The Legend of Lost Aulta

17. Love, Eadric

RONNIE

The stone castle was a large place. And Tsar Kirill grudgingly rented some of that space, temporarily, to the pilgrims that his son had so brazenly welcomed into their home.

Ronnie did not like big, empty spaces. Miles and miles of stone and walls and empty silences. At least in the wild fields of the farm, he could hear the birds chirping, the cows mooing, the horses braying. He could feel the grass and wheat stalks around his ankles, brushing his skin. Here, there was nothing. The occasional carpet and hole in the wall to look- or shoot- out from.

He and Feliks' room was the same. The girls had been sent to their own room, just a door down, and Ronnie and the Tsarevich had been sent to a "guest room", that looked rather like a cupboard which had been hastily set with two linen bedrolls. The bedrolls weren't too bad- Ronnie had slept in mud before, in the depths of a trench, in a hollowed cave filled with bats that fluttered along his face, taunting him. Bedrolls were welcome, even though they sat on a hard stone floor with nothing to accompany them.

"It's him."

Ronnie looked up. He was laid out on his bedroll, his legs splayed out onto the stone floor. He was big. Too big for simple guest's bedrolls. During the war, he had been given nothing to sleep upon- his size was too much of an intrusion. Alexei always gave his pack and jacket for Ronnie to rest his weary head.

"Otdykhay, moy brat," his voice was clear even now, even in the silence of this stone room far from where Ronnie had left him.

"Did you hear me?" Ronnie startled, and looked up to see Feliks. The Tsarevich was looking at him with a troubled look on his thin face, his blue eyes focused as though they were reading him.

"Sorry," stumbled Ronnie, "I did not hear you, Feliks."

Feliks smiled, "I said, it's him."

"Who?"

The Tsarevich laughed, "who do you think? The boy- the Chort Tsarevich. He's the one I saw in my dream."

"Him?" said Ronnie. The Tsarevich had certainly been a large presence in the room, but not a particularly positive one. His eyes were dark and narrow, his expression with a strange, malicious interest.

He also did not like the way the Chort had looked at Yulia. His mouth quirked into a smirk, his eyes dark and roaming over her body like she was something to be consumed, an object. It had made Ronnie feel slightly sick, and... angry. He wasn't often angry at other people, but this was a quiet rage, burning in his chest, almost aching. He tried to give the Chort the benefit of the doubt.

"I will go with what you say, moi- Feliks," he said, "so how will we convince Tsar Kirill to let us take his son? He did not seem particularly on board."

"We will find a way," said Feliks, "I have already told him our mission, I am yet to tell him what he stands to risk if he denies us."

"And what is that?" asked Ronnie.

The Tsarevich smiled wickedly, "I suppose he'll find out."

And with that, there was a harsh knocking at the door. Before either of the boys could say anything, it flew open, and three servants dressed in black, their wings folded to their backs, emerged holding piles of black clothes.

Feliks got to his feet, "what is the meaning of this?"

One of the servants bowed, "as Tsar Kirill's esteemed guests, the Tsar and the Tsarevich have invited you and your companions to dinner."

"Oh," said Feliks, seeming surprised, "...alright. Well, thank you."

"We shall prepare you for your appearance," said one Chort, two small horns pointing from her scalp. Immediately, she approached Ronnie and began to strip him of his jacket.