Vagabonds | Chapter 1
After a catastrophic experiment with Jurda Parem, the Tsar has classified all Grisha as a threat to Ravka. Twenty years later, with the Second Army disbanded, Aleksander and his fellow Grisha have been pushed underground, and are regularly hunted by the First Army. Fearing nothing will turn the tides in their favor, Aleksander follows rumors of a the Sun Summoner—the last hope for his people. During his search, he discovers Baghra gave birth to another boy in her missing years, now a boy of seven, who must surely be the Sun Summoner. Determined to gain the trust of the boy and eventually raise him as his own, Aleksander moves in next door to the bakery where Misha and his adoptive mother reside. Under cover of his Bookshop and Tearoom, Aleksander grows close to Misha...and then to his otkazat'sya mother, Alina...and, reluctantly, to the people in the little town itself.
This was not the first time a sitting Tsar had named him a traitor to the crown. However, the fallout from this incident had catastrophic effects that rivaled the creation of the Fold.
Aleksander was in that transient place “between lives,” his last persona having been driven off a cliff like a herd of stampeding cattle.
Jurda Parem, he had learned, was not a tool to be wielded. It was a harbinger of chaos and destruction.
The things he had seen—the way his Grisha had taken the drug into their systems and transformed into near-mythical gods and goddesses—were as magnificent as they were horrifying.
Unfortunately, what he thought to be carefully controlled experiments with the substance quickly disintegrated into a maelstrom of havoc and anarchy driven by indomitable Grisha.
The catastrophe was too large to cover up.
The Tsar and Court had seen the destruction and sounded the alarm. ‘Grisha were enacting plans to overthrow the King with their distorted magic.’
The Black General was driven off a cliff to his death—or it at least appeared that way, with the help of a Tailor.
The Second Army was disbanded and hunted.
The Tsar’s heralds ran laps around Ravka, reading the same thing from village to village.
The Grisha attempted a coup. It failed. With their powers, they slaughtered thousands of innocents. All Grisha are to be extracted from society like a splinter and put to death. The Grisha are an aberration of humanity and must be stopped.
There had been no ‘slaughtering of innocents,’ but the bit about being an aberration stuck.
Over the last couple decades, Ravka’s fear of Grisha grew and evolved, but their slurs remained: Aberrants. Perversions.
Older populations just adopted the Fjerdan drüsje. Drüsje, ’witch’ in Fjerdan, was lovingly taught to Ravkans by the Queen of Ravka, who found sudden favor among the people for her Fjerdan roots.
The Fjerdans had always seen the Grisha for the abomination they truly were—now Ravka would join them in the genocide of Grisha.
It was the Apparat who encouraged non-Grisha to think of themselves as pure.
The tenuous peace between Grisha and otkazat’sya was effectively severed, and the Apparat praised those who would turn in their neighbors.
From the pulpit, he emphasized the pure nature of humanity—orthodox, good. It was from this series of sermons, shared across Ravka, that all otkazat’sya began setting themselves further apart from the mutations that were Grisha, naming themselves Orthodox. Good, pure and normal.
In contrast, the Apparat named Grisha distinctly unorthodox, unholy aberrations of science. They could not be born after all—now we see how they can expand their powers through experimentation.
The Fold was simply an early example. A warning that was not properly heeded. It was not a mistake Ravka could afford to make a third time.
*******************
In the wake of the catastrophe, the Tsar disbanded the Second Army, scattering Aleksander’s soldiers into hiding under threat of public execution.
Fortunately, the King’s men were largely unsuccessful in locating the Grisha in the Little Palace—young children and teens, who had been evacuated with the help of Baghra and the tunnels.
She led them, as far as Aleksander knew, out of Ravka altogether and into hiding. Baghra had always been good at hiding.
Unfortunately, the General was unable to get to a party of his troops in time to help them.
They were returning from Kribirsk on mission, dirty, tired, and ready for their beds in the Little Palace, unaware of the turn in sentiment toward their kind.
They were ambushed on the Vy by King’s Men and First Army soldiers out on a new assignment: Grisha Patrol.
Every one of his Second Army soldiers died in the square in Os Alta. The first of many public executions.
Five years after his "death,” Aleksander’s mother disappeared.
When she returned, some twenty years later, Baghra had only cryptic riddles to provide for him: “I have looked into the face of the living sun, and it was magnificent.”
“You have seen the Sun Summoner? There is a Grisha with such power? Where are they—are they protected?”
Excitement and panic rose within him in a duel for dominance. This could change everything. This could be the way out of this mess.
His mother remained silent to his questions. Aleksander stepped back from her, unnerved.
“Why are you telling me this? I thought you completely objected to the idea of me with the Sun Summoner. Why taunt me with the existence of one now?”
She laughed. “You have nothing to offer Grisha now, boy. You have no power, no leverage. You would not take the Sun Summoner into the Fold and expand it to your will—even you know now is a terrible time to take such actions.”
“Yes, of course, that would be unwise right now, but—don’t you understand what this means? This could be the end of our persecution. A Sun Summoner who makes a safe passage through the Fold—the people of Ravka would weep and praise! That would begin to turn the tides for our people in the eyes of all of Ravka.”
Baghra sighed, shaking her head at him, “You hang your hopes too high. The modern world is against us once more—”
“They’ve always been against us. Before, they simply had a need for us—to use us,” he said with a hint of petulance.
“They had your Second Army. Yes, you are right. But your experimentations with Jurda Parem backfired spectacularly. The world might have been warming up to Grisha, but then you supercharged a few and brought down an entire population.”
Aleksander did not want to hear this. He turned from her, pacing and rubbing at his jaw.
“Perhaps the Sun Summoner could still be of use, though. The otkazat’sya still revere the idea of one as a saint. They want to see the Fold removed, the land reclaimed—”
“After all these years, you still need to be reminded.” Baghra grasped his shoulders, looking up into his face, imploring him to listen.
“You cannot trust them, Aleksander. Not any of them. Leave the Sun Summoner be, boy. Let Ravka move on and move forward. We will do better to let time pass than to act before…well, before anyone is ready.”
