The Posol
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“Vasilisa!” Mariana’s sharp voice shattered the tranquil hum of the outdoors, commanding immediate attention. Even the birds seemed to pause, as if cowed by her authority.
Vasilisa frowned, turning away from the window to meet Mariana’s familiar scowl. The elderly woman’s expression, etched deeply into her face, was as constant as the sunrise.
“What are you laughing at, girl? The Horde’s posol will arrive any moment, and you’re daydreaming!” snapped Mariana.
“And why does it matter to me, nyanya?” Vasilisa replied as Mariana entered, trailed by five handmaidens each carrying an armful of finely-tailored dresses.
“I thought Father would be holding court without me again!” Vasilisa exclaimed, but her words fell on deaf ears as Mariana began to order the handmaidens about.
“Well, this time you finally get to see the posol yourself!” sighed Mariana as she stood Vasilisa up. "My lord wishes you to join today - now stand up straight!"
The handmaidens paraded the assorted dresses before Mariana’s critical eye. One by one, she dismissed them with a click of her tongue. “Too short. Too tight. Too plain.”
Finally, she settled on an emerald green dress with an embroidered belt. “At least this one hides those bullish shoulders,” Mariana muttered.
To Vasilisa, ambassador of the Great Khormchak Horde was less a man and more a dark symbol of the nomad yoke. Every few years, he came to demand tributes in exchange for the Charter that allowed her father to rule under the Great Khan. Perhaps fearing the envoy might take an interest in his daughter, her father had always kept Vasilisa hidden. Over the years, she had caught only a fleeting, hazy glimpse of the posol's entourage—now little more than a half-forgotten memory.
Now she was a grown woman of twenty summers - already well into marriageable age, as her father constantly bemoaned. Then the suspicion dawned on her as to why her father had a sudden interest in presenting her before the posol.
Before she could voice her thoughts, Mariana was already fitting the emerald dress to her frame. Each attempt at conversation was silenced by a click of the tongue or a wayward prick of the matron’s needle. Her work stretched from minutes into what felt like hours, broken only by the sound of labored footsteps and a heavy knock at the door.
Ilya, chief of her father’s druzhina bodyguards, stepped inside, his burly armored frame filling the doorway. Despite his gruff appearance, he greeted Vasilisa with a warm, grandfatherly smile. "Good lady Vasilisa, your father requests your presence in court soon.”
“In a moment!” scowled Mariana as she reached into a jewelry chest. The matron withdrew the final piece of the imperious doll Vasilisa of Belnopyl was transformed into: jeweled garland, set with fine emeralds and rubies. It weighed heavily settled on Vasilisa’s head - and the lingering doubts in her mind became crystallized. Marriage. He means to marry me off.
Mariana grasped Vasilisa's wrist tightly as she led the princess out of her room, then passed her off to Ilya. Vasilisa's skin began to crawl, and her heart thumped so anxiously in her chest that she held in an urge to vomit. Marriage, so soon, so suddenly? How? Why?
Ilya didn’t take her hand, but it only made the sense of looming dread even worse as she walked down the hall with him. Her mind raced at a thousand thoughts a second as she walked behind Ilya, her every step guiding her closer and closer to seeming oblivion even as her mind screamed to stop, halt, run, go anywhere but here.
The prospect of being exiled to the steppes, a pawn passed between houses in a political game, filled her with dread. Such marriages were always a reality among the nobility of Klyazma - marriages for alliances, for gold, for titles. But she had always thought herself different - her family, the House of Belnopyl, above it all. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to focus. Think! Think!
“Ilya?” Her voice suddenly sounded so small. She set aside the deafening thoughts, then spoke more firmly. “Ilya, what do you know about this posol? I’ve heard much about him, but I’ve never even seen him, much less met him.”
Her father’s man grunted, one gloved hand clenching into a fist near the size of Vasilisa’s head. “The posol normally comes and goes within the day. Your father and I usually have his tribute gathered already so he, busy man that he is, can depart as quickly as possible.”
“Is that not the case this time?”
