Reunion Vale Read online

  The long oscillating arm of the pump tower rocked up and down. A minute later, a steady new stream of water burst from the outflow valve and joined the little mountain stream below the wheel. Everyone in the pump station sighed with relief. A thousand feet below them, the water level in one particular shaft of the Sobol mines started to go down. Disaster was, once again, held at bay.

  Grigory looked up at the cool, dripping brass cylinder of the pump and patted it fondly. This machine and the four others on this hillside were the whole reason he had gone to study at the university in Leornian. Or, more precisely, they were the reason he had come back to Loshadnarod after finishing his studies abroad.

  Considering what he had given up for them, he wanted to keep them in good order, even though he still felt exhausted after the desperate retreat following the battle. His cousins should have been able to handle this problem on their own, though. The continuing dependence of the young engineers disturbed him. Ippolit showed a great deal of promise, but Grigory had less confidence in the others.

  As he started to leave, the young fellow who was his second cousin asked, “Sir, how is the Blessed Matushka?”

  “We’re not supposed to talk about her being here,” said the girl, smacking the boy over the head with her cap.

  “I am going to see her right now,” said Grigory with a sigh. “And she is perfectly fine. She has simply come to our corner of Loshadnarod to pray and meditate.”

  “What? She wants to meditate on slag heaps?” said the boy, which earned him another smack.

  The young man had a point, Grigory thought as he left the pumphouse. To his right, a long desolate hillside spread for miles and miles. The loose gravel and scrubby weeds were covered in snow, though that did little to improve the looks of the place. All the trees there had been cut down years ago, and the only features were the black, skeletal shapes of the mine headframes. To his left, the smelting furnaces belched out thick, acrid smoke that settled on the snow and turned the landscape a dismal gray color. Straight ahead, across a little stream on flatter ground, spread a little settlement of tents and pavilions and temporary stockades. Plus one small, sturdy log house.

  Depressing as the area was, it was home to him. And he’d never been so happy to see the place as he had been after the battle. His body and spirit ached, and he wanted to make sure Daryna was comfortable and safe. But the ordinary business of the mines carried on, despite the war, and he kept getting called away to handle engineering problems.

  As snow began falling, yet again, he jogged down the path and over the little arched bridge (another of his projects) to the camp. Old friends and relations called out greetings. A few people invited him in for tea (or something stronger). But he hurried to the last tent, past a forge and beyond the little log house, where his aunt was just emerging. She assured him the Blessed Matushka had slept peacefully the entire time he had been gone, and she would bring him soup later.

  He went into the tent, and as soon as he had the flap secure from wind and snow, he heard Daryna sigh behind him. “How long have you been awake?” he asked.

  “I know she is your family,” Daryna said in her new, softer voice. “But I don’t really need someone to tell me how wonderful I am for the hundredth time. Or ask me to read from the Pravilnih Slova.”

  Grigory smiled. Even among the pious people of Loshadnarod, his old aunt was noted for her religious fervor. “I suppose I could find someone more interesting to sit with you. Assuming, of course...,” he cleared his throat, “that you believe your illness is past the point where you might rave and talk in your sleep.”

  “I spoke when I was...indisposed?”

  He thought back on the eleven days since the battle and blushed. “Occasionally, yes.”

  “What about?”

  “You may have mentioned people you have known in your life. You spoke in Myrcian, so I only allowed people in here if they did not understand the language.”

  “Ah. So, I raved wildly about Faustinus.”

  It was not a question, and the certainty made Grigory blush harder. He had heard enough to know for sure that Daryna and the Immani hillichmagnar now on the other side in this war had been...intimate hundreds of years ago. There had also been hints that their relationship had been rekindled eleven years ago in Leornian when Grigory had met Presley.

  He settled into a campstool at her bedside and concentrated on the iron grating of her little stove, trying to shift it into the optimal position for spreading heat throughout the tent. “You...you talked about the past,” he said.

