Page 3 of The Bone Doll (The Ruthenian Chronicle #1)

A Long Three Weeks

If Viktor thought Ruthenia was cold in early springtime, it was nothing compared to the eastern tundra.

Here, the cold threatened to gnaw off your skin and freeze your bones.

Repressing a shiver, he set his pack on the ground.

He pulled out sacks of preserved food, opening them to show to the Sarnoks.

Dried apple slices, cranberries, a round of hard cheese, and walnuts.

It wasn’t much – only as much as he could carry – but after a cold winter, the Lame Wolf clan eagerly accepted the gift.

Viktor needed one of their religious artifacts, their Bone Doll, and so he wanted to garner good will.

Alas, the person he needed the most good will from was unimpressed.

“You know, I’m actually quite a pleasant travel companion,” he assured the Sarnok woman, Syra, who was packing her bag.

Viktor didn’t actually know that. He usually traveled alone.

But he couldn’t imagine he was nearly as aggravating as she was making him out to be.

“I am well-versed in a multitude of conversation topics. And as you can tell, I speak Sarnok proficiently.”

She didn’t even look at him as she secured her bedroll to the bottom of her pack.

Viktor repressed a sigh. She clearly didn’t want to accompany him. It was evident in the way she silently but aggressively slung her pack over her shoulders.

He donned his pack, which was considerably lighter now that he had given away most of the food he had brought, and started out of the Lame Wolf clan’s camp.

Snow patches melted and then refroze beneath the harsh tundra sun; and a fine fuzz of brown grass tried to claw its way out of the snow and ice.

A murder of crows cawed as they flew overhead, forming a broken V in the pale gray sky.

The Sarnok woman followed after him, trudging with the speed of a reanimated corpse.

She just didn’t look at him, nor did she speak.

They traveled like that for hours while Viktor told himself it didn’t matter how quiet she was, so long as she carried the Bone Doll for him.

For his father.

Viktor wasn’t surprised that his father’s demand for magic to control a leshy came with a catch.

When he had learned of the magical doll, Viktor had hoped that he could simply purchase the talisman and not risk anyone’s safety.

But of course, all Igor Sviatopolkovich’s schemes ended up involving human collateral.

This time, it was Syra who had to carry the doll.

Viktor just wished he wasn’t always there to witness the damage his father’s plans wrought.

I’m just doing what I’m told. The lie didn’t make him feel better.

Finally, Viktor stopped, waiting for his Sarnok companion to catch up. When she did, she gazed straight through him like he was a ghost. He bit the inside of his cheek. She couldn’t ignore him for the next three weeks. Taking one look at her expression, however, he realized that she would try.

Best to get past this sooner rather than later.

“May I see the Bone Doll?” he asked.

“No.”

“I just want to know if you have it,” he said. “So I know we aren’t walking 150 miles for no reason.”

She surveyed the tundra, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I wouldn’t be walking with you at all if I didn’t have it.”

True, he admitted, though her words stung. Really, he couldn’t be that odious. He pressed on. “Have you used it before?”

Her lips twitched and her eyes narrowed, focused on the horizon. Then, she said, “Aren’t we going somewhere?”

“Zoldrovya.”

“We won’t get there if we just stand here,” she said flatly.

He nodded in defeat. This was going to be a long three weeks.

Again, she fell into step several yards behind him. As the sun passed its zenith and into the west, they passed a rocky expanse filled with reindeer bones. His hair stood on end, and he tried not to think about what had caused such devastation.

Syra broke her silence in order to enlighten him. “This is what the Bone Doll does. It drives you mad. It drove these reindeer into a stampede, and they crushed each other.”

He grimaced and started walking faster.

Beyond the reindeer graveyard, the ground turned into mud that splashed them no matter how gently they stepped. A series of wolf tracks crossed through. Viktor hoped they weren’t too fresh, but he didn’t ask Syra for her input. He doubted she would give it.

Soon enough, a dirt road appeared. Though deeply rutted and overgrown, it led back to the lands held by the Princess of Rodgorod.

