Necropolis (Royal Sorceress Book 3) (30 page)

One by one, the monks fell into prostration, banging their heads on the ground. Gwen hesitated, then forced herself to kowtow too, knowing that the danger of being discovered outweighed the blow to her pride. She hoped the robe stayed in place as she touched her head against the stone floor, then straightened up with the rest of the monks. The man in golden robes took a place between the statue’s legs and started to speak in Russian. His listeners muttered a few words of their own between sentences.

A prayer
, Gwen guessed.
But for what
?

The formality sounded like something from the Catholic Church, at least from what she’d been told about the Split with Rome, the Civil War and Reformation. With the Pope a French mouthpiece, England had largely barred Catholics from its shores. Gwen had never met one, as far as she knew. The ones who remained in England tended to keep their heads down and not make waves. They knew how easy it was to be blamed for every little thing that went wrong.

And then another rustle ran through the room. The Tsar had arrived. He wore black robes, decorated with gold braid and studded with medals. It couldn’t conceal his thin frame, Gwen thought nastily, even though the tailor had clearly tried his best. The Tsar showed no sign of respect or appreciation for the monks, even the ones hastily prostrating themselves in front of him. And, behind him, escorted by a pair of monks ...

Gwen started.
Olivia
!

Chapter Twenty-Five

O
livia ached all over as they pulled her from the carriage after a long and uncomfortable ride, her wrists hurting so much that she doubted she could pick up a pencil, let alone pick a lock like she’d learned to do on the streets. The Russians half-carried her through a large door, down a set of steps and into yet another prison cell. Behind her, Ivan was dragged away in a different direction, causing her to lose sight of him almost at once. Losing him gave her an odd wrench, even though she knew he deserved death or worse. He’d started the whole affair by taking her from Cavendish Hall.

“Smelly,” a voice said. Olivia looked up to see a woman wearing noblewoman’s clothing, standing in the cell. Her snooty tone could give Lady Mary a run for her money. “And to think you’re supposed to be presented to the Tsar.”

Olivia glared at her, wishing she had her hands free. One good punch and that aristocratic nose would shatter like an egg. The woman gave her an amused smile, then reached out and touched Olivia’s forehead. Instantly, she felt a strange tingle running through her body, followed by a burst of energy. She felt almost completely refreshed.

“Magic,” the woman said. She reached for Olivia’s cuffed hands, then slotted a key into the cuffs and undid them. “I suggest you cooperate. It will make this go so much easier.”

Olivia rubbed her wrists, frantically. “For whom?”

“I can call the guards and have them strip you by force,” the woman pointed out. She eyed Olivia’s rumpled dress with some amusement. “You’d think they’d know by now that long carriage rides aren’t good for dresses.”

She leaned backwards, then sighed. “Undress,” she ordered. “You should have time for a wash before the Tsar arrives.”

Olivia hesitated, then realised she had very little choice. She tore the dress away from her body, taking a crude delight in seeing the noblewoman wince at torn stitches and damaged silks, then walked over to the bathtub. The water was warm, but not scalding hot. Relieved, she climbed in and splashed around, trying to get clean. Her entire body felt mucky after hours in the carriage.

“Hurry,” the woman said. “You don’t want to be presented to the Tsar naked and dripping wet.”

“As if they would,” Olivia muttered, but she pulled herself out of the bath anyway. The woman had already found a new dress, just as frilly and ridiculous as the last one; Olivia groaned when she saw it, then started to pull it on. “Why can’t I have trousers and a shirt?”

“Because you are going to be presented to the Tsar,” the woman said, patiently. “And because I have to make you look nice.”

“Oh,” Olivia said. “Another prisoner?”

The brief haunted look in the woman’s eye answered
that
question. Olivia cursed under her breath, remembering Esther and her sisters, then finished pulling on the dress. Like so many other such dresses, it was remarkably fiddly, almost impossible for one person to don on their own. One of the Trouser Brigade she’d met had called dresses the signs of female enslavement, worse than handcuffs. Having been handcuffed as well as forced to wear a dress, Olivia disagreed, but she had to admit that the dresses came a close second.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as she struggled with the laces. “Where are we?”

