CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Paths Divide

 

 

Stefan was standing at Elena’s side in Katarina Square as she spoke the words. The effect upon the crowd was electrifying. He had the feeling of a thousand eyes suddenly turning, seeking them out. Now he, too, was aware of the strange power that Elena had spoken of when they first entered the city. The silver chain about his neck began to grow hot against his skin, almost as though it were drawing raw energy from around them.

The effect upon Count Rosporov was more difficult to judge. He scanned the crowd, trying to identify the woman who dared oppose him.

“Name yourself,” Rosporov called out. “Let us hear the name of she who would speak against the will of the people.”

“My name is Elena Yevschenko,” Elena said. “And I speak for the people, not against them.”

If Elena had wondered whether her name would be remembered in Erengrad, she now knew. Faces in the crowd around them registered disbelief and awe. Some undoubtedly, were hostile, but the greater number amongst them seemed to sense that a corner had been turned in the grim history of the city. Stefan heard the name being repeated endlessly, like a ripple flowing out across a lake.

Upon the rostrum, Rosporov’s expression changed. Arrogance and disdain started to leak away, replaced by uncertainty.

Stefan looked at Petr Kuragin, standing in shackles at Rosporov’s side, guarded by two of the Scarandar. He could only guess what torture the man had endured, yet his spirit was still unbroken. At the sound of Elena’s name echoing across the square his face turned, and a glimmering of light returned to his eyes.

“I applaud your insolence in returning here,” Rosporov retorted. “Or should that be foolishness? Your family have the blood of Erengrad upon their hands. Their guilt is no less than Kuragin’s!”

The crowd parted in front of Elena as she moved towards the platform. “It’s true,” she replied. “We are guilty. Guilty of allowing Erengrad to run to ruin. Guilty of allowing scum like you to gain a foothold. Both our families are guilty of devoting themselves to a petty family feud, whilst the city fell apart around them. But I am here today to put an end to that feud. To reunite our city.” She paused. “The blood, Vladimir Rosporov, is on your hands alone.”

A murmur spread through the crowd as they listened to Elena’s words. Reason began to prevail over the madness.

Petr Kuragin looked upon Elena’s face for the first time as she reached the front of the crowd. As their eyes met, Elena nodded towards him just once.

Stefan fingered the knife in his pocket. There would be little chance of aiming a clean throw at the count before he could move against Kuragin.

Rosporov turned to address Elena. “The people have no love of you, Elena Yevshenko,” he called out. “What do you have to offer Erengrad except for your excuses?”

Elena slipped the chain carrying the silver icon from around her neck and held it aloft. “I have this,” she said. A gasp went up in parts of the crowd as the Star of Erengrad was recognised. “With it I pledge my life towards healing the wounds that have scarred our city.”

“Empty words,” Rosporov scoffed. “On its own the icon is useless.”

“But it’s not on its own,” Stefan said, now raising the second piece above his head for all to see. “We have two parts of the Star, and soon we will have the third.”

Rosporov gazed out across the sea of faces, seeking out Stefan. Stefan met his gaze. “Surrender yourself to our mercy, Rosporov,” he called out. “Erengrad will never yield to you now.”

For a moment all was silent. Smoke curled from the brazier of burning coals, an emblem of the fire-ravaged city. Vladimir Rosporov took a step back, and took stock of the world taking shape around him. The tide of feeling turning against him in the crowd. The black-sashed soldiers of his Scarandar, there to die at his command. The beaten but still unbowed face of Petr Kuragin that stared at him with unremitting defiance. And Elena Yevschenko and her champion in the heart of Katarina Square. The would-be conquerors of Erengrad.

His own journey of conquest had all but run its course. Soon he must wake from his dream. But, in this last moment, he still held the dreams of thousands within his hands. All eyes in Katarina Square were fixed upon Count Vladimir Rosporov. He reached to his neck and lifted the third segment of the Star of Erengrad high into the air.

“This is what you have travelled so far to claim?” Rosporov turned the piece in the sunlight. He walked towards the brazier, then turned to face the crowds. “This? It’s just a worthless fragment.” He smiled, and let the icon fall into the flames. With his other hand, he pulled an iron from the fire and lifted the circlet of steel, already glowing red-hot, into the air.

