyes. Oh, how she had wanted it to go differently. If she had only been able to hold out just a bit longer. What a terrible mess I’ve made of things , she thought. But then she could almost hear her husband’s voice, soothing her. Now, now, Mila , he’d say. There’s nothing the two of us can’t twist to our favor when we put our minds to it now, is there?

No , she admitted back to the ghost of her departed husband. There is not . Perhaps this will bring the two of them together in a way nothing I said or did before ever could.

There’s my girl , he replied. Now summon your strength, maya radnaya. You have work to do.

Mila stretched out one of her hands to touch each of her girls, just as she often did when they were babies sleeping near her bed. “Do not mourn, moi umnyye devochki, for I do not.”

At this, tears finally began seeping from Veru’s lovely eyes, just a shade darker gray than her own, but Stacia’s face hardened. “How can you say this, Mama?” Stacia chided. “Do you think we celebrate the loss of both parents before we come of age? Are we so terrible? Are the pressures of rule so great you can’t wait to leave us?”

Managing a weak smile, Mila softly stroked Stacia’s hand. She saw so much of her darling husband in this proud daughter. How she wished she could have been by his side when he passed from this world into the next. At least their reunion would be soon. It was her only comfort now. Especially when the pain became unbearable.

“Of course not,” Mila answered. “You must know, my only desire is that a cure could be found so that I might grow old and live long enough to see the two of you happily set on your life’s journey. I’d like nothing more than to tell my grandchildren stories of their dedushka and turn the diplomatic matters over to the two of you when you’re ready so that I can focus more on my gardening. Rest assured: I have no wish to leave you. But none of us can choose our fate. As your old amah often said, ‘Fortune and misfortune live in the same courtyard.’”

“Then let us help,” Verusha said. “We’ll search the empire for the best doctors and healers. Surely there’s one in these lands who will have a cure for this disease.”

Mila had already seen every one of repute, sought every cure. But she hated denying them the tiny light of hope that still flickered within. Even worse, she didn’t want to see that spark die in their eyes. They needed it. Their people needed it. She knew she was dying, and there wasn’t much time left. The sickness raged in her body like a ravenous beast, slowly devouring her from the inside out. Every day she grew weaker.

Though Mila’s preference would have been to spend the remainder of her days preparing her daughters for their succession and meeting potential matches so that she might find a suitor worthy of her beloved docheri, she reluctantly agreed to meet with whatever healers they summoned and would try her best to remain optimistic, hoping such actions would heal the rift between them.

Her only stipulation was that the two of them remain at her side and work out between them, finally, who would succeed her, and how, should she suddenly pass on. At least that way she could make sure there was progress of some sort being made. Otherwise, she feared the two of them would simply mount horses and disappear, seeking healers on their own, leaving her and the empire to slowly fade away into nothing. The girls agreed, albeit reluctantly, and left their mother to rest.

* * *

Everyone knew something was amiss when the twins didn’t appear in the practice field early the next morning. But most assumed it had something to do with a diplomatic affair. There was not a whisper among the ranks of the tsarina’s illness, which was a credit to the loyalty of those in the palace who served her and the twins.

But despite Tsarina Mila’s machinations, the twins not only did not reconcile in the weeks that followed; instead, they grew even more distant. When Stacia recruited ten of her best, most-trusted guards and sent one to each of the bordering lands at the far reaches of the empire, Verusha became volatile, claiming it had been her idea to send for healers, not Stacia’s. She accused Stacia of trying to act as high commander of the Guard.

Stacia’s response was only to stare Veru down and tell her she’d better prepare her prettiest mourning gowns. Adding that the country would want to see a lovely tsarina grieving her mother. At that, Veru punched Stacia in the jaw, hard enough, in fact, that Stacia fell to the thick carpet, slightly dazed.

Lifting a hand to her tender jaw, Stacia said, “I’m surprised you didn’t slap me, sestra.” Then, instead of initiating the fight Veru was hoping for, Stacia seemed to respectfully consider her twin for just a moment, before grunting and rising to her feet. Then she quickly departed the room to continue seeing to her preparations.

