God Within Us

VASILISA moved closer, bringing out hand out - it felt as though she were in half a dream - the dream of seeing her mother again. That dream had been all but forgotten - yet now it came rushing back to her, and with it came the rush of a thousand different warring emotions - fear, love, grief. But her mother did not disappear into smoke and ash - she was here, she was home.

The last vestiges of hesitation crumbled away as she took a trembling step forward. “Mother…”

Khariija’s smile deepened. “Vasilisa,” her voice was like the rustle of dead leaves, weak, rasping. “It has been far too long.”

Khariija rose from the chair. Her frail form seemed to shift with the flickering light of the hearth, as though she were more ghost than flesh. Vasilisa reached out instinctively, and pulled her into a hug. She felt her mother’s form beneath her cloak - she was almost entirely a skeleton, for the cloak concealed an even greater wasting than was apparent on her face and hands. She held her mother as gently as she could, afraid that even the slightest pressure might cause her to crumble entirely.

For a moment, the weight of the world vanished. Despite the ruin of her mother’s body, it was as though time had bent, and for just that fleeting moment, they were together again, whole.

“I did not see your coming in my dreams,” Vasilisa spoke when she parted from their embrace at last, bringing measure to her voice again. “Else I would have sought you out immediately. How?”

“You are not the only one who bears the Sight,” her mother replied, the corners of her frayed lips twitching upwards into a small smile. “And it is not infallible - more than anyone else, I’ve learned how to…confuse it. For so many years, that talent served me well - well enough for me to keep fleeing, keep running. But now…”

Her mother fell silent for a long moment, looking Vasilisa up and down with pride and…fear, fear in equal measure. Fear, but no disgust, only a certain awe and respect. “You have grown much…” She eventually managed, sitting back down at the table. “Were it only that I was there to guide you.”

“What happened to you?” Vasilisa asked quietly, her heart twisting as she stared at the withering figure of her mother. “Where did you go? I thought… I feared that Chirlan had found a way to kill you. For good.”

Khariija gave a grim smile. “He has - and he works towards it even now.” She paused, her breath ragged. With a painful, deliberate movement, she reached for the edges of her cloak and pulled it open. Beneath, her blouse was stained and torn, and at the center of her chest, a great festering pit of darkness lay exposed - yawning like a great chasm into nowhere, nothingness. Long tendrils of decay twisted and turned, wrapping around her mother’s chest, squeezing the failing life force from all it touched.

She recognized it all too well. It was the same with Yesugei. An Apostle’s curse.

“A Herald’s soul - even a fragment of it - is a powerful thing indeed,” Khariija said with a nod, knowing her thoughts. “Even with this small shade of his presence, he draws away my strength…and I’ve hardly any more left to give.”

Vasilisa’s eyes locked on the festering wound. “How long…?”

“Not long now,” Khariija admitted, her tone resigned. “My magic is failing. Soon, all the damage done to this body will catch up, and I will have nothing left to keep it together.”

“And then?”

“Then my soul will be freed,” Khariija said softly, leaning back in the chair. “Chirlan’s fragment will linger with me, and doubtless the other dreamers will take notice. They will come for me, all of them.”

A terrible wrench of the knife through her heart. She had just found her mother again, and already the gods and the work of dead men conspired to take her away once more.

“More Apostles?” Vasilisa muttered. Their like did not frighten her anymore - not in the same way as they had in the Devil-Woods. Thrice now, she had seen them slain. “We can turn them back - we can slay them, and now that I’ve the knife-”

“Foolishness,” spat back her mother, her tone suddenly ice-cold and angry. The dancing shadows cast against the light of the hearth grew and swelled, crawling and expanding across the walls, and in the inky blackness Vasilisa saw thousands of small, glittering lights. “Do not speak of things which you do not know. Do you think the Apostles are the only ones that dwell in the night sky? Are there only twelve stars that you see? No, they are legion, more than you can count. The Apostles stand as first among them, the Heralds first among the Apostles, but Heaven’s army is vast. You cannot stop them all, not even with a thousand knives.”

Khariija sighed, and the shadows retreated with her spirits. She seemed small again, frail and weak. “No…you cannot stop them all. Not yet. Already, your strength is divided.”

Her eyes flicked to Yesugei, piercing through him to his very core. “You should count your blessings, son of the White Khan,” she muttered bitterly. “My daughter’s mercy is all that keeps you alive, but I would not have been so kind.”

