Demon Prince of Mangala

Author's note: This one is for Erin and Ara and all those others who kept on at me to finish this, and other things: Thanks

******

"I think you need to hear this, Lord Prince."

Andrey lounged indolently in the armchair, glass of wine in his hand, leg cocked over one arm. "Oh?" he said, regarding Piotr evenly. "Show him in then..."

The man was unprepossessing, a small man dressed in the drab clothes of a labourer, a peasant. Lank brown hair clung to his head like a cap, his face and hands tanned the ruddy brown of someone who worked the wastes or the fields.

Piotr pushed him closer. "Lord Prince, this is Boris, a labourer working on the Bezhukov estate. It seems that he overheard a conversation - a conversation that he thought we might like to know about. Isn't that right, Boris?" Piotr laid his hand heavily on Boris' shoulder, tapping it gently with his fingers.

Boris shuffled nervously, wringing his hands before him, his head lowered. "Yes, Master, uh, Highness," he said. "I did. Uh..." His voice was coarse, uneducated but his eyes shone with a certain cunning.

Andrey pulled his leg down leaning forward in the chair, intrigued. "Don't worry Boris, you're amongst friends here," he said smoothly. "And I always reward my friends well..." He glanced across at Piotr, nodded to the cabinet in the corner. "You must be thirsty, Boris, would you care for some wine?"

Boris turned at the sound of Piotr pouring. "Thank you, Master." He took the proffered glass, swigging the dark vintage as if it were small beer.

Andrey pointed to the seat next to his, holding his glass out to allow Piotr to refill it. "Sit, Boris, make yourself comfortable..."

Reluctantly, Boris perched on the edge of the seat, sipping nervously at his wine. He smelt of sweat and toil and a distinct lack of soap, Andrey thought. Even from where he was Andrey could see the dirt worked into Boris' skin, caught under his nails. "Now, I believe that friends should be honest with one another from the outset, what do you think Boris?"

"Yes, Master." A nervous sip, the sound of slurping. Boris wouldn't meet his eyes. Andrey grinned.

"So, to show you the kind of friend I am, I am willing to give you five roubles now - just for the trouble you took to come and tell me what you know." Andrey nodded to Piotr who handed Boris five roubles. For a labourer it would represent nearly a month's wage.

Boris took them quickly, his eyes wide, greedy, a new animation entering his body.

"Now, after I hear the story you have to tell, I will give you five more roubles, just because I like to hear things that people tell me," he said, smiling at the greed in Boris' face. "But Boris, I like to hear true things - so as well as those ten silver roubles I will give you another five roubles if you keep the story to the truth and don't add things you think I might like to hear... Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master." The greed was naked now, his enthusiasm obvious.

"Good. Then let us hear this story, Boris," he said, sipping his wine, settling back into his chair. Piotr positioned himself discreetly behind Boris.

Once more Boris glanced around the room, licking his lips nervously, his hands gripping the five roubles with white knuckles. "I were working in the fields near the Bezhukov Kremlin, Master, clearing a drainage ditch that'd been blocked by fallen trees... I been working since dawn and it were hard work, so when the sun got up I sits down to have something to eat," he said, pausing, thinking.

"I were just having a drink when I hears horses. Now I weren't far from the kremlin but I were in the woods and nobody knew I was there but my overseer, and he weren't about...." He licked his lips again, sipping the wine. "I didn't think much of it at first, horses is always around the kremlin, but then I sees the riders. It were Prince Fyodor and Old Prince Matfei, Prince Dmitri were there too I sees when I looks."

"Now, I make it a rule never to draw the notice of nobles, begging your pardon, Master," he said, nodding respectfully towards Andrey. "See, it's nothing but trouble, usually." He swallowed more wine. "Anyways, I stayed hidden, but real close like. I could hear 'em talking."

Andrey nodded, smiling reassuringly.

"It were Prince Fyodor what started it. He says something about his girl, Princess Nataliya, and you, Master. He says some, uh, things about you, Master, untrue things, no doubt, but, uh, unkind things."

"Don't worry about that, Boris, I'm used to people being unkind - not everyone can be a friend, can they?" Andrey said. It was strange but even hearing her name affected him - filled him with a peculiar conflict, a strange desire. He glanced at Piotr, who remained unmoving behind Boris, shook it off.

"No, Master, I suppose not. Anyway, after a while Prince Fyodor starts asking Prince Matfei if he can help him. Now I wasn't paying that much attention up 'til now, it just being gossip and all," he said, his face serious, thoughtful. "Then Prince Matfei asks him what he means and he says, Prince Fyodor, he says he wants help to, uh, kill you... Now that scares me. I thinks to myself 'what have I got myself into now?'" He paused again, sipping his wine, shifting on the chair. "So I stays real still, trying to be quiet so they wouldn't hear me, I don't think I was even breathing... See, if they was willing to kill a Prince I thinks, what chance that they wouldn't kill me if they finds me, eh Master?"

"I think you were wise, Boris. These men were plotting murder, I think that you were right to stay hidden..."

Boris nodded, as if he'd been vindicated. "So, Prince Matfei laughs and he says that it's long overdue but not easy to do and Prince Fyodor says that it has to be done and done quickly." A breath, a sip of wine. At a glance from Andrey, Piotr leaned over and filled it once again, the crystal chinking lightly against the glass. "He says something about the moons being full, about being desperate. Then Prince Dmitri says that he can arrange it, that he knows some people who might do it."

"Did he say how he would do it?" Andrey said, leaning forward now, his eyes burning. "Or what people?"

"No, not really, Master. All I remembers him saying is that he would arrange a meeting but he didn't say nothing more." He gulped his wine.

"Well, Boris, that is a good story to hear, a useful story," Andrey said. "You've earned your reward, my friend." He looked up at Piotr. "Pay my friend here and then send him on his way."

"Yes, Lord Prince." Piotr handed Boris a leather purse, waiting for him to stand.

"Boris. If you hear any more stories like this, stories I might like to hear, I'll reward you just the same way... Remember that, I always look after my friends."

"Yes, Master." Boris nodded, slipping the heavy purse under his tunic as Piotr led him from the room.

Once he was alone, Andrey stood, pushing the room's small window open to admit a slight breeze. In the hearth he had kindled a small fire, just enough to warm the room, to banish the chill. For a time he listened to it cracking and popping in the otherwise quiet room. Autumn was coming to the plateau. In the north, around the Rostov Kremlin, the rains would already have started. Here, further south, the rains had yet to come but there was a chill to the air that had been absent a few weeks before.

So, it seemed that Fyodor had more courage than he gave him credit for. He considered that for a moment. How did that alter his plans? Of course the question was really whether he had enough courage to keep his daughter from him... He chewed that over. Most of the encumberance of his human side had been easy to slough off, but not his attachment to Nataliya. He knew that once she was gone his human soul would trouble him no more - but in this one thing it fought him, battled against him as if it knew that its very existence was at stake. Or hers. It wasn't powerful, but it was persistent - corrupting his desires, polluting his decision making. Persistent enough that it kept Fyodor alive, kept him from just killing her out of hand.

He glanced quickly out of the window, the sky was clear, there was no sign of the twins, but he knew they would be full in a matter of days. Then Fyodor would send him Nataliya, then he would finally be rid of this weakness. Killing Fyodor now wasn't worth the fight - he would likely take his own life after he'd finished with his daughter anyway...

When Piotr returned he was staring into the low fire, leaning on the mantel, his thoughts full of Nataliya - the look on her face when she'd left him, the strange feeling that had possessed him since.

Piotr coughed, breaking his reverie. "Lord Prince?"

He straightened, looked around as if waking from a dream. How had he turned all melancholy again? He sighed, what was it about that damned girl that haunted him so?

He turned to Piotr, his face thoughtful. "Assemble the troops, Petya, it's time to teach Fyodor a lesson."

"Lord Prince."

******

It was before dawn when Katerina woke, a pale light leaking in between the gaps in the shutters. Andrey was still asleep, her head resting on his chest, the sound of his heart slow and steady in the still quiet.

They had made love the night before and she still felt weak, her limbs limp and rubbery. The room still smelt of their passion - musky, earthy. For a while she lay still, content, her mind playing over the change in him. He was almost the same Andrey, she thought. Almost the same with her, at least, she corrected herself. Still kind and gentle and solicitous of her comfort, her pleasure - albeit harder edged.

But his soul... Its power was overwhelming. She was used to feeling him possess her during sex - seductive and insidious - but since that night with Nataliya that trickle had become a flood, utterly overwhelming - making her more puppet than participant. And he was holding back, she knew, trying to spare her. It frightened her, she didn't know how long he could contain that power without it destroying him - like a furnace run too hot for too long.

Slowly she extricated herself from his embrace, careful not to wake him. Since the change she'd come to fear for him, to worry about his increasing ruthlessness, the slow loss of the myriad small ways he showed his tenderness, his humanity. She looked down at him, his pale face serene in sleep, his hair like a shadow across his cheek. With his eyes closed it was easy to forget that the change had even happened, that anything had changed. She sighed gently. But it had, of course. And it had forced her to confront her own feelings for him - increasingly ambivalent and growing in strength. She needed to know what had happened to him, what he'd become, what Nataliya had done - or undone. And there was only one person who would know.

