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Chapter 43

The cathedral was so grand, it rivalled the palace. Inside, it was even more ornate. Mosaics covered the walls, floors and even the ceiling, showing scenes he remembered hearing about in the much smaller church in Prislav, when he'd been a boy.

The altar at the far end stood amid the most brightly coloured pictures, but in the wings on either side of it were the Virgin's altar…and the one that was usually dedicated to the church's patron saint. The saint's altar was what drew Boris, for what he both hoped and dreaded he would find there.

Two stone coffins flanked him, each bearing a carved likeness of a man on top. Boris could not bear to look. He found himself on his knees, the mosaic floor rising up to meet him until his forehead kissed the cold tiles.

And he wept.

For two hundred years wasted. That Vica had not had a better husband, or Lida a better father. That Sviatopolk had won, and it had fallen to Yarik to avenge them. That they'd made him a saint, when he wasn't fit to scrub the floors in this church, let alone enter heaven.

Light footsteps padded on the tiles behind him. He wanted to snarl at the priest or whoever it was to leave him. Boris felt the bear rise within him, ready to vent his fury on anyone who helped to maintain this mockery.

"Do you want me to open the coffins?" Rossa asked, her voice quiet and calm to the storm raging inside him.

No, he did not want to see David's face in death. He, at least, deserved sainthood, so his remains would be incorruptible. But to look upon his face, to have to admit his failure…no, Boris did not have the strength for it.

But he also didn't dare admit that to Rossa. She'd come here to help him fight for justice for David, and he could not bear for her to think him a coward. And yet…that's what he was. He'd been running for nigh on two hundred years, instead of delivering the justice he'd promised.

"Well, I'm not waiting any longer. I want to see what's inside. So if you won't do it, I will."

The scream of stone scraping against stone set his teeth on edge, until a final clunk told him she'd set the coffin lid down.

"Looks like the artist carved him from life. The statue on top is holding a book, and so is he. Huh. I'd heard saints' bodies don't decay, but it's strange to see it. I would have thought he'd be a skeleton by now, but…Boris, is this your brother?"

Boris swallowed. Of course Rossa had the courage to look upon David's dead body. And if a maiden could do it, what did that make him?

He rose. Never had three steps seemed so far before, but he forced himself to take each one, until he could clutch the lip of David's tomb. He took a deep breath, and looked down.

The boy he'd remembered had become a man, and a monk, too, judging by the robes he'd been buried in. His hands were clasped together as if in prayer, over a book of psalms that had once belonged to their mother.

Boris's mouth went dry. He would have given anything to prevent David's death, but looking at his brother now, so peaceful, Boris didn't begrudge him his place in heaven. Though Boris had broken his oath to avenge his brother, he had the feeling the man who had briefly lived in this body would forgive him for it.

"I'm sorry, David," he whispered.

"What for? You didn't kill him. Didn't even know he was in danger, or surely you would have warned him. Or dealt with the danger. Why should you be sorry?"

Her words felt right, somehow, and yet he could not accept them. "I'm sorry I didn't deliver justice to his killer."

Rossa blew out a breath. "If it's any consolation, it seems the killer met a sticky end, anyway. Sviatopolk the Cursed did not keep his crown for long, and he did not live long after he lost it. If I remember my history rightly, a company of the Varangian Guard caught up with him and slaughtered him slowly, over several days. Father said he's been asked to do something similar on occasion, when his target deserves a slow death. He said he usually suggests they hire an executioner instead."

Boris closed his eyes. Sir Cyril would have taken command, and hunted him down. For him. Because they believed he was dead…

He scrubbed at his eyes. Cyril and his men were long dead, much like everyone he'd ever known. But to do such a thing for him…he could never repay them. Where he had failed, Cyril had succeeded. Of course he had.

"So, ready to open the other box, to see what's inside?" Rossa asked. She bit her lip, then stared at David's final resting place. The lid slid back into place, sealing his remains inside.

Would Boris ever be ready? He feared the answer was no, but he could not say it. Thank the heavens Rossa had the strength to open them when he could not.

He bowed to David's memory, before turning to face his own grave. At least when a man looked upon his own mortality, he was supposed to feel some apprehension. Even Rossa wouldn't judge him for suppressing a shiver.

"Right, here goes," she said. This time, she lifted the lid clean off, and set it against the wall. "Oh, that's…most unnerving. No wonder the mosaic likeness is so much like you."

Boris dared to open his eyes. Unnerving was an understatement – he found himself staring at his own sleeping form, or so it seemed. "How is this possible?" he breathed.

Rossa frowned. "There's magic here. A spell, so light I can barely sense it. It feels like…a glamour, for that uses hardly any power at all. I should be able to remove it, if you just give me a moment…there!"

The Boris in the box vanished, to be replaced by a vision he'd never thought to see again. Vica lay there in his stead, holding Lida to her breast, as if they'd both fallen asleep only a moment ago. Not as though, two hundred years into the past, they'd been sent screaming into a death they hadn't deserved. While he did nothing, like the illusion someone had laid over them.