Khariija turned back to Vasilisa before Yesugei could speak against her. “But whatever it may be, you are still but a tadpole in comparison to what I have seen brewing in the east.” Her mother leaned back, her ragged breathing heavy now, as though the very effort of speaking drained her. “Jirghadai…I had once thought the prophecy would touch another, but it was cowardice that clouded my mind. He is your better, for he has the counsel of Eridu.”

“I have heard that name before, from Unukalhai,” Yesugei spoke up. “She is the one who taught Jirghadai how to make fire into flesh, I gather?”

“Her craft is in all such things,” muttered Khariija. “And more besides. The eons have turned Gandroth’s children cruel, and they delight in such madness - and from such cruelty, such suffering, that they draw their strength. Eridu will push Jirghadai to win faith through fear, power through the pain he will inflict upon the world.”

Vasilisa met her mother’s eyes, glazed over and already dead, like those of a caught fish. “And what am I to do? How do I stop him, stop them?”

Khariija closed her dead eyes. “You will need a Herald of your own,” she rasped. “And I will serve that role, for as long as I have left.”

In that instant, ruin flashed before her eyes - a city aflame, and a terrible banner lifted over the walls of the city. A dread column of skeletal men and horses, marching across a barren and broken land. A crying, bleeding sun, and she herself drawing a pale shroud over its face to hide its eyes from the ruin of the world below.

Vasilisa sensed Yesugei bristling. Did he see what she saw? Why are you silent? She wondered to herself. Speak to me, tell me this is madness, tell me of a better way. A kinder way. There must be one.

There must be.

There must be another way. Two paths may be walked. She could not turn down the help of a Herald, the help of her own mother…but there had to be another path. Vasilisa closed her eyes, drawing a slow, deliberate breath. “Tell me what you will.”

Khariija smiled, her cracked lips pulling tight over decaying teeth. “There is much to learn, my daughter. But first…” She leaned closer, her voice lowering as though the walls themselves might listen. “Before you think of striking east, you must think of what lies here. Klyazma is fragile - there are three crowns where there should be one, and even your own hall is riddled with dissent and traitors. The realm is a brittle spear, and it will shatter before it ever strikes its target.”

The words sank in deep, twisting with a cold, ugly feeling in her gut. “I have done all that I can to hold this realm together,” she insisted. “The boyars may grumble, but none have defied my summons, nor have they abandoned the duma - that is a sign, is it not? They will march when I command it.” Yet even as she said this, her own words rang hollow to her ears.

“They may obey,” Khariija agreed softly. “But for how long? Their loyalty must be without question - without concessions, or reward. No more promises, or gold, or titles. You have swallowed a star, you have seen things that are beyond the small minds of those that force you to bow and make pretty noises.

“Those men and women outside are only mortal, no different than the lowliest of slaves. They are yours to mold, to bend, to break if need be - and it must be done.” The dead, glazed eyes came to life once more, shining with their golden madness. “You wish for the wisdom of a Herald? I will teach you the strength to make them yours, to march to the end of ends. But there will be cruelty - a blade must be beaten into shape, a spear hardened by fire. But the world will be saved.”

Vasilisa felt her own heart seem to swell with that intoxicating madness - the smell of blood and power, of the promise of fear that lay in her mother’s words.

Fear. Rule through fear, came the thought - but then, another. No, that is the rule of the burning column, the crying sun. “You speak of tyranny,” she whispered back to her mother. “Raegnald’s brother, Sinevald of Pemil, he once sought to make himself a god in the flesh, and his own guards impaled him upon a dozen spears for it. You speak of madness.”

“What is madness, in a world that has already gone mad?” Khariija countered sharply. “I speak of necessity. Do you think the boyars will follow you into the mouth of doom as you are? Do you think the common man will march to the very end of the world to fight Jirghadai and Eridu for hope of some gold, or lands and titles? You love your people, but they will break and run, and you will be alone.”

Khariija leaned back in her chair, her form shrouded in the dim light, yet still radiating authority. “You cannot afford softness anymore, child. The end times are upon us. The Star-Eater must rise above such things, such mortal folly and foolishness. You must see this, child.”

“She will see ruin if she walks this path you seek for her,” Yesugei interrupted as he stepped forward to the table. The light from the hearth glittered in his eyes, glittering gold and red. “The people of this land are already beginning to see her as their god - but a merciful one. Have you seen what happened today, and the day before? People are willing to die for her, to give up all they have - that is already a power beyond Jirghadai, if he rules through fear.”