With a pat to his shoulder, she turned and left him again.
*********************
Even if it was in him to obey his mother, he could not have resisted his own curiosity. After centuries of waiting, he had to know—needed to see the Sun Summoner for himself.
It took a couple years of looking, traversing Ravka, asking after reports of an old woman, and following the rumors.
He knew Baghra’s patterns, the way she hid. Could find her dens and caves in the forests. Knew to call on children in the villages to find out what he needed to know. Children who were bought off with the rare sweet, and who observed everything.
The same report continued to crop up. After its repetition from multiple independent accounts, Aleksander was forced to accept the authenticity, though strange.
Several children mentioned hearing their parents speak of an elderly woman who came into town several years back.
This occurrence was notable in one singular fact: the elderly woman appeared to be with child.
The more he heard the strange rumor, the less mythical it became to his ears. The general otkazat’sya population took it as some sort of omen, and they venerated the vision of her as if they had witnessed a Saint in their midst.
Aleksander followed the rumors to every village and hamlet imaginable, emotions whirling in his chest at the various implications until finally, he resigned himself to the truth.
It appeared that even as she meant to make her exit from the world, Baghra underestimated the staying power of her own life force and somehow became with child once more.
Following these reports, he began to catch new rumors.
Innocuous tales of three passersby (quite unusual for this part of the country) in the form of a Shu woman, her elderly mother, and her small son.
The cruel gloating of his mother suddenly made sense.
His mother had dangled a carrot before him when they last spoke, claiming to have looked into the face of the ‘living sun.’
Baghra had birthed the Sun Summoner herself.
Of course. It fit well enough. Fate was, indeed, this cruel.
It was fitting that Baghra should have birthed Aleksander, the greatest Shadow Summoner of all time, centuries before—at the beginning of her life.
And now, here at the end, as she stopped summoning and hoped for death, she had birthed his salvation.
He was the dark son. The one who brought ruin to his people.
Now there was another. A pure light, arrived from his mother near her death like some miracle to bring his people back out of the darkness.
Aleksander sighed. Even he could not be upset at the poetry of it.
After centuries of hoping and dwelling on the existence of a Sun Summoner, this was fulfilling a prophecy of sorts. No matter the circumstances of this brother of his, he could not find it in himself to be anything less than hopeful.
Baghra had raised him to be hidden and isolated. Friendless and ruthless. Aleksander did not want that for his little brother.
He needed to meet the boy—to teach him and guide him. To help him to understand the mistakes Aleksander had made, and guide him through life in a way that Aleksander had been forced to navigate on his own.
*********************
When at last he tracked them down, set up in a bakery off the main street of a small village, Aleksander did his best to stay back and observe.
Despite having finally found his little brother and the woman who must have adopted him, it was a rather inauspicious day.
The townspeople of Staraya Dukh were gathered in the square, watching in near silence as Grisha Patrol Officers stood on a raised wood platform.
It seemed a young man had been discovered by the officers to be an Inferni disguised as a farmhand.
This was why people were often wary of travelers. Many were believed to be Grisha in disguise, or otherwise on the run from someone.
As Aleksander watched them stringing the man up by his hands, a long iron bar shackled to his wrists to prevent him summoning, they read the evidence of his ‘crimes' aloud, then specified the law for all to hear:
For crimes against the sovereign crown of Ravka, all Grisha, hereby understood as aberrations of humanity, unorthodox and inhuman, shall be put to death.
The last time Aleksander had witnessed a public execution of Grisha—his soldiers—the crowd had been brutal. Screaming for blood and calling out slurs.
Some twenty odd years later, the villagers here were present, but many looked dismayed and solemn.
The Inferni did not protest. Did not make a noise. He held his head up and ignored the jibes of the officers who were whispering cruelly and spitting in his face.
Aleksander could not watch the proceedings. Could not do a thing to save the poor soul, now that things had progressed this far.
He looked around the crowd, knowing that if Baghra were still with his brother, she would have brought him to watch the execution. It would have been a lesson.
Know now that no one will lift a finger to save you. You must protect yourself at all costs. They will prey on you the same as the tiger preys on the red deer.
There were several children in the square. Several with dark hair and fair skin. However, every report told him of a Shu woman. Those details had not changed once from village to village. She was not here.
He left the square to continue his search.
Watching from the darkness of the alley across the street, he cataloged every interaction of mother and son that took place.
Them in their little bakery.
A small, weedy boy of no more than seven and his ‘mother,’ half-Shu, with white flour clinging to her dark hair.
They were smiling at each other. The sight sat strangely in his chest. That bond was wholly unfamiliar.
Observing them, it was immediately clear that he would not be able to simply take the boy away and raise him.
The attachment between these two was strong. They would need to learn to trust him. Allow him to get close.
After all, he had rendered people in half with The Cut as a child. A powerful young Sun Summoner with someone to protect—a mother who cherished him—was dangerous.
He took in the details of the street. Quiet and sprinkled with empty buildings and few shoppers in the wake of the execution.
Eyeing the empty space next door to the bakery, Aleksander began to formulate his plan.
*********************
Within the span of three weeks, Staraya Dukh had added another business owner to their number.
Next door to the bakery, the little connected shop saw shelves going up the walls from the floors to the ceiling to accommodate the crates of books which were now arriving.
Staraya Dukh was one of the few villages that remained close to the Fold. The population was sparse, and they did not get many travelers due to the general fear of getting close to the looming wall of Shadow.
Few would choose to reside in the hamlet. Families who had stayed did so because of the generations of life poured into their lands or their businesses. Land and businesses which they would not be able to give up without losing their livelihood. There was no one around to whom they could sell.
No outsider wished to buy any property in Staraya Dukh—a cursed village, if ever there was one.
And so it was a subject of great gossip when a petite young woman had arrived in town. A presumed widow and her small son, who used her funds to purchase a decaying shop.
It took a few months, but soon the villagers had their very own bakery once more.
Coming to rely on her goods and services—and seeing she had passed the tests of the roving Grisha Patrol Officers in the spring—the locals grew to trust her and her son. Some to the point of fondness.