“No, unfortunately,” muttered Ilya as he rubbed the back of his neck and adjusted his gilded helmet. “He and his men are planning to stay as our guests in this manor for a while. Your father’s told me to say little else on the matter, my lady.”
“I see.”
“Indeed.”
The sun shone dazzlingly against Ilya’s armor as they stepped out onto the open bridge that ran between the eastern wing and the Great Hall. Yet the sunlight did not feel warm - at least, not warm enough to chase away the chilling fingers that wrapped themselves around Vasilisa’s shoulders. She looked over the railing, thinking for half a moment of the height and the fall, but the thought faded as fast as it came.
Then she looked out further, past the curtain walls of the keep where her father’s city lay sprawled magnificently along the Cherech - the city’s lifeblood and its greatest treasure. The high midsummer sun caught the river's surface and turned it into a sheet of molten gold. Tents and wagons crowded the banks, while merchant ships from Pemil and Gatchisk swayed in the waters. For a fleeting moment, home seemed more beautiful than ever - but something felt amiss.
“Ilya,” she said, hurrying her pace to walk alongside him. “If the posol is coming, then where are the others? Should the princes of Pemil and Gatchisk not come to pay their own respects to the Great Khan?”
Mariana's arrival had taken so by storm, the absence of the usual pageantry only struck her now. Law dictated the princes of Belnopyl, Pemil, and Gatchisk were to gather at the Klyazmite capital to honor the posol and the Great Khan. Usually, the princes brought with them armies of followers that turned the city into a bustling hub - yet now, they were ghosts in the wind.
“Gvozden of Gatchisk is ill as ever, you know this,” Ilya replied. He paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "As for Svetopolk...it is curious that he has not arrived."
"Curious?" She pressed. Surely if she was to be married off, all the princes of the realm needed to be gathered?
"The posol would not look kindly on Pemil's absence," Ilya muttered. And neither would your father, was the part left unspoken. Then, with a dismissive wave of his massive hand, he added, "But it is not our concern. Svetopolk's share of the tribute was already gathered in the spring. If the Great Khan is angered, then the axe will only fall on the heads of Pemil's folk."
A chill ran down Vasilisa's spine. She remembered all too well the last time such an "axe" had fallen. All of Klyazma had borne the scars for a decade - much of the countryside in Gatchisk to this day remained empty of souls and settlements. And of course, Klyazma’s greatest cities and their princes now bore the yoke of the Great Khan, paying tithes in silver, furs, and honey.
And daughters, came the thought, unbidden.
As she tried to think of something, anything else to say or ask, even just to distract her from thoughts of her future, they had already arrived at the doors to the great hall.
The guards, Stavr and Pyotr, gave Ilya a nod and bowed deeply to Vasilisa as they opened the doors. She had grown up with them, hearing their crass jokes and watching their squabbles over dice games. Now they regarded her like a stranger, a foreign princess, sparing only the briefest of glances. The Great Hall felt alien—a stifling temple of stone, filled with blurred, half-familiar faces.
The doors shut behind them with a muted slam.
The great hall where her father usually heard the complaints and concerns of the city’s foremost merchants and landowners was transformed into a nauseating spectacle. Colorful streamers danced across the wooden rafters, great crimson carpets cut along the stone floors. And standing like watchful sentries above it all, the towering idols of the gods.
Mokosh, Mother of the Earth. Guide my destiny. But the Earth-Mother’s serene wooden face, decorated with silver flowers, offered no words of wisdom.
Perun, Lord of Lightning and Heaven. Steel my will. But the Lightning-Lord’s divine golden visage offered no words of comfort nor inspiration.
Igor of Belnopyl stood on the raised platform, barking orders at the servants as his graying mustache twitched. Behind him, an artisan worked on a life-size painting of Vasilisa in maiden-whites, her eyes replaced by two drilled holes. Once the final strokes were applied, Igor motioned for two servants to lift the board and slot it into an alcove behind the thrones.
Igor’s stern gaze broke into a warm smile as he spotted Vasilisa approaching. His heeled boots clacked loudly on the stone floors as he drew forth to take Vasilisa’s hands into his own.
