Chapter 3 #2
Then they’d crowded into a pew together, twitching and pinching one another until the service was finally over.
Afterward, Zakhar watched his quiet father press a precious coin into the collection box while the fat priest watched intently, his eyes fixed on the meager coin that probably meant so very little to the clergyman but was so very important to Zakhar’s family.
Even as a young man, Zakhar could see the priest’s smug shrewdness hidden just below the surface.
The man took the offering, jiggling the box slightly, as if to show all in the schoolhouse how little his large family had contributed, then smiled at his family piously and extended a trite blessing before moving on.
It was that day that Zakhar told his family he wasn’t going to be a farmer.
He was leaving them to study to be a priest.
It wasn’t that he was impressed with the man or his calling.
No. Zakhar was simply determined to never be hungry again.
The idea that he could enter any town and expect the people to hand over food and money to earn his nod of approval was almost intoxicating to him.
Then there was also the fact that he couldn’t get the image of his parents out of his mind.
He knew he could never be the type of man who would take money from poor families and withhold blessings from them if they refused to pay.
Why should money feed fat priests while children went hungry?
It didn’t make sense to Zakhar then, and now that he’d read the Scriptures for himself, it still didn’t.
Gluttony was a sin. But there was a tiny voice in Zakhar’s mind that said leaving his family was a sin too.
Sometimes his heart burned over the shame of it.
He’d tried to justify his decision over the years by telling himself he’d left them to protect others, but the truth was, he never went back to visit them.
Not once did he return to his little town to see if his younger brothers and sisters were still alive.
Never did he try to rescue any of his siblings or his mother or father.
There were some days when the guilt of his actions overwhelmed him.
Other times he had sat in the warm church by the fire, studying, and then ate a full plate of food, and asked himself, Why weren’t they smart enough to do what I did?
Then he’d go back to his little cot in the church and cry until he fell asleep.
He’d wake up the next morning and fast, determined to be a better man, a better servant of the Lord.
Round and round it went. He never seemed to find absolution. How can I ever hope to guide others when I feel so lost myself?
Zakhar was writing about the adventures of meeting the tigers, when Iriko and Stacia appeared.
He was grateful for their arrival, not only because it served to lift him from his doldrums, but because it was a relief for him to realize he still remembered who they were. The meat had not made him forget.
What was even more surprising was to find Stacia and Iriko had switched places.
Now the young man was in tiger form, and the young lady was .
. . well, a young lady—and she was striking.
Zakhar rose immediately, his quill dropping carelessly from his fingers to the page and the papers spilling across his lap to the dirt.
Ink smeared and left a large well on the page he’d been writing.
“Oh no!” Stacia said, bending to help him gather his writing. “We’re so sorry, Zakhar. We didn’t mean to startle you.”
Zakhar blinked. His mouth suddenly went dry. He tried to wet his lips, but nothing happened. He was a cretin.
When she pressed the papers into his hands, he swallowed, and to his shame, his voice squeaked.
“Sp-sp-pasibo, Tsarevna,” he mumbled and then quickly clicked his heels together as if he were a soldier on the battlefield and bowed, but the effect was lost, considering he wasn’t wearing the polished boots of a royal soldier.
“Relax, Zakhar. It’s me. I know I look different, but try to treat me the same.”
“With respect, my lady. You . . . you’re royal. I mean, your face is stamped on the coins in the church coffers.”
Is that true? Iriko said.
“You hush,” Stacia replied.
“Excuse me?” Zakhar responded, confused. He looked between her and the tiger, who made a sort of chuffing noise. He pointed between the two of them. “Is . . . is he talking to you?”
“Yes.”
“And you understand him? Like he did when you were a tiger?”
“Yes. And he’s still blind as well.”
“How fascinating,” Zakhar said. All former feelings of awkwardness vanished as he found a seat and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment.
Indicating a spot next to him, he dipped his quill.
“Please, tell me everything that’s happened to the two of you thus far.