Despite this exception, the stranger who rolled into town the next year to purchase the empty shop next door to the bakery raised more than a few brows.
The addition of a book and tea shop off the main street seemed almost frivolous after the scarcity they had endured for decades.
To luxuriate over a hot cup of Ravkan Caravan with a spritz of lemon while perusing a book was decadent, to say the least. Whether he could be trusted would remain to be seen.
The villagers resolved not to get too attached until the Patrol came through again to ensure he would be allowed to live, much less run his little tea room in Staraya Dukh.
*********************
Electing to play it slow with his newfound neighbors, Aleksander set up shop, sleeping in the apartment upstairs and keeping to himself.
He had made eye contact with the adoptive mother on several occasions and was met only with suspicion.
Her son—his brother—on the other hand, often looked at him with open curiosity.
Other than a passive wave, Aleksander did his best to appear uninterested in them as he worked on restoring his side of the building.
The apartment upstairs needed the plaster patched, walls painted, and pipes repaired. Once he had a clean, dry place to sleep at night, he took on the storefront.
Aleksander built shelves, painted walls, and restored the broken windows. The fireplace needed to be cleared of debris, and the chimney properly swept. Two days were spent refinishing the double wooden doors which took up a large portion of the shared wall with the bakery next door.
It was locked on both sides—the wide wooden panels were double stacked and could retreat into the walls behind his shelves—but the woman next door would have to choose to open her side as well if they were to pass freely between the tea room and the bakery.
The sign outside was painted fresh in a careful hand to read ‘Antonov Books and Tea Room’ in red, white, and black.
While he worked, adding the finishing touches to the shop, Aleksander thought about how to approach a relationship with the little duo next door.
How to introduce himself, disarm them. Make them trust him.
Ultimately, it was unnecessary—the boy found him first. The little tea room had only been open for a week or so with very little traffic at all. When the bell rang over the door, Aleksander sat up on his stool behind the counter, staring in awe at the small dark haired boy now tilting his head in survey.
“The shop’s open, isn’t it?” he asked.
Here he was—the Sun Summoner. Innocent and small as he stood in the same room as his brother. His opposite. A Shadow Summoner.
It was almost overwhelming.
“Ah-uh, yes. Welcome. Please look around,” Aleksander said, eyes lingering on the facial features of the boy. This was the closest he had ever been, and he was eager to see what similarities they might share.
He had never known family outside of Baghra.
“I know you,” Aleksander said. “You’re the little boy from next door, aren’t you? Does your mother know you are here?”
“I can handle myself pretty well,” he said, not turning away from the shelf.
Conversation was not easy with a sibling, he supposed. What do you talk about when you have a six-hundred-year age gap?
“Keen interest in religion, young master?”
“Nope. Just looking.”
“Will you at least tell me your name, lad?”
The boy hesitated for a moment. “Misha Starkov.”
Aleksander smiled, trying to bring a warmth to it that he wasn’t sure he possessed.
“It is nice to meet you, Misha. My name is Mr. Antonov. Can I interest you in books on folklore and mythology?”
Misha turned quickly, interest sparking in his eyes for the first time since he entered the shop. “You have those sort of books here?"
“Of course.” Aleksander directed him to the correct shelf, pulling out a few books of interest and placing them on a small table for Misha to sit at while he looked.
The boy spent the afternoon leafing through volumes, asking questions, turning up his nose at certain stories he’d heard before. After a few hours, he relocated to the corner armchair, nestled like a cat with books stacked around him.
As he observed him, Aleksander did not notice any particular trait that might reveal his true identity. Not so much as a faint glow.
Then again, he hardly knew what to expect in a Sun Summoner.
When the day was coming to a close, Misha got to his feet and put everything back on the shelf—their correct shelf, even.
He pulled his hat on his head, stopping before he reached the door. “Er—thank you, Mr. Antonov, for letting me look at your books.”
“Of course. You are welcome to come back tomorrow if you like, young Mr. Starkov.”
“I-well I-thanks but I can’t buy anything so…”
Aleksander smiled at him. “Your mother is the baker, right?”
Misha nodded, guarded as he stepped back.
“I happen to have something of a sweet tooth. Bring me a slice of whatever looks best tomorrow and, provided you keep your hands clean, I would be happy to share my books and my armchair with you, free of charge.”
Misha brightened. “J-just a pastry or slice of cake?”
“Yes. Something to go with my tea in the afternoons would be best.”
“I can do that, sir. Thank you again!” Misha scurried out.
Misha made good on his promise, arriving early the next day with a slice of honey cake in tow.
He lingered in the same section as the previous day, selected his books, and returned to his chair.
For a week or so, Misha loitered in his shop, reading books and drinking a cup of tea on occasion while Aleksander contemplated what to do about the mother and how to begin conversation with a child.
Misha did not fret so much, often surprising Aleksander with his abrupt questions—
“Don’t you have any friends?” Misha asked Aleksander on the fifth day.
He laughed, taken aback. “I am new in town. I’m afraid you are the only person I see regularly.”
Misha nodded in understanding and not-so-hidden pity, and Aleksander found himself laughing again.
“As you are a seven-year-old who spends his days with his nose stuck in a book, I’m more concerned if you have any friends.”
Misha shrugged, biting off a piece of apple Aleksander had shared with him around lunch.
“Your mum knows you come here, doesn’t she?”
Misha avoided his eyes. “Sure.”
Aleksander was not convinced.
“Well then, I had better go see if there are any books she would like to see more of so I might entice her to spend her days in my shop like her son.” He took long strides to his store front.
“Wait! Don’t!” Misha scrambled to stop him, closing the tome in his lap with effort. “Look, she doesn’t exactly know this is where I go everyday.”
“Where does she think you are?”
“I might have told her I found a group of kids who play marbles in the square. I’ve sort of been making up activities with them ever since.” Misha stared at his shoes dangling off the edge of the chair, doing his best to look pitiful.
“And she lets you go without question?”
“I told you I can handle myself. She doesn’t worry too much.”
Aleksander sighed. “Misha, I do not wish to stop you coming to my shop everyday. But as a fellow adult, I cannot keep this secret from your mum.”
