“Very well. Let’s begin.”
One of the officers strode over to the official who had been sent by the tsesarevich and informed him that the ceremony could begin. The man climbed up to a short dais before the troops.
Volkonsky hardly heard the oath, for the official was possessed of one of those unattractive, droning voices with which bureaucrats were often afflicted. Besides, Volkonsky was watching his soldiers, standing at attention. He caught only an odd word or phrase here or there. “Duty.” “Imperial Army.” “Mother Russia.”
The official launched into a long-winded speech about honor and the greatness of the Russian Empire. He lauded the men for their past service and for all they would do in the future. The troops began to cast sideways glances at one another. Volkonsky frowned. This was not the behavior he expected from his men.
After too many minutes, the official paused, then said in his most affected, grandiose voice, “Do you, the soldiers of the Imperial Army, swear your allegiance to His Imperial Highness Pavel Alexandrovich Romanov, future tsar of all of Russia, and promise to give your lives to protect the empire?”
Volkonsky pressed his lips together. The silence of the garrison will be resounding. And then we shall march onto Peter’s Square, joined by all the other troops in the city who are, at this very moment, also rejecting the tsesarevich’s oath. All these years of hoping for change, and the moment was finally here. Volkonsky was a man of rigid decorum and restraint, but even his heart skipped a beat in anticipation.
But instead of silence, the soldiers before him shouted, “We swear our allegiance to His Imperial Highness and the great Russian Empire!”
“What?” Volkonsky spun to look for his officers. They were caught off guard, too, looking at their men with mouths agape. Why hadn’t the soldiers followed his orders to reject the oath?
The official at the front of the room looked down his nose at Volkonsky. “Is there a problem, Major General?”
Volkonsky was without words. These were his men. He’d won their loyalty on the battlefield. They’d been frightened by the emergence of magic. Why hadn’t they followed his orders?
Then one of them, who was the size of a bear and just as furry, broke the lines of the soldiers. “I renounce the oath! To Karimov and a constitution!”
Volkonsky’s heart dared to beat again.
“I will march,” Bogdan shouted. “My loyalty lies with my commanding officers, and if they say march, I march.” He glared at the men around him. He didn’t spare the bureaucrat on the dais, who quickly busied himself with gathering his papers.
Volkonsky pulled himself together and ascended the dais. These are my men. They will listen if I stand before them.
“I march on Peter’s Square now,” he said, “and I demand a witch’s trial, a constitution, and Grand Prince Karimov on the throne. Who is with me?”
Bogdan threw a meaty fist into the air. “I am with you, Major General!”
The rest of the troops shifted in their places.
Volkonsky stared sternly at them. He was a war hero. He was their war hero. He would will them to follow him. “Who is with me?” he asked again, more forcefully.
A soldier in the front row said, “I am also with you, Major General.”
“You will need my flags,” one of the color guard in the back of the room declared. Others nodded and stepped forward with their regiment’s banner.
“As well as drums.” Several more soldiers saluted Volkonsky.
Confused conversation broke out across the room.
“Are we supposed to go with the major general right now? I thought we were blocking the coronation next month.”
“No, there was a change of plans, remember?”
“But we already gave our oath to the tsesarevich. I don’t want to be punished for disobedience.”
Volkonsky looked to one of his officers and said quietly, “Detain the bureaucrat. We’ll deal with him after the coup.”
The officer nodded and “kindly” escorted the paper-pusher to an adjoining room, where he would be tied to a post or otherwise secured so he could not run ahead to warn the tsesarevich.
Most of the other officers joined Volkonsky in the front of the room.
“Our brothers await us in Peter’s Square,” Volkonsky said so all could hear. “And we march now to protect our loved ones and to change the course of Russia’s fate. Come with me, or face punishment for disobeying your commander.”
He would have to see who, and how many, would follow. But it was now or never.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Yuliana let herself into Pasha’s antechamber. He turned from where he stood before the mirror, tugging on the sleeves of his uniform. It was the jacket originally commissioned for his coronation, the blue one he’d hated with the high black collar, gold epaulets, and red sash across the chest.
“I’m surprised to see you wearing that,” she said.
He turned back to the mirror and twisted his mouth at his reflection. “It looks all right, doesn’t it? I figured if there were a time to look like the next tsar, today might be it.”
Yuliana came up next to him and adjusted the way the sash fell over the gold buttons. “It looks grand, Pasha. And you don’t just look like the next tsar. You are the next tsar.”
He laughed, though a tremble accompanied it. “Right.”
“Believe it, and it will come true.” Yuliana kept her smiles in reserve, for the rarer something was, the higher its value. But she gave one to Pasha now.
He smiled back as best he could.
Yuliana straightened Pasha’s collar. It was terribly stiff and went all the way up to his chin. “No wonder you complained about it before.”
“It’s actually all right. You know, Father once had a jacket like this.”
“I know. That’s why I asked the tailor to design this one.”
Pasha really did smile now. “Of course you thought of that. Every last detail.”
She fussed with his collar a little more, then stepped back. Yes, now it looked right.
Yuliana took a deep breath. “I came to tell you that the Decembrists are marching,” she said.
Pasha froze. “Already?”
“Don’t worry. They’ll be surprised that we’re ready for them. And you have me and Vika by your side. That helps, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.” Pasha stood taller.
Yuliana looked at her brother in the mirror. And hoped the confidence she inspired was deserved.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE