He stroked his beard twice, then opened the next doll, and the next. Layers. A box with layers, each with its own enchantment. Yes, he could use that. But how?
He paced the room, stretching his legs, from door to window and back. To trap a man inside a dark space until his death was a crueler fate than assassination, so he would have to craft a place for each of the men to live. Or, perhaps, somewhere they could live together. Could he manage that within the confines of a doll? It would need to be sustainable, at least for the lifetimes of the revolutionaries.
How easily could they escape? The little world would have to be seamless, inescapable. But they would notice, plan. He could place a mask over their eyes.
Slava tugged on his beard. A mask, yes. Over everything. Cure them of their rebellious ways while preventing them from breaking his spell.
He returned to the console and opened the next layer of the doll. He would place a veil inside it, black and impenetrable, spelled to steal their memories of life before imprisonment. They would become docile. Harmless citizens. Not only that, but Slava would be freeing them of responsibility. Theirs would be a pleasant, harmless life.
He peered out the window, staring down at the snow-crusted world. Smoke from the new factories churned the air in the distance. How much better these peasants’ lives would be. Was it wrong to reward them with such ease? But it was better than killing them. And if something did go wrong . . . best to discover it with the lives of revolutionaries than with innocents.
Slava took the dolls to his desk and began planning. Pulled old books from beneath his bed to study the enchantments within them. Let them take his imagination away.
He could create a better Russia. Russia as it should be, before industrialization. A world free of war and cold, of disease and greed, of locks and thieves. And he would watch over these men, guiding them, taking the rebellion out of their hearts . . .
A dark-haired man looked up from the crate in the dim room, atop which rested a dirty hand-drawn map he’d been inspecting. He wore a band on his sleeve, depicting a rearing white horse. Slava tried to mask his surprise—he’d pictured Pavel Zotov older. This man could be no more than thirty.
“Pavel Zotov?” Slava asked, and the two others in the room stiffened and looked toward the door, alarm on their faces. No one else was supposed to be here.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“I must speak with you. I have information about the Winter Palace I think you’ll want to hear.”
Slava squeezed the coercion charm in his right pocket. Pavel hesitated, then nodded. Slava squeezed harder. “Alone, if you will.”
Another hesitation, but Pavel nodded again. Without word or gesture, the two men departed, eyeing Slava as they went.
Slava released the charm and extended his right hand. In his left, beneath his coat, he clutched a doll.
Pavel, his forehead creased and eyes narrowed, took Slava’s hand.
And was gone.
Zhakar Kharzin sowed his seeds by candlelight.
“Why won’t Barinov simply tell you where the revolutionaries are?” he whispered into Nicholas’s ear as the tsar read yet another letter penned in Slava’s hand. “If they’re dead, where are their bodies? You deserve their heads on a platter.”
The parchment crinkled beneath Nicholas’s fingers. Through clenched teeth he said, “You disturb me, Kharzin.”
“It is Barinov who disturbs you,” the mysticist whispered. “What is he hiding? What has he discovered that he won’t tell you?”
Nicholas didn’t respond.
Kharzin leaned closer. “He’s hiding the revolutionaries. He hasn’t slain them as you directed. He’s helping them.
“You have the power to stop it, Majesty. For now. Slava Barinov, he seeks to take that power from you . . .”
Slava’s trek back to Alexander Palace was a long and wearying one. Pavel Zotov’s sudden disappearance had sent Oleg Popov into hiding. However, armed with spells, it hadn’t been difficult for Slava to track him. The mysticist knew how to make loyal men talk, even trace the steps of a man if his departure was recent. The revolutionary had made it all the way to Pushkin before Slava caught up with him. Fortunately, the hard travel had left Oleg both fatigued and alone, so capturing him had proved simple.
Slava was pleased with himself. He’d eliminated two threats to his tsar without spilling a single drop of blood. He would not call himself a hero, but surely Nicholas would decorate him as one.
However, Slava’s reception at the palace was not what he’d expected.
His troika had barely cleared the palace gates when a swarm of soldiers in bear-skin hats surrounded him, startling the horses. Slava didn’t even have time to jerk back on the reins before a burly soldier grabbed Slava’s coat sleeve and hauled him out of his seat. Slava’s knees slammed into packed snow.
“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted, trying to right himself. One of the soldiers grabbed the tail of hair hanging down from Slava’s ushanka, and yet another wrestled with Slava’s arms, trying to get his wrists behind his back for binding.
“Slava Barinov, your plot has unfolded,” said the soldier who had pulled him from the troika. “You’re under arrest for treason against the crown.”
“Treason!” Slava elbowed the man trying to bind him. His companion readied a rifle, leveling the butt dangerously close to Slava’s forehead. “I have returned from eliminating enemies of the crown! I demand to speak to the tsar!”
The soldier snorted, his breath fogging before his mouth. “The tsar issued the order himself.”
Soldiers clustered around Slava, a shifting wall of bodies. Hands hauled him to his feet and again jerked his arms backward. Slava’s head spun. “Treason for what?” he asked, and when none answered, he shouted, “Tell me the accusation!”
His gaze shot to the palace, its walls glittering with sunlit ice crystals. He saw a shadow on the white stairs. Kharzin, wearing a smile.
Slava understood. It was not the first time the devil’s man had spoken ill of Slava, only the first time his words had, apparently, convinced the tsar.
Slava growled. Someone tried to push his head down; Slava pushed back. “In aethere,” he growled, his arms shaking as he resisted binding, “ad locum meum. Vola!”
The magic prickled as though he’d swallowed a horsefly’s nest. It didn’t used to hurt, but spells didn’t take kindly to growing years. The weight of the soldiers’ hands vanished. Slava appeared inside the troika, grabbed his dolls, and vanished once more.
He had little time.
Kharzin had poisoned the tsar’s mind. It would not be possible for Slava to right that wrong now. Not when the heat of the empire bore down on him. Kharzin would expect him to try to escape, but surely he wouldn’t expect Slava to linger in the palace.
He had risked appearing in his room, traveling bag in tow. It still contained soiled clothes, a half-empty water skin, and the two layered dolls painted in the likenesses of the peasant rebels. Outside, the shrill cry of whistles pierced the air.
Slava dropped to his knees at his bedside, pulling out his old spell books. They were too large and too heavy for him to take them all; Slava selected one and shoved it into his bag, mourning the loss of the others. Before sunset, Kharzin’s greasy fingers would no doubt ravish their pages.
“In aethere,” he began, but the Latin caught on his tongue as his eyes met the chest of drawers. The one that held the Japanese doll and his remaining supplies.
They would follow him out of St. Petersburg. Kharzin or another mysticist would catch up with Slava eventually, and if he could not cleanse the tsar’s mind of lies, Slava’s neck would meet a rope, if not a pike. He would run forever, or find himself banished.
Yet Slava had another option, one Kharzin did not know about. He had the dolls.
Raucous footfalls bellowed beneath him. His time was slipping away.