” He held up an ink-stained finger. “Oh, and before I forget, don’t touch the meat.
Nik thinks it’s tainted with forgetting magic. ”
Is he serious? Iriko asked. His jaws were wide open right next to the meat, preparing to pull it away from the fire. I’m starving!
“Well, of course you are,” a too-happy voice said from the darkening tree line. “And just so you know, there’s nothing magically wrong with the meat. Is it magic? Technically, yes. But it will fill your bellies. And believe me—you’ll need it where you’re going.”
“Who’s there?” Stacia cried out bravely, placing herself in front of Zakhar, who squeaked again and began gathering his things should they need to hastily depart.
She had no weapons, but she’d fought without them before.
Of course, she’d never faced a magical being, but there was a first time for everything.
Iriko’s heavy body slid along her leg until he stood next to her. She placed her hand on the ruff of his neck.
You be my eyes, and I’ll be your claws and teeth.
Stacia nodded, though she knew he probably wouldn’t get that.
Still, she could feel the two of them beginning to move in sync.
It reminded her of her army. She had trained a group of elite soldiers, and they’d worked together until they moved almost as one, anticipating each other’s moves to the point where they only needed a few hand signals.
Together they’d infiltrated enemy camps, sneaking in and out without a life lost. They’d been a secret tactical unit used on many occasions.
Then last year everything changed. Their mother announced it was time for Stacia and her sister to come out of hiding.
They needed to be public figures. It was for the good of the empire, she’d said.
The first thing their mother had done was make those prokljatyj coins.
Stacia had tried to tell her it was a mistake to spread their images all over the empire. Enemies would recognize them.
It meant Stacia and Verusha wouldn’t be able to function as warriors any longer. Stacia had tried to reason with the tsarina, but their mother wouldn’t listen. It didn’t make sense at the time. Of course, now Stacia understood why. Mila knew she was dying. The season for hiding was over.
Stacia couldn’t blame her mother for doing the things she did.
Mila was trying to preserve the legacy she and the twin’s father, Andrey, had worked so hard to build.
As their daughter, she could understand it, but that didn’t mean it was easy to accept.
The empire was their dream, not hers. She and her sister were too young, and their parents had left them too early.
It wasn’t fair. Why did life need to be so hard?
Why was there only one path? Was a choice too much to ask for?
As for Zakhar, his eyes were riveted on the young woman standing in front of him.
He’d been around young ladies in the past, of course, but none of them had looked like the tsarevna.
She stood with such bravery, such authority, such power.
He could see her leading an army on the battlefield, her sword held high as she shouted orders. Stacia was fascinating.
“Breathtaking.” His mouth formed the word softly before he could stop himself.
He didn’t think she heard him, but the tiger’s ears flicked backward, and his face colored.
What am I thinking? He was a priest. He shouldn’t have such feelings about a woman.
Then again, was it wrong to appreciate beauty or art?
Yes, Zakhar thought. That must be all it is.
I simply want to draw her. She is royalty, after all.
Besides, even God, looking down on all His creations, felt right in pronouncing them “good,” didn’t He? There was nothing bad about admiring the lines of a horse. And how much closer to God was a woman than a horse? Men and women were made in His image, weren’t they?
Of course, now that Zakhar was thinking of horses, he was envisioning the tsarevna, Stacia Stepanov, dressed in glistening armor as a goddess warrior astride a black horse, with a cape flying behind, ascending into a storm-filled sky to fight a horde of monsters.
What an imposing image. The horse’s mane a reflection of her glorious red hair, which would be the focus of the painting and would frame her face like the sun bursting through the cloud, shining light upon the darkness . . .
“Now, now,” the voice said. “Put away those sharp claws and let’s sit awhile, shall we? There is much to discuss.”
Zakhar swallowed, attempting to shift his focus to the man speaking and record his words instead of imagining the heretical art his fingers and mind were desperate to create as his muse continued to inspire him with her every move.
He closed his eyes and mentally rehearsed the Ten Commandments, even mumbling them nonverbally to regain focus.