“Moscow,” the woman said. “I used to live here.”

Olivia tried to be kind. “What happened?”

“My husband was caught plotting against the Tsar,” the woman said. Her voice was dead, filled with utter hopelessness. “He was burned alive in front of the Kremlin. My brothers were sent to count trees in Siberia. My children were taken from me, held hostage for my good behaviour. And now I am a maidservant for the Tsar, forced to serve him until the day I die.”

Olivia shivered. The Russians, it seemed, believed in collective punishment. She wondered, suddenly, what would happen – might have already happened – to Ivan’s relatives. If the Charmer had lost his tongue, who knew what might have been done to his family? They could have been killed or exiled or forced into servitude or ...

“I’m sorry,” she muttered again.

“You are to be presented to the Tsar,” the woman said. “You could speak on my behalf.”

“I don’t think he would listen to me,” Olivia said. If she’d had a chance to integrate herself with Gregory and his monks, she would probably have lost it the first time they read her mind. And they
would
have read her mind, if she’d claimed to accept the Father Tsar as God. “I’m sorry.”

She had only just started tying up the bows when there was a sharp knock on the door, which opened moments later to reveal two black-clad men. Behind them, there was another man in a dark suit covered in gold braid. Olivia fancied she would have recognised him as the Tsar even if her assistant hadn’t immediately flung herself to the ground and started banging her head against the cold floor. It didn’t take an expert to realise that the woman was completely terrified.

“The Necromancer,” the Tsar said. His English was almost completely unaccented. “It is a great pleasure to meet the one responsible for my immortality.”

It took Olivia a moment to parse out the grammar. “I haven’t done anything yet,” she protested. Those lessons at Cavendish Hall might have been worthwhile after all. “And I won’t do
anything
for you.”

The Tsar looked amused, rather than annoyed. “Of course you will,” he said. “I have Charmers to
make
you do as I wish.”

Olivia gritted her teeth, feeling hopelessness slide its way into her heart. The Tsar had Charmers; of
course
the Tsar had Charmers. And no doubt an entire staff practiced at inflicting pain on unwilling victims without causing serious damage. If she defied him, she would simply be forced into compliance.

“And you might wish to take notice,” the Tsar added. He stepped over to the noblewoman, still prostrating herself on the floor, and placed his boot on the back of her neck. “I can kill anyone, if I have to.”

“I grew up on the streets,” Olivia sneered. Cold fury drove her onwards. “You think I haven’t seen
death
before?”

The Tsar smiled. “You will make me one of the living dead,” he said. “And then the country will be united under my rule.”

Olivia stared at him. “It won’t work,” she said. “You’ll die.”

“Then you will have the pleasure of watching me die,” the Tsar said. He looked down at the woman under his boot, then pushed down, hard. There was a snap and a gasp, then the woman lay still. “But you will not deny me, not now.”

“The only person I care about is thousands of miles from here,” Olivia said. The streets didn’t encourage long-term friendships, not among boys when one of them was a girl pretending to be a boy. Gwen was about the only person she cared for, even at Cavendish Hall. What did
she
have in common with the rest of the girls? “You can’t threaten to kill me.”

“But you can be Charmed,” the Tsar said. “And you will be, if you refuse to serve.”

He paused. “But I give you my word,” he added. “If you do as you are told, one final time, you will be sent home.”

Olivia stared at him, hope warring with experience inside her breast. She knew the Tsar would never let her go, not when she knew far too much, but part of her wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that there was a way out. She tried to resist the sudden burst of homesickness, yet it was too strong.

I’m sorry, Gwen
, she thought.
I’m sorry.

She bowed her head.

“Excellent,” the Tsar said, smiling like a little boy. A dull gong echoed through the complex, then faded away to nothingness. He held out his hand to her, for all the world as if he were inviting her to a dance. “Shall we go?”

The monks closed in on them as they walked out of the cell and headed down the corridor, the cold stone unpleasant against her bare feet. Olivia looked around frantically, searching for a way out of the trap, but found nothing. If she’d managed to break free of the Tsar’s hand, they would have caught her before she managed to get out of the crowd and flee. They stopped outside a large door, where a man in golden robes waited for them, then the Tsar let go of her hand and spoke briefly to the man. He stepped through the door, leaving them alone. Long moments passed before the door opened again, allowing the Tsar to lead her into the large chamber.