Still itching in every cell of her body to destroy something, Veru knew the first order of business was to calm herself. With Stacia assuming command in typical fashion, she gave herself permission to step aside and consider strategy. Disappearing into her chambers, she first cursed the fate that made her beautiful. In that initial hour, she took her favorite knife to her hair, lopping off several inches. But when that wasn’t enough, she considered giving herself a wicked scar along her cheekbone. Nothing deep enough to cause infection, but definitely enough to make suitors think twice. She paused with the weapon lifted.

Veru was a practical woman, and despite the fact she often hated how she manipulated others with her beauty, she could also see the benefit of it. Damaging her looks would be akin to destroying a piece of armor or wounding a prized horse. It would be foolish to throw away an asset in a moment of distress.

Though inheriting the throne had always been something open to either Veru or Stacia, Veru had been told from a young age that her winning looks would open so many doors. This had been said much too often in Stacia’s presence for her not to have heard. She was sure Stacia resented her for it too. It was probably why they’d never been close.

Though her parents had always been careful to say that looks didn’t matter and intelligence counted for so much more—and they were always certain to emphasize that they found both of their daughters beautiful and bright—Veru knew that many, if not all, the people in the empire considered Stacia the smart twin and her the beautiful twin. What that meant in terms of securing the best match to stabilize the empire, or who was best to rule, Veru didn’t exactly understand.

Her parents were always fastidious when it came to saying leadership was a tricky business. But even if Stacia was the smart one, Veru was clever enough to realize when she was being subtly pushed. And if there was one thing that never worked with Veru, it was when anyone tried to manipulate her to do something she didn’t want to do. It triggered an automatic rebellion.

That was part of the reason why she hated her looks. Whenever a diplomat fawned over her, it made her want to do something awful, like lean over and vomit on his shoes or burp loudly at the dinner table. She hated the predictability of it. Meeting the expectations of others. Above all, she wanted to be herself. And be loved for who she was—her ugly bits as well as the comely parts.

She’d seen a pretty serving girl fall for a man once. He was handsome and had a way with words that made every woman he took notice of go weak in the knees. They were a good match, or so she’d thought. They married and had a son. He doted on her and appeared to be as smitten as his new bride. But after a few years, she became ill when they lost a second child.

A short time later, when riding together, she was thrown from a horse and broke her foot. It healed, but she developed a limp and never walked the same. The man’s affection waned, and he sought comfort elsewhere. Veru’s maid lost her joy and left her work. She wasn’t surprised to learn she’d passed away one winter from a common sickness—one she should have easily recovered from. Her husband had gone away. There was no one to care for her during her illness.

Her beauty was one of the reasons she preferred hiding behind a helmet. Veru could blend in with everyone else. She wanted to be seen and appreciated for her talents, her skills, and her personality. Not for her appearance. Her biggest fear was being matched with someone who loved what she looked like, only to despise her as she grew old and toss her aside the moment he was disaffected. She could not—would not—tolerate such a thing. But how did one guarantee love was true and lasting?

Placing the knife back into the hidden place in her custom-made palace dressing shoes, she satisfied herself instead with the large map of the empire she kept tucked in the back of her closet. If, by some miracle she feared was slipping further and further from her by the moment, she did not become the tsarina but the high commander of the Royal Guard, as she wished, she had a carefully plotted campaign for expansion. To calm herself, she updated once again the territories she felt were open to diplomatic approaches versus those that would go to war to protect their borders. She only stopped when her tears over the loss of her mother threatened to blur the marked lines.

Meanwhile, Stacia met with her men. Their instructions were to seek out the most renowned, the most skilled healer in the country, and then whatever the cost, whatever trade was required, they were given permission to quickly secure the service and escort the healer back with as little fanfare and information as possible. In truth, even the guards were not told for whom they were obtaining help, though all of them could guess.

