Page 7 of The Bone Doll (The Ruthenian Chronicle #1)

Cherry Trees

Bereza had seemed very much like a Ruthenian version of a Sarnok campsite – a cluster of families living in small homes, made from rushes and sticks rather than reindeer skin.

But Syra couldn’t quite wrap her mind around this Ruthenian town.

Yes, the homes were small, but they were made from stone – not portable in the slightest. And the roads were tiled, making Syra feel as though she was walking on a floating platform.

“This is Vishnaya. It’s named after the cherry trees.” Viktor pointed at one of the many trees lining the roads. It bloomed pink, not green. “I stayed at the Bloom and Bramble Inn when I was here last. It has decent accommodations.”

Following him down a different road, Syra scowled at the strange trees and then at the market stalls lining the road. Was this what Ruthenia looked like – pink trees, stone buildings, and streets crammed with merchants? It felt like a totally different world from the one she lived it.

“This is it,” he announced.

Syra said nothing as she stepped inside the establishment. Viktor did seem to enjoy the sound of his own voice. His voice wasn’t unpleasant. But it was odd that he would talk, even if she didn’t respond.

Inside were several long wooden tables and accompanying benches, where Ruthenians sat drinking, eating, and gambling.

Syra felt their gazes turn to her and a flicker of frustration lit in her chest. She probably looked like some frightening mud creature after thrashing around in that quicksand. Viktor certainly did.

As Viktor spoke with the innkeeper, Syra reached inside her coat and wrapped her fingers around the Bone Doll.

It was warm to the touch, like a living thing.

After the death of her grandfather last summer, it had become a curse, luring children and reindeer away.

A painful, prickling chill crawled up her spine.

Had it led Viktor down the wrong path? They could have died.

When he was finished talking to the proprietor, Viktor turned to her with that stiff smile that Syra found unsettling. “We have two rooms across the hall from each other on the second floor.”

She didn’t know what rooms at an inn looked like – she had spent her entire life in her family’s mya – but she said, “A covered place to sleep will be nice.”

His smile grew more brittle. “Vishnaya also has a banya, just behind the inn. We’ll both feel better once we get this mud off us.”

And so, Syra left the Bloom and Bramble to find the banya just west of the inn.

Unlike Bereza’s, this one was indoors and resembled all the other buildings in town – a stone structure with a tiled roof.

And on one end was a door with a painting of a woman, the other end had a matching painting of a man.

Taking the door with the woman, Syra entered, stripped in the front room, and then moved deeper into the dimly-lit banya.

The second room was dark and full of steam, with brightly-burning coals sitting in the center of a room.

Dark shadows – other women – moved from time to time, splashing water onto the coals and creating a thicker mist. Finding a bench along the wall, Syra listened to the women talk and laugh amongst themselves.

She poured warm water along her limbs and scrubbed them with the birch branches left in every corner.

And slowly, the tension in her muscles eased and she relaxed against the stone wall, her eyes slipping closed.

For a moment, she pretended she was in the dark warmth of her mya, her siblings whispering around her.

Then, somewhere to her right, a woman with a deep voice said something about “the newcomer with the red hair.”

“I wonder if he’s red all the way down,” said another.

“Mm, it would be delicious to find out,” the deep-voiced woman replied.

Syra pressed her back against the stone wall, an unfamiliar feeling snaking through her chest. Viktor was…

Well, she had never seen a man with orange hair before.

And his amber eyes were always bright, like a bird of prey’s.

Neither orange hair or amber eyes seemed particularly rare in Ruthenia, but she guessed that these women weren’t the first who had been interested in Viktor.

Syra was just surprised that she … agreed? … with the women.

Not about wanting to find out anything "delicious" about him. Or find any more orange hairs. But he was nice enough to look at. She shook herself. She must be tired if she was thinking things like that about a Ruthenian.

“I wonder why he’s with that tundra woman,” the second said.

“Likely guarding her,” said the first. “A gentlemanly knight escorting a lady.”

“Do the tundra people have ladies?”

Syra’s jaw tightened. The Sarnok didn’t have nobility.

They didn’t need them. So why did those Ruthenian people say it like the Sarnoks lacked something fundamental?

Careful not to move too quickly, she stood and clung to the wall as she moved to the exit.

Syra didn’t really know what a knight was, but she did not like the insinuation that the Sarnok were unworthy of protection or guidance.

She was too tired to listen to those women.

She left the banya, grimacing as she dressed in her still-muddy clothes. Then, she reached into her pocket, her fingers tightening around the Bone Doll. A faint, warm pulse traveled through her palm and up her forearm. Almost as though it was comforting her. She let the figurine go.

