Irrational or not, I love her as a little sister. In a world of human beings, Elena is my only kin. Rising to follow her, I notice a peasant woman has stopped to watch us.
Over the months, stray glances and mumbled tales have accumulated about the tall man and his daughter. The murmur finally erupted into rumor. Old wives’ tales and superstitions are passed among the peasants like lice. Elena and I have been recognized as those who have no breath in the cold. Those whose faces are pale or never seen. Those with tireless footsteps and fine clothes.
They call us vampir.
Ludicrous, but as the stories grew, our presence in Moscow became dangerous, and finally, impossible. As the tsar prepared to move to the new capital, the presence of his eternal successor became obligatory.
Our traveling party departs for Saint Petersburg soon after dawn. The courtyard is crisply freezing under cascades of weak sunlight. Sheets of steam rise in a haze off warming rooftops as morning hearth fires are stoked. A skim of ice lends a fantastical sheen to the cobblestones of the palace, and we seem to glide out over a river of mercury.
Elena and I ride together at the rear of the traveling party. Unlike the humans who ride ahead of us, we do not shiver or rub our hands together. Our nostrils do not send plumes of vapor into the air. The girl and I do not yawn or stretch or stamp our feet to get the blood flowing.
Favorini turns in his saddle, winks at us, and stays in line.
Despite all the horror stories of mud and starvation and fires in Petersburg, the old man is excited, his wrinkled face often collapsing into a smile below bright blue eyes. He is riding light on a brown mare, tramping through the manure and ruts left behind by the hundreds who have preceded us. The tsar’s entourage has already devolved into a sprawling, raucous party. Peter leads somewhere at the front, and the company is protected by the imperial army riding ahead and behind.
More than once this morning, we have seen diplomats and nobles on the wayside, vomiting up breakfasts accompanied by numerous drafts of vodka forced by the tsar onto those around him. It is a typical merry journey for Peter. Less so for anyone near him with a weaker constitution.
An occasional imperial guard threads through the middle of the procession, scanning for any who have fallen behind, incapacitated.
A few hours north of Moscow, we leave the open farmlands and enter a winding path through the Khimki Forest. Narrow bands of pine trees tower over us, needles and leaves wafting lazily down and an occasional pinecone snapping through branches. As a crisp breeze pushes through the green walls of the forest, the whole world seems to sway.
Elena and I do not notice the rider immediately.
A gray horse canters into our line, drawing nearer. I notice the rider has a stiff gait, something off about the mechanics of his shoulders and legs. He is a tall man, dressed in the fine embroidered kaftan of a noble, with a silver cloak draped over his thin frame. His face is exposed, high cheekbones cutting through chilly air. As he turns his gaze on other riders, they look away quickly.
Riding haughtily with his gauntleted hands out, armor shining, the nobleman is an intimidating vision. No one dares challenge his presence. I watch as the other riders move to avoid him, consciously or not. And although he never looks directly at me—his horse grows closer and closer.
Finally, the nobleman is riding beside Elena and me, silver-blond hair spilling over his shoulders and across his breastplate. Favorini is three wagons ahead, gesturing animatedly and chattering at a European diplomat. Without looking at either of us, the pale man speaks. His inflection is flat, but I sense a Swedish lilt to his words.
“Greetings, dvoryane,” he says, in a high clear voice, staring straight ahead. “I am Herr Talus Silfverstr?m, sent by our master to collect you.”
Elena and I share a glance.
“Our master?” I ask.
The silver-haired man turns his face slightly and I see the flash of perfectly white teeth, as though carved from bleached ivory.
“The Worm Mother,” he says. “Master to all avtomat. She is calling you home.”
“I have no such master,” I say, low and deliberate.
“It has not been easy to reach you,” Talus says, voice urgent. “This task has necessitated much patience on my part. Years of patience.”
His smile fades. “Return with me to where you belong. All will be explained, in time.”
Elena and I share a glance of confusion.
“Return with you where?” she asks.
“To your own kind,” he says. “These people have filled your head with foolish notions. My master will remind you who you are. That is all you need know. Obviously, any here who recognize your nature must be purged.”
I let my horse saunter a few steps, ignoring a glance of panic from Elena. She is fond of Favorini and his knowledge, while I am honor bound to serve my Word and therefore my tsar.
“We cannot accompany you,” I say. “I am bound to the empire.”
“Ah, is it a tsar you serve? Or is it a word?”
I do not respond.
“I know more than you could guess, Pyotr. About your midnight walks, certainly.”
The silver-haired man smiles.
“You were watched by the emperor’s men at all times in Moscow. It took months to properly spread the stories of vampir. My rumors had to be sown from the countryside and took root slowly.”
“That was you—”
“And now you are here. Guarded but not watched. Finally, a place where you can eliminate your feeble mechanician and escape.”
“Such an action would defy honor.”
“All actions are honorable in service to your master,” he responds with a thin smile. “You of all people should know that.”
The silver-haired man lays a gauntlet over the hilt of his stocky sword. His horse ducks closer to mine and his left hand settles around the small of my back. When he hisses at me, I feel no heat on his breath.
“Come away, now. You do not wish to engage me. It would not end well for you, and especially not for the little strategist—”
My massive right arm snakes around his torso and I catch a fistful of his silver hair in one hand. My left hand closes over his pommel, my fingers wrapped around his hand with room to spare. I am taller than this man, my limbs longer, a great strength taut in the metal of my bones.
The threat to Elena has turned my grip to cold iron.
“Stay, and I will end you,” I say.
“That’s optimistic,” Talus responds, still smiling.
I shove the man away from me, his horse whinnying and stumbling. His head swivels as he gains control of his mount, silvery-blond hair splayed out. Anger twists at his thin lips. A master artisan has made his face, with features so angular and convincing.
Talus is a work of art come to life.
“Once you reach the city of bones, you are lost,” he calls. “To deny the Worm Mother will make you both outcasts. Enemies of men…and avtomat.”
I regard him silently, let my horse march on.