Misha rolled his eyes, his head hitting the back of the armchair with a thunk. “Fine. But let me tell her, okay?”
“Do it soon, and you have a deal.”
Aleksander walked back around the counter, pulling a book down from the shelf behind it. “And since she doesn’t know you are here, I suspect I should swing by to pay for all the treats you have brought for me.”
Misha waved his hand at that. “Don’t bother, everything I bring you is in what she calls a ‘bad batch’—she can’t sell those. It would upset her if she knew anyone but me saw them.”
“Bad…how?” Aleksander asked, knowing full well he had finished every bite of cake and pastry brought to him that week.
“Bad because it looks too ugly to go in the case, or because she cut it too big or too small. She usually gives them to me. I’ve just been bringing them to you instead.”
Just then the baker herself passed in front of the shop windows, crossing the street to meet the delivery from the grain mill, a man unloading a crate of flour from his cart.
“Your mother seems awfully young to have a seven-year-old.” Aleksander said, watching the summer sun glimmer on her black hair. She was quite beautiful as well, though Aleksander liked to think he was too old to notice things like that anymore.
The way the man from the grain mill was speaking to her, lingering over her shipment, he thought that he was not the only one to notice this fact.
Misha shrugged. “I’m adopted. My mother died in childbirth, but then my mum found me and decided to raise me as her own.”
“Do you and your mum get along well?”
Misha scratched behind his ear absently. “Of course. She’s…my mum.”
The boy really was perplexed by the question. As if it had no merit, or no other possible answer.
Jealousy like Aleksander had not known before bubbled up inside of him. Memories peppered his vision. Memories of Baghra leaving him alone in a cave, telling him off for trying to make friends, moving him around the world in hiding for months on end.
Crippling loneliness, smacks from a cane, chiding words when he had simply voiced a desire for anything.
He loved his mother—their mother—but he would not have ever said they got along well.
Aleksander tore his eyes away from the woman on the street.
“Misha,” he said, waiting for the boy to meet his eyes, “I’ll give you two days to come clean to your mum. Otherwise, I’m telling her myself.”
Misha groaned again but stifled it under an arched brow and stern look from Aleksander.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Antonov. I will.”
*********************
It did not take two days, however. That evening, Aleksander stood in front of his cashier’s counter, taking inventory with the company of the delightfully delicious pastry Misha brought him that afternoon.
Though he inspected it for ugliness, he found none. How this could be considered a ‘bad batch,’ he did not know.
The bite melted in his mouth, and Aleksander closed his eyes in response.
“So. You like those after all.”
He choked.
Coughing, he turned to the sound of the voice. “P-Pardon me? Oh.”
The baker of said pastry stood in the small gapped opening between their shops.
At last, she had opened her own panel doors. Through the gap, he could see the little bistro tables of the bakery, the calming blue-green coloring of the walls.
“It’s you—I mean…You must be Misha’s mother.” Stifling his surprise at the interruption, he lifted the half eaten pastry in his hand. “And, incidentally, the baker of this particularly delicious Plushki.”
“Alina Starkova,” she supplied, walking into his shop without invitation. “And you must be the person my son has been spending his time with all week when he lies and tells me he is going to play marbles in the square.”
Aleksander opened and closed his mouth, blushing and surreptitiously wiping the sugar from his beard.
“Alexei Antonov,” he lied, extending his hand to hers.
He had wondered idly if Baghra would leave the Sun Summoner in the hands of a defenseless otkazat’sya.
When she took his hand, openly inspecting him, he tried to call on her power–any power. Nothing happened, save a strange look she gave him for lingering beyond the normal length of formality.
That question settled, he continued.
“And about the pastries—I told your son I insisted on coming to pay for them, but he advised they were fished out of the bad batch, and it would only upset you to see them.”
Alina had trouble stifling her laugh. “Yeah, well, I’ve been on to him for a while. I started making one ‘bad’ pastry from each batch to try and smoke him out. An ugly pastry here, a poorly cut slice of Medovik there—”
“That sounds like an irresponsible thing to do as a business owner.”
She brushed it off, turning to inspect the titles. “I keep a close enough eye on my margins to know where I can make allowances."
He smirked, surprised at her humor.
“As for your son, I only just found out he was lying to you. I sent him back today to make his confessions.”
Alina stared at him, once more checking for truth. Seemingly she found it, because she turned back to the shelves, reaching for a red hardback.
Aleksander watched her with bright curiosity.
Misha was forward and bold—that was no surprise, given the blood line and traits they must share—but this woman…
Something about her forced him to straighten up where he stood, bringing him to attention so he did not miss a detail about her. Her words, her voice, her gestures.
Simply put, he was caught in an inexplicable fascination with the woman. It was unsettling.
“I knew Misha was lying. That was what was important.”
“Why didn’t you confront him about it?”
She laughed again. He shifted on his feet.
Aleksander was not used to being the subject of a joke, could not remember the last time someone had a laugh at his expense.
Alina’s smile was warm, though, and Aleksander squinted at it, feeling it inside as the warmth spread through him.
“I would prefer Misha believe himself to be a good liar rather than learn how to get better at concealing things from me.”
Intriguing parenting method. Quite the opposite of Baghra.
Do you not own a cane? Aleksander wished to ask. His own private joke at her expense.
Instead, he queried, “But what if Misha had been unsafe here?”
“That is precisely why I am here to meet you. I couldn’t put it off any longer.”
Alina put the book back on the shelf, leaning against it and crossing her arms over her chest. Her gaze was penetrating, and her previously warm expression had hardened, turning cold.
Aleksander was reminded fiercely of the mother bear, guarding her young in the wild, assessing for threats.
“You…do not like me, do you, Mrs. Starkova? What am I to have done?”
“Miss—and your sudden arrival into the village is…disruptive.”
Aleksander scoffed, setting the rest of the Plushki on the counter in protest of her attitude. His pride could not afford to pay her the compliment of finishing her product in front of her.
“Surely no more so than yours was when you first blew into town.”
Why was he so irritated by her disposition? She was right to dislike him. Right to be suspicious.