Vasilisa felt out Yesugei’s thoughts, letting his mind become hers, and hers his once more.

The advice of both Heralds is poison, came the thought, hers and his at once. Their purpose is to tear the world at itself. Even if she does not know it, Khariija plays to that purpose all the same. How similar are the words that Eridu pours into Jirghadai’s ear?

Suddenly, Vasilisa became aware of her mother's presence in a way she had not before - it was as though she was seeing with another pair of eyes. A shadow passed at her back, and a familiar, song-like voice whispered in her ear once again. Chirlan. Your mind is your own. Your hope is your own, however frail it grows. Close yourself, rule from the empire of your mind alone.

For a moment, Vasilisa's body tensed, her breath catching in her throat. She felt the dark tendrils of her mother's influence brushing against her mind. The voice was sweet, coaxing, the madness of the Herald infectious. It all sounded right, so right… until it didn’t. Beneath the words, something else stirred, something that was not her mother - because she was not only her mother, she was also Khariija…some thing that was not human. And that inhuman part of her mother had power of its own - a guiding hand, pushing her along a dread path she could not bring herself to walk. Her influence had to be sealed away - her mind needed to be her own.

With a silent, immense effort, she imagined a veil descending over her mother’s eyes, obscuring her from sight. She closed herself off, retreating into the recesses of her mind, that place where the only voice would be her own. And as the shroud fell, she felt her mind slipping away - not just from her mother, but from Yesugei as well.

That cut deeper, the distance more painful, but it had to be done. She shut out his voice, his fears, and when the final echoes were gone, she was alone - truly alone, in the dark empire of her own thoughts. Her mind would be her own - there was only one Vessel, and her path belonged to no-one else.

She set a hand on Yesugei’s shoulder. “Enough, Yesugei.”

The nomad princeling swiveled his head about to face her, and the look in his eyes was one of pain. “What have you done?” He sensed it as well as her. A sudden quiet, a sudden cold - the severing of their hearts. “No, do not tell me-”

“I am.” Her tone was harsh, laced with command. “The gentle hand…it works slowly, too slowly for our need. And my people need strength, victory, more than mercy.”

The nomad princeling stepped away from her, looking first at Khariija, then back to her, searching, pleading. Then his gaze hardened, and the warmth from his eyes was gone.

“So be it. But there will only be sorrow, Vasilisa,” he said at length. He brought a gloved hand up to his robe, and pulled the left half aside. Beneath the silk was an array of half-healed scars, the work of her own messy hand. It must have been painful, slicing through the cursed flesh. But it had saved him. And now she was losing him with every step she took.

“Do not forget hope.” said Yesugei. He drew his robe back over the healed wound. “I will be there when you remember. Ever and always.”

And then Yesugei was gone, disappearing down the hallway and into the failing shadows.

Khariija’s smile returned, softer this time, almost maternal. “He will come around, in due time. But for now, my daughter…there is much work to be done.”

***

When she returned to the Great Hall, the sun had passed its zenith, and cast long pillars of shadow that cut through the colorful light of the stained glass windows. And to her surprise, the call to the Duma once more saw the pews full - rows of boyars, magisters, and advisors sat on the flanks of the hall, their murmurs a constant hum under the high, vaulted ceilings.

Vasilisa’s eyes swept the hall as she entered from the eastern wing. Goran stood out immediately. The Prince of Gatchisk had taken a seat in the center of the left wing of the hall, and around him clustered a dozen boyars like moths to a flame. Vissarion and the Widow of the West sat directly to either side of the Young Griffon, speaking with half-smiles and slow nods. Their whispers halted as her gaze fell upon them, but she could see their thoughts spilling free, like loose threads unraveling.

A stronger prince - that is the way!

And brave, but wise - wise to the proper ways, and familiar to boot.

This is one we can speak to.

This is one we can control.

She drew back her presence from their minds as her eyes swept further down the Great Hall - she did not see Yesugei among the crowd, nor Kargasha or the shamaness. That absence cut, but she pushed it away. Not now. Her path was set, and they had chosen their distance - likely they remained somewhere in the city, or else sulking elsewhere in the Great Hall. Of the familiar faces only Demyan remained, but when she looked upon him, she saw his doubts as well - and something more. A righteous anger. Heresy.

