God Within Us

I apologize, my lady,” said Stribor’s attendant as he placed a pile of folded clothes onto a bench, averting his eyes from Vasilisa’s half-naked form. “These were the only womens’ clothes we have.”

The only ones you had bothered to steal, you mean, thought Vasilisa darkly as she heard the door to her chambers shut.

The monastery claimed by Stribor’s men was a small building, with only a handful of rooms for the priests and their attendants to dwell in. The great painted sun on the inside of its domed roof marked the monastery as belonging to the Solarians - sun-worshippers from the distant west - though of the priestesses and their attendants there was no trace.

Only Stribor’s druzhina occupied the monastery now, and where there might have once been warmth and a certain coziness in the small roadside monastery, now there was only the chill draft of the night and the clutter of scattered books and holy texts lying forgotten on the ground. She had tried to read a trampled scroll, but the language of the sun-worshippers was as foreign to her as Khormchak.

Vasilisa shivered as she finished changing out of her soiled dress, torn practically to tatters by the road and the last few days which had seemed like one endless nightmare. Still, she felt a heavy weight on her heart as she cast the ruined silk aside.

One of mother’s old dresses. Now they’ll just burn it along with everything else in this land.

The clothes that the attendant had given her almost seemed like a mockery; a long yellow robe decorated with faded embroidery, and a similarly-faded white cloak decorated with many small sun stitchings. But when she put them on, it was obvious that the Solarian habits had been made for someone with slimmer arms, a narrower chest, and who was much shorter. All it did was make her look ludicrous.

When she finished changing, she opened the door to see Stribor’s attendant waiting for her just outside. Despite his pleasant demeanor, she noticed that beneath his thick jacket the attendant wore a layer of mail, and had a sheathed dagger at his belt. She was tempted to pull the dagger free from his belt and drive it into the attendant’s skinny neck, but stopped herself - even if she could kill the attendant, weak as she was, there was nowhere she could run out in the dead of night.

And besides…remember Yesugei, piped up the logical side of her mind. They’ll kill him. Bide your time. Wait. Watch.

The attendant beckoned her to follow, and she let the small man lead her through the drafty prayer hall of the monastery - its stained glass windows shattered and then picked clean for their gilded metal fittings. Two spearmen guarded the doors to the outside, looking bored as they watched her slowly walk across the hall. The attendant brought her to another room, one with a huge, burning hearth that might have once been the kitchen.

And in the center of the abandoned kitchen, sat at one end of a long table, Boyar Stribor greeted her - flanked by two druzhinniks with longaxes.

“I am pleased you were able to attend,” said Stribor with a small, false smile. “My lady, please be seated.”

The boyar’s false courtesy brought a sick feeling to her stomach, and Vasilisa balled up her fists as she took a seat at the other end of the table. Stribor gestured at the spread of cheese, bread, roasted meat, and fruits that covered the table - and Vasilisa felt her mouth grow moist at the sight of the food.

“Will you drink some wine?” offered Stribor.

“I would prefer water,” she replied quietly.

Stribor waved to his attendant, and a wooden goblet slid to her side. In her wobbly reflection, Vasilisa saw her face was still swollen from the mace that struck her on the head.

The mace that struck her on the boyar’s orders.

She rubbed her chafed wrists, and felt a shudder run through her body as she remembered the three warriors who had tried to-

No, came the quiet voice in her head. We focus on the here and now. Wait. Watch. Then make them suffer when the time is right. They’ll all suffer when the time is right.

The renegade boyar helped himself to a strawberry and stuffed it whole into his mouth with a pleasant smile. “You should try these, my lady. Very sweet, and freshly harvested.”

“I’ve no stomach for sweetness after these last few nights,” she shot back harshly. “And I am far more interested in your intentions than your strawberries. Why are you doing this?”

“This?” Stribor gestured about the room, a puzzled look on his face. “My lady, we are at war. Such things happen.”

“I was told that during war you kill your enemies, not your own people.”

Stribor shrugged. “It is not like that, my lady. We need to gather supplies if we want to have any hope of standing against the Khormchak tide. Last time they struck us, they were able to sustain themselves all through the winter with their pillage from the borderlands.”