And yet he heard himself adding, “You had baked goods and a pretty smile to win over the local skeptics. Have pity on me, for I have neither.”
Despite the way she rolled her eyes at him, she blushed.
Something warm prickled inside of him again at the sight. He pressed it down. Now was not the time.
“Don’t be self-deprecating, Mr. Antonov. You have an attractive sort of look about you and something akin to charm, so you are not good at pulling off self-deprecating. Besides, I am not in the business of pitying men. It can be a fatal mistake for a woman, don’t you agree?”
Aleksander blinked at her, opening and closing his mouth again. Where had his mother found this woman?
No doubt she had picked a good protector for the Sun Summoner. This Starkova woman was uncomfortably adept. Wheedling Misha from her grasp would be an arduous task.
Deciding to start small, he stepped forward, moving around the cashier counter to the shelves behind.
“Do not have pity for me, then. Instead, please accept a token of my gratitude for the pastries with a return on the goods I have to trade.”
Running his hands over the titles, he selected one, bringing it down from the shelf and gesturing to her to join at his side.
With a wary glance at him, Alina grasped the book, opening the front flap.
Inside the front page, a small symbol was drawn in thin black ink. A cluster of ten lines, five on each side, drawn together into a point in the middle.
To an Orthodox eye, it might look like the drawing on the sides of the grain mill—similar to a bundle of wheat, strung tight in the middle and bowing out on the ends.
For Grisha, the hidden and the hunted, the little drawing signified safety, sympathy, and invitation from the person who held it.
The symbol, five lines on each side connected in the middle, represented the meeting of two hands touching at the wrists. A simple summoning gesture.
Alina’s eyes skimmed over the lines.
He watched her for a reaction.
She looked bored, turning the page without a pause.
Aleksander squinted at her. Was she a good liar? Or had Baghra not taught her the symbol at all?
It had been his mother’s idea—something she spread to Grisha far and wide as she ferried people out of the capital and into hiding.
He supposed, if he thought about it, she might not have shared its meaning with Alina for fear of anyone learning of the existence of the Sun Summoner. Meaning to keep both Alina and Misha isolated, just as he had been his whole life.
Alina continued flipping through the pages, not looking up as she spoke.
“It is dangerous to keep books on these subjects in your shop. You know that, don’t you?"
The book itself was one of his personal collection. Early writings on the powers of Grisha, their suspected origins, and a catalog of various abilities.
Aleksander chose his words with care. “It is even more dangerous to see the direction of public discourse and do nothing to interrupt the loudest voices. If even one person in this town can find a different point of view to consider, it will be well worth it.”
Alina stiffened next to him, continuing to skim the pages on Materialki. "You are playing a reckless game.”
He understood her dilemma. It was not simply that it was a reckless game for him. It put her son in danger. The proximity of Misha to this potentially volatile idea—someone who publicly disagreed with the Tsar and Ravka about the fate of Grisha—meant Misha would be less safe.
If Alina were truly concerned about the book shop potentially being a magnet for trouble, she might leave.
Aleksander was suddenly fearful of losing her—losing them. That one night they may disappear from his life altogether. All this work to find them and establish their trust, lost in an evening.
“I-I will do everything in my power to ensure I am careful and that those around me do not endure any measure of retribution for my risks.”
“You were not very careful in showing me, just now. I am a perfect stranger.”
“Perhaps there is something about you that I find…trustworthy.”
A flash of fear stole over her features. Fear that he already knew about Misha, perhaps? The next second, her expression was blank once more.
“Bold of you, Mr. Antonov.”
He laughed. “You have no idea. Come, I wish to show you one of my favorite philosophers. If you have time to look over his writings, perhaps we could discuss your thoughts next week over tea?” She began to shake her head but he persisted. “On Wednesday afternoons, the shop is open to groups of people to do readings or share their thoughts together. It…well, it has not quite picked up yet, but I am certain it will.”
He thought her expression might have lost a little edge—that she was slightly more relaxed with him, or that she was at least curious as she followed him to the shelf.
Then again, with the way he dwelled on their interaction long after she left his shop, he was more concerned about his own sudden curiosity for her.
Alina Starkova.
She was a means to an end. Nothing more. He would steal her son from her. She would come to hate him. This would be the way of things.
Aleksander could not afford to forget this truth.
*******************
Establishing his Wednesday afternoon gatherings was arduous work, but he advertised to anyone who came in the shop.
It was to be a time for the locals to come and sit with their friends, have a hot cup of Ravkan Caravan, and converse about any manner of subjects.
Four weeks into it, and his only regulars were a boy who continued to pay him in sweets and a man whom he understood used to be the blacksmith, but who had since lost most of his vision and therefore could not read his books.
In the interim of such lulls in business, Misha kept him on his toes.
Aleksander realized now that the boy had been somewhat shy in that first week, but since then, he rarely held back–raining down a litany of questions spanning several subjects.
There was no denying the intelligence of the boy, who sat in his chair and processed engineering and mathematical books interspersed with questions on carpentry, metalwork and masonry in-between.
Is this who Aleksander could have been, with a mother who fostered his curiosity?
He had hidden in caves and researched in private and obsessed over his own thoughts, whereas Misha pondered aloud without a hint of unease. He naturally assumed that if he was pondering a subject, Aleksander might be interested in working through it too.
When Misha did not understand a concept well and had to be corrected by Aleksander, he took the blow with a nod and a head scratch and then blew forward with his next question, determined to circle closer to the truth of the thing. No embarrassment, no shame.
It was incredible. Aleksander was envious. Aleksander was…enjoying their conversations.
“What I don’t understand about light is how, if I use the light from your fireplace here to shine through my glass like this, nothing of much consequence happens, does it?”
Misha crossed to the front of the shop where the afternoon sun lit up the front windows with an orange glow.
“And yet when I do the same thing with my glass, directing the sun beams, I can start a small fire.” Misha held up the dead leaf, now smoking in the middle.
Autumn had started in Staraya Dukh.
“Do you have a book that can help me understand this principle?”
Aleksander’s ears were perked. An interest in the sun. Naturally.