They departed within the hour.

Once Stacia sent the ten, she sent another fifty within the empire itself. Their task was to round up every doctor, every shaman, every herbalist, no matter how skilled or insignificant. Upon their immediate return, they would analyze the patient, prescribe treatment, and the tsarina had agreed to try it, no matter how strange. Now all they could do was wait for the first of Stacia’s men to return with help.

* * *

After an hour or two, her temper soothed, but unable to come up with anything new, Veru approached her sister, demanding an update, only to find that Stacia had exhausted all possibilities. It left nothing for Veru to do except worry, wallow, and wait. Worry she did. Wallow, she did for a while. But wait, she could not.

She had to think of something Stacia hadn’t. Otherwise, one of her sister’s methods would work in healing her mother, and Stacia would be known as the savior of the tsarina, leading the Guard in a victorious result, while she had effectively sat on her hands.

Once again, she returned to her rooms.

It took three long days before Veru called for Nikolai, but when she did, she summoned him to her chambers, something she had never ever done. The gesture almost soothed Nikolai’s ruffled nerves. Almost. He’d heard the alarmed whispers around the camp and watched in concern as the numbers of trusted Guardsmen dwindled to mere dozens. The doctor he trained with was beckoned to the palace and remained there, while Nikolai was told to stay and help any injured Guardsmen.

Ha! As if there were any injuries. No one could train under such conditions.

The camp surgeon was gone for too many hours, according to Nikolai’s thinking, and when he returned to his cot, late at night, his face white, his lips tight with concern, and even tighter with secrets he refused to share, no matter how cleverly Nikolai questioned him, it was all the young man could do not to rush to the palace and pound on the thick doors, demanding to see if his beloved tsarevna had taken ill. Nik tossed and turned, unable to sleep with worry.

The first night, he snuck out and climbed the old tree, the one that nearly touched her balcony. If he was lucky, within a year or so, the limb would be strong enough to hold his weight, allowing him access to her room. He’d been carefully watering and fertilizing the tree over the last few years and grooming the branches just so, to encourage the growth where he wanted it, and his vigilant nurturing was finally paying off.

Unfortunately, it was winter, and there were no leaves to hide his form. He’d have to go very carefully and slowly so the palace guard wouldn’t catch him, and even then he’d have to leave no indication of his footsteps. If it was discovered that he spied on the tsarevna, at the very least his tree might be cut down, and all his work over the years would be burned up in the course of a few hours due to recklessness—and that was only if he got away unseen.

If he was caught, he’d be punished, possibly even put to death, depending on how his actions were interpreted and how much Veru might be inclined to intervene on his behalf. Even if she did stick her neck out for him, there would be consequences for her. There was no sense in both of them being punished. But then again, Nik knew he likely wouldn’t get caught. Besides, he had to know if she was well. If she wasn’t... well, then a tree didn’t much matter, then, did it?

Nikolai went slow. Very slow, and fortune favored him. It wasn’t the first time, nor did he think it would be the last he’d have to use the gifts he’d come by so very dearly.

A storm blew in. He sighed in relief, though the cold was uncomfortable. He’d been saved by weather before, and he was glad it was helping him once again.

The stinging snow made it difficult for him to see, but it also meant that others hunkered down and weren’t paying much attention to him. He considered it a sign from the heavens that he was being watched over. Then the second sign came. His beloved was standing at the window. It soon became clear to him it was not her the doctor was worried over. She paced, her arms behind her back, her stride just as strong as ever.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Nikolai settled back against the trunk of the cold tree. He let the sight of her strong, curvy body, which was outlined in her nightdress from the lamplight behind her, warm him when she passed the window. In fact, the biting bits of slush that hit his hot skin melted at once, and his eyes burned like fiery coals in the night. He didn’t move until her light extinguished.

But then the next day passed, and she didn’t come to him, nor the next. Guardsmen had been summoned and left quickly, but everything was kept quiet. The doctor had also been summoned but wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, no matter how he tried to convince him to share the news. Nik suspected the worst. He didn’t understand. Had he done something to upset her? He became angry. If she was healthy, then why wasn’t she calling for him?

