Page 9 of The Bone Doll (The Ruthenian Chronicle #1)

Kholm

“This is Kholm,” Viktor explained as they climbed the steep and rocky path up to the town built on the outcropping that overlooked the Snezhana River. “It’s an outpost for the city of Beluvod.”

At the palisades, the guards checked Viktor and Syra over, rummaging through their packs as well.

Fortunately, they didn’t ask why Syra was hugging her abdomen.

He didn’t know what she would do if she had to show her Bone Doll to Ruthenian soldiers.

She didn’t even like Viktor looking too closely at it.

When the guards let them pass, he made sure to look anywhere but Syra.

Last night, in that damp shelter… He shouldn’t have looked at her.

She had even told him not to. Now, he was haunted by the memory of her perfectly sloped shoulder glimmering in the starlight.

He swallowed. And no matter what he did, he was plagued by thoughts of kissing her soft throat.

She would never let him do that.

Made of the stone on which they sat, the buildings here were squat and rustic, but Kholm’s residents were none the worse for it.

Everyone wore finely spun wool, often printed with geometric patterns; and here and there, a woman wore a bolt of glossy silk imported from the east. Children played tag and hoop-diving in the streets, while the adults shopped at stalls selling everything from fine silver jewelry to luxuriant furs.

“The inn is this way.” He jerked his chin to the east. “It’s really just some cots in an old barracks, but–”

“Anything is better than where we were last night,” Syra said.

Viktor grinned bitterly. Of course, she had hated being so close to him.

Separate sleeping arrangements were much preferable.

For her. His cheeks heated at the thought of sharing a bed with her, and he quickened his steps.

Their … predicament … last night was as sexless as it could have possibly been.

Syra had made it clear that she had wanted him to neither see nor touch her.

It was his own damn fault that he had snuck a glance. Now he knew what he couldn’t have.

Viktor acquired accommodations at the inn, and then he and Syra found the banya. While Syra lounged languidly in the steaming rooms, Viktor bathed and left quickly. He didn’t need any more temptation.

Outside, the air was brisk and humid. Slicking his wet hair back, he headed back towards the barracks-turned-inn.

As he passed the town gates, he heard the sentries chatting.

“Did you see the foreign girl?” said the taller of the two.

“Aye, the one with the brown skin and wide eyes,” his compatriot said. “Strange but pretty thing, she is. Like to wet my cock in her cunt.”

Slowing to a stop, Viktor clenched his fists.

“I’d like to see her on her knees,” the tall one said, “with those sweet little lips around my knocker.”

The cords in his neck tightened painfully. But he forced himself to take a step and then another and another. He was no Lyoshenka or Dobrynya. He hadn’t even completed arms training.

He couldn’t fight those guards. And so he walked away, his anger turning into thick and oily shame.

He passed a vendor selling glass beads, much like the glass beads his mother and sisters wore.

His shame grew heavier. They were four days from Zoldrovya, but he wished that it was longer.

Viktor had been telling Syra that she needed to bind the leshy back to its forest – and then she could go home. But that wasn’t the truth.

Igor Sviatopolkovich wanted a way to bend the leshy to his will.

When Viktor had thought he was simply fetching an artifact, he hadn’t cared at all about what his father wanted to use it for.

But now that Syra was involved… He couldn’t tell her.

What would she do if she knew he had lied?

And Viktor could only imagine what his father would do if he jeopardized Igor’s hopes to defeat and control the leshy.

Viktor started to wish for some terrible catastrophe to destroy the road or set them off course, so that Syra wouldn’t fall into his father’s hands.

Shaking his head minutely, he walked away from the glass beads.

When he arrived at the barracks-turned-inn, Syra was sitting cross-legged outside, combing her hair with her fingers. He barely had enough pride to look at her. “You should be careful. I don’t think everyone is friendly.” And some of us lie.

“I can take care of myself,” Syra said.

Viktor clenched and unclenched his fists. He could not defend Syra’s honor nor could he tell her the truth, so what use was he? He was just his father’s crony.

“Life on the tundra is violent, inherently. Something as simple as traveling from one campsite to another can turn deadly because of a broken sled runner or frostbite.” Parting her hair, she began braiding it. “We don’t wish for violence, we endure it.”

His shoulders sagging, Viktor rubbed at a mud fleck on his caftan. “You shouldn’t have to endure it. Someone should keep you safe.”

Her fingers midway through her braid, Syra looked up and their gazes met.

Her eyes were perfectly black, like jet beads, glimmering with a mix of surprise and something Viktor could not identify.

Her wide, downturned lips parted as though she wanted to say something – but she hesitated.

He had the sudden and strong urge to step forward and kiss her.

Blinking hard, he forced himself to look away. “Forgive me. I sound patronizing.”

Letting her braid fall apart, Syra stood. His breath caught in his chest. They were so close. “You want to be one of your great knights,” she said. “But what is so bad about Viktor?”

He was a coward, a liar, and a lackey who had never succeeded in anything.

One who had dragged an innocent woman across miles and miles of wilderness, not because of what he wanted but what his father demanded.

And he did a shit job at that, too, leading her through quicksand and failing to protect her name.

He picked at the fleck of mud on his caftan.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he continued apologizing dumbly. “I just meant you shouldn’t be alone in this world.”

Her posture eased, her features softening. “I’m not alone. I have my parents, my siblings, my nephew, my clan…”

And I took them all from you. Viktor nodded, letting his shoulders slump. He was the one who was alone. The one who wanted someone to protect, to hold. Syra didn’t need him. She just wanted to go home.

“Once you’ve subdued the leshy, I’ll take you home,” he lied because he knew it was what she wanted to hear. And he wished then that he was someone else, someone good, so that he didn’t have to lie to make her happy.