God Within Us

VASILISA?”

It was well after dark when Yesugei received his summons to the Grand Princess’ chambers, and he felt frightened as he stepped past the threshold.

Since their emergence from the Hollows, he had not seen so much as a trace of Vasilisa - once the urgency of battle was over, it seemed the impropriety of a Klyazmite princess being seen with a Khormchak was suddenly remembered.

Thus he found himself free to wander among the ruins of the Great Keep, but without leave to enter the halls of the boyars and the princess. Neither had he been allowed to leave the Great Keep itself. Guards stood posted by all the entrances and exits, and when he asked on whose orders they kept him - the princess Vasilisa, or the regent Ilya - he received no reply.

In short, it seemed he had become a prisoner in the keep he had helped save. But he was not without ears, and there were whispers all throughout the keep. "The princess… she’s changing the guards," one servant murmured near the kitchens. "Ilya’s boys are being taken - Milorad from the west tower said so."

The sudden, twist tension that gripped the keep was palpable, a noose tightening around the necks of everyone, even as they had just escaped death at the hands of the usurpers. Vasilisa and Ilya had not clashed openly - they hadn't even been in the same room since she had emerged from the Great Hall - but the undercurrent of power was shifting. The keep where they made their stand as allies now felt like a den of wolves, each pacing warily through their own territory - the western wing Vasilisa’s, and the eastern Ilya’s.

Later in the day, he took to exploring the empty halls of the upper levels of the keep. Many of the higher floors were broken and crumbled by the great shattering that fell upon the city, or by the strangling vines - but they also offered a perfect view of the city, and the courtyard. When he reached one of the few towers that still stood defiant amidst the ruin, he caught sight of a line of flickering torches emerging from a side postern of the keep. His chest tightened when he saw the face of the one leading the men - Pyotr, the newly-minted Hero of the City - and the glinting armor and clubs the guards bore. He followed their stomping across the courtyard, and then they halted outside of the stables, where three other warriors stood.

An exchange of words, and then the door to the stable creaked open. The tall man who stepped out could only have been the voivode Ilya, and behind him were a dozen other courtiers and guards who bore their own swords, their faces pale in the torchlight.

Pyotr said something low - and though Yesugei could not make out the words, it did not matter. The effect was immediate - Ilya's men went for their own blades, and Pyotr’s men pounced. Before most could draw their steel the guards of the household seized them, or clubbed them down. One young warrior struggled free enough to rip his longsword from its sheath, and like an angry boar he charged Pyotr. A moment later the youth was lying on the ground, squealing and bleeding like a stuck pig from Pyotr’s sword in his belly. There was a shout of, “Enough!” from Ilya, and then it was over.

The Hero of the City spoke again, and this time Yesugei could make out some of the words. “Don't make it worse…Vasilisa…”

Whatever was said, it did not matter. Ilya bowed his head in surrender, and Yesugei saw him and his men spirited away by the swarm of dark cloaks. As they turned to leave, Ilya cast a fleeting glance toward the tower, as if sensing Yesugei’s watchful eyes above. Their gazes met, and in that instant, Yesugei saw not a schemer or a regent, but a man cornered - the weight of fate pressing down on the proud voivode until he was slumped and small.

Now it came his turn to face Vasilisa, and he was afraid.

He peered in slowly - the chambers of the Grand Princess were in a sorry state, but well-repaired still. A strong fire crackled in the stone hearth, and the walls were lined with decorated carpets to ward off the chill of the late-summer night. Vasilisa sat alone in the silence - she wore a pale green dress with cloth-of-gold embroidery, and her messy, tangled hair was braided anew. Had the mood been lighter, the sight of the princess in such finery might have made him laugh, but instead he quietly shut the door behind him.

For a long while, neither of them said anything. Yesugei allowed himself a moment to breathe, and only then did he notice that although Vasilisa’s posture was stiff, her expression was distant, as though she were miles away. Then he realized the light in her eyes was not the reflection of the hearth - it was brighter, molten gold. Her eyes danced across the lashing tongues - she was searching for something in her visions, and it was writ plain on her face that whatever she sought, it was evading her.

"Vasilisa," Yesugei repeated louder, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. He didn’t want to startle her, but the sight of her so lost, so unlike the woman he had known on the road - it troubled him. "What are you seeing?"

Vasilisa blinked slowly, as if his words took a moment to reach her. When she finally turned to face him her gaze was still unfocused, her eyes seeming to stare through him. "I see... everything," she whispered, her voice quiet with awe and terror. "Past, present, future - they are all the same now, all threads in a vast tapestry, each one branching into countless others."