She found Viktor waiting at the inn. A mug of the Ruthenian drink, kvass, and a bowl of soup waited for her; Viktor had empties. He flipped and caught a copper coin idly. “You look better.”

“You’re still filthy,” she said.

“I needed to make sure you were fed,” he replied.

Gratitude flickered inside Syra, but she snuffed it out. She had already admitted to herself that he might be nice to look at. She didn’t need to start liking him. He was the reason she was homesick. She found something else to think about.

“What is a knight?”

“A knight?” He blinked. “A man who fights for his lord. But it’s more than a soldier. He’s noble usually, though not always, and has a moral code to which he abides.”

Syra tilted her head. A gentlemanly knight escorting a lady. Was Viktor a warrior? A nobleman warrior? She had cared more that Viktor had dragged her away from her family than she did about who he was. She didn’t know much of anything about him. “What sort of moral code?”

“Knights should be brave, loyal, honest, generous, and devout,” he said.

“They are like your Dobrynya,” she concluded.

“Yes.” Color bloomed in his cheeks as though she had caught him in a lie. “Dobrynya was a knight. I … didn’t think you knew the word.”

“But he was not noble,” Syra said. “He could not marry his princess.”

Viktor pinched the coin, digging his nail into its face. “He was born a serf and then made a knight after helping another knight, called Lyoshenka.”

“What did Dobrynya help this Lyoshenka with?” Syra asked. What makes a man noble enough to become a knight?

Viktor set the coin on the table, his posture relaxing as though even the thought of a story set him at ease.

Or perhaps Syra had steered away from whatever had made him blush.

“In a certain princedom, in a certain time, there lived a knight named Lyoshenka, who worked in service for the Grand Prince. One day, the Leshy Prince came to court. Being a wild spirit from the forest, the Leshy Prince showed no manners: it ate all the food, drank all the wine, and insulted the Grand Prince in his home. Offended on his lord’s behalf, Lyoshenka mocked the Leshy Prince, saying he was an overfed cow.

“The Leshy Prince grew very angry at the insult and told Lyoshenka that in four years, four months, and four days, the Leshy Prince would return and bury Lyoshenka alive. Lyoshenka laughed it off, and the Leshy Prince rode away. But as the years, months, and days passed, Lyoshenka began to worry: what if the Leshy Prince did return and did bury him?”

Viktor spun a tale of the arrogant knight growing more and more paranoid, seeking new ways to protect himself from the forest creature.

He prayed to the gods, lay a ring of salt around his house, burned torches at all hours, and even began building a moat.

But still time moved forward; and Lyoshenka knew the Leshy Prince was coming.

“And finally, the leshy arrived. He stepped across the moat and salt, knocked aside the torches, and went straight for Lyoshenka,” Viktor continued.

“They fought all day and all night, breaking their swords in their efforts and so they had to wrestle with bare hands in the end. By daybreak, it looked very much like the Leshy Prince would bury Lyoshenka in the earth. But then a serf appeared. His name was Dobrynya, and he carried his woodsman’s hatchet.

With four perfect strikes, he removed the leshy’s head.

“As a reward for slaying the leshy, the Grand Prince bestowed knighthood on Dobrynya,” Viktor finished. “And for defending his honor to the death, the Grand Prince gave his daughter to Lyoshenka to marry.”

“Lyoshenka didn’t do anything,” Syra protested. “Why did he marry the daughter?”

“I just said: he defended the Grand Prince’s honor.”

“No, he insulted the Leshy Prince,” she said. “Everyone knows not to insult spirits – or they might come after you.”

Viktor turned red again, dragging the copper coin across the table top. He looked … fetching … with flushed cheeks. “He’s one of the heroes. Something good had to happen to him, or the story would be sad.”

She shook her head. “That’s a terrible story: you don’t learn anything from it.”

“You learn to be brave and strong. And not give up hope when things get desperate.”

Syra opened her mouth to speak and then stopped herself. His color high, he was breathing hard – as though he were about to burst. She didn’t like him, but she didn’t want to fight with him. She took a gulp of kvass to regroup. “Maybe I just didn’t understand your story,” she said half-heartedly.

“Knights are honorable,” Viktor insisted. “They struggle, but they are good in the end.”

Syra frowned. Was he talking about Lyoshenka and Dobrynya anymore?

Maybe she didn’t want to know. She was here to help him with a leshy.

She didn’t need to know more about him. She dropped her gaze to her soup, signaling that she was done with this conversation.

Viktor sighed, but Syra refused to acknowledge him.