“Ah, Vasilisa…you look as beautiful as ever,” he said as he gave her a hasty look over, his eyes never meeting hers. Indeed, beautiful enough for the posol? Beautiful enough for whatever khan you’d have your only daughter marry?
Though her father normally stood a few inches taller than her, the Prince of Belnopyl seemed smaller today. His hunched, defeated posture brought him level with his daughter’s face as she studied him. He looked drained, his skin a sickly gray. Deep worry lines marred his face, along with a jagged scar on his jaw where a Khormchak’s saber had nearly cleaved his head in two.
Does it hurt, Father? Giving your daughter as a bride to your old foes? Vasilisa bit down the urge to yell at her father. They take your gold for tribute, your people as slaves, and now your only child for a bride.
“Where is mother? Will she be with us in court?” At the very least, perhaps her mother might be willing to say the hard words Igor seemed unwilling to say.
Her father’s shoulders slumped. Ah, perhaps there is at least one who disapproves of this match.
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Cirina of Belnopyl was the adopted daughter of the Quanli khan, who ruled over the western regions of the Horde. The fierce character of her mother was unlike that of most other noblewomen, and her foreignness quickly earned the disapproval of her father’s court, especially Mariana.
Even after marrying Igor of Belnopyl, Cirina had little interest in court life, preferring to ride and falcon-hunt over tending to the household. When Vasilisa showed interest in her mother’s past as a Khormchak noyan, Cirina eagerly taught her to wield a dagger and saber - to defend her honor and avenge wrongs against her kin.
If her honor must be defended, we have guards and Ilya for that! Her father had blustered when he heard of Vasilisa’s brief training.
And what if there are no guards? Her mother had replied. You can’t keep her locked away forever. What will she do when there are none? No, my daughter will fight—both for her honor and for the honor of her family, including you, husband.
It seemed her destiny was set, but maybe she could convince her mother to reason with her father. Her father would yell and puff out his chest as always, but he often caved to her whims, mindful of his wife’s powerful family.
But then again, what if her mother had already resigned herself to this? Or worse, what if this whole idea had come from her? Cirina was as ruthless in politics as she was in battle, a clever advisor to her brash husband who thought only with the mind of a warrior.
Yet Cirina had always held a special affection for Vasilisa, a love even her husband rarely shared. It had never been Cirina who urged Vasilisa to court powerful princes or practice the harp and weaving.
Vasilisa’s expression hardened with her resolve to seek out her mother.
Her father sighed, “Your mother will be here shortly. She’s busy organizing the festivities for the posol and his merry band. But when he arrives, you’ll be the finest example of womanly virtue—the posol is a discerning type.”
Her father’s expression grew grimmer with each mention of the posol, as if the title itself was a bitter poison he had to endure.
“You’re slouching. Straighten up.” He pushed her shoulders back and stood tall. “Turn around. Yes, Mariana’s needlework remains fine. You look—”
“Regal,” Cirina’s voice echoed from the archway, light yet commanding, with an edge of danger. Today she wore Khormchak aristocratic attire: a blue silk vest, gray skirt with golden embroidery, and a jade charm at her belt. “You are a vision, Vasilisa. Beautiful, yet strong. I could not ask the gods for more.”
“She could stand to show more refinement, like her mother,” said Igor, glancing at his wife. “But she still has much to learn—and little time.”
Cirina moved with a dancer’s grace, taking Igor’s hand as they assessed Vasilisa. For a moment, thoughts of the steppe left her mind. Then, her mother looked to her father. “I think it is best I speak with Vasilisa privately, love.”
Igor nodded and joined a group of merchants as Cirina led Vasilisa into a small alcove, where courtiers could converse away from prying ears.
For a brief moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, her mother spoke, her gaze hardened, her expression serious. “You know your father and I love you more than anything else in the whole world.”
“Then why are we doing this? Why are you presenting me before the posol?”
“It is a test, Vas’ka. The posol will want to see the heiress to Belnopyl - he will want to see who will reign once your father and I are gone.”
The scratching anxiety building within Vasilisa’s chest took on a new focus. “What do you mean? Surely my husband will be the one to take over - Father’s always been pushing for marriage. Isn’t that what this is all about?”