“I do have several books on light, but it is my understanding that the latest research out of Ketterdam has not been able to crack that question yet. Now,” Aleksander crossed to the opposite wall, “what do you know about infrared radiation?”
Some afternoons, when the sun had warmed the crispness of the autumn morning away, Misha would sit out in front of his shop, reading at one of the tables in front of the bakery.
Aleksander brought him cups of hot water with lemon and sugar while he read.
When another little boy popped up one day, interrupting Misha from his reading, Aleksander almost flinched with the effort to stop himself from intervening.
Do not go seeking time with other children. It is a fool’s errand. They will find out what you are, and they will seek to take your power from you.
Misha was not Aleksander. Was perhaps not an amplifier and had, so far, concealed his powers from someone like himself who was looking for them constantly.
So though he knew it was dangerous for Misha to be friends with otkazat’sya while Grisha were still hunted and executed, he knew he had better let the boy try things anyway.
*******************
One morning, Misha did not show up. Nor did he come the day after. He had mentioned he would be working on a project and had asked to borrow a few books on engineering, heat conduction, and a book of recipes from the prior century.
Aleksander had not realized how long the project would take him.
From time to time, he could be seen in the alley behind their shops, dragging large pieces of metal and discarded pipes.
He waved to Aleksander from the front windows as he disappeared down the streets and returned hours later, buckets of bricks or coals weighing down his journey.
This was a rather lonely stretch for Aleksander. Surprised to realize that he missed the company of the boy, Aleksander turned back to his early journals, making the effort to get reacquainted with the child he had once been—preparation for when Misha did return and they could have new discussions.
In the evenings, he heard the sounds of metal clanging and smelled burning. He lay in his bed in the upstairs apartment, wondering what his two neighbors were up to and whether he might see them again soon.
Alina had stayed away since that first visit, though she had not yet returned the book he gave her. Something about that small fact buoyed his hope.
*******************
The day Aleksander adopted a stray cat into his home was the same day the Grisha Patrol Officers returned to Staraya Dukh.
He had lingered in the back alley, hoping to run into Misha as he stacked empty crates against the wall, when a small gray tabby weaved between his legs.
He had never been particularly fond of pets. Or rather, they were never particularly fond of him. But as this one looked up at him with its teal-jewel eyes and mewled, he sighed.
Ushering the cat in the back door, he took down an unused saucer and filled it with milk, petting the cat as it lapped vigorously.
It would be nice to have someone else around, for a change.
The bell over the door rang, and Aleksander stood up from behind the counter, his smile of greeting fading as he noted the trio of men in First Army uniforms congregating at the front.
The frisson of fear that vibrated down his spine was virtually hidden on his blank face.
“Good afternoon, Officers.” His eyes lingered on the red and gold patches over their left breast pockets.
GP Grisha Patrol
“Afternoon, Mr…Antonov, is it?” The middle member of the group stepped forward, looking around at the shelves, reading the labels of the subjects closest to him.
“Alexei Antonov, yes. Can I interest you in a cup of tea, Officer…?” He was smooth and unhurried as he asked.
“Volkov,” he said, taking in Aleksander’s features with a grimace. “And I think not. You’re new to town, are you? You aren’t listed on our roster for this region.”
Quite suspicious. New to town and unlisted in the region. They were predators, waiting to pounce.
“I am new since this summer. I had to leave my last home due to a blight. Surely you heard about it? It took out crops all along the northern border.”
They did relax marginally as they consulted each other—this rumor had matriculated to the south by now, and it held up.
“The work of some drüsje they think, Volkov,” one of the supporting officers grunted, the slur dripping off his tongue as if he were a native Fjerdan. Aleksander seethed inside.
Volkov considered this and granted a short nod in return.
“Very well. I assume you still have your registration card, Mr. Antonov? That didn’t get lost in the move, I hope.” The tone in his voice was dangerous, and Aleksander arched a brow in response.
“Of course. It’s kept upstairs in my apartment. Will you permit me to retrieve it?”
That he even had to ask permission to leave the room made his insides writhe. His shadows could wrap around their throats in the span of ten seconds and hollow out their insides in another ten.
“Smirnoff!” Volkov said, startling the young boy behind him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Escort, Mr. Antonov. Ensure he does not intend to…escape the will of the Tsar.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy’s voice had a nervous tremor to it, but he followed Aleksander through the back room and up the stairs.
The cat scurried between them, nearly tripping Smirnoff in his haste to stick to Aleksander.
It was strange to experience the sense of comfort he felt as the dark gray fur brushed against his ankles.
“It’s just here, in my study,” Aleksander said, pointing to a small, dark room, devoid of windows.
“L-light a candle. Let me see it,” the young officer said, hesitant to follow Aleksander into the pitch black.
He let his shadows loose, further obscuring the room, and the boy could be heard from the doorway once more. “I said light a candle, s-scum.”
The insult was clunky on his tongue. Like a child who learned a curse word at the foot of a seasoned veteran, but had not yet learned to mean it.
The cat slipped into the room without hesitation, finding Aleksander’s legs and pushing his warm body into them.
“I am working on it, Mr. Smirnoff,” Aleksander said mildly. “I seem to have misplaced the matches. You understand I was not prepared for your visit today, but it seems prudent that I collect my card so you can do your test.”
“Don’t you have matches somewhere else?” he asked, trying to be helpful and authoritative in one.
Aleksander laughed. “Probably yes—downstairs. It would not be wise to return downstairs without my registration, don’t you agree?”
“Erm…yes. Right—” Smirnoff said, shuffling his feet.
“I happen to be able to open my desk just fine in the dark—I take my proof of registration very seriously, you understand,” he advised, opening the middle drawer with his shadows and silently extracting a small blade.
From the doorway, he heard Smirnoff click back the hammer on his revolver.
“H-hurry up, then.” The boy squinted into the room, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Unaware that they were not likely to ever pierce the fog of shadow. Aleksander did not doubt the boy would shoot anyway, not caring whether he could see.
Aleksander moved the collar of his tunic aside, taking a deep breath and slicing a harsh cut into his upper back.
He exhaled through his nose and put the dark fabric of his tunic back in place.
