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Chapter 12

An eternity might have passed, or it could have only been a moment. Boris wasn't sure it mattered any more. He laid Lida's body beside her mother's, hands folded at her breast like the angel she surely was now.

He stared down at what had been his family, wishing with all his heart that he was with them now.

It would be so easy…

He had only to take the dagger from Vica's breast, still coated with the blood that had once given her so much life, and plunge it into his own heart. Two hearts, together forever.

The dagger felt so light in his hand, as cold as the death that awaited him, just one sharp thrust away.

But the balance was off…this was some other man's knife, an inferior blade to his own. Boris threw it down, and it clattered across the stone floor to land in the straw pallet he'd slept on.

David would have shaken his head, and told him it was a sin to take your own life. If Boris killed himself, he'd never see Vica and Lida again.

Or David, who was dead, too.

Dead by his brother's hand, if Igor was to be believed. Was his brother responsible for Vica's death, too? And little Lida, who had never been a threat to anyone?

The only brother here in Prislav who could have had a hand in their death was Sviatopolk. Their cursed new king.

His brother's betrayal stabbed him sharper than any knife. No, Sviatopolk was no brother of his. Not kin or blood or anything to him. He was as destined for death as any Bisseni raider who dared set foot on their kingdom's soil

Vica, David, Lida…had Sviatopolk killed their father, too? Such a vile traitor might do anything to secure the throne.

But he would not have it, Boris vowed. He cursed Sviatopolk's name, and cursed that he'd ever called the worm brother.

No more.

He'd bury the inferior blade in his brother's breast, and make him bleed. For Vica.

Boris headed for the pile of straw where he'd last seen the dagger. He donned the cloak, still miraculously white in a room so steeped in blood. Then he clawed though the bed, desperate to find the blade, but his hand closed around a bottle instead.

The bottle Igor had given him. For vengeance.

Boris uncorked it, and sniffed at the contents.

Liquid sloshed, sending the scent of bitter herbs wafting up his nose.

Vengeance did not smell like much more than a simple tonic, if that's what this was.

Yet there were poisons that could not be discerned by smell alone, like whatever Igor had put into his ale at the feast.

Ale Igor had told him not to drink, now he remembered. Did that mean this new elixir would help set things right?

Or send his soul spiralling up to heaven to rejoin his wife and daughter?

Carefully, Boris corked the bottle and set it on the floor.

He took a cloth and washed his wife's face, then did the same for his daughter. Long he looked at them, memorising every detail, for if he succeeded in this, he might never see them again.

But it would be worth it, to know they were avenged, and their souls could rest.

Until they were, his soul would never rest.

He leaned over and kissed Lida's cheek, like he'd done so many times before.

Never again.

Swallowing, he moved to kneel beside Vica, Princess Slavica of Rostov, a woman he'd been blessed to call his wife, if only for a little while. He touched his lips to hers, wishing fate had allowed them one last kiss. For letting her die instead of defending her, he did not deserve one, but men have always wished for more than they deserved, he knew.

Boris uncorked the bottle, and raised it high. "For you. For David and Lida and my father, but most of all for you, Vica. May your place in heaven be assured, as I send the man responsible for all this to hell."

He drank.

The potion was barely a mouthful, yet it burned his mouth like molten metal, coating his throat in liquid fire until he could not even scream at the agony.

Still it burned, invading his blood, spreading through his body like wildfire, until he could bear the pain no more and the world went white.