Such words hardly reassured him. He drew as close as he dared to Vasilisa, and he sensed Alnayyir's own caution holding him back. "Everything? How is that possible?"

Vasilisa shook her head slightly, as if trying to shake off the weight of what she was experiencing. "I don’t know. The First Spring...when I took in those ancient waters, it was like I was torn from the flow of time. I no longer move through it - it moves through me, all of it." She paused, closing her eyes as if to shut out the overwhelming flood of images that assailed her. But no relief seemed to come. "I see paths that could be, lives that were, moments that have not yet come to pass. And yet... none of them feel real. They are all possibilities, uncountable in their number, but I- we are here, now, in only one of them."

Yesugei remained silent, allowing her to speak, knowing that she needed to voice the confusion and fear that had taken hold of her. He thought of Nariman, whose visions had sounded much the same - though he had never known his brother to speak much on seeing into the past, and even less so on how he wrestled those visions to serve him rather than torment.

"I see you, Yesugei," Vasilisa continued. Her eyes opened again, but her gaze was still unfocused - peering into the current of time, rather than the world of the living. "I see the boy you were - you slipped and cracked your head the first time you were trained for the saddle, at four summers. I see the White Pinch, the kurultai, tents and camps in the land of the Baskords - I see the man you have become, the khan you might be, the tyrant you might turn into, the father, the husband... All these lives, all these choices, all at once. I see them all, and yet none of them, because they haven’t happened yet. But they could.”

She looked away, back towards the flames. “I saw Ilya, seated high above all the boyars of the realm, with a crown upon his head and blood on his hands - so I acted. But I saw just as many possibilities where he serves me leal and true - so was it right then, what I did? That is the curse of this power - to see everything, and yet see nothing all at once.”

Yesugei’s heart ached at her words, and he reached out, taking her hand in his. Her skin was strangely hot, burning from within as though she were laid low with fever. "Vasilisa," he said gently, squeezing her hand to ground her in the present, "You do not live in the past, nor the future. You are here with me now. Whatever the future holds, you yourself have said - it may be changed. And you are still Vasilisa, still you."

Vasilisa’s gaze finally focused on him, her eyes narrowing as she tried to hold onto the present moment. "But am I? I see versions of myself, Yesugei. I see the girl who stayed in Belnopyl, who never left, who never became the Vessel. I see the woman who became Grand Princess and ruled with wisdom, and I see the woman who lost it all when embers drifting west took to flame. I see the Vessel I might become, one who forgets what it means to be human. One who speaks with the voice of coldness and hatred before the Majesties."

Her voice trembled. Yesugei felt his own senses joined with hers, and the weight of her visions pressing down like crushing stone. "All paths lead to the Question, but the paths are endless. How can I choose when every choice leads to a different future, some of them terrible, some of them... beautiful?"

Yesugei’s grip on her hand tightened. "You choose by being Vasilisa of Belnopyl, not some Vessel. And you must choose - to do nothing is worse."

There came a knock at the door. Her first choice was to come sooner than expected, though it was one that was inevitable. A druzhinnik's face peered inside, but before he could announce his company Vasilisa spoke. "I know those footsteps. Chainmail, heavyset frame. Ilya - enter, and let us talk."

The voivode stepped inside, his eyes cast downward and his manner less proud than when he had sallied from the gates. And without a doubt less proud than when he had sat upon the throne of Belnopyl. Behind him came Pyotr and Stavr, and once they were inside Vasilisa ordered the door shut. The five of them waited for a moment longer, until the footsteps of the other guards trailed well off into the distance.

Ilya paused at the hearth, his hand lingering on the stone as if seeking comfort. His eyes darted around the room, avoiding Vasilisa’s gaze, before he finally spoke, “Lady Vasilisa…' The words were heavy, as though dragged from him by force.

"Voivode Ilya." replied Vasilisa. Yesugei's hand had slipped away from hers, and he saw Vasilisa's eyes were unfocused once more. "Tell me, how long have you served my father?"

"Forty summers, my lady. Since the reign of your father's father."

"I remember now." Vasilisa's eyes danced across an unseen tapestry, searching through the story of the voivode. "You saved my uncle in battle when you were sixteen, at the siege of Teplodarsk. You took seven arrow wounds for my uncle, and my grandfather sent his own physicians to help you - and when you lived, he brought you into our house."

Ilya shifted uncomfortably, as though the wounds were suddenly opened anew.

