Page 437

Chapter 42

"You're not Sviatopolk!"

For a moment, the king looked surprised, before he burst out laughing. The rest of the court followed his example. Father remained silent, and Rossa did the same. This was politics, which her father knew far better than she ever would.

"I thank heaven I am not Sviatopolk the Cursed every day, and I'm sure my subjects do, too!" the king said.

Boris just stood there, shocked, and Rossa's heart went out to him. Her father had evidently brought them to the wrong court. He should step forward and say something, instead of leaving Boris to bear the ridicule for his mistake.

It was almost as though Father had read her thoughts, for he strolled forward, keeping her hand firmly on his arm until a few steps before the dais. Only then did he let go, offering the king a courtly bow before he said, "Your Majesty, Prince Boris here has spent many years in search of the missing crown jewels, stolen by Sviatopolk the Cursed. I believe he has finally found news of them, which we would like to share with you, in private."

The king regarded Father for a long moment. Finally, he said, "If you have indeed found the lost crown jewels, then I would be greatly in your debt, Lord Zoticus."

Father winced. No, he did not like that title. The king only grinned, as if he knew this all too well.

"This audience is over. We shall resume on the morrow. See that refreshments are brought for our guests," the king said.

He led the way behind the throne, to a smaller, more intimate audience chamber. One where there were chairs clustered around a table, none more ornate than the others, though the king took the one at the head of the table.

"Lady Rossa, you must come and sit beside me. If I had known Lord Zoticus had such a beautiful daughter, I would have summoned him to court sooner." Desire burned in the king's eyes.

This old man was as bad as the boys of Mirroten. Rossa regretted that he wasn't the traitor Boris wanted to kill, for her fingers itched to send a fireball at him. Or maybe a gust of wind so icy, it froze off certain parts he surely no longer needed…

"She's an enchantress, Bela, and you'd be playing with fire you cannot begin to imagine," Father drawled as he took the seat at the king's left hand.

Rossa felt her cheeks grow hot. Even with her father there, the king was still staring at her.

"But she's your daughter. Any heirs she gave me would be the most well-guarded children in the world. No one would dare harm them…" the king breathed. "Give me an heir, Lady Rossa, and I will give you a crown, and name you Queen Regent upon my death."

Give him an heir? Have sex with this old man? Rossa wished she hadn't eaten breakfast, because she was about to vomit it up all over the king's costly carpet. Boris was the only man she'd ever considered allowing into her bed, and to share herself with anyone else…

"He may not be Sviatopolk, but say the word, Lady Rossa, and I will defend your honour with my blade. If you desire a crown, you have only to ask and I will give it to you," Boris said. He glared at the king. "Freely, for I ask nothing in return." He took the seat at the foot of the table, opposite the king.

Rossa swallowed, then slid into the seat between her father and Boris.

"I believe you would benefit more by talking about crowns with Boris, instead of my daughter, Bela. That's why I brought him," Father said, his tone edged with irritation.

"Fine," the king sighed. "Tell me, Boris, what do you know of Sviatopolk the Cursed, and the treasures he stole?"

"Sviatopolk was my bastard brother. He stole my wife and daughter from me, ordering them to be murdered, and I suspect he killed my father and my brother, David, too. He did not deserve the crown he stole from my father. So after he took everything from me…I took everything from him," Boris said. He lifted his sack of treasures onto the table, but he did not spill the contents. Instead, he seemed to be fixated on the king. "You're wearing my brother's crown."

King Bela touched the plain gold coronet on his head. "This was forged for King Yaroslav the Wise, after he and his army drove Sviatopolk out of the capital. It has been passed down through my family for generations."

Boris shook his head. "No. My brother Yarik was given that crown on the day our father sent him to govern the north, while I was sent south to deal with the Bisseni raiders. He was Prince Yaroslav, then, my half brother. I suppose with my brother dead, me gone, and Sviatopolk a murderer and a traitor, the next in line for the throne would be Yarik, but…where is he now? He would have sent men out to find me, he said he supported me as the next king…" Boris trailed off. "How long have I been gone?"

Father winced. "Maybe we should have gone to the cathedral first. The likeness is quite remarkable. I imagine the artist must have known Prince Boris very well."

The king's jaw dropped. "Do you mean to say…this is Saint Boris? And he somehow miraculously preserved the crown jewels, so that he might return what his brother stole?" He stared at Boris in wonder.

The men kept talking, but Rossa's mind would not stop whirling. She'd known Boris's story sounded familiar, but she'd never considered it might be the tale of a two hundred years dead saint. And yet…

The clang of metal on the table dragged Rossa out of her reverie. Crowns, jewels…the sack of treasure just sat there in an undignified jumble. Tarnished from age, kept in a sack for two centuries…

"My grandfather said the treasures had likely been melted down and sold, to pay for the civil war that erupted when Yaroslav died. For he might have been a wise king, but his sons fought like rabid dogs, killing each other off until none remained. My grandfather was descended from one of Yaroslav's daughters, who married a foreign prince. She attended her father as his nurse in his final days, and she wrote an interesting account of that time. His mind was so far gone that he imagined he and not Sviatopolk the Cursed had commanded that his father and brothers and their heirs be killed, and he had only framed Sviatopolk in order to claim the throne for himself. Perhaps it is true. I do know it was he who petitioned for Boris and David to be proclaimed saints, their bodies buried in the cathedral he built in their honour. I have seen the tombs myself."

"Has anyone ever opened them?" Father asked. "Because I would wager Boris's tomb is empty, or contains someone other than the saint."

The king scratched his chin. "What would you be willing to wager?"