“Now,” he said. “It’s time for our coronation.”

 

The ache in his arm where the bracelet pressed tight against his flesh had not lessened. Indeed, a pulsing pain now ran through Alexei Zucharov’s body, rising through his arm to end in a steady hammer beat inside his head. And yet his entire being seemed to have been energised, filled with an all-empowering life, the like of which he had never experienced before. This was life, pure and undiluted. Everything else, he now realised, had been mere facsimile.

The tattoo upon his wrist was still growing. No longer contained by the narrow band of gold, it had begun to extend, upwards towards his shoulder, down towards his wrist. Alexei stared at it from time to time as he approached the distant city. Gradually, dimly at first, he was coming to know it for what it was. A mirror upon his soul, and the source of his power. The living pictures growing upon his flesh celebrated his past. Every deed, every life harvested by his sword was there. Over time, as the tattoo came to map his body, it would describe his future, too. His future, and the countless other deaths that that future held.

There might once have been a time when such a prospect would have appalled him, but Zucharov was struggling to remember it now.

So much seemed different. So much of his old life being sloughed off, like a snake shedding its old, desiccated skin. There were voices inside his head, talking to him. Some he recognised, others he did not. At times he thought he heard a woman’s voice, calling him, calling him back. He struggled to find the name that would connect with a recollection that now seemed so distant. Natalia, yes, that was her name. Natalia. The name had been important to him, he remembered that much. But there was so much more to think of now. Zucharov shrugged the voice off, and thoughts of his sister fell away, fading into the deep well of memory that was the past, the old life.

Every so often Alexei looked up, towards the city. There, he knew, his purpose lay, even though its meaning had grown blurred and indistinct. But soon enough, his path would become clear. For there was another voice, sweet and insistent, rising and falling with the hammer beat inside his head now. He did not know it yet, but this was the voice he would learn to call his master.

He came at last to the city walls. People passed by him on all sides. Alexei regarded them coldly, without favour or pity. Most of them belonged amongst the weak, but it was weakness without importance or significance. They did not interest him. Most met his stare only briefly, then turned away. Those few foolish enough to stand in his path, he dealt with.

His head was beginning to clear. The cacophony of conflicts unresolved was slowly being sieved away. Purpose; clarity of vision; all was moving into focus.

Zucharov stopped, looked around him. He was inside the city walls but he did not know why. But the world was changing, that much he did know. It might take time, but like time itself, it could not be resisted.

In the distance, a bell tolled, faint but insistent. Alexei Zucharov located the direction of the sound and turned towards it. Progress was measured and steady; nothing in the bedlam unraveling in the streets around interested or distracted him. He paused only once, to glance at the tattoo spreading across his skin. He looked down, and watched the future being rewritten.

 

Stefan hurled himself towards the rostrum as Rosporov’s men dragged Kuragin to the middle of the stage. Kuragin was struggling for his life, but beaten and weighed down by the shackling irons; he was lost. Rosporov held the ring of glowing steel aloft, and bowed in mock servitude.

“Behold the Prince of Erengrad,” he called out. “Long may you reign in the pits of Morr.”

Stefan screamed out in fury, but his path was blocked by a cordon of Scarandar. Stefan set about them like a man possessed, scattering them with a flurry of blows from his sword. He knew he would not reach the platform in time. Rosporov knew it too, and the smile on his face was that of a final, bitter victory.

“Stefan, get down!”

Stefan had just a moment to turn and see Bruno behind him before his comrade aimed the knife over his head towards the stage. Rosporov was faster than either of them could have expected; he seemed to see the blade cut through the air, and pulled back from its path in time. The knife skimmed past Petr Kuragin and buried itself in the throat of one of his captors. As the Scarandar fell from the platform, Petr Kuragin dug deep for one final surge of strength. He brought his arms together and lashed out at the second guard, smashing the shackles into the man’s face. As the guard staggered back, Kuragin leapt from the rostrum to freedom.