"You were given lands of your own, a small keep north of the city. Incomes and titles, and they bred new titles..." Yesugei saw a barely perceptible shudder run through Vasilisa as strained to keep Ilya's history in focus. "Voivode by thirty, and command of the left hand of my grandfather's army at Ongainur. Ten thousand men."

Ilya's eyes flashed to Yesugei. "It was not enough, all the same. A disaster."

"You saved my father," she spoke. "You rode with him back to the capital - yet the men were under your banner, not my father's..."

It would have been easy. Those were the words left unspoken, the ones that came to Yesugei. He matched Ilya's stern gaze, and saw in there an anger, a suspicion...but no greed. He saw a man who had risen high and fast, who for a time had the only great army left in Klyazma - and yet...did nothing. He did nothing - even when it would have been so easy.

"Why did you sit the throne now, then, after such loyalty?"

Vasilisa's sudden words cut the air like a knife. She looked upon Ilya, looked through him and into him, and Yesugei felt himself shrinking against his own will. The voivode stood tall, but he suddenly seemed very, very small, and Vasilisa's dancing shadow grew larger and darker until it stretched out towards Ilya's boots. It was the Vessel who looked upon him now, not the Grand Princess.

"My lady..." Ilya croaked - he no longer hid his fear, he was no longer the inscrutable voivode, but merely an aged man, one whose history was laid bare...and in one whom Yesugei sensed no treachery.

Spirits above, thought Yesugei. A man truly loyal. A man with honor. The most confounding of them all. Why, then? Was it all a mistake?

Ilya cast a hand over his eyes as if in mourning, as if to shield himself from the end that he saw coming. "My lady, there was nowhere else to sit, and I was tired. When I saw how you looked upon me - I was afraid you would not listen. Please, believe me. Spare me, please."

Silence. Terror, so powerful, so sweet in the air - in its cruelty.

But then, the shadow pulled back.

Vasilisa laughed - a high, genuine laugh which Yesugei had not heard for an age. Ilya drew his trembling hand away from his eyes as Vasilisa turned to Stavr, who was himself pale with dread. "We really should add more chairs to the throne room, shouldn’t we?" said the princess. “Especially for what is to come - otherwise half the lords of the realm will be leaving sorefoot.”

“My lady-?” Stavr stammered, looking between Vasilisa, Ilya, and Yesugei, torn between incredulity and fear. “What-”

“The realm is divided against itself, and Svetopolk draws nearer each day,” Vasilisa spoke, her manner suddenly grim. “The miracle that was our defeat of Zinoviy will not come again with what paltry few we have. I need the realm under one banner, one command.”

She motioned towards a shelf of tomes that sat to one side, and there Yesugei saw a rolled parchment. He hastily retrieved and laid it out along the table, and saw with hushed wonder the messy realm that was the principality of Belnopyl.

No wonder the Klyazmites were fractured so, he thought to himself as he studied the map. Hundreds of settlements dotted the map, and nearly every one bore a different ruler’s sigil. And for each house that garnered importance enough to be inked, there were doubtless three or four which did not, hidden within the blank spaces of the realm. Kingdoms within kingdoms. Hundreds of petty lords and magisters. Herding sheep would be easier.

Vasilisa paused, measuring her words carefully as the others gathered around the map.

“I intend to call a duma, as my grandfather had,” she said, spreading one hand across the map. “A gathering of all the boyars in the realm - greater and junior - and all the magisters. Belnopyl must be set in order, loyalties must be reminded, and I cannot do that whilst they are all so damnably far. They must all be summoned, every last one.”

She let her words settle among the three Klyazmites, and continued at length. “But before we can call those from afar, we must deal with those who are closest.”

She pointed to the four domains that flanked Belnopyl from every direction, marked recently with red ink. “Denev, Torch, Korlen, and Rylsk - we remain yet surrounded by lands in open rebellion, even if Zinoviy, Milomir, Urvan are all gone. And doubtless Vsevolod is already gathering his strength anew at Torch. All of this must come to an end.”

"We have four sons in our dungeons," spoke Ilya. "The dead usurpers' boys, captured in the field - by all laws, they are now the new boyars of their fathers' lands. And Denev and Torch's magisters were taken in the field as well. If we put them to the screws, they will order what stragglers remain to surrender. If not, then we may destroy them at leisure - I reckon our foes expended all their strength against our walls, and we are only growing stronger."

