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Chapter 11

When Boris awoke, the chains were gone. Had he dreamed them?

A straw pallet crackled beneath him as he rolled over, sliding out from under what he recognised as his white cloak and onto the cold stone floor. The blinding headache he'd had in his dream was little more than a memory.

And Vica…

No, Vica was home in Rostov, where she belonged, with Lida. He could not have seen her here in Prislav, with some other man.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, before taking another.

It smelled like a battlefield in here. Had Igor neglected to clean his armour again?

"Igor? Where are you, boy?" Boris demanded.

"I'm here, Your Highness." The boy appeared, his eyes wide with what looked like terror.

If the boy would only do his job, he wouldn't have to fear punishment, but Boris didn't say it aloud. Let the boy figure it out for himself.

"Fetch me something to eat and drink," Boris said. "And then clean my armour."

The boy swallowed. "I…I can't, Your Highness. I can only give you this." He held out a bottle, small enough to fit in the boy's closed fist. "I'm to tell you if you wish to live to seek vengeance, you must drink this. Word reached us today that your brother David is dead, too. Cut down as he prayed for your father's soul in the chapel."

David was dead? But David was just a boy, and his only surviving full-blood brother, sent to a monastery to spend his life serving the church. No one could possibly want to murder David, and what man would kill a prince at prayer?

"Your brother did this. If you want vengeance, you must drink this," Igor insisted.

Boris's wits were slow, but those he'd begun to gather told him not to trust Igor. He dashed the bottle from the boy's hand, and it fell into the straw. "I'll drink no more of your poison, traitor. You gave me the tainted ale at the feast."

The boy bowed his head, but he did not deny it.

"Tell me where I might find my wife."

Boris prayed she was safe at Rostov, where she belonged.

The boy's eyes grew wide. He swallowed. Words seemed to fail him as he raised a shaking hand to point across the room. "She's there, Your Highness."

So he had not dreamed it. Vica was here.

"Get out," Boris snarled at the boy.

Igor scrambled away, bolting through the door before slamming it behind him.

Boris sat up, and, when his head did not threaten to explode, he rose to his feet.

A bundle of bloody clothes lay in the corner, as though someone had flung them there.

Please, let it not be her.

He forced himself to step closer. One step. Another. A third. Until he was close enough to turn the bundle over.

By all that was holy…

No, by all that was unholy.

Vica's mouth hung open in a silent scream, likely at the dagger buried in her breast that had stopped her heart. Her lifeblood stained her gown in rusty brown, wet and cold, for her spirit had fled many hours ago, while he'd lain senseless.

He shifted her body until he laid her out on the stone floor, then folded her arms across her breast. He should take the dagger out, and use it to take the life of his wife's murderer.

But what did he know about the man, aside from the guard uniform he'd worn?

Boris scanned the room, looking for some clue to the man's identity.

Only then did he see the second, smaller bundle.

His arms reached out of their own accord, before even his mind could stop him.

The bastard who'd killed his wife had cut Lida's throat, slicing so deep, he'd almost taken the little girl's head off.

Boris fell to his knees, cradling his daughter's mangled body to his chest, and wept.