The boyars rose to their feet, their movements stiff and formal, as one of the heralds announced her presence. They dipped their heads in a low bow as she sat her throne, their eyes lingering on her, some with curiosity, others with unease. Vasilisa responded with a slight nod, permitting them to return to their seats. Then, the clack of Demyan's spear against the stone floor, followed by the boom of the druzhinnik’s voice, announced the beginning of the Duma.

She intended to waste no time. “My lords of the realm,” she began, her voice echoing through the vaulted chamber, “today, we cut to the heart of the matter for which I summoned you all to my city. I speak of the matter of Prince Svetopolk, and his treasons against the throne.”

Her words silenced whatever remaining murmurs lingered among the lords. Her gaze swept the room once more before she beckoned to one of them. “Boyar Gavril,” she called, her voice measured but firm. “Rise, and tell the court of what you had seen to the north.”

Gavril rose from the pews. His face was pale, and his hands trembled slightly as he addressed the assembly, though whether from fear of her or what he was about to say, Vasilisa could not tell. His loyalty at least, she knew not to be in question: that he had arrived first at her summons was good enough of a sign, even without the confession of his thoughts betraying no treason.

“Your Majesty,” Gavril began, his voice shaky at first but gaining strength as he spoke. “My scouts have always kept a good watch on the border. They have seen Prince Svetopolk’s forces massing across the Sinevaldr Marches - some twenty thousand men, many of them heavy horse and of course-” He paused, gripping the rest of the pew. “Varyazi. We have all seen them prowling the rivers, my lords, but merchants from Pemil have reported seeing many more anchored off the coast. Some say close to five dozen ships.”

The ripple of unease was immediate. The boyars broke into clucking whispers, their voices like nervous birds, fluttering about the chamber. One of them stood abruptly, his face twisted in disbelief. “Twenty thousand? Impossible! Pemil could not raise such a host in so short a time!”

Others quickly followed, their voices rising in a cacophony of objections and questions. “Has Svetopolk sent terms?” one shouted.

“This is madness!” called another. “Svetopolk must be bluffing. Mayhaps he only means to scare Belnopyl into concessions, some tithes.”

Vasilisa watched them, her fingers curling over the armrests of her throne, nails digging into the wood. The voices grated on her like the buzzing of flies. Their minds spilled free like water from a broken vessel - petty, frightened thoughts grasping for any hope that this threat might be negotiated away. They have not known war for twenty years, she thought to herself. And few wish a return to the dark years when each city bore its own crown.

She allowed them to stir in their fear and doubts for a while. “Enough,” she said eventually, her voice cutting through the din like a knife. “My lords, this is a time of treachery, a time of oathbreakers. Do any among you truly think Svetopolk calls his banners for mere terms, to talk of tariffs and tithes? Do you think the Varyazi would amass so many ships to his banner for mere treasure? My lords, Pemil marches for our land, for our blood. Just as Sinevald marched against Raegnald, Svetopolk comes to unmake this realm, and if we do not meet him in kind, he will do just that.”

Silence settled over the hall, thick and oppressive. Several of the boyars looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze. But she could feel their fear now, taste it like iron on the air.

“My lords, you know as well as I what must be done,” she continued. “I have called you here to discuss the matter of war.”

She saw Goran nod his head in agreement as a grumble passed through her court. Still on his feet, Gavril spoke up, “What would you have us do, my lady?”

“Our banners are not without their own strength,” she replied. “At present we have ten thousand men, and another five shall come in time from Gatchisk. Svetopolk will find Belnopyl no easy prey, and neither will time be on his side. Soon, the autumn rains will come, and all the land from Pemil to the Gravemarsh will become a mire that will swallow up any army that will try to brave it. If Svetopolk wishes to strike for us, he must march before summer’s end, or else wait into the winter.”

She paused, straining her mind as she tried to parse through the flood of possibilities that lay before her. Lucidity came in bursts and fits, even with her mother’s advice.

“...and the longer he waits,” she spoke at length, seeing the dizzying array of Svetopolk’s banners even now, flapping beyond the Sinevaldr Marches. Grumbling, impetuous boyars, druzhinniks thirsting for glory and pillage, and the levied freemen who only sought a swift war, and an even swifter return to their fields and home. “The more gold and fodder he will spend keeping his men in the field. And the more time he affords us to gather our strength.”