Vasilisa turned first to Ilya, then Stavr and Pyotr, as if sizing them up. “See to it that the usurpers’ levied men are rounded up once the repairs are finished. Escort them to their lands, give them a taste of peace and home - and remind them it is only under Belnopyl’s mercy and pardon that they live. I will not say the same for the sons, nor their druzhinas, nor the magisters. Their fates will be handed out before the realm whole, once the duma is gathered.”

There was a murmur of unease from Stavr, who shifted in his armor. “Do you think the usurpers' boys would agree to peace? Men like Zinoviy’s brood would sooner cut their own throats than suffer a dent to their pride.”

“Perhaps,” spoke Vasilisa, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “But cutting their own throats is all they would be able to do - and what of their sons, their wives? Their fathers have left their lands weak - they've no further armies to call up, no means of halting either us or any one of their neighbors from marching into their lands and putting their towns to the sword. Men place their pride so high only if their house's survival is assured - and for now, that remains in our hands.”

Pyotr nodded his head in agreement, and Vasilisa nodded in kind before continuing. “But I would not be so cruel - if they must save face, then I've a mind to let them take part in the attack against old Vsevolod's lands, and bring me his head. They shall have a chance to prove their honor as men, their loyalty as lords, and whether they or Vsevolod perish, we will rid ourselves of an uncertainty either way.”

Ilya nodded along, his warrior’s mind at work. Pyotr and Stavr looked to one another, and then to the usurpers’ lands. Yesugei watched them with curious detachment - he sensed a weariness in the younger druzhinniks. The matter of war was easy - but now came the matter of repairing the realm, and it would be a different trial by fire for the two who had known nothing but battle.

Then, Vasilisa traced her finger across the map to the God-Spine, and the lands beyond. “But all of this - the pardons, the duma - these will only bring us peace enough to prepare for what lies beyond. I have seen a new storm gathering in the steppe - a new khan has risen, and he is of a different breed than those before. He will come for the last of the old khan’s blood - he will come for the west, and for our domain.”

Silence fell over the room. There was confusion among the Klyazmites. But then Vasilisa turned to face him, and Ilya’s eyes widened as the words sank in. He blurted out, “He is…he is of that blood? Of the White Khan?”

Ilya spoke the title like it was poison. Yesugei’s fists tightened, but he did not flinch. “I am. I am Yesugei, son of Tsaagandai, a scion of the Qarakesek blood. I had sworn an oath to Vasilisa - my bow for Belnopyl’s aid in returning me to my empire - but my empire is now dust and ash, and now my cause is vengeance.”

Vasilisa inclined her head, her voice softening ever so slightly. “And the promises made by the House of Belnopyl do not fade with time. You are owed what was pledged, even if it is a bitter medicine for my people to swallow.”

“Yes, it is,” Ilya interjected, his voice rising in dangerous protest. “My lady, you cannot expect the boyars to accept this – Khormchaks have been the bane of our realm for generations! Why should we throw in our lot with one now?”

Vasilisa’s eyes flashed with an intensity that silenced the voivode. “Because the enemy we face is worse. Jirghadai is not a khan content with tribute - he only seeks fire and sword, and the whole of the world. When he comes to our lands, nothing will be spared - there will be Ongainur a thousand times over, and all that will be left of our land will be silence. This, I have seen.”

She raised a hand in Yesugei’s direction.“But the blood of the White Khan has power still - in my Sight, I have seen there are some who still live, who would still fight. Folk from the dunes of the south, the forests of the north, and burned men from the steppe. Alone, they will be crushed. But if gathered into a fist…”

Ilya shook his head wearily. He fixed Yesugei with a withering stare that cut to his very core, then murmured, “Perhaps, then. Perhaps.”

“Good.” Vasilisa said at length. “You have your orders, then. You have your princess’ will.”

“And what a will it is,” spoke Stavr with a wry chuckle. “Gods…is this how history is made?”

“It shall only be history if there are those left to remember it,” Vasilisa replied, a smile on her lips. “And I intend for you all to live to tell of it, my lords.”

There came a sudden knock at the door. The heads of all the men swiveled to face it. When Vasilisa bid the messenger enter, Yesugei saw the man carried a letter sealed with dark green wax pressed with a tree.

Vasilisa furrowed her brow in concern as she pried open the letter. “It is from Rovetshi,” she said. “Lady Nesha, and signed by the magister.”

Then suddenly, the paper trembled in her hands. “It speaks of an army. An army coming up the Cherech - a thousand strong, at least. And their leader…”

The words came out as a whisper. “A young griffon.”