She cringed as she realised just how many monks there were in the chamber, several of them banging their heads on the floor. The Tsar could have killed half of them and the remainder would have hailed him for it, she thought, bitterly. He might have sounded affable, but he’d been prepared to kill one of his own noblewomen just to make a point. She wanted to glare at his back, yet she didn’t quite dare. The entire room might rise up against her if she showed him the slightest hint of disrespect.

“Welcome,” a voice said. She looked up to see Gregory, standing under a large statue of the Tsar. It was all she could do not to snicker when she realised just which part of the Tsar’s anatomy he was standing under. “You will serve your purpose now, My Lady Olivia.”

Olivia looked away. A line of cuffed men were attached to the far wall, staring wildly at her and the monks. One of them was Ivan, she realised; she tried to send him a look of reassurance, even though they both knew there was no way out. Whatever Gregory intended to do, whatever form the Tsar’s madness took, neither of them was going to survive.

“Let us begin,” Gregory said. “Father Tsar?”

The Tsar stepped forward, rolling up his sleeve to reveal bare flesh. Olivia watched, surprised, as Gregory held out a large syringe of reddish liquid –
blood
? – and injected it into the Tsar’s veins. She vaguely recalled being told that some forms of blood were poisonous if injected into the wrong person, but Lucy hadn’t been very clear at the time and rarely needed to use blood transfusion in any case. It didn’t matter, she realised grimly; the Tsar didn’t even look uncomfortable as the blood flowed into his body.

“He has survived,” Gregory said. “He is truly our Father Tsar!”

That was it?
Olivia thought, as the monks started to chant in their thick tongue.
They injected him with blood
?

“Let us proceed,” Gregory said. The monks quietened; silence fell over the room. “My Father Tsar, the path lies open before you.”

The Tsar reached into his pocket and removed a long silver knife. Olivia stared in disbelief as he pushed the tip of the blade against his chest, then slowly moved it up to his lung. Was he planning to
kill
himself? She couldn’t tear her eyes away as he braced himself, his eyes glowing with an unholy gleam, and plunged the knife into his lungs. He didn’t even cry out as he slumped to the floor, his breath coming in great rasping gasps. It didn’t look quite right.

There must have been something on the blade
, Olivia thought.
Something to make his death easier.

A monk grabbed her arm. “Use your magic,” he ordered. “Make him one of the undead.”

Olivia hesitated. If she did nothing, the Tsar would die ... and, if Ivan had been telling the truth, all of Russia would collapse into civil war. It would be worth her death to see the scheme collapse for want of a country – and a Necromancer.

“Use your magic,” he repeated, lacing his voice with Charm. “Make him one of the undead.

Olivia jerked as the commands thundered into her mind. She knelt beside the Tsar, trying desperately to resist, but it was futile. Her magic slipped into his body, seeking to bring him back to a shambling parody of life. Gregory knelt beside her, allowing his magic to merge with hers. Olivia tried to flinch back – melding the best and brightest of magic with the darkest felt like blasphemy – but the Charmer’s commands were inescapable. Her magic flowed from her, interacted with Gregory’s and shimmered into the Tsar’s body. And then there was a shock that threw her backwards, away from the Tsar.

He moaned, then started to climb to his feet. His face was already paling, his eyes slowly becoming a dull yellow colour, but something was dreadfully wrong. She’d expected him to go for her throat, or at least the throat of Gregory or one of the others in the chamber, yet he seemed to be almost
considering
. A thought struck her and she reached out with her powers, trying to guide his body, only to discover that she couldn’t get in. It felt almost as if he still possessed a soul.

The Tsar turned to face her, moving slowly and deliberately. His mouth opened, revealing sharp teeth; he smiled, widely. Olivia backed away slowly until she walked right into the Charmer, who held her upright in a grip of steel. His touch brought her back to herself, revealing what was missing. She’d grown used to the whispering in her head, but now it was gone. The chamber was silent.