“Found it,” he called, cricking his neck as he wiped the bloody knife clean and slid it into his back pocket.
The sting of a fresh wound was familiar now. How many times in the last twenty years had he submitted to this test? How many scars did he have now?
The cat purred at his feet.
Downstairs, the remaining officers had taken to redecorating—presumably looking for a hidden room behind the shelves, because neither of them stared at the titles as they tossed books onto the floor behind them.
He clenched his jaw and extended the yellowing card to them.
“The seal is crumbling,” Volkov muttered, rubbing the wax from his thumb as he squinted at the Lantsov Coat of Arms, looking for inaccuracies, or signs of counterfeiting.
“I apologize. It has been a while since I’ve come across the Patrol offering replacement cards. Perhaps you could tell me when you will do that here in Staraya Dukh?” Aleksander said.
“Smirnoff!” Volkov barked, his eyes still on the card, counting the stamps.
“U-uh, it’s typically in the…spring?” he said, looking at his fellow officer who grunted in confirmation.
“Well then, I will be first in line, Officer Volkov.”
Volkov was looking at him now, “Assuming you pass the test today, you mean?”
He was watching for signs of anxiety.
Aleksander smiled, the cat hissing from between his legs. “After the number of tests I’ve endured, I know what I am and what I am not, Officer.”
He presented his arm, lifting the sleeve up to his elbow to reveal dozens of small white scars.
“Smirnoff. You take this one. Should be easy for you, a veteran like this.”
Volkov was still eyeing Aleksander with distrust, but he stepped away so Smirnoff could pull out his testing key. A long rod of Grisha steel, no bigger than a pencil, with a large eye at the end for hooking onto their belts.
The sight of the instrument tested his resolve. Grisha steel testing keys, designed by him, crafted by his Fabrikators and then plundered from the Little Palace—only to be issued to these otkazat’sya scumbags.
Weapons to hunt Grisha, created by Grisha.
He looked into Smirnoff’s eyes, even and measured. Smirnoff would not meet his gaze.
The blood from his upper back was creeping down his shoulder blade. His shirt stuck to the gash where it was congealing and crusting. He displaced the fabric with a roll of his shoulders, reopening the wound.
The fresh wave of pain was reassuring. This never failed.
“This-uh…this might hurt a bit, Mr. Antonov,” Smirnoff stuttered.
“Might hurt a bit?” Volkov sneered in a mimicking voice. “Are you going to kiss it better when you’re done, too, boy? Do it already,” Volkov demanded.
The bite of the steel cut a fresh line into his forearm. Red blood rushed to the surface.
His shadows swirled inside of him, but did not escape.
“Well then. Welcome to Staraya Dukh, Mr. Antonov,” Officer Volkov said, adding a tick to the card and handing it back to Aleksander.
Shaking his sleeve down over his arm, he pulled a pleasant smile for them.
“Can I offer you a cup of Ravkan Caravan before you go, gentlemen? I promise you haven’t had anything as good in this region.”
Volkov was lifting his hat from his head, wiping at the sweat pooled under the wool. The fireplace kept the shop too warm in the afternoons when Aleksander was unable to tend to it properly.
“Go on then,” the officer answered with a dismissive nod, kicking aside the books he had thrown the floor as he crossed to a table.
As Aleksander stood in the back kitchen, heating a pot to boil, he heard a shuffle in the back alley. Quietly, he opened the door.
“Misha,” he whispered.
However, it was Alina who appeared from around the pile of crates.
“Mr. Antonov, what—” she began.
“The Grisha Patrol Officers are here. They have already tested me, and I’ve persuaded them to stay for a cup of tea.”
Her eyes were wide.
“I was wondering if you would not like to bring a few of your Plushkis over for their enjoyment. They would be most agreeable if you did.” The urgency on his face was ill-concealed.
Did Alina know how to keep Misha from failing the test? Surely she must. They had survived this long, and she was decidedly, inconveniently, not a simpleton.
Her wide-eyed expression melted into nothing, and she smiled a tight smile.
“That is a good idea. I will be over with Misha and something fresh shortly,” she said, turning quickly.
He hoped that would be enough warning for her to do what needed to be done.
As Aleksander carried the hot pot to their table, he informed them of treats which would soon accompany their tea.
“My neighbor was emptying the trash in our shared alley, and she consented to bring over some of her baked goods.”
“That Shu woman?” Volkov asked.
“Yes,” he said tightly. “She should be along shortly.” He filled their tea cups, setting the pot down, and retreated to the kitchen to get the forgotten sugar bowl.
“You’ll like this one, boy,” Volkov said across the table to Smirnoff. His voice carried across the shop.
“She’s Shu, but that just means she’s all the more tight for us big Ravkans!” Volkov violently grasped at his crotch, and the laughter of the two older Officers devolved into bellowing guffaws.
Before he could get through the next step, Aleksander’s fingers closed over a thin blade of Shadow—conjured on instinct from air and matter and rage.
It was lifted up in one moment, poised for release, and in the next, the bell above the door was ringing. The Darkling dropped his hands, watching as the blade dissolved into mist.
Alina’s eyes met his with a weak smile, her hands carrying a tray of assorted tea cakes into the shop. She looked down at the floor, navigating the piles of discarded books with a grimace.
“Misha, pull that table closer to the Officers, please. I need to set this down.”
Misha rushed forward, grasping onto the marble edge of the closest table and tugging. It was heavy, and Aleksander stepped forward to help him maneuver it across the floor.
When it was settled, Alina set the tray down and lingered uncomfortably. “Here are our registration cards, whenever you’re ready.”
Aleksander stiffened where he stood, not allowing himself to move between her and the men who joked about raping her one minute ago.
Drawing any amount of attention would make her a greater target.
“Just a minute now, rybka—the tea is hot, and you’ve just brought us the most lovely little cakes,” Volkov said to her breasts.
Aleksander opened his mouth to speak, but Smirnoff was already getting to his feet.
The way the young officer stared at Alina, it was immediately clear he was sweet on her. Smirnoff pulled his hat back on his head and began to take out his key once more.