“What about the people?”

“More mouths to feed,” said Stribor, his face empty of emotion. “When the Khormchaks invade, they’ll crowd behind our stronghold walls and eat our stocks down to the rats. And if we leave them to the Khormchaks, they'll gain that many more slaves and guides to traverse our lands.”

Is that really all it is?

Vasilisa felt her face grow flushed with anger, and she clenched her fists so tightly she felt her nails draw blood from her palms.

Is that really all it is? So much monstrosity, all in the way of war?

“We all have our part to play, no matter how grisly,” sighed the boyar as if he were bemoaning some common chore. He took a slice from the roasted pig set before them before saying, “Even you, my lady, have a part to play in this war.”

“How so?” she bristled.

“Why, marriage of course.” chuckled Stribor, and Vasilisa felt her blood run cold.

“Marriage?”

The word hung in the air for a dreadful moment.

“Your father is dead, my lady,” said Stribor as he ate. “So too is your mother, I’m afraid. The Khormchaks sacked the capital so thoroughly I hear not even the stray dogs were left.”

Stribor stabbed his knife into his cut of roast pig, then pointed a finger directly at her. “That leaves you as the last of Prince Igor’s line. Belnopyl is in chaos, its boyars scattered to the wind. But they will still listen to you.”

“You still have not told me how marriage falls into this.”

Vasilisa quickly darted her eyes about the room, searching for an escape. But all around her stood guards - the attendant, the druzhinniks, and Stribor, who even at the dinner table sat clad in leather and mail.

The boyar gave a small, knowing smile. “You would marry Prince Svetopolk of the north, and bind Belnopyl’s boyars to our cause.”

The air in the room suddenly grew very unbearably heavy.

“Svetopolk?” she eventually said. She kept her tone curious - as if intrigued. “Isn’t the Prince of Pemil a married man?”

Stribor lifted the impaled chunk of meat and took a bite out of it - dribbling half the juices onto his chin and scraggly beard. “His Majesty Svetopolk is a wealthy man - he can support a second wife, just as your grandfather was able to support three. And he would give you a marvelous wedding gift - vengeance for your mother and father, and vengeance for your city that was sacked to the ground by the Great Khan.”

Vasilisa carefully took a sip from the offered cup. Even the water tasted off in a way she could not describe.

She had only met Prince Svetopolk once, at the same tournament where Stavr and Pyotr had won places in her father’s druzhina. At twenty years her senior, he was old enough to be her father, with graying hair and a large, bristly beard. She felt her skin crawl at the image of the boisterous, shouting Svetopolk for a husband.

And imagine how he would react when he learns his new wife is not alive, not truly, she wondered. That she has already been claimed by someone- something else. Something far more powerful than boyars and their wars. Maybe he’ll take his renegade boyar’s head for bringing him a poisoned gift.

She smiled into her cup at the image of the clueless Stribor’s head mounted on a spike - his mouth hanging open stupidly as the dog he truly was. Then she caught herself at her own thoughts - she had never known herself to smile at the sight of heads on spikes, nor taken any delight from horrible deaths, even the deaths of vile men such as Stribor.

She felt the same buzzing rush flowing through her as when she wielded the Kladenets - only this time she was acutely aware of how uncomfortable it felt; thinking thoughts that seemed to not be her own.

Gods, what is happening to me?

Stribor studied her carefully as she set the cup down on the table. She knew she had little say in the matter - the boyar might have been a brute, but he was also ambitious. If he brought his new liege prince the heiress of Belnopyl, he would doubtlessly be rewarded with new lands and titles under Pemil’s reign. That was his true aim - and if she refused to go along with his ambitions, he would simply drag her to the distant north in ropes and chains so his prince could claim her by force.

But if I agree…

She cleared her throat, and let the swirling storm of panic slowly settle in her chest as she thought.

