She woke with a sharp gasp, sitting upright with a start. Her eyes were wide and her skin clammy and cold. Her heart raced almost painfully. She was alone in the carriage - the rest of her companions stood outside, conversing in tense tones. She squeezed her eyes shut against the impending threat of tears, inhaling deeply. It seemed she could only outrun the Game for so long - she was still playing her part in it. The old strega in her dream… She hadn’t seemed familiar, and it was Minerva’s best guess that she was of Villanova’s clan. She couldn’t work out how she fit in to this woman’s grand plan. Yet she had no choice but to continue to play. Fedele was still at risk, and her family would be high on the list after him. If she had refused the ball of thread… She had no idea of the consequences. It was simply too dangerous.
With a moment of concentration, she watched the ball of thread materialise in her hands. It had barely any weight, but she could feel the sticky texture of the thread, reluctant to let go of her skin as she handled it. There was nothing to be done now. She needed to hold on to it, if only for the time being, just until she worked out what to do with it. Already, her thoughts were churning over the potential possibilities. The threads, a mass of white, grey and, unnervingly, black, did nothing. They reached out to nothing. They simply were. They were potential, as yet unused. She would be patient. She would bide her time. Her next move had to be precise.
Stepping out of the carriage, she looked around at the flaming barrier and the… unnerving wave of rodents that threw themselves against it, the tiny shrieks of mice and rats sending a chill down her spine. By Theus, she would be glad for a life of quiet solitude on days like these…
It was another few weeks before they reached the great mountainous pass that bordered Ussura and Eisen, and several more days before they came to the vicinity of the Dragon Peaks. She had been weeks without a letter from Vladimir, once again on the move as they were. The last letter she had penned to him had been from Pavtlow. She had thanked him in stumbling Ussuran for the gift of the hairpin, and done her best to describe her impressions of the Spire, but lacked the vocabulary, and soon gave up in favour of her native tongue. Her Ussuran looked like a child’s handwriting, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment when she had sealed it and handed it over to the messenger bat. The rest of the letter had been a somewhat lengthy exposition of her recent behaviour, and an almost too defensive rebuttal of Violet’s concerns. In truth, it had irked her rather more than she cared to admit - the questioning of her moral compass was, in her mind, completely unwarranted. She had only ever acted with the best interests of those close to her. What Violet seemed to take issue with was Minerva’s lack of desire to be selflessly heroic for every poor plebeian who crossed their path.
But now as they approached the foothills of the mountains, she found her stomach twisting in a way that had nothing to do with the motion sickness that the rocking of the carriage induced. She felt nervous to see Vladimir again, unsure of how their reunion would play out, and with the renewed threat of harm to her loved ones, she felt afraid of the slowly twisting Cups thread that joined them. Each thread that formed, each relationship that grew with her companions, put everyone at further risk.
Vladimir had little described his home. The mountains were exactly as she had imagined, sharp, jagged teeth gnawing the sky. The highest were capped with snow, forbidding and unwelcoming. The whole scene before her had an air of indistinct menace, like somewhere one wouldn’t come unless absolutely necessary. She gazed out the window, mind a million miles away, when Tegrida’s voice pulled her back to the present.
“I’m sorry? I wasn’t listening,” Minerva looked over at her with a lazy disinterest. She enjoyed seeing Tegrida’s mouth twitch in annoyance.
“I said, why are we going here? Who is this friend of yours we are going to see?”
“Oh, of course.” She shifted in her seat, stretching a little. “The eminent boyar of this region - that is, a count I suppose,- Vladimir Bellakoff, was our companion for rather a while before we… encountered you.” The pause was a mere half beat, but it was not unnoticed. “He is a close confidante of ours, and one who may offer us shelter and respite after this damnable travelling.”
“You don’t seem all that excited to be here,” Tegrida offered, in a tone that only barely suggested she thought she was being clever. Minerva’s dismissive shrug and half roll of the eyes came easily, as if it were natural and not a carefully rehearsed motion, and offered nothing more. But the Castillian seemed determined to make conversation. She groaned inwardly.
“What is he like? Is he as brutish as Seamus, or may I actually find refined company?”
Minerva levelled an inscrutable look at her, and for a moment was silent, collecting her thoughts. “You’ll find no such brutishness with the Count. He is a true nobleman, of fine breeding and impeccable manners. Though I daresay you will find him… odd.”
“Oh, nothing really. Just little things. His sense of fashion is rather behind the times, but then, they have no real use for such frivolities here. He keeps to strange hours, sleeps all through the day, wakes only a little before dusk, and stays awake through the night. He is rather fond of the darkness. And I rather doubt he shall dine with us. He seems to prefer to keep to himself when it comes to meals.” She said all this with the most perfectly feigned disinterest, as though it were all passingly amusing, but mostly beneath her notice. The icy aloofness that formed her armour was well tempered, and settled around her so naturally. In the months travelling with the rest of her friends, she had thawed, if only a little, and let through glimpses of herself. Rannveig, Violet and Vladimir remained the only ones who had truly seen her vulnerable, and while none of them had seen her completely unguarded, they remained among her most trusted companions. It surprised her to feel the burgeoning trust for Violet, but since her confession in Breslau about Fedele, she had softened if only a little.