Her mother’s brow furrowed, whether in confusion or upset at Vasilisa’s comment, she could not guess. But before she could respond, the sound of the heralds’ cry and the noise of approaching procession broke the still silence of the alcove. Her mother took her hand, held it tight.
“I need you to be strong, Vasilisa. There will come a time when you will be without us, and I need you to be strong in our stead, in our name, and for your own honor.” Suddenly, there was something cold in Vasilisa’s hands. As her mother let go, she uncurled her fingers to find a piece of black crystal in her palm. It was about the size of her thumb, and its jagged edges so sharp they threatened to cut into the skin of her hand with even the slightest errant movement.
But the strangest thing wasn’t the sharpness of the crystal. In the afternoon sun that filtered through a thin slit in the alcove wall, the crystal seemed to swallow all light around it: a void of darkness given form. She found herself staring deep into the darkness of the crystal - within it lay no beginning, and no end. Only the great, bleak, nothing.
A second blast from distant horns marked the posol’s procession drawing ever closer to her father’s manor, snapping Vasilisa from her reverie. Her mother, still standing in the archway, cocked her head towards the great hall which had begun to fill with courtiers, servants, and the city’s foremost merchants, all gathered to bow before the Great Khormchak Horde’s envoy.
“What does this mean? Where did you get this?” blurted Vasilisa as she gingerly nudged aside her kaftan and placed the terrifying crystal into a small pouch tied at her belt.
“When the posol arrives, you will know. You, your father, and I have much to speak of, my little sun. But know this: the Khormchaks are allies on this day, and the days to come. Not our foes.”
With that, her mother disappeared around the archway, silent as the breeze.
A third blast from the horns, this time from the inner walls of the city. The procession drew ever closer. Vasilisa re-adjusted her kaftan and hurried out into the great hall, carefully flitting past the great hall’s many guests and slipping past behind her parents’ thrones. If not to give her away for marriage, then why all this preparation? And why did her mother, normally disdainful of the evasive language of her husband’s courtiers, now speak to confuse her own daughter?
Vasilisa stepped carefully into a small doorway adjacent to the wooden wall behind her, and then into the alcove covered by her painted portrait. Within the alcove, the noisy whispers and chattering of the gathered crowd became muted. She could barely even make out the rumblings of her father who sat a few meters away, stroking his mustache anxiously.
“The Qarakesek…they were the enemies of your people, weren’t they?”
Her mother responded, “Once, perhaps. But did your father and his father before him not war with the princes of Gatchisk and Pemil? And yet, the three of them took to the field as allies against Aqtai-khan-”
“Those were extraordinary circumstances. Back then, your father made it sound like the end of the world.” Igor huffed, shifting in his seat and leaning closer to Cirina.
“Who’s to say these ‘extraordinary circumstances’ are only to happen once?” her mother responded, and Vasilisa strained her ears to listen as Cirina leaned closer toward her husband. “But this time is different. It’s not just a matter of a khan needing reassurances from his vassals…”
And Vasilisa could hear no more. She wanted to stomp her feet in frustration. What is this game of cat-and-mouse? Why was her mother toying with her? She felt her cheeks flush with anger.
But then, all thoughts of frustration with her mother evaporated as the fourth blast from the heralds sounded, and the heavy doors to the great hall opened with a groan.
Vasilisa watched, breathless, as the heralds entered and moved to the sides. The ambassador of the Khormchak Horde stepped forward.
The posol towered all others in the room, yet he walked with such grace that he appeared to float. His copper-toned skin gleamed faintly in the light, contrasting against his flowing black robe that dragged on the carpet. It was his face—and the long hair framing it—that held Vasilisa's gaze. His raven-black hair, streaked with white, cascaded past his waist like a silken veil. His features were a striking mix of sharp, high cheekbones, full lips, and a slender jaw, leaving her uncertain whether she was looking at a man or a woman.
The posol drew closer, and behind him followed three guards: figures clad in the same dark robes as their master, faces obscured by beautifully-forged helmets with faceplates, each one depicting a harsh, demonic visage. A silver-chased saber dangled from each guard’s belt.