A roar went up from the watching crowd, and, in that moment, Rosporov’s spell upon the people was broken. The Scarandar in their midst were better armed, but they were heavily outnumbered. The retribution of the people was swift and bloody.

Stefan now had just one point of focus. “Take care of the Scarandar,” he shouted to Bruno and Franz. “Rosporov’s mine.”

The count was running towards the far edge of the platform. Whatever the mood of the people, there was no guarantee that he might not yet escape if he could lose himself within the crowds on the square. Stefan was determined that would not happen. As Rosporov prepared to jump clear, Stefan flung himself onto the platform, bringing down the smaller man. For a moment he had Rosporov pinned down, seemingly at his mercy. The count looked up at Stefan, his blue eyes radiating a cold hatred.

“I put a price upon everything,” he spat at Stefan. “And, I promise you, the taking of my life will cost you dear.” Stefan had no desire to swap words with Rosporov. But, as he reached for his knife, a blow from out of nowhere punched into his stomach, sending the weapon spinning away.

Rosporov hit him again, hit him with a force that Stefan would scarcely have believed possible. Stefan reached for his sword, but Rosporov anticipated him. The blade was forced from his grasp. Stefan launched himself upon Rosporov before he could aim another blow. But this was no longer the slight, almost frail man of only moments before. Now Stefan found himself locked in a murderous dance with a fury who seemed to draw down fresh energy even as Stefan’s exhausted body weakened. Rosporov’s skewed, seemingly puny arm wound itself around Stefan’s throat, and began to lock tight.

“Never trust your eyes to tell you the truth,” Rosporov taunted him. “The world is full of deceptions.”

Stefan levered himself free of the choking embrace, only for the count to strike him a third time; a hammer-punch to the chest that knocked Stefan halfway across the platform. Now Rosporov had Stefan’s sword. Smiling, he closed in on his victim.

Stefan twisted his body away as Rosporov scythed down with the sword, wielding the heavy blade as if it carried no weight at all. The steel bit into the wooden frame of the platform, an inch from Stefan’s face. He aimed a kick at Rosporov and caught him square in the gut, but it seemed only to feed his manic rage. Stefan regained his feet. Rosporov aimed the sword again, and this time made contact. Stefan felt the numb chill of the steel cut between his ribs. He staggered back, blood already flowing fast where his hand was clamped against the wound.

Rosporov surveyed his work with satisfaction and positioned himself to strike one final blow. Stefan looked around him. The dagger was gone, Rosporov had his sword. He took a step back and fastened both hands upon the only weapon he had left.

The hot metal of the brazier seared his skin at the very first touch, but, somehow, Stefan held on. As Rosporov swung the sword a final time, Stefan dragged the glowing brazier from the ground, and hurled the fiery mass of coals into the face of his opponent.

For a moment there was silence. The air filled with smoke and the pungent odour of burning flesh. The smoke cleared to reveal Vladimir Rosporov still standing, his hands covering his face. When he lifted his hands away the flesh was raw and blistered, but the same evil light still shone, undimmed, through his eyes. The mutilated figure started to move, turning, slowly, towards the front of the stage. Stefan took up his sword from where it had fallen, and drove it up through the air into Rosporov’s body. The count toppled forward, into the crowd. The people of Erengrad fell upon the body, beating it with clubs, fists, anything that came to hand. Vladimir Rosporov would not rise again.

The Scarandar had been put to the sword. Bodies of the cultists lay all across the square where the people had taken their revenge. Most of those that remained were upon their knees, begging the protection of Franz Schiller’s men. Most, but not quite all. Three of the black-clad figures, the strongest of Rosporov’s guard, had fought their way clear of the crowd, and were trying to escape. Stefan shouted a warning to his comrades, but knew it was almost certainly too late.

The bid for freedom was short-lived. As the men reached the outer edge of the square they were confronted by a figure coming the other way. A figure with sword in hand, mounted upon a towering horse.

“Sigmar’s toil!” Stefan exclaimed. “It’s Alexei.”

