Susan Wiggs - At The King's Command

Zara dropped the button into her bodice. “You Gaje,” she said good-naturedly. “You’re all so easily gulled.”

Juliana laughed, the button no more valuable to her than a stick of kindling. Her family’s wealth was a fact she accepted as readily as she had accepted her father’s long absences in the service of Vasily III, grand prince of the neighboring city-state, Moscow.

The thought sobered her. A few weeks earlier, Vasily had died. He had left his son Ivan, a mere three years old, on the throne and his council of boyars quarreling bitterly amongst themselves.

Lately, Papa stayed locked in his study, writing frantic missives to allies in other cities. He was worried about the ruthless nobles who had begun to clamor for the power to rule now that the prince was dead.

Shaking off the image of her father’s troubled eyes, his drawn face, she held out her hand, palm up. “Hold nothing back this time. ‘Long life and happiness’ might satisfy the superstitious Gaje, but I want the truth.”

Zara reluctantly turned Juliana’s palm toward the flickering light of the lamp. “Some matters are better left unknown.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Zara’s eyes locked with Juliana’s, veiled pools of black confronting clear emerald green. “It is good to be fearless, Juliana.” Zara’s nail, edged with ancient dirt, traced a sinuous unbroken line across Juliana’s palm. Then the gypsy looked at the large brooch Juliana wore pinned at her shoulder.

The thin flame from the lamp gave the ruby a glow of life, making the precious jewel appear depthless in its cruciform setting of gold and pearls.

Zara’s eyes glazed and her cheek—the one marked so wonderfully with a star—seemed to droop slightly. Without moving, she appeared to slip away, deep into a secret realm of intuition and imagination.

“I see three strong women.” Zara spoke slowly, her Romany accent thickening. “Three lives entwined.”

Juliana frowned. Three women? She was her father’s only daughter, though she had innumerable Romanov cousins in Moscow.

“Their fates are flung like seeds to the four winds,” Zara continued, still staring at the heart of the jewel, and always her fingers stroked and circled, discovering the unique topography of Juliana’s hand.

Zara touched a delicate curved line. “The first will travel far.” Her blunt finger continued, edging along until it encountered a broken line. “The second will douse the flames of hatred.”

Zara’s finger circled back, finding the point where the three main lines converged. “The third will heal old wounds.”

A chill slid up Juliana’s back. “I don’t understand,” she whispered, fighting the urge to snatch back her hand. Outside, the wind rattled through the bare trees, a lonely voice in a world of ice and darkness. “How can you see the destinies of two others in my palm?”

“Hush.” Zara clutched her hand tighter, closed her eyes, and began to sway as if to a melody only she could hear. “Destiny falls like a stone into still water. The circles flow ever outward, encompassing other lives, crossing invisible boundaries.”

In the distant kennels, the dogs added their voices to the howl of the wind. Zara winced at the sound. “I see blood and fire, loss and reunion, and a love so great that neither time nor death can destroy it.”

The harshly whispered words hung, suspended like dust motes, in the dimness. Juliana sat motionless, part of her perfectly aware that Zara was a practiced trickster who could no more see the future than could her brother’s favorite troika pony. Yet deep inside Juliana something moved and shifted, grew warm like an ember fanned by the breath of the wind. She sensed a bright magic in Zara’s words, and for all that they were but vague prophecies, they embedded themselves in her heart.

A love so great. Is that what she would find with Alexei? She had met him only once. He was handsome and youthful, merry eyed and ambitious. But love?

Questions crowded into her throat, but before she could speak, an owl hooted softly from the rafters of the barn.

“Bengui!” Zara dropped Juliana’s hand. Fear shone sleek in her eyes.

“What’s the matter?” Juliana asked. “Zara, what are you hiding?”

Zara shaped her fingers into a sign to ward off evil. “The owl sings to Bengui—to the devil.” Her voice trembled. “It is a clear portent of…”

“Of what?” Faintly, Juliana heard the drumbeat of hooves. Not so much heard it as felt the deep rhythm in the pit of her stomach. “Zara, it’s merely a barn owl. What could it possibly portend?”

“Death,” Zara said, jumping up and running to the stall where her children slept.

Juliana shivered. “That’s ridic—”

The barn door banged open. In a swirl of blowing snow, lit from behind by the icy glow of the moon, Laszlo entered. Behind him came Chavula, Zara’s husband. Both men’s swarthy faces appeared taut with terror.

Chavula spoke rapidly in the Romany tongue. Then he spied Juliana, and the color slid from his cheeks. “God!” he said in Russian. “Don’t let her see!”

Cold apprehension gripped Juliana. “What’s happening, Chavula?” She moved toward the door.

Laszlo stood in her way. “Do not go outside.”

Anger rushed up to join with her fear. “You have no right to order me about. Step aside.”

Juliana took advantage of his hesitation. She pushed past him and stepped out into the blustering snow.

The wind tore at her cloak. Swirling snowflakes pelted her face, and she squinted through the storm in the direction of the main house.

An eerie red glow lit the rambling mansion.

Juliana screamed.

The house was ablaze. Her family and all the servants were in danger. Her beloved windhounds and hunting dogs were confined to the kennels adjacent to the kitchen.

Laszlo yelled a command to Chavula. Lifting her skirts, Juliana raced toward the house. She felt Laszlo grab at her sleeve, but she shook him off.

She ran as if her feet had wings, skimming over the soft snow rather than sinking into the drifts. She saw flames lashing from the windows, heard the yelp of a dog and the whinny of a horse.

But the horses were all stabled for the night. The thought slid through her panicked mind, then disappeared like water through a sieve.

As she was crossing the broad lawn where snowclad bushes and arbors created soft hillocks, she heard heavy breathing behind her.

“Juliana, stop. I beg you.”

“No, Laszlo,” she called over her shoulder. “My family—” Papa. Mama. The boys and their nurse. Alexei. New urgency increased her speed.

Laszlo’s hand gripped the hood of her cloak. He hauled back, and the sudden motion caused her feet to fly out from under her. She hit the ground with a muffled thud, landing beneath a snow-draped weeping mulberry. A shower of snow half buried her.

She opened her mouth to scream. Laszlo’s hand, in a smelly leather mitten, clapped itself over her parted lips, and all she managed was a huff of frantic rage.

Pinning her to the ground with his own body, Laszlo spoke softly into her ear. “I am sorry, little Gaja, but I had to stop you. You do not know what is happening here.”

She wrenched away from his hand. “Then I must go and see—”

A series of loud pops punctuated the air.

“Gunfire!” Laszlo dragged her deeper into the cavelike shelter of the snow-covered mulberry. With a shaking hand, he parted the lower branches to reveal the front of the house.

Shock robbed Juliana of speech. She lay as motionless as a gilt icon. The flames were brighter now, fed by the high winter wind, roaring like giant tongues from the windows and casting bloodred shadows on the ground.

A group of horsemen rode up and down in front of the house. Their mounts were skittish, mist pluming from their distended nostrils and snow flying from beneath their hooves.