  “The past is always with us, I’m afraid. Now you’ve learned my secret, Grigory. I’m not a particularly good person, when it comes right down to it.”

  “You are the Blessed Matushka, my lady.” He looked over and caught her eye. “You don’t need to explain yourself. Not to me.”

  She nodded. “I have been thinking a great deal about your...friend, Mr. Presley Kemp, over the past few days. Do you still write to him?”

  Grigory started fiddling with the stove again. “We are at war with Myrcia. I cannot write to him.”

  “I think you should. As soon as possible.”

  “Why? And what would I say, even if I did?”

  “You could say that you still love him. That you miss him and think about him every day.”

  She whispered the words, but Grigory still glanced nervously around. His feelings for Presley, and his attraction toward men, would never be accepted in Loshadnarod. Years ago, before he had met Presley, Daryna had told Grigory not to be ashamed of his feelings, and for the years he had lived in Leornian and been with Presley, he had felt no shame. Even so, no one here could ever find out how he felt about men.

  “I couldn’t. The last letter I sent him, it ended any possible correspondence between us.” And it had utterly broken Grigory’s heart to write, but he did not mention that. “Why would I write to him now, anyway?”

  Daryna shifted, trying to sit up. The bed only had a small headboard of spindles, and she had but a single pillow under her head. Grigory helped her sit up, selecting several of the softest cushions from the carpeted floor of the tent to prop behind her. “There,” she said, sinking back exhausted. Her right hand twitched, but he could not understand what she wanted, perhaps the fragrant tea she had been prescribed by the healer on the table. But then she pointedly said, “I’m trying to grab your hand. I don’t have the energy to reach for it.”

  Once he rested his hand in hers, she gave it a gentle squeeze. “You need to go to him.”

  “I...I can’t. It’s impossible. It’s very romantic to think I could. But we’re at war, and even if we weren’t, I doubt he would—”

  “I’m not being romantic, Grigory. I’m being practical. You will need somewhere to go, because you must leave Loshadnarod. The sooner the better. The net is already closing around you.”

  “What? What do you mean by ‘the net’?” He wondered if she was raving again.

  “Princess Agnessa and Prince Vadik want to put your skills to use. They want you to build something for the war. Not bridges or pumps, you understand. I don’t know exactly what they’re planning, but they want a weapon that could win the war for us. I tried to spare you. I told them you were working with me on the bridges. I told them not to bother you with their outlandish schemes.”

  “A weapon?” Haltingly, he forced the words out. “If the queen orders it, then as her minister, and the chief of the engineers, I am obligated to—”

  “No, you’re not.” She squeezed his hand weakly again. “You hate this war. You’ve said it. I can see it in your eyes whenever we talk about it. Agnessa and Vadik will ask you to build something that will kill thousands.”

  The last hints of energy seeped from her limbs. Her skin had grown so pale, he wondered if he should get the healer or more of this aromatic clover and sage tea.

  “I know you, Grigory,” she continued. “You couldn’t live with yourself if you did that. Not unless you became a differe
nt person. Not unless...,” she closed her eyes, “you became a lot more like....”

  “Like Faustinus?”

  Her eyes fluttered open again. “No. I meant to say, ‘like me.’ Listen, now that I’m injured, Agnessa and Vadik will see you as their only choice. And if you refuse, they will never forgive you.”

  “But the prince and princess are far away in the royal camp,” Grigory answered. “I am still safe. I can’t leave you.”

  “The royal camp isn’t far enough away, and I’m recovering too slowly. You know the healer can do nothing. This is magy, and only rest will heal me. But you don’t have time for that. Listen to me, Grigory—you have to leave Loshadnarod before they ask you to do something your heart won’t let you do. Whatever you said in your last letter to Presley doesn’t matter. I know he will always help you.”

  “That’s because you don’t know what I wrote.”