“It’s all right, I’ll take care of these two as well.” The boy tripped over Volkov’s chair leg, and the other two officers burst out with another round of guffaws.
“Such an eager recruit, this one, ain’t he?” Volkov jerked his thumb at Smirnoff.
The other officer grunted a chuckle back.
Alina pulled up her sleeve and looked at Smirnoff with an enchanting smile that sickened Aleksander. At his feet, his cat weaved through his ankles as if waiting for Aleksander’s signal to attack someone.
Deciding it would be better to have his hands occupied, he bent and lifted the cat into his arms, scratching behind its ears as he watched Alina submit her forearm for the test.
He barely blinked and it was over, Alina was pulling her sleeve low and crouching down to help Misha with his test. She lifted him onto the cashier counter with ease and drew his sleeve up to his elbow, all the while chatting with Smirnoff about his budding career in the military.
Smirnoff was quick with the test once more, and Alina was smoothly guiding Misha’s sleeve down his arm with one hand, sliding their registration cards across the table with the other.
The young officer blushed at something Alina was saying, taking out his stamp to mark their cards, when Aleksander saw it.
Three large drops of deep red on the white stone tile at their feet.
It was not uncommon to bleed from a test. It was uncommon to bleed enough to drip.
Aleksander’s eyes raked over Misha, pausing on one of his hands. The sleeves he wore were long, but Aleksander could see where blood had streamed down his palm and off his fingers. The blood was dripping off his untested arm.
“Misha,” Aleksander called. Alina jumped, turning to him in alarm. Aleksander remained calm, petting the cat in his arms. “Come look here—I’ve found this cat in the alley and decided to keep it. I will need help naming him, though.”
Aleksander crouched to his knees, waiting for Misha to come close enough that he could whisper.
“Do not jump. Do not look. You are dripping blood from your left hand onto the floor.”
Misha froze. His small chest stuttered with his shaking breaths.
“Don’t worry. Pet the cat with your good hand and cover the other with your sleeve so it will stop dripping on the floor.”
Aleksander shuffled closer, peaking around the cat to see Misha follow the instructions.
“Good. I’m going to send you home now,” he whispered, getting to his feet and turning into the stern shopkeeper once more. “Now, I think you still have the book of fables I lent you last week. Please bring it back at once—another customer has requested it.”
“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Antonov, I’ll go get it.”
Aleksander’s eyes met Alina’s, a mixture of relief and confusion on her face at the sequence of events.
“I’ll be along soon, Misha,” she called around Officer Smirnoff, who was still trying to hold her attention.
The bell over the door rang as Misha opened it—
“Stop,” Volkov said from his table.
He set down his tea cup and stood. Volkov’s eyes were on the floor. “Is one of you bleeding?”
Alina opened her mouth to speak, but Aleksander cut her off, his hand lifting smoothly out of his back pocket where he had stored his knife.
“I believe I cut myself on the marble table when I moved it.”
He held out his hand for inspection, revealing a long cut in his palm. Volkov wrinkled his nose at it. “After you were tested, weren’t it?”
Volkov looked to Smirnoff for confirmation. The young officer nodded vigorously. “That’s the arm I tested as well, his palm was clear before. No cuts.”
“Right,” Volkov grunted, picking up his hat from the table and tucking it under his hand.
“All this bleeding and mess,” he looked at the sprawling books with disgust, “has lost me my appetite.” He picked up a cake and pushed it into his mouth.
“For the road,” he said with a heavy swallow.
“Come on Smirnoff, Laskin—we have a few more to test on this street before the day is done.” The other two officers followed suit, gathering their hats and following Volkov out the door.
Misha still stood at the front, holding it open for them as they passed.
Smirnoff looked back at Alina, blushing as he smiled and waved goodbye to her.
When they were gone, Aleksander crossed the shop in three strides and flipped the lock on the door, curses falling from his breath with increasing anger as he let out the pent up anxiety.
“Do…do you still want your book back now? Mr. Antonov?” Misha was still shaking, staring up at him with wide eyes.
Aleksander glared down, unseeing. “What? No. No, of course not.” He clutched the wrist of his newly injured hand and brought it up for inspection.
“You did nothing wrong, Misha,” Alina said gently, sending a glower to Aleksander and kneeling before her son.
“Are you all right?” she asked, looking directly into his eyes. The boy blinked rapidly. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, and then his face crumpled.
“Oh Mishka,” Alina sighed, bracing herself as Misha fell over her shoulders, sobbing into her neck.
Aleksander watched them, perplexed and dismayed.
Misha could have been taken away. His blunder almost cost him his life. Alina’s, too—she would have been charged with harboring him and helping him cheat on the test.
Misha had been inattentive. Bleeding all over the place in front of Grisha Patrol Officers.
Aleksander was enraged. He was…scared. If Misha and Alina had been taken, dragged from the shop before his eyes while he watched—
“Thank you, Mr. Antonov,” Alina said, looking up at him and still rubbing Misha’s back. “You didn’t have to do that, but…I appreciate it. Misha had been building something when they arrived. He cut himself by accident, and we knew the officers would not like the timing of that, so we just threw a shirt on him and hoped for the best.”
Alina stared up into his face, spinning the bald-faced lie with an effortlessness that took his breath away.
“You know how brutal the patrol can become—even with us Orthodox people. It frightens him whenever we have to get tested.” Alina got to her feet, lifting Misha into her arms as she stood.
Aleksander was speechless. Was she really going to pretend as if the three of them did not now know that Misha was—well, the opposite of Orthodox?
Alina glanced around at the shop, distressed as she took in the mess. “They really are scoundrels. I would stay to help you clear up, but—”
Aleksander found his voice at last. “Please, Miss Starkova, take Misha home. I’ll return your tray in the morning.”
The grateful smile she gave him was unsettling in its lack of guilt, further confusing his good senses.
Was there a chance that her son actually wasn’t Grisha? That all of this really was an unhappy coincidence?
When they left, he locked the door behind them once more, sighing as he looked around.
Books and blood on the floor. Dirty cups and crumbs on the tables. His registration card, still sitting on the counter.
At his feet, the cat curled around his ankles, purring.
————
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