Vasilisa had expected a decrepit, elderly man, as the same posol had been collecting tributes since her childhood. Yet his attire and the simplicity of his entourage was too foreign and strange.
She glanced at her parents and froze. Her father sat upright, gripping the armrest of his throne, while her mother’s cold expression betrayed hints of fear. The entire hall had fallen silent. Merchants, courtiers, and guards all turned to watch the posol with awe.
As if put under a spell. Vasilisa thought. Gods, what have we invited into our home?
The posol walked silently to the end of the great hall and lowered himself to one knee before Igor and Cirina. His robes pooled unnaturally on the floor, seeming more liquid than any cloth - like dark ink slowly spreading across the bright crimson carpet.
Her father stood to his feet, sweeping aside his ermine cape to reveal the sword tucked into his belt. “You are not the Great Khan's envoy! Who are you, and how did my guards let you in?”
He gestured to his druzhina waiting in the wings, but no one moved. The men at their posts stood motionless, as they had when the black-clad stranger and his guards arrived. Vasilisa realized the entire hall was silent, with no one shifting or speaking. The only movement came from the streamers drifting in the breeze.
“Move!” her father shouted, his neck swelling red with anger. “Seize them!”
“Chirlan.”
Vasilisa’s mother spoke, her voice just barely loud enough to hear.
The foreigner’s bowed head slowly rose to look up at Cirina. He bore a twisted smile on his lips that seemed to sit wrong on his face - as if he were some creature merely wearing the skin of a man. His eyes glimmered in the light of the sun: two pools of molten gold with black pinpoints in their center.
“Khariija.” responded Chirlan, his voice high and soft like a singer’s. “You have changed so little.”
“Call me Cirina. It is the name I chose.” her mother interjected, her voice now sharp as a knife and dripping with malice. Something dangerous and vast seemed to have taken control of her mother, causing even Igor to shrink slightly.
From within the alcove, Vasilisa stood as still as death - afraid to even breathe, afraid a single false move might cause the tension that hung in the air like a taut, creaking rope to snap.
“What do I care? You are you - whether Khariija or Cirina - and you have not changed one bit,” chuckled Chirlan. “How long have we not seen each other? It's scary to even think…”
“I had hoped to never see you again.”
“But I was looking for you.”
“And I was not.” Cirina breathed, and suddenly a Khormchak knife appeared in her hand—long at the hilt, needle-sharp at the tip. “Leave. I don’t know how you’ve come back, but I’ve killed you once before. Do you need another gift to send you off for good?”
Her grip on the knife was steady and trained. Igor’s sword, decorated with the symbols of the seven gods, hissed as it left its sheath. Her father stood firm.
Even in their middle age, both Cirina and Igor were among the greatest warriors Vasilisa had ever seen, able to best any three guardsmen in sparring. Yet here stood Chirlan, an unarmed foreigner, casting a shadow over them. Why did they feel like sheep staring down a wolf, defiant but doomed?
“There’s one gift I want, Cirina, and then I shall be gone forever.” Chirlan rose slowly, the long sleeves of his robe fell away to reveal arms wrapped in twisted golden jewelry. His hands were covered by gauntlets of gold filigree, each finger ending in a golden talon.
Suddenly, the grim stranger’s golden eyes locked onto Vasilisa’s, piercing past the painted wall and straight into Vasilisa’s soul. His stare twisted through her mind like a knife. The floor beneath her feet began to shift, and she struggled to stay upright. Her heart hammered deafeningly in her chest as she fell forward, out of the alcove and into the throne room.
What’s happening? She wondered, her mind seeming to take flight from her heavy, weary body. What’s happening? Where are you taking me?
“Home. Where you have always belonged,” said Chirlan as he spread his taloned fingers wide and drew closer.
The soft crimson carpets rushed up to catch her. She could hear her mother and father shouting something and tried to cry out to them, but her voice was failing, choking in her throat.
The last thought that burned through the mind of Vasilisa of Belnopyl was of the birdsong she had heard in the early morning, already an eternity past.
Now I will never hear it again.