  Chapter 2

  They sat, saying nothing, listening to the clink of metal-on-metal coming from the nearby forge. Grigory wanted to believe that Daryna was right about Presley. When he had received Presley’s letter four years ago on the verge of this war, he had answered it as coldly as he could, although he didn’t know where he had found the ability to do it.

  In his mind, he could still see the words on the parchment, telling Presley that, “The river had flowed on,” a trite Loshadnarodski saying he had never liked. And then he had made it worse; made it final.

  Grigory had written: “After this letter do not expect another from me. I am living my life in service to my country, and I can think of no higher calling. You need not trouble yourself to reply to this letter. With war between our two countries about to commence, it would be completely inappropriate for us to correspond again.”

  This had been a poor answer to Presley’s declarations of love and hope for reconciliation, but Presley’s letter had appeared so suddenly, Grigory had not understood what to do with it. How did one answer a man who wrote that, “Everything in my life leads me to thoughts of you and a desire to see you once more. To share my life with you”?

  Presley had apologized for how he had tried to force Grigory to remain in Leornian without regard for Grigory’s life. “I understand the seeming impossibility of sharing our lives together,” he had written. “If we could not have it before, what makes me think we could have it now with war looming? And yet, I have to say it. I have to ask if you can possibly see some way we can once again be as we were when you lived on Docent Lane.”

  That “and yet” haunted Grigory, because that place of “and yet” was where his mind had lived for the past four years.

  Looking back, Grigory did not know how he would have been able to remain with Presley and do his duty to family and country, and yet, living only for Loshadnarod could never bring him real happiness. But happiness was only a myth for men like him anyway. Even if he had stayed in Leornian, he and Presley could never have been truly together. And yet....

  “You want to write him,” Daryna said, bringing Grigory back into the chilly tent.

  “When last I wrote him, I told him that we must never communicate again. I had my own life, and he could only destroy my future by writing again. How can I now ask him for help? I tried to hurt him in that letter, so he would never write again, and he has not. He probably wouldn’t even open a letter from me.”

  “When two people love each other as much as you two do, there’s no hurt that will kill it. Tell him things have changed and you need him. Because you do. Don’t let this war destroy your soul and keep you from the person you love because you’re embarrassed of something stupid you put in an old letter.”

  Daryna sank deeply into the cushions, exhausted. Grigory gently squeezed the hand still limply holding his. It was the only response he felt capable of giving. She might be right—she usually was—but would it work? This plan of hers relied on Presley reading a letter from him and then being willing and able to help.

  Grigory did not know if he would be allowed to leave. He did not know that he wanted to leave. He hated this war, yes, but Daryna was suggesting he leave his life, family, and country. He felt sick contemplating it, no matter how much he ached still, all these years later for Presley.

  “Think about it,” she said, so softly he wasn’t certain at first he had heard her.

  “You should sleep,” he answered. “You said the only treatment for magysk injuries is rest.”

  “It is. Tell the healer to stop sending the tea. I can’t stand the smell.”

  He smiled as he watched her close her eyes. “I’ll throw this out for you. I’ll check back after supper and see if you need anything. Should I have someone come sit with you?”

  “No. I long to be alone.”

  Grigory rose, patting her hand once more before setting it down on the thick blanket. He picked up the teacup and poured it back into the pot it had come in. It was almost full, and with the lid off, the scent of sage nearly overwhelmed him. No wonder she wanted it gone.

  Once outside, he found one of his young cousins, whom he stationed outside the tent in case Daryna called for anything. That settled, he headed to the little cabin a few yards away, his home at the mines. The Loshadnarodskis were nomads and built almost no permanent structures, but when he had returned eight years earlier from Myrcia, he had insisted on an actual house, no matter how basic. And it was basic—a square one room cabin of log and stone—but it had a real bed and a stove of his own devising. It had few of the comforts of his rooms on Docent Lane, but it was more than anyone else in the country had. It was the only place he could go and be entirely alone to think. And Daryna had given him a great deal to think about.