Alexei Zucharov gazed down at the retreating Scarandar with disdain. Unable to get around him, the three men launched a last, desperate attack. Alexei brushed them aside like vermin, then brought his own blade to bear like a butcher cleaving a carcass. The Scarandar fought for their lives, fought like madmen against the towering figure upon the horse. But they were facing a greater madness; an impassive, chilling madness that cared only to destroy, or else be destroyed. Zucharov lashed the Scarandar with his blade, impervious to any blows they aimed in reply. The screams of the Scarandar filled the square, and then subsided. Three bloodied bodies lay motionless at Alexei Zucharov’s feet. The battle of Erengrad was at an end.

Leaning on Bruno for support, Stefan made his way over to Zucharov. “By the gods, Alexei,” he declared. “You certainly pick your moments.” He grinned. “No complaints, this time.” He reached up his hand, offering his congratulations. Alexei did not take it.

“Running to save their skins,” he said, as if by way of explanation. “They were weak.” His voice sounded distant and remote. He seemed barely to recognise either of them.

“Are you wounded?” Bruno asked of him. “Do you need help?”

Slowly, ponderously, Alexei looked around him. “I am strong,” he said.

“Come on,” Stefan said. “Let’s get you down off that monstrous beast.” He reached up a hand once more. This time Zucharov backed away, and, as he did so, Stefan caught sight of the gold band upon his arm, and the rainbow bruise that lay beneath.

“What in the name of—”

Zucharov quickly drew back his arm, masking the disfigurement. With his other hand he lifted his sword, and seemed about to swing it at Stefan. At the last moment, he froze, the sword hanging suspended above his head. He looked down from the horse upon his comrades, and a glimmer of recognition animated his features.

“Stefan,” he said, uncertainly. “Stefan?”

“Come on,” said Stefan, urgency in his voice now. “We’re going to get you some help.” Alexei Zucharov looked down from the horse and shook his head slowly from one side to the other. “No,” he said at last. “I am strong.”

Zucharov turned his horse about and looked down upon his comrades. The light of kinship seemed to flicker briefly again in his eyes, then died. He moved his head, slowly, from one side to the other, as though in sorrow or regret, and picked up the reins of his horse.

“Stefan,” he repeated, and then: “Goodbye.”

Stefan shouted out Alexei’s name, but Zucharov was gone, the crowds parting in panic before the great horse as it gathered pace across the square. Stefan turned back to Bruno. “We have to find him,” he said. “I don’t like what I saw at all.”

“We stand no chance of catching him on foot,” Bruno pointed out. “Besides,” he glanced down at Stefan’s bloodied tunic. “There’s more important things for you to be worrying about. Don’t worry. He won’t go far.”

 

Within the hour, Katarina Square had filled to overflowing. Word of Elena’s return had spread through the ravaged city like wildfire, kindling fresh hope amongst the people. For the moment at least, expectation, not fear, hung upon the air.

Back upon the rostrum, Stefan turned towards Petr Kuragin. As he looked upon the bruised and bloodied face of his lover’s husband-to-be, Stefan suddenly found he was without words, drained equally of strength and emotion.

“Are you all right?” he said at last.

Kuragin shook Stefan’s hand as firmly as his own strength allowed. “I’ll live,” he said. “What about you?”

Stefan touched one hand to his ribs where the wound had been freshly bandaged. “I’ve had easier days,” he conceded. He looked around the square. “What now?” he asked.

“Now,” Kuragin said, “we must wake Erengrad from this nightmare.”

Elena joined them on the platform. Her expression suggested there was little to celebrate.

“After all this, they may have won,” she observed, bitterly. “If Rosporov succeeded in destroying the last part of the Star, then all may still be lost.”

Petr Kuragin moved his head as far as he dared in a shake of dissent.

“No,” he declared, stubbornly. “This must not have been for nothing.” Slowly, face contorted with pain, he climbed down upon his knees and began to sift through the charred debris scattered across the platform. At last he found what he was looking for. Petr Illyich Kuragin rose again to his feet, a smile beginning to light his battered features. In his hand he held the missing segment of the Star.

He brushed away the last of the ashes from the battered icon and rubbed it gently between his hands. “Not destroyed,” he said, his voice still blurred and unsteady. He closed his hand around the silver fragment, the smile on his face broadening. “By the gods,” he said to Elena. “It’s not even hot from the fire.”