Then he became distressed. What if she really was the one who was ill? His worried mind killed his appetite and left him restless. Suppose she was calling for him, and he wasn’t with her?

Finally, she did. Nik calmed himself then, by repeating that he didn’t know what was happening. He’d hear her out. Show her again that she could trust him.

Then he was escorted to her chamber. Hope blossomed. Perhaps something had changed between them for the better.

Once there, Nikolai thrilled even more when she dismissed the guard, and the two of them were left alone. But his elation changed when he realized his beloved tsarevna was troubled in a way he’d never seen before. She paced the room again, like the caged beast he’d seen in the window. Her normally meticulously groomed appearance was unkempt.

There were dark circles under her eyes. Her soft, moist lips were cracked and bitten. And her lovely hair was tangled and unbrushed. She looked like... she looked much like her sister after battle, and the sight bothered Nik more than he could say.

“What has happened?” Nik asked hesitantly, fearing the worst. “Has...has your mother announced an engagement?”

“An engagement?” she barked a laugh, and it sounded ugly and strange to him. For just a moment, it reminded him of...

A deep tremor reverberated in his soul. Something was very, very wrong, but it wasn’t what he was thinking. He reached out and took hold of Veru’s arms, shaking her hard. Too hard. He needed to bring her back to herself. “Veru! Tell me. What is wrong?”

His beloved tsarevna began crying then. No. Not just crying. Her sobbing was terrible. It was repellently wet. Full of phlegm-filled heaving. But then she reached out for him and buried her streaming face in his neck, and his whole body warmed with the weight of her in his arms. At last , he thought. At last, she can see that we belong together.

Holding her close, he rocked her and murmured, “Ne plach, kukolka. Don’t cry, little one. You know, they say that tears that fall so readily often come from only the eyes and not the heart.”

Verusha gasped and wrenched herself away from him then, wiping her running nose and eyes on her shirtsleeve. “How dare you say that I don’t love my mother,” she accused.

“Your mother? When were we speaking of your mother? I assumed we were speaking of your impending nuptials.”

“No, you bolvan. Haven’t you been listening? My mother is ill. I think she’s dying. And Stacia sent out the Guard. As much as I’ve tried, I can’t come up with a course of action on my own.”

“I see. And the problem?” Nikolai asked stiffly.

“The problem?” Veru sputtered, wondering how her best friend could be so cold.

As for Nikolai, he was fixated on the fact that she’d called him a bolvan. It was what his father had called him every day of his life, every time he’d beaten him. For just a moment, he was back in that hovel, his frail, cowardly mother watching with her newest spindly babe pressed to her breast as his father backhanded her oldest son hard enough that the cords of wood he carried spilled from his arms.

* * *

“You stupid bolvan,” the man spat, already drunk, though the hour was still early. “Didn’t I ask you to muck the horse stall this morning?”

“I did,” Nik mumbled through the blossoming pain in his jaw as he crouched down to pick up the newly split logs. He heard the soft intake of breath from his mother, and the tiny sunken sets of eyes that had been peeking out from behind her skirts suddenly disappeared. Nikolai winced, realizing his mistake almost as he uttered it.

“What?” his father asked. “What did you say?”

Knowing it was coming and that it was better not to give him a weapon, Nik dropped the wood and stood. “I said, ‘I did,’” Nik repeated, louder this time.

“Is that right?”

When his father raised his hand again, Nik flinched, much as he was used to it. But instead of another blow across the cheek, the heavy hand clapped down on the back of his shirt, and he felt the thin fabric tear as he was manhandled into the ramshackle building his father had erected once upon a time that served as a barn.

The old horse stood in her stall, munching on the meager fare Nik had rustled up for her that morning. The straw beneath her hooves was still as fresh as it had been when he’d mucked it out just as dawn crept over the frigid horizon, with the exception of a very large, very new, pile of steaming dung.