He knew he would be a better companion once they entered Ruthenia.

He would know better where to go and how to travel comfortable.

His Sarnok companion still said nothing.

They took the Ruthenian road westward until sunset when they made camp in a shallow ditch lined with barren pine trees.

Viktor and Syra worked in parallel to set up camp. He unpacked the last of his food, while Syra lit a fire. He sat by her fire and pulled out his provisions. Syra unwrapped a salted fish and cut it in half, ignoring his offer to share food.

“Don’t put your bedroll too close,” she said.

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Worried about my snoring?”

She propped her elbows on her knees, chewing an apple slice.

Taking a swig from his waterskin, Viktor tried to regroup.

Of course, he had had no plans of sleeping too close to Syra.

But certainly he wasn’t so reprehensible as to be exiled to the other side of the camp.

His jaw tightened. Except Syra had just exiled him.

He lowered his head, his throat aching. I truly am the last person she wants to be near.

“I meant what I said in your Pathfinder’s tent,” he said. “I don’t want your Bone Doll. I’m just here to make sure that it reaches Zoldrovya.”

Syra said nothing

Viktor sighed as though she had leveled an accusation.

He didn’t have to participate in his father’s machinations.

He traveled to get away from his father.

But it never worked like that. Viktor had no money unless his father gave it to him.

So, if Viktor wanted the funds to travel, he needed his father.

And so he needed to participat in Igor Sviatopolkovich’s games.

“If I had a choice, I would leave your relic in the tundra,” he said. “But we all have false choices. Live on the street like a vagabond or do someone else’s bidding.”

“Help a useless Ruthenian,” she said, “or let your clan suffer more.”

Viktor grimaced. “Surely, I am not useless.”

“I’ve never met a Ruthenian who wasn’t.”

“How many Ruthenians have you met?” he asked.

“Enough.” She shrugged. “We trade with them in the summer. They are too scared to leave their camps.”

Viktor patted his chest. “Well, I am brave. I came all the way out to your clan’s camp.”

Syra snorted. “Brave? I’ve seen mice braver than you.”

“It must have been a very brave mouse,” he said. “Heroic, almost.”

Her lips quirked, and Viktor thought she might be smiling.

But she sobered quickly. Then, she unbuttoned her distinctive coat – made of reindeer hide and trimmed in an intricately woven wool.

Viktor had never seen – nor thought about – what lay beneath a Sarnoks’ coat.

Her trousers were, in fact, coveralls that extended over her chest and tied behind her neck.

They hung loosely off her, made for a woman who hadn’t faced a lean winter.

From the front pocket of her coveralls, she withdrew something small and ivory-colored.

“You wanted to see it,” she said.

It was the Bone Doll. As tall as his palm was wide, the Bone Doll was carved from bone, in the shape of a Sarnok in their coat and overalls, a small knife in their hand. The fire spluttered as the figurine took on a faint glow of its own. Gooseflesh puckered across Viktor’s skin.

Viktor arched an eyebrow. Was this what he earned for making her almost-smile?

“My grandfather made it,” Syra said. “He used its magic for all sorts of things, including protecting our clan from angry spirits. But now, it’s angry.”

Viktor looked at the doll and then at Syra, her face painted in hues of blue and red. Magic and fire. “How does it protect you?”

Her fingers tightened on the figurine. “If winds would not stop, my grandfather would bind the angry spirit back to the air. If a spirit flooded our campsite, he could bind the offending spirit back to its rain cloud.”

That was exactly what he had heard from the Parmians who had told him that the Lame Wolves had a powerful artifact that could control errant spirits. And that was exactly what his father wanted. But his father wanted more.

“It doesn’t do any of that anymore,” she finished.

Why? The word was hot on his tongue, but Viktor knew from the flint in her eyes that she would answer no more questions. And so, he nodded as though he understood.

Syra stuffed the Bone Doll back into her pocket. She pulled out her bedroll and flattened it on the other side of the fire. She lay with her back to him, again pretending as though he did not exist at all.

This would be a long three weeks, he thought for the hundredth time.