My hand for the city…no, not the city. Spears and shields, fodder and food. The boyars are what they need if they want to win this war. The boyars…

Vasilisa crossed her legs as she shifted in her seat, leaning towards Stribor. “My father’s boyars have little love for the cold north, and they see treachery in every corner. If you surprise them with a sudden declaration of my marriage to Svetopolk, half of them would rise up to rescue their late liege’s beloved daughter from your prince - and the other half would simply scoff and keep to their strongholds.”

“An absurdity!” said Stribor, but Vasilisa saw the boyar’s brow furrow in thought as he rested his chin on one hand. Then she saw him fall head-first into the ruse. “What would it take to convince them?”

“It is simple,” Vasilisa replied. Her thoughts fell into place as if in a game of chess. “On our way north, we seek out the boyars under my father’s service - and let them hear of the coming union from me, rather than some southern boyar they scarcely know and trust even less.”

Stribor snorted. “If I recall, your father had dozens of boyars in his service. By the time we reach them all, the Khormchaks would be on us in droves.”

“We needn’t speak to all of them,” she said. “Only those who are the wealthiest, those who can field the largest retinues. Hrabr of Rovetshi, Troyan of Denev, and Veleslav of Demyanskoe. If we bring those three with us to Pemil and let them behold our union, then the others will fall into line when your prince marches south to prepare for war.”

Stribor huffed. “Rovetshi and Demyanskoe are far. It will cost us time to reach them.”

“It will cost you more than time if your prince must bring Belnopyl’s boyars in line by force,” Vasilisa replied. “And you cannot afford to bleed away your strength fighting my father’s men.”

She had the boyar trapped - and without even needing to lie. Her father’s men would naturally reject any declarations of marriage between her and Svetopolk - most of the boyars only needed to look back to their fathers’ and grandfathers’ years of skirmishes against the north as reason to distrust any declarations from Pemil.

And out on the open road, while we gallivant around Belnopyl…he will make a mistake. He will loosen his grip, and then we can run.

She had counted scarcely more than three dozen troops in Stribor’s warband - a sizable force for raiding and pillaging defenseless villages, but a pathetic match against any one of the boyars’ retinues. If they could slip loose and seek shelter with any one of her father's men, they would have more than enough men to turn away Stribor’s band.

But we had thought similarly with Balai, insisted the small voice in her head. Who knows how many towns these Apostles have disappeared?

It’s worth a try. She clenched her fists under the table. Better than going along like a whipped dog.

Eventually, Stribor gave a nod of assent.

“You are plenty wise, my lady.” said Stribor as he took another bite from the meat on his knife.

Faint praise, coming from the likes of you.

“You flatter me, boyar.” she said, sitting back in her chair with a sigh of relief.

But then another thought came to her - one from the part of her mind the quiet voice in her head forced down when she felt herself shudder from the memory of the three soldiers - the memory of their laughs, cruel and dripping with excitement. Their laughs had sounded deafening in her blindness to the world. So loud.

“There is one other matter,” she said carefully. The boyar was satisfied with her advice and her cooperation - there would be no better chance that would arrive soon enough. “The matter of your men.”

“Who?”

“The three who had set upon me, my lord.” She raised her chin high and proud, as befitting a Klyazmite princess. “Your men tried to sully my honor. They tried to sully your prince’s future bride. Is the law of Pemil so different from the law of Belnopyl?”

“You wish for them to be punished?” asked Stribor, wiping his greasy hands on his tunic.

“It would set me at ease, my lord. It is a long journey from here to Pemil - and men such as them might chance laying their hands upon me a second time. Others might try as well, if you do not send them a strong message.”

“It will be done.” Said Stribor easily - basking in his own visions of the rewards Svetopolk would foist upon him. In that moment, the lives of three cutthroats were worth little to him if it meant she would go along with his plans. “I’ll have their heads if it pleases your ladyship - so long as you make sure to inform the prince of my justice once we reach the city.”

“Of that, there is no doubt.” She bowed her head slightly in thanks. “I thank you, my lord. It has been too long since justice was felt in these lands.”

Stribor nodded.

“I have just one final request.” She dared to say. “When you execute them…I would ask your lordship that you let me swing the blade.”