  He was just emptying the teapot behind a boulder where the young engineers liked to eat lunch on warm days, when the sound of a disturbance in the camp caught his attention. He ended up splashing some down his pants in his distraction, but in a moment, he had the pot emptied and he headed for the paddock. Even though a handful of soldiers guarded the camp, Grigory, as Minister of Mines, felt responsible for whatever happened here.

  He arrived to see a bedraggled man thrown to the ground amid a crowd of onlookers. Over him stood a woman, fierce and sturdy, her short sword hanging from her fingertips as though it might be ready to fall, although he well knew it never would. She wore a tunic with a silver arrow embroidered upon it signifying her as a member of the Serebro Polk, Loshadnarod’s elite scouts. They were the best hunters and riders in the country, but also fearless and resourceful. Only the finest soldiers joined the Serebro Polk. And she was the polkovnik, their commander.

  Misha, who served in this same famous polk as a sotnik, or captain, under her, bowed to the woman. “Nadya Lebedeva, it is good to see you. May I be of assistance?”

  The woman was a legend. And she looked every inch that. Her shoulders were as broad as any man’s and her legs showed the strength of an active life in the saddle. Her jaw was square, and her dark brown hair was pulled tightly back lest any strand offend her face by getting in the way.

  “Ah, Misha Ruslan. Good to see you. I need to question my prisoner before I ride for the royal camp. You can accompany me when I leave in the morning.”

  “If it is your wish, of course. Who is this man?”

  Grigory now looked more closely at the man and realized he was a Myrcian soldier, dressed in the uniform of the Duke of Leornian. Grigory did not think the man looked familiar, but he slipped into the gathering crowd, hoping the man wouldn’t see him and perhaps recognize him. But the soldier probably did not know Grigory. Under the bruises, dried blood, and dirt he appeared to be a fresh-faced boy of maybe 18. He would have only been a child when Grigory lived in Leornian. Earstien help him, the soldier was still a boy.

  “Someone who thought he could get away.” Nadya grabbed the boy by the hair, forcing his face up to meet her gaze. “Ran for two days, so I’ll give him some credit. I tracked him over fifty miles after the battle and might have even ended up in Myrcia at the end of it,
but I still caught him. I always do.” She let the boy’s hair go, and his chin slumped to his chest.

  “The most interesting moment had to be when he decided to turn and fight,” she went on, lips curled into a hateful smile. “Courage of a honey badger on this one, but the fighting skills of a bent old lady.”

  “What are you hoping to learn from him?” asked a young girl innocently.

  Nadya grinned, seemingly pleased to have this chance to expound. “Even the lowliest soldier knows who the commanders are and where they were last seen. And he might know even more, depending on how nosy he is.” She patted the boy’s cheek, as though he were a sweet child in her care. “So we find all that out, and then I’m off to join the army at the royal camp.”

  Grigory had heard from messengers that the army had fallen back to a spot the flocks often stopped at for grazing between the Ryeka and Angara Rivers. But because any one of them might be taken prisoner like this poor Myrcian boy, no one who knew this spoke of it aloud. Part of Grigory wished he did not know. He wished he knew nothing about this war and was as naïve as the little girl.

  “Come with me,” Nadya said in passable Myrcian to the prisoner. “We will talk. You will tell me everything you have not.”

  “No! Earstien!” the boy shrieked. “Don’t hurt me anymore. I know nothing! I’m a farmer. I’d only been with the duke’s troops for a month. Please! My mother has no one else but me.”

  “I do not care about your mother,” she said, dragging him by the rope holding his hands together. She headed toward the forge. “You tell me about Broderick Gramiren and Faustinus and the other hillichmagnars. You know them, yes?”

  “I’ve never met any of them! Oh, Earstien! You have to believe me!”

  “I believe red hot metal on skin.”

  Grigory watched in horror until they disappeared inside the forge. Then he ran to his cabin. Daryna was right; he needed to write Presley.