Sighing, Nik said, “I’ll take care of it.”

“That’s right,” his ox of a father said. “Get yourself in there and take care of it.” With that, the man opened the stall and shoved Nik inside. “On your knees, boy.”

Nik couldn’t imagine what the man was going to do. It would be dangerous to whip him near the mare. Not that he hadn’t taken the crop to the beast enough times for her to shy and crowd herself into the corner of the stall as well, already neighing in protest to his father’s arrival. But no, his father had more terrible things than a simple whipping in mind. For a moment, he feared the man would shove him facedown into the pile of navoz, but instead, he had a worse fate in store for his boy.

“Eat it.” Nik heard him say. “Eat it while I watch.”

When Nik hesitated, uncertain at first that he’d understood correctly, his father bent down and added, “You know what I’ll do if you don’t.”

So Nik ate it.

When he vomited, his father made him eat that too. But he vomited again. As he did, his father laughed and kept laughing, lifting a bottle to his lips that he must have kept hidden in the barn.

Nik went about the business of eating navoz and retching navoz and then lifting the disgusting mass back to his lips, repeating the cycle until sweat slicked his entire body and tears blurred his vision. The protesting horse danced nervously beside him, and the thought occurred to him that he envied the beast. All she had to worry about was physical punishment and eventual death, something that sounded more and more peaceful to him as the long, agonizing moments stretched on.

As Nik was well aware, there were more terrible things in the world than death or pain. Many more terrible things. Finally, the anxious mare kicked him in the arm, dislocating his shoulder, then a second strike to the head was hard enough to put him out of his misery until nightfall.

When he awoke covered in his own vomit, horse dung, straw, and blood, the sound of a night owl hooting from the rafters, Nikolai cursed the fact he still lived. The mare’s soft lips gummed his hair, leaving a trail of saliva as she sought the rotten apple he often saved for her when he found them beneath the old tree on the edge of the property. Nik’s shoulder spasmed as he tried to sit up, and his jaw and head ached.

“You should have killed me,” he said thickly as he pushed her head away and assessed the deep cut her sharp hoof had made on his scalp. “It would have been kinder.”

Struggling, he got to his feet and used the water from the trough to clean his face and wound as best he could. It would need stitching. He could feel with gentle probing how deep it was. But to ask for help meant waking his mother, and once she was in bed with their father, there was no disturbing her. There was no other option. He’d have to stitch it as best he could himself.

Abandoning his filthy but warm winter outerwear, he made his way back to the tiny home in just his threadbare undershirt and boots, forging a path through new-fallen snow. Without a lamp to light his way, he used the light from the crescent moon to guide him to the shadowy house. Once inside, he lit the stump of a candle and located the tiny tin box where his mother kept the needles.

He was in the middle of stitching, using the inside of the tin box as a mirror and his hunting knife to cut the strings, when he saw the reflection of something in the darkness approaching behind him. He didn’t know what came over him. When the hot breath of the person behind him hit the back of his neck, and the stink of his own vomit mixed with blood and horse dung wafted over him, he clutched the knife in his fist, spun, and sunk it deep into the belly of the dark form lurking in the shadows.

Nik heard a soft gasp and fingers clasped his where he still held the knife, hot blood wetting his fingers. A body thumped to the floor, but it wasn’t as heavy as it should have been. Nik grabbed the stub of the candle and frantically relit it. The flame had sputtered out when he’d spun around. When he turned, lifting the meager light, who he saw on the floor was not the father who’d abused him all his life but the thin form of his nearly equally abused, once beautiful mother.

As she lay dying at his feet, hand stretched up to him with blood trickling from her lips, Nik tried to summon empathy for her, but found he had none. The only emotion he felt in that moment was sheer panic. He sat immobile, listening intently for the sound of his father’s waking, the man’s angry grunt as he roused himself from slumber. But all he heard was the deep, drunken snoring that soothed all of them enough so they could close their eyes, at least for a short while.