He turned to face the crowds, holding the icon high above his head. Cheers, murmurs of astonishment and even applause began to ripple through the square.

“Like Erengrad itself, the Star may be tarnished,” Kuragin declared, “but it will still endure!”

“The three parts of the Star,” Stefan said. He held out his segment, matching it against those held by Elena and Petr. The silver pieces appeared to fuse together into a single, seamless whole. Stefan waited, perhaps expecting something dramatic to follow. When nothing did, he felt vaguely foolish and disappointed.

“This good will cannot be trusted to last,” Franz Schiller warned, indicating the waiting crowds. “You must declare your alliance before the people soon, or the tide may turn again.”

Stefan took a step back from Elena and Kuragin. This was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. “Come on,” he said to Bruno. “We should leave the stage to them.”

“Just a minute, please.”

Stefan met Petr Kuragin’s gaze. “I want to thank you,” Petr said. “I understand it is mostly thanks to you that Elena has completed this great journey. All Erengrad is in your debt.”

Stefan felt awkward in the other man’s presence, awkward and oddly aware that the Petr Kuragin of his imagination was much bigger than the man now stood before him. Although the stockier of the two, Petr was a full head shorter than he in height. Funny, Stefan reflected, how things are rarely as you expect them to be.

“It’s not just down to me,” he replied, struggling for the appropriate words. “Elena has shown valour of her own. It was her determination to be with you that has brought us here.” He began to make his way down from the stage.

“No,” Kuragin insisted. “Please, hear me out.” He took hold of Stefan’s arm. “I am a man of many failings, but I will try with every ounce of my being to serve Elena, and to serve Erengrad. Do you believe that?”

“Yes,” Stefan said, truthfully. “I do.”

“I know that Elena does not love me,” Petr Kuragin said. “Why should she? This is duty, not love. We both know that. But I shall never give her cause to despise me, and—who knows—perhaps one day she may be able to find some love in her heart.”

Stefan waited. He knew no answer was expected of him. Kuragin looked at him for a moment, a strange expression on his face. Then he continued. “For now, I think it is you that she loves, Stefan. Am I right?” He quickly waved away Stefan’s protest. “I’m sorry. I have no right to expect you to answer that. There is no need. Elena’s eyes tell the story—yours, too.” He paused, searching for what he needed to say. “I want to tell you I’m glad that you were there for Elena, Stefan. I want to give you my thanks.”

“Thank you,” Stefan said. A burden had lifted, but it had left behind a hollow place. Kuragin looked at him intently, and seemed to read his thoughts.

“Franz is right,” he said. “We must make haste with the ceremony of the Star. But first, I think, you have your own ceremony to complete.” He nodded towards Elena, standing alone by the edge of the stage. “Please,” Kuragin said.

Elena looked up, flustered, as Stefan approached. For a moment her face had worn a distant expression, as though her mind had been somewhere far away from Erengrad.

“So,” she said, as brightly as she could muster. “This is goodbye then?”

“Yes,” Stefan said. “The paths divide.”

Elena cleared her throat, her voice suddenly cracked and thin. “I’ve realised something recently,” she said. “Realised I’m not much good at dealing with goodbyes.”

“I don’t know that I’m much better,” Stefan replied. “I don’t think there’s an easy way with this.”

Elena dropped her head, and brushed a hand across her eyes. She looked up again, forcing a smile. “Petr and I must consecrate the ceremony of the Star,” she said.

“Will you be our witness?”

Stefan stood facing her, battling with the forces inside of himself. All around them, on all sides of Katarina Square, the sea of faces looked on, waiting, expectant. For one brief moment he was oblivious to the thousand watching eyes. Stefan Kumansky was alone once more with Elena, and alone with his thoughts. His mind ran back to the night beneath the stars at Mirov; to a moment in time so fleetingly grasped. Would he have made the same choice, have taken that same path, had he known for sure that it would run its course so soon? Stefan had no need to dwell upon the question. His heart told him what the answer would be. He took a step back from Elena Yevshenko, and bowed low before her.

