That’s his nickname. Moroslav.
My whole body runs cold, because then Dasha's eyes light up, and she claps, pointing at the iconostasis. Terrified, I follow her gaze and watch as Alexei Moroslav emerges, slow and stately, like a priest from the Holy of Holies. He's dressed in something ceremonial, robes, orthodox vestments, layered with symbols I don't recognize, Cyrillic and gold. And the look on his face—ecstatic, overwhelmed, like that day I had seen him in the reception room.
My head starts shaking back and forth of its own accord.
He sees me, and the smile only broadens. “The queen on her throne,” he says in English. “She is perfect."
"Alexei," I say, "please, don't do this. Don't do whatever it is you're going to do."
I sound so stupid. I've been so stupid. He walks up to me, takes my bound hands in his.
"Do you understand what you are? What you represent?”
"I—" I choke. I don't even know what the answer is, not really, let alone what I should even tell him. Would it be better to lie? I swallow, tears threatening at the back of my throat, wishing I knew what I could do.
I'm going to die here, I think, in a crumbling inner voice.That’s what’s happening. I’m going to die.
"You see," Alexei says, "you are a beautiful thing. At first, when I see you, I am thinking…the Caliburn boys? Have agirlfriend? No. Famously, no.” He laughs. “But then I think. I realize how stupid I have been. And so I come visit. I bring you the kulichi, just to see when you eat, and…” He smiles. “And I see. You are she. The one.”
As he finishes, a familiar clanking and creaking sound comes from the back of the church. The doors are flung open, and the cart enters—the awful lurching cart with the sickly shell of the archmandrite on it. Even in a distance, his slumped form makes me shiver with revulsion.
"He dies," Moroslav says, nodding at the frail body making its way down the aisle. "He dies, our archmandrite. Wounded. And yet he malingers. He will never reach death. We seek what will make him whole again, for when he is healed and he is hale, our land returns to itself." He speaks almost dreamily. “Green once again."
Green. The word sends a shiver down my spine. Viriditas. The life force.
They knew. They must have known. They've known this whole time, maybe.
They were never going to hurt the four fencers.
They wanted me all along.
"For years, we knew how to keep the cycles flowing," Moroslav goes on. "Every spring, perform the rites, and then it falls away. Then the church disbelieves and disavows these things. Foolish folk customs, it calls them. So we separate. Because we know truth—don’t we?”
The three girls giggle again.
“And now," he spreads his arms, "now we see. The Spring Maiden will cure him. And our pure little American friends bring you right here to us." He peers into my eyes. "So perfect. I could not have planned it better."
The cart is getting closer, closer, the wheezing figure drawing nearer, and soon I can see those feverish eyes burning fromunder the cap. He reaches for me, one spotted hand in a gesture of blessing, mumbles something I can barely hear, let alone understand.
"He says you are the chosen bride," Moroslav translates. "Your death will be his life.”
The three girls yip and scream with delight. They rush off to the sides of the church, gather up more baskets, as the monks wheel the Archimandrite to the side and Moroslav steps to me.
"This is insane," I say in a trembling voice. "This is murder."
"Oh no," he says. "You think I will kill you? Please. You will give yourself. The Spring Maiden dances until she can give no more, and then it is done."
He glances over his shoulder, but first one of the monks steps away from the cart. Father Maksim, I recognize. He beams at me too, bowing deeply, says something to Moroslav, who nods and gestures for Dasha. Whatever he said must delight her, because her face completely lights up, and she nods fervently as Father Maksim hands her something. A small vial, something long and thin, a brush.
Eagerly, she steps before me, her lip caught in her teeth, and presses the brush to my cheek. It feels cold and clotted against my cheek. Sticky.
“Stop!” I yell, as if it makes a difference. “Stop! What are you doing?”
“Motrína kruvi.” This, from Moroslav, as he peers on with great interest.
I balk. “What?”
A slow smile spreads over Moroslav’s face. “Sanguis maternus, you would call it.”
