Page 15 of The Bone Doll (The Ruthenian Chronicle #1)

The Lord of Zoldrovya

Viktor’s stomach hardened with every step he took down the narrow path that turned eastward.

He was certainly the worst man alive, leading his unknowing lover to her doom.

He had meant to tell her that his father meant to keep her, so that his father could control the leshy.

But every time he tried, his throat constricted and he thought he might choke.

Syra liked him. She wanted him. Her touches were like a dream from which he never wanted to wake.

And he couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth and ruin what little time they had.

Syra would hate him soon enough.

“What’s the matter?” Syra touched his hand.

“Nothing.” Viktor smoothed his features. “I was just worrying about that thing we saw on the road.”

“You’ve never seen it before?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It was a screamer. I’ve never seen one. But I’ve never seen a rusalka either.”

“The forest is angry.” She narrowed her eyes at the birch trees with their golden-green leaves. “Maybe it senses the Bone Doll.”

“It’s not the Bone Doll,” Viktor said. “The forest has been angry for a long time.”

The effects of the forest’s fury became apparent as they approached the manor house.

The manor was half-ancient kremlin and half-new manse where generations of building clashed and melded together into an architectural monster.

And while the manor used to have several acres of lawn and pastureland, now the forest closed inward.

Trees and bramble stole the lawn and grew all the way to the house’s foundation; and thick ivy clawed its way up the walls, swallowing half the building.

All that growth had happened in the past three years; and no matter how much Lord Igor’s serfs fought the forest, it grew back greater and closer.

Viktor explained it to Syra in hushed tones.

Her eyes widened and her lips parted as she scanned the manor and its destruction. “This is the creation of one spirit?”

“The leshy.”

“I don’t know if I can dispel this creature,” she said.

“You’ve managed the rusalka and the screamer,” he said.

She shook her head. “It’s the Bone Doll. It has been pushing back those spirits, not me. Maybe the Bone Doll will fight the leshy, but I can’t control it.

A hope flickered in Viktor’s chest. If the Bone Doll forced the leshy away, then his father might send her back to the tundra for being unable to control the leshy. Then, Viktor’s lies would come true and Syra might never know of his deceit.

He bit the inside of his cheek. His father might not have wanted the Bone Doll’s dispelling magic, but he might certainly put it to use. And Syra would still be stuck.

As they approached the manor, a servant greeted them and ushered them inside wordlessly.

Though the forest encroached on the manor’s exterior, inside looked just as it always had.

The floor and trim were done in the golden-hued birchwood that gave Zoldrovya, meaning “Golden Wood,” its name; and gilded murals depicting forest creatures shone in the sunlight trickling in from the windows.

Everytime Viktor returned, he admitted that his parents’ home would be beautiful if not for the oppressive sense of dread that suffocated him when he entered.

Lord Igor Sviatopolkovich sat on a red-upholstered chair in front of a colossal birchwood desk in the manor’s study, a ledger and pen in his hands. He did not look up. “I sent you to find magic, and you come back with a tundra woman.”

Viktor felt Syra stiffen beside him, and he took a deep breath. He had been too much of a coward to defend her in Kholm, but he could be different here. If only he mustered the courage to face his father head-on. “Syra is a Sarnok shaman. She carries a magical artifact that I think will work.”

She glanced at him sidelong with a flicker of appreciation.

Lord Igor ran his tongue across his teeth. “All right, moy mudak. What is this magical artifact she has?”

Syra pulled the Bone Doll from her borrowed belt purse. As though it knew it was on display, the figurine lay dormant, looking like nothing more than an ornament. “This is the Bone Doll. My grandfather used it to bind spirits.”

“But you don’t?” Igor raised a critical eyebrow.

“Syra has defeated a rusalka and a screamer,” Viktor said.

The lord slowly looked up, appraising Syra. “You have?”

“And a red creature,” Syra said.

Viktor hid his scowl. When had she done that?

“An upiór,” murmured Igor. He turned to Viktor again. “And this … doll … is the root of her power?”

“It strengthens her,” Viktor said, though he wasn’t sure if he understood how Syra’s or the Bone Doll’s magic worked.

“You do not need to speak as though I am not here,” Syra protested.

Of course, Lord Igor ignored her. He resumed his perusal of the ledger. “This had better work, Viktor. I don’t need another one of your failures on my hands. If the woman can’t control the leshy, you will wish you weren’t born.”

Viktor remained perfectly still. He had endured brutal beatings and crushing humiliation at his father’s hands. What more could his father really do? He just hoped that Syra would be … treated well? allowed to return to the tundra? He just hoped Syra never faced his father’s wrath, he decided.

Lord Igor lifted a small metal bell that sat on the corner of his desk and rang it. “Leave. I have better things to do than speak to my worm of a son.”

Viktor stared at the floor as a servant arrived, bowing obsequiously before guiding him and Syra from the room.

He dared not look at her. He wasn’t ready to see her shock, her disappointment.

He clung to the sound of her voice as she told him I want you.

He would much rather hear that than talk about how he had lied to her for three entire weeks.

His dread slowed his heart and weighed down his limbs.

Syra stopped, pressing her hand to a vine-covered window. She didn’t move, even when the servant turned back and raised his eyebrow at them.

“Give us some space,” Viktor said tightly, and the servant walked a dozen feet away. Viktor turned to Syra. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Syra?”

“You said Lord Igor was your employer.”

“He is. In a way.” Viktor rubbed the back of his head. He hated that flat tone she had. He wished he had told her the truth sooner. “I do what he says, and he gives me a supply of silver.”

“But that was a lie.”

He winced. “I don’t relish my familial relationships. I try to … forget.”

“You wish you were someone else,” she said. “You want it so badly that you pretend to be someone you’re not.”

Yes. He wished he was someone that Syra wanted. He wished he was someone deserving of her. Lord Igor’s son was a coward and a weakling. Syra was so strong, so intelligent. She didn’t deserve a failure.

“I have been myself.” He put a hand over his heart and lied. “Everything I have done has been honest. I just don’t want to talk about my family.”

“Yourself isn't employed by a lord. You’re a lord,” she said. It was an accusation “Why didn’t you tell me? What would that change?”

He finally met her gaze, his expression miserable and his shoulders sagging. “Truly, it started off as me just not wanting to talk about my family. But then I worried that you might not like a Ruthenian nobleman. You liked me … as I was. And I liked you. I didn’t want anything to change.”

“You have to tell people the truth,” Syra said.

Viktor stepped forward, brushing her black hair away from her face. “I will,” he promised. Somehow. Eventually. “From now on, I won’t keep anything from you.”

She leaned her cheek against his hand. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

He knew he should tell her about his father’s true intentions. But he loved the feel of her warm, brown skin against his palm and the way her eyes searched his face. He wanted to hold this moment forever. He would tell her everything later.

“No.”