“Yes,” he replied at last. “Yes, I will be your witness.”

Whilst Stefan looked on, Petr and Elena linked hands at the front of the stage. In his other hand Petr held the Star of Erengrad, complete now, and dazzling in the sunlight. The clamour of voices rippling through Katarina Square suddenly dropped away to nothing. Petr and Elena stood together at the centre of a silent world. After a moment, Petr Kuragin looked out towards the crowd. Towards the people of Erengrad, his people, waiting for deliverance.

“Too much blood has been spilt,” he told them. “Today we come to mourn our children of Erengrad who have been lost. But from today, too, the wounds shall begin to heal. With your hearts, and with your hands, we shall rebuild our city anew.”

He passed the Star to Elena and, between them, they lifted it aloft in full view of the people massed around Katarina Square. A sound rippled through the crowd, barely more than a whisper; the collective intake of breaths. It was the sound of a people offering a prayer for peace, and it was the sound of hope.

“With this holy relic, I pledge myself unto thee,” Kuragin intoned.

“With this holy relic,” Elena repeated, “I pledge myself unto thee.”

She turned towards the man who was now her husband. “Not so long ago there would have been flowers,” she said, half joking, half wistfully. “The streets strewn with sweet garlands.”

“There will be flowers,” Petr told her. “Even now, we sow the seeds of their blossoming with our union.”

They moved closer, and their lips met in a single kiss. The moment was stiff and awkward, but it had an unmistakable effect upon the waiting crowd. A silence, absolute and total, fell across the square. Stefan, too, found himself drawn under some kind of spell, as though the Star were speaking directly to him. It spoke of unity, of peace, of an end to a generation of civil war. He felt a warmth growing inside of himself, a warmth that radiated from the Star itself. He knew that every other man and woman of Kislev that stood within Katarina Square was feeling it too.

Gradually, the city was turning back towards the light. The gestures were small—handshakes, conversation, a shoulder for the tears of the bereaved—but they were unmistakable.

“We live for moments like these, do we not?”

Stefan turned to see Gastez Castelguerre standing at his side. Stefan thought of Elena, and he thought of the journey that had brought him to this final place. He smiled. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, we do.”

“We are much alike, you and I,” Castelguerre continued. He appraised Stefan with a measured stare. “I think our work here is done for the moment, don’t you?” He took Stefan by the arm. “Come,” he urged. “Let’s walk a while.”

Stefan allowed himself to be led away. Castelguerre was right, perhaps more so than he knew. His part in Elena’s life was at an end now. Their story was drawing to a close, and a new chapter in her life with Kuragin—and the life of Erengrad itself—was opening.

Once they were clear of the crowds Castelguerre stopped and turned towards Stefan, his expression pensive, probing.

“There are not so many of us,” he said. “Men like you and I, that is.” He glanced back towards the couple upon the stage. “This is a great victory, but it has been won at a price. The world will not lightly bear the loss we have sustained.”

“You mean Otto,” Stefan said, “and Andreas.”

Castelguerre nodded. “With them gone, we are few indeed.” He paused. “But we would always have need of men such as you, Stefan Kumansky.”

Stefan pondered the implication of the words. “You’re asking me to join your order?” he asked. “To join the Keepers of the Flame?”

Castelguerre smiled, benignly. “Yes,” he said, simply.

“And what if I say no?” Stefan countered.

“Then I’ll content myself with having made you the offer,” Castelguerre replied. “And I shall not ask you again.” He paused. “But I do not think you will say no.”

Stefan’s deliberations were cut short by a voice calling his name. He looked around to see Bruno approaching, looking troubled. Stefan made his excuses and hurried across to meet his comrade.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“It may be nothing,” Bruno began. “But I’m hearing rumours about a rider running amok about the city, attacking people indiscriminately. Look, it might just be some garbled story, but—”

“But what?” Stefan demanded.

“The descriptions fit Zucharov,” Bruno said. “It sounds as though he’s lost his mind. Maybe he’s ill, running with fever,” he added.

