Page 3 of Tiger's Tale
“I’m sure it is,” Kishan said. “You’ll have to explain what you mean about the eyes of another,” he added, both puzzlement and curiosity clear on his face.
Kadam nodded. “I’ll get to that. For my survival, I relied greatly upon an ally I discovered in that world. This other gentleman, fortunately for me, was a man of great aptitude, kindness, and empathy. He also happened to be a shaman of renowned skill and intellect. He found me, you see; sheltered the unraveling bits of who I was; and showed me the path back to myself. Without him, I never would have come home. I owe him a great deal. He was the one who mentored the tigers.”
“Then hewasyour counterpart.”
“He was, in a way, though we never lived in the same century. I have searched for his mirror image through time on our own world and have never found him. As far as I can tell, he was never born here.”
“And the tigers?”
Kadam smiled widely, crossed his legs, and laced his fingers, cupping his kneecap. “Ah, we’ve come to it,” he said, “the most interesting thing about this, for lack of a better word, echo, of our own world, is that the tigers...”
“Yes?” Kishan prompted, unable to resist leaning forward. “The tigers were... what?”
“Kishan, the tigers of that world were not only Siberian cats,” Kadam explained, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “They were...women. Tsarevnas—tsarinas, actually—destined to rule the Kievian Empire.”
There wasn’t a sound in the little hut except for the deep inhales and exhales of the man on the bed.
“Did you hear me, Kishan?” Kadam asked.
The answer came slowly as the man gripped the worn blanket to his sweaty chest and laid back on the bed. His eyes, burning with fever, stared intently through half-lowered lids, and the room darkened, either with dusk, or the portent of the unshared history.
“I heard,” Kishan replied. “Tell me...everything.”
1
EACH PERSON IS THE BLACKSMITH OF THEIR OWN DESTINY
The clash of steel rang out across the training field as the twins’ sharp blades connected. The taller of the two warriors slid the weapon down quickly, creating sparks and nicking a barely visible band of flesh at the wrist. A spot of red appeared, rapidly soaking the green fabric, and there was an audible hiss uttered as the shorter twin backed off.
“You’ll pay for that, Stacia,” the injured sister grumbled from beneath her heavy helmet.
“Not today, my sweet sestra, Verusha,” the taller one replied. “Your pretty looks might charm soldiers into dropping their guard, but not me. True, you are better with knives, and you were Papa’s favorite despite his best efforts to hide it, buttodayI’ve got the drop on you. You’re slow, Veru. What’s the problem? Too much kasha this morning?
“Shut up, Stacia.”
“Why don’t you make me? Oh, that’s right. You can’t. I’ve been telling you to cut down on the pelmeni—unless, of course, your goal is to have some foreign prince pet you and call you his dumpling as you get fat and produce his pink-cheeked detkas.”
“That’s your life, Stacia, not mine. You were born first. It’s your destiny to inherit the throne. You know I’ve always wanted to leave the capital, lead the Guard, and see the far reaches of the empire,” Verusha said, spinning and kicking Stacia’s feet out from under her so she fell heavily into the soft dirt of the practice field. Before Verusha could strike a winning blow, Stacia rolled quickly, got to her knees, and lifted her shield.
“You know we don’t know who the oldest is,” Stacia said, blocking the blow.
Usually, in the case of twins, especially royal births, not one but several midwives are called in. The birth order is carefully monitored, and the babies are kept separate, with the firstborn identified by any notable physical features as well as a red ribbon tied around the wrist.
Somehow that red ribbon slipped off when the nursemaids moved the girls to the nursery. And as there were no discernible birthmarks cataloged at the time, it was anyone’s guess as to which twin was technically the eldest. The tsar and tsarina took it well, saying that sometimes providence steps in where people might go about making a mess of things. They believed it was their job to make certain their little girls didn’t covet the empire’s throne. Perhaps they’d done their work a bit too well, as neither of their daughters wanted to rule.
Though she often mocked her sister, Stacia knew it was all bluster. Veru was small indeed, but she packed a punch when it came to a fight. It was wrong to underestimate her. And many often did. This was what made her particularly effective and often deadly in conflicts. Her short stature made her especially lethal with a blade. She was exactly the right height to slip a sharp knife between gaps in armor, pressing it deep into soft bellies, muscled thighs, or even tender groins.
When their father had been alive, the empire had been at peace. He’d made sure they were well trained, and they often accompanied him on diplomatic missions. Then, after he died, the twins began taking more risks. They always made sure at least one of them was home, but every so often they’d sneak out with select groups of soldiers, never telling their grieving mother. It was how they coped.
One of Veru’s favorite knives suddenly made an appearance. Stacia gritted her teeth and twisted, thrusting her shield into Veru’s arm, ramming it into the ground so hard she dropped the knife. Sweat pooled between her armored shoulder blades, and she squinted as the salty drops stung her eyes beneath her helmet. Her sister was angry.Good. So was she.
As they circled, Veru spat, “You know I hate wearing dresses and putting on a show.”
“So do I.”
“Well, someone needs to take over. We’re turning eighteen soon.”
“That’s right,” Stacia said, swishing her sword slowly back and forth in invitation.