Tegrida looked at her, momentarily stunned into silence. “Well.” Minerva smirked. “Well, I suppose one mustn’t judge a man before one has made his acquaintance.” She laughed under her breath, and turned back to the window. The road was beginning to wind and pitch upwards, and her stomach lurched a little with it. She hoped it wouldn’t be long before they reached the village.
But the welcome they received upon arrival was hardly what she had expected. Through the glass in the half light outside, she could see the villagers gathered, farming tools and torches in hand. Her eyes narrowed, apprehensive. The carriage lurched to a halt, and she waved Tegrida into silence as she began to ask what was happening.
“Hello friends!” Minerva shook her head. Oh Violet… Their response in Ussuran was aggressive, and a little afraid. “Oh! Of course, you don’t know what I’m saying!” The eye roll was uncontained and unadulterated, and Minerva pulled her furs close around her and stepped out of the carriage. Seamus had begun fumblingly fielding their questions about who they were, and why they were here.
“We come to see your lord,” Minerva’s voice cut through the din like a clarion call. “We wish to send word to the castle, and to take lodgings in your good township.”
An older man, bearded and weathered, looked at her with only a little suspicion. “How do you know the Boyar?”
“He’s a good friend of ours!” Seamus interjected helpfully.
“He is, in fact.” Minerva placed herself commandingly between the party and the restless mob. “He was a companion of ours for many months while he travelled abroad.” He didn’t look convinced. “We have money for lodgings for the night.” To that, the tension relented, and after a further interrogation to determine that they were speaking the truth, they were led to what they were assured was the best house in town. Their carriage was unhitched, their horses stabled, and everyone seemed ready to turn in for the night. The sun had long since disappeared behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the land and robbing it of what little warmth it had bestowed. Minerva, in the privacy of her room, looked out the window, up to the silhouetted castle beyond, and watched the towers for any light. She spied the messenger, sent up to the castle to inform Igor, no doubt, of their arrival. A slight smile lifted her lips; she did not unpack a thing.
They ate simple meals from their own supplies, and Minerva joined the conversation only half heartedly, as if staring into space. When the clatter of horses and carriage wheels came into earshot, she looked up, almost smug. A knock at door was followed by Igor’s arrival, and Lorenzo’s ever undignified shrieking in response to the, understandably, unnerving appearance of the Boyar’s manservant.
“Don’t be unkind, Lorenzo. It’s not Igor’s fault,” she said haughtily as she breezed past him, motioning to Igor to collect her things.
“Yes, of course, my lady, my apologies my lady.” She rather enjoyed his terrified grovelling, and was immediately thankful to have a competent manservant once more in her presence. But of course, Lorenzo’s craven objections began to make themselves known.
“You mean we’re going up there tonight? But it’s dark! Why don’t we go tomorrow? Why are we following this- this- man up to this damn creepy castle in these godforsaken mountains, we’ll be killed for sure!” She was sure she caught amusement on the rest of the party’s faces as they piled into the carriage. Violet sat upon the carriage roof with aplomb and glee, and they were soon underway.
Minerva had learnt many things over her years with Rannveig, not least of which was how to keep the contents of one’s stomach down when it threatened otherwise. It became rather a matter of dignity now that she exercised that skill, for it seemed Igor was in on tormenting Lorenzo. They traversed the winding, precarious road at breakneck speed as a heavy cover of storm cloud lent its own special brand of horror to the situation, lightning punctuating the sky and clapping great beats of thunder through the air. She dared to look out the window, and was faced with crevasse and chasm at every turn, just mere inches from the wheels at any given time. Beneath the voluminous fur cloak, she shuddered.
At last, with the thunder continuing to bellow overhead, they slowed, and drew to a halt before the grand castle. She felt silently grateful for the solid earth beneath her feet. Igor ushered them up the weathered stone steps and inside. This place was ancient, stately and imposing. Inside, the grand foyer was lit dimly, lending it warmth and movement in the shadows.
“Greetings.” She did not look up immediately; his voice felt the twist of a knife in her chest, and as if in time with the sensation, their thread twisted sharply and fell still once more. “You should not have come here.” She met his gaze sharply, but found him instead looking at, it seemed, everyone but her. His attention seemed to slip over Violet and Lorenzo as well, and instead, he directed his displeasure at the rest of them. “But you are here now. There’s nothing that can be done for it.”
In the dim light, his eyes sought her out at last, and for a bare moment, his face softened almost imperceptibly. Their reunion must wait for the formalities to be done, and explanations to be given, from both sides. Yet she felt a pressure lift from her chest, as if it were suddenly easier to breathe. Several long months without each other’s company - they could wait a few hours more.