“Maybe,” Stefan murmured. The image of Zucharov, emerging through the smoking ruins of the city, filled his mind. Something in Zucharov had altered, but he had not looked ill. If anything he had seemed filled with a new, unnatural energy. Stefan heard again his comrade’s last words to him: I am strong. The words and the image echoed in his mind like remnants of a bad dream.

“We’ll find him, don’t worry,” Franz assured them. “My men will soon have the city sealed. He’ll turn up before long.”

Stefan felt a touch upon his hand. “What’s happened?” Elena asked. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” he told her. “Everything will be all right now. We’ve come through this, both of us.”

Elena looked towards Petr Kuragin upon the rostrum, then turned back to Stefan. “I came to tell you I must go now,” she said. “I need to—”

“Be at his side,” Stefan said. “It’s all right. I know. He needs you there, and you must go to him.”

She stood facing him for a few moments longer, the warmth of her smile tempered by a deeper sadness. “We might have made something of a life together,” she said.

“I know,” Stefan replied. “But that would have been another life. Along another path.”

She stretched out her hand, and Stefan held it in his own for the last time, before letting her go. As he watched her walk back across the square, he realised he was already looking at a different person; a young woman already carrying the burdens of office upon her shoulders. Somehow, Stefan suspected, she would carry them well.

“The war is won. Now they have to build a new peace,” Bruno observed. “It won’t be easy.”

“That it won’t,” Stefan agreed. “But Castelguerre has brought food to fill bellies, and men to rebuild walls. The rest—rebuilding hearts, and souls—the rest is up to them.”

Franz Schiller returned, talking hurriedly with Castelguerre. “Zucharov has been seen,” he told Stefan. He hesitated. Now it was Schiller’s turn to look troubled.

“What is it?” Bruno asked. Schiller paled. “My men tried to stop him leaving the city,” he said. “Three died in the attempt.”

“He’s fled the city?” Stefan demanded.

Schiller nodded. “We’ve lost him. I’m sorry, Stefan.”

“Well,” Bruno said, “at least that means he can do no more harm here.”

“Here, no,” Stefan agreed. The thought did not console him much. What had Otto said, half a lifetime away back in Altdorf? Words that Gastez Castelguerre himself had echoed on the eve of the battle for Erengrad? Beware the poison that claims men by stealth. Beware the poison in the stream.

“Our troubles are still not yet ended?” the commander asked of him.

Stefan forced a smile, but it was tinged with the gnawing ache he suddenly felt inside. It was a feeling he knew of old, one which was not going to let him go.

“I fear Zucharov didn’t heed your warning,” Stefan replied. “I think he may be carrying the seed of darkness inside him.” He paused, remembering their earlier conversation.

“I’m not forgetting what we spoke of,” he said. “But I cannot leave this unresolved.”

“I know,” Castelguerre replied. “And my offer will still stand, whenever you are ready to accept it.”

Stefan turned back to Bruno. “The journey’s not finished,” he said. “Not for me, at least. I have to track Zucharov down, Bruno. I have to find out. If this is some temporary madness, well and good. We’ll find a way to bring our brother back to us.”

“And if it isn’t,” Bruno asked, “what then?”

“Then it can only end in death,” Stefan said. “His death, or mine.”

“The world is wide, Stefan. He could be headed anywhere.”

“True enough,” Stefan agreed. “I don’t know where this journey will take me,” he told Castelguerre. “Or for how long.”

“That doesn’t matter,” the commander responded. “When the time is right, we shall find one another.”

Stefan looked one final time to where Elena stood upon the stage. What should he call her now? Countess, princess, lady of Erengrad? To him, at least, she would always be just Elena. Perhaps they, too, would find one another once more. Perhaps their paths were destined to cross again. Perhaps. For now, there was another path, dark and uncertain, which he was destined to follow.

“I think Zucharov will try to disappear,” he said to Bruno. “Disappear until whatever has taken hold of him has eased—or strengthened its grip. I think he will do as I would do, and return towards what he knows, towards home. But he won’t be able to vanish without trace. Somewhere, sooner or later, I’ll find him.”

“And I shall be there with you when you do,” Bruno said. “I shall travel with you on that journey, Stefan. We shall ride together. Until the story is ended.”