Page 12 of The Bone Doll (The Ruthenian Chronicle #1)

Beluvod

Beluvod – meaning “white water,” according to Viktor – held more people than Syra knew existed in the entire world.

And if she thought that the people of Kholm were wealthy and well-fed, it was nothing compared to the Beluvodians in their velvet and silver, their hair braided into elaborate but elegant styles.

And not only Ruthenians lived here. Syra saw Parmians, Karelians, and Skanians, as well as other peoples she did not recognize.

The buildings here were multi-storey and made of stone and wood, elaborately carved and painted with scenes from nature.

Just like the gray building on whose stairs she stood as Viktor fumbled in his belt purse.

“...is Goldenhome,” Viktor was saying. “The steward, Yefrem Danilovich, has been my friend for a long time.”

He produced a small, rusted key which he pressed into the lock. Syra scowled. Who had unrestricted access to their friend’s home? “I had expected an inn.”

“This is the Lord of Zoldrovya’s city residence.” Viktor’s cheeks turned pink, and it reminded her of how he turned that same color when he kissed her. She wondered if he might kiss her again today. She wouldn’t complain. “It’s more economical to stay here. And Yefrem is here.”

“Your friend,” she repeated.

Golden-hued wood covered the floor and walls. And luxuriant, warm-toned furniture with velvet upholstery lured Syra further into the house. Goldenhome, it was called.

“There is a sitting room there.” Viktor set his pack on the floor by a jewel-toned tapestry depicting a midnight-haired woman in a blue hunting dress with lithe, black dogs running at her feet. “Let me get our rooms ready.”

Relieving herself of her pack, she went into the sitting room. More silver gilding and vibrant tapestries. Filthy from more than two weeks of traveling, Syra felt wrong sitting on the immaculate furniture. Hugging herself, she turned a full circle, unsure of what to do now.

She spotted a painting in the corner, propped up on a golden-wood table and set in a silver frame.

A man and woman, both orange-haired and wearing fine blue velvet, sat in golden wood chairs.

At the woman’s feet sat a pair of toddler-age girls with large green eyes and soft coppery curls.

And at the man’s left hand was a boy of about seven or eight years with ruddy cheeks and a sour expression.

Syra examined them each again as the eerie feeling of having met these people before.

“Who are you?”

Syra jumped. In the doorway was an elderly man, his shoulders stooped and his pale skin heavily wrinkled. Yefrem, she reminded herself, her heart racing. Viktor’s friend. “I’m Syra. You must be Yefrem. Viktor told me you worked here.”

“Did he?” The old man shuffled forward. “And where is Viktor?”

“Upstairs, preparing the rooms.”

Yefrem snorted, then, and shook his head. “The boy should tell me before he comes.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not Ruthenian.”

“I’m Sarnok,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows. “You came all the way from the tundra. Viktor didn’t say he was going that far.”

The Bone Doll twitched in her pocket, and she clasped it. “I’m going to help the Lord of Zoldrovya with a leshy. Viktor is escorting me.”

“I’m glad Viktor has found something meaningful.” When Syra tilted her head, Yefrem explained, “Viktor has always been a good boy, but he has always struggled to find purpose. Escorting you is the best thing he’s done in years.”

“You have known him for a long time.” Curiosity drew Syra closer to the old man. Viktor’s fairytales, those were where Viktor sought a purpose. But fairytales were moralistic and abstract; they didn’t fit real life. Did this man hold Viktor’s secrets? “He wants to be a knight.”

“Everyone wants to be the hero in their own story,” Yefrem said. “But rather than slay monsters, he makes his own.”

Syra wanted to ask what the old man meant, but Viktor appeared at the foot of the stairs.

He grinned hesitantly at both of them, like a man introducing his new bride to his disappointed parents.

Syra swallowed, her throat dry. They had enjoyed a few kisses underneath the stars.

They were not intended. This was a dalliance.

And there was no reason for him to look at her like that. Or for her stomach to flutter.

“I see you met Syra,” Viktor said.

Yefrem harrumphed. “I thought it was mice scurrying upstairs, but it was just you making yourself welcome.”

“I missed you, too, Yefrem,” Viktor said. “Now, can I show Syra to her room? She has traveled quite a long distance.”

“All right, boy.” Yefrem gestured for her to go. “I eat supper early these days, so be in the kitchen in an hour. Or you’ll be eating cold soup.”

Syra glanced over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs after Viktor. The old man looked at Viktor like a doting grandfather. Perhaps Viktor was the son of a steward. That made her pulse quicken. Viktor wouldn’t be opposed to hard work, then, which was needed on the tundra.

She stopped herself again. This was a tryst. A tryst only. He could be as lazy and soft as he wanted. It did not matter because she would be returning home after she was done. He would travel Ruthenia’s roads. They would never see each other again. And that was as it should be.