When the spark of life faded from her dull eyes, Nik thought, for just a moment, he glimpsed relief. The lingering tenderness he felt for his mother turned to stinging betrayal, as it often did. How could she? She was leaving him unprotected, again! Then he realized the only champion he had, the only friend he’d ever known, was gone forever, and it was his fault. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he inaudibly mouthed, “Mama! Don’t leave me! Please! I’m so sorry!”

His body heaved in silent shudders as he clasped her hands to his chest, kneeling next to her in the growing puddle of blood. Whatever mixed feelings he had about his mother, he’d loved her, and her death was something he’d need to atone for. Nik hoped wherever she was now, she could grasp on to happiness and somehow find peace. At the same time, Nik knew peace and happiness weren’t something waiting for him in his immediate future, not with the monster he’d soon have to face. Then a terrible thought came, one that would make him as terrible a villain as the one sleeping in the other room.

Gently, he folded his mother’s hands across her chest and bent to kiss her forehead, whispering an apology for what he was about to do to her children. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness, but just expressed his sorrow for what he viewed as unavoidable.

After packing a sack with the few foodstuffs they had in the house, Nik dressed in silence, taking the too-small clothing of his younger brother. He knew he needed to hurry. The babe would wake soon and demand his mother’s breast, which would rouse his father. Grabbing his rucksack, Nik said a silent farewell to his siblings and left, barricading the door behind him.

* * *

Later, Nik sat on the mare, considering his work as he watched the flames lick at the barn and the house. The screams had quieted long since. A storm was blowing in which would help cover his tracks. He didn’t think anyone would believe the fire had been intentionally lit, and they were isolated enough that it was unlikely the family would be found for quite some time.

Nik didn’t regret the deaths of his siblings. He surmised that they had now discovered the same peace his mother had found. In fact, he considered himself something of a hero to them. As he rode west, Nikolai vowed he would never let a man take advantage of him again. That was why he decided to join the Guard.

* * *

“Come on, Nik,” Veru said. “Snap out of it. Don’t you see I need you?”

Nik shook his head, relegating thoughts of his past to the past, where they belonged. “Forgive me,” he said, bowing his head deferentially. “What can I do to help?”

“Stacia is outthinking me. I need your brain.”

This was why he loved Veru. She was powerful and strong, but more than that, she was clever. He’d seen her handle all sorts of men, even men who were abusive like his father had been. Men like that made Nik’s blood go cold, but not Veru. She’d smile at them with cat’s eyes and bat her lashes, all the while she’d have a knife aimed at their ribs. No one would ever corner Veru. He admired that. She never gave up, no matter what. Sometimes he thought if he’d been a bit more like Veru, then maybe his mother...

Nik blinked rapidly. It was best not to let his thoughts drift down that road. “Tell me everything that has happened,” he said. “Start at the beginning.”

By the time he left, they had a plan. Stacia might have sent the Guard to the four corners of the earth, but he had a note from Tsarevna Verusha, one that would open doors for him anywhere and everywhere in the empire. And Nik knew places and people the Guard wouldn’t dare seek out. In fact, there was one man who immediately came to mind.

As he left, he reassured Veru that Stacia, for all her efforts, wouldn’t accomplish much on a crooked goat, managing to garner the laugh he’d been hoping to hear. He told her to rely on him, and he would find the one person who could fix everything. If he was right, Nik just might indeed be able to fix everything, setting himself and his tsarevna up for a future beyond even his own dreams.

Buoyed by her confidence in him, Nikolai mounted his horse and departed that very hour, setting down a path that would lead him to a dark forest rumored to be the home of an outcast monk who practiced a dark mysticism.

Some said he was a religious man, a healer. Others called him a monster who awakened the dead and refashioned them into monsters that terrorized the forest. Whatever the case, Nik knew the man’s powers were real indeed. For he had met one of the man’s monsters.

It had been his own father.

And Nik had been afforded the unique opportunity to take the life of his own father twice.