To that wisdom, even those who were most stubborn against her in court could not disagree. Vissarion nodded along, stroking his beard deep in though, and murmuring a few words to some fellow that sat off to his side. The Widow of the West, Rogneda, pursed her lips at the bitter thought of war.

It was then that one of the older boyars, a man with a deep-set frown and silver at his temples, rose to his feet. "Your Majesty," he began, voice thick with respect but also reservation, "if war is truly upon us, it is only right to ask who will lead us into this brotherly war.”

Vasilisa straightened in her throne, her eyes scanning the room with calculated calm. Now came the next, and far greater challenge. "You are correct,” she spoke firmly, her tone of iron. “We have not seen such a war in many a year, and so in some matters, we must look back to the days of old. The House of Belnopyl has always led from the front against all that came against our lands with the sword - I intend to do the same, as my father and my father’s father have done so before.”

A murmur of discontent stirred immediately, rising like the hum of distant bees. It did not take the Sight for Vasilisa to know what was coming next.

"Your Majesty," Boyar Gavril spoke again, shifting uncomfortably. "We mean no disrespect to your house or your lineage, but..." He hesitated, glancing at his fellow lords before continuing. "You are young, and though wise beyond your years, war is a different beast. Others before you have named a Chief Voivode to lead in the field - might we not do the same on this day?”

Gavril looked to the rest of the court. Others nodded, and soon the others stood from the crowd, emboldened. "A voivode to command, yes!" one shouted.

“In this very court are many who are seasoned in command, your Majesty,” spoke another boyar from Vissarion’s tent. “It would be no shame to call for experience. It would be wise.”

Vasilisa nodded, listening, though her mind churned with impatience. It is a bitter thing for a woman to sit the throne, much less command. She had known it from the beginning, and though her voice remained calm, her Sight danced with the dark shapes of their intentions.

“Very well,” she said, raising one hand for silence. “You speak wisely, Gavril of Gorkiy. If there must be a Voivode, then I intend to name one who has proven his mettle in recent years - I intend to name Ilya, who has been my father’s and my father’s father’s loyal man for many a year, and who came to this city in its darkest hour against the usurpers.”

She heard a few stifled groans come from the court, and from there, a ripple of dissent that took like fire among many in the assembly. It was the Clutchpurse Lord, Gleb, who stood to his feet from among the dissenters. “Ilya?” He almost squawked in his high, nasally voice. “Your Majesty, he is a good man, that is true. But we cannot forget the disaster of Ongainur. Many of us fought there, and we remember the folly of Prince Gastya’s Left Hand - only two in ten men returned from that bloody field because of his bluster, his…over-eagerness. Can we risk putting such a man at the head again?”

His words stung. The folly at Ongainur had been a child of many fathers, more than Ilya - the Quanli tribesmen who had fled the right flank, Prince Gvozden’s own indecisiveness…and even her father’s father, who had run his men ragged chasing after the Khormchaks where a more shrewd lord might have halted at the border of the open steppe, and not fallen for the snare of the Horde's false retreat. But the other fathers of that failure were dead and gone…and worst of all, the Clutchpurse was not wrong.

A few other boyars nodded in agreement, their thoughts swirling like a tempest of doubt. “The realm cannot risk another disaster like Ongainur,” one of them called.

“Not now,” repeated another meekly. “Not with so much blood waiting to be shed.”

“Folly!” cried back boyar Gavril suddenly. “I count many among you here who held your own command at Ongainur - does the blame not lie with you as well? Do not be so eager to forget yourselves - all of you fled from that killing field, so shall we all be named cowards?”

“Not all of us,” came a voice from the back, sharp and cutting. The speaker stepped forward. Vasilisa’s eyes narrowed as Goran rose to his feet. The Prince of Gatchisk smiled, though there was little warmth in it.

“If I may, Your Majesty,” Goran began, his tone measured and diplomatic, “I may not have been at Ongainur Field, but I have fought many battles - some with odds far worse than what we face now. And against enemies far more fearsome than Svetopolk. Who else here can boast of smashing shields against an Yllahanan legion, of skirmishing against Suzdalian crossbowmen, of repulsing Huwaqi lancers - and finding victory against all?” His gaze swept the room, resting briefly on the faces of the gathered boyars, before returning to Vasilisa. “I am not from Belnopyl, but I have pledged my sword to your cause. Let me lead your armies, and let Gatchisk prove the worth of its word.”