“A ghost story,” I say. “Something he saw once on a battlefield.”
The familiar shape of the relic presses against my skin. For years I’ve studied its inscrutable runes, measuring and weighing it, even doing my futile best to bend or deform its unbreakable curve. Having it around my neck used to make me feel important, like I was keeping an incredible secret from the rest of the world. But now I just feel dumb. A little girl wearing a worthless trinket.
“A ghost story,” Oleg says, voice flat.
“Well, he called it an angel. An angel of vengeance,” I say, smiling at the memory.
“Oh, I see,” says Oleg. Dark eyes holding on to me, he lifts his empty plastic cup and taps it with a finger. “You pour some of this onto a war story. It gets bigger and bigger. Stranger. Your old dedushka probably even thought he was telling the truth—”
A sudden flush of anger courses through me. I blurt out without thinking: “Well, my dedushka found a relic in Stalingrad. His angel bled metal.”
The words linger in the air for a long second. My anger fades as quickly as it came, leaving a vague regret.
I just disobeyed my grandfather.
Oleg slowly stands up, the smile fading from his face. His lips are shining with vodka, stubbled cheeks settling into old hard lines.
“The Battle of Stalingrad?” he asks, slowly. “What did he find there?”
“I don’t know,” I say, cautious now. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
“You have a guess?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Why are you asking—”
“Where is it? Is the relic here?”
The edge in his voice is strange. I look up at Oleg and my vision takes a beat to catch up. I put a hand on the dresser to steady myself.
“No,” I say. “No, Oleg. It’s somewhere safe.”
The metal of the relic is warm against my chest.
“Where?” he asks again. “Can I see it?”
He accidentally knocks the vodka bottle to the floor as he pushes away from his seat. The glass bottle bounces and rolls as Oleg advances. I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he whispers fiercely.
“Show me the relic, June. Show it to me now.”
6
MOSCOW, 1712
The golden throne room threatens to overwhelm my vision. Chandeliers hover over a sweeping corridor framed by gilded wooden posts. Gold-painted sculptures writhe and twist along walls that stretch up into dim, dust-kissed heights. My boot heels click on worn marble. Today, I am wearing a formal infantry kaftan that hangs to my knees, black and red, curls of polished armor built into the forearms and chest, with a black hood pulled low over my forehead.
Although I have never been here, I know from Favorini’s descriptions that a tsar’s throne room should be crowded with people—filled with courtiers and supplicants, or perhaps even the dreaded tsarina. But on this day it is empty.
The only occupants of this room are court automata.
Favo hobbles ahead, leading me through the long, narrow room. In a gallery to the side, three baby ducks are waddling by, feathers wrought in silver, awkwardly following a golden mother duck. One of the ducklings shits as it shuffles along after its fellows.
Then my footsteps are swallowed by a thick rug looped in brilliant reds and blues. Ahead, the throne rises, golden and scintillating under shafts of light coming in through high, slitted windows. Favorini stops.
The tsar is not here.
A concealed door opens in the gallery wall. Ducking his head, an enormous man emerges. He holds a fat green-yellow apple in one hand, utterly confident. The man does not wear gaudy robes or shining armor. Instead, he has on the simple breeches of an engineer.
Favorini begins to bow and scrape, but the tsar waves him off.
“So this is what we’ve had locked in the keep all this time?” asks the tsar, looking at me, unimpressed.
The old man nods.
“Our enemies have made many attempts to steal this…thing. Relentless attempts. With the number of imperial guard devoted to his protection, you’d think he was made of diamonds.
“Will he truly be able to fulfill the task I set forth?”
“I believe so,” says Favorini. “But you may ask it yourself, my lord.”
Peter rounds on me, taking a bite from the apple. He chews it loudly, watching me with large, intelligent eyes. I notice his lip is disfigured, pulled to the side…the same as mine.
“They say you are my son,” he says.
“Father,” I say, kneeling, my head bowed.
“Tell me, son,” he says, humor in his voice, “what is pravda?”
“Truth and justice.”
“Do you swear fealty to me?”
“I do,” I respond.
“Rise and draw your weapon,” says the tsar, walking closer.
He saunters up to my face and watches me with the appraising eye of a mechanician, takes another bite from his apple.
I rise until I am standing, eye to eye, with the Tsar of Russia. We are exactly the same height. The blade of my saber rings as I ease it from its undecorated wooden scabbard. A common weapon, the shashka has a single edge, long and curved and incredibly sharp. I hold it at my side, the tip pointed at the ground, my arm as steady as if it were carved out of stone.
“He moves like a man.”
The tsar leans in and snatches the hood off my head, revealing the tan leather that covers the surface of my face. He presses his fingers into the skin of my cheek, then rubs them together, considering. Reaching into my hair, he traces fingertips over the brass buttons that line the nape of my neck.
“Doesn’t feel much like one, though,” he says.
“It follows the truth,” says Favo. “It will serve the Word, and you, no matter what.”
The tsar looks unconvinced.
“Your name, avtomat?” he asks.
Nothing comes to mind.
“As you will call me,” I respond.
“Strange to stand next to someone who is as tall as I am,” he says, chewing thoughtfully. “I haven’t done it since I was a child.”
The tsar taps a finger against the polished armor embedded in my kaftan.
“I think he is prettier than I am,” he says.
“You are too kind, my Tsar,” says Favo. “Please forgive me any discrepancy. Over time, its appearance can be modified to some extent.”
“It? You keep calling it an it?”
“To do otherwise would insult our Lord Christ. It is not a living thing but a bauble. Petty in comparison to God’s works.”
Peter laughs, a short bark that echoes.
“You fear Catherine, old man, even in private discussion. Smart. The tsarina does not trust in this project. She would have those relics of yours destroyed as sacrilege.”
Favorini lowers his head. “Oh no, my Tsar. I do not question the tsarina, of course…would never…but the anima are precious. I have already fitted the other vessel with our remaining artifact. It is an old one, in the form of a child. And we must not forget…our enemies may have their own anima. Other avtomat could be set in motion against us, even now—”
“Enough,” says Peter. “Your studies are safe.”