Thinking, staring down at him, she felt a familiar ache in her chest. She grimaced - clamping down on it, denying it - turned her mind back to what she intended. Even if she travelled to the Kremlin there was no guarantee that she would see her. Either way, in this she didn't want, didn't need Andrey's interference. When she was dressed she slipped quietly from the room.

After the fiasco with Nataliya they had moved to Andrey's dacha on the western rim of the plateau. It was the smallest, least opulent building she had yet seen associated with the ruling family - a wooden house set fast inside woodland, it possessed little ostentation - as much retreat as palace, a place of calm and serenity.

This early, most of the dacha was still sleeping - its closed doors and silent rooms giving it a heavy, still atmosphere. From the kitchens and servants quarters at the back of the house she could hear sounds of movement and the smell of baking bread was strong on the ground floor. Most of the public rooms were gloomy, shadowed against the light by wooden shutters, but enough of the grey dawn leaked in to allow her to negotiate them safely. In the small hallway at the bottom of the stairs she was met by two of Andrey's guard - assigned as her regular escort, a small token of recognition for the status she held in his life. Quickly, hoping to be gone before Andrey woke, before he had the opportunity to stop her, she led them to the flyer on the lawn.

Emerging from the sleeping dacha into the damp dawn she was surprised to see his guards assembled on the grass. Overnight it seemed that three additional flyers had arrived. Bulky, inelegant military machines like gigantic beetles, black and sinister. In the garden next to Andrey's small flyer they looked distinctly menacing. Gathered around them, standing or slouching in the flyers' open hatchways, Andrey's guard waited - still and alert, an occasional comment or exchanged word the only sounds breaking the stillness. Already dressed in battle armour, weapons held loosely in hand, they watched her emerge impassively, their hard faces incurious.

For a moment she paused, still in the doorway. It was obvious that something was going on, something that Andrey hadn't shared with her - that in itself was unusual, worrying. She found herself torn - caught between her desire for answers about him and her desire to find out what he was planning, to stop him if she could, if she had to.

It was Piotr that eventually made up her mind. As she stood vacillating in the doorway he emerged from amongst the troops, approaching her, a trail of footprints following him through the dew covered the grass. "Good Morning, Lady Katerina," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Are you coming with us?"

She shook her head. "No... Piotr, what's going on?"

"The Lord Prince has learnt of a plan on his life," he said evenly. "He's going to take some pre-emptive action."

"So this has nothing to do with Nataliya?"

Piotr shrugged, his face eloquent. "Doesn't everything these days."

"You have to stop him, then," she said, her face concerned. "He's not rational when it comes to her, you know that."

"I know," he said, nodding. "But on this occasion the threat is real, and we won't be going near her. If you aren't coming with us, where are you going?" He glanced toward the emerging sun as if to add 'this early'.

She shrugged. "I need to find some answers, Petya, if I'm going to help him. Or at least understand what's happened to him."

He looked at her carefully. After a moment he said: "Just remember, if he isn't rational about Nataliya, you're not entirely rational about him - don't go getting yourself in trouble, Katya."

"I know, I won't," she said, keeping her face neutral. Is it that obvious, she thought. "You be careful, too, okay? And look after him for me."

"I always am and I always do," he said, smiling. "If you want to be gone before Andrey..." he paused as if considering what to say, "...gets up, you'd better be going."

She smiled, touching him briefly on the shoulder.

Nodding to her guards she crossed the lawn to the small flyer, dwarfed now by the hulking troop carriers. The pilot was waiting for her as arranged, sitting casually on the step below the body of the machine. The sight of her brought him smartly to his feet, a brief bow, little more than a nod, gracing him before he disappeared into the cockpit.

In a matter of moments the delicate machine whirred to life, its dragonfly wings buzzing lightly. With his passengers on board he wasted no time before lifting off, the flyer quickly ascending above the gathered troops, the dacha. Airborne, it banked once, turning slowly above the lawn, before straightening its course and setting off towards the rising sun, towards the Azarov Kremlin.

******

Although she was quiet, Katerina's exit had still woken him, his body cooling with the loss of her embrace. When it was clear that she wasn't coming back he reluctantly shrugged off the covers, pulling a thick silk robe about him before he opened the shutters, emerging onto the small balcony beyond. He breathed the cool, damp air, looking down on the gathered troops, the carriers - incongruous in the peaceful surroundings.

For a while he stood, enjoying the peace, listening to the birdsong - the mournful cry of a dove repeating over and over. The early dawn haze above the forest was gradually lightening, turning to molten gold as the sun struck it. He hadn't dreamed, or at least he hadn't dreamed of her. He grinned wryly - he hadn't dreamed of her but his first thought when he opened his eyes was about her. Hardly an improvement.

He saw Katerina emerge, watched her take the flyer - its course tracking back toward the plain, the Kremlin. For a moment he was curious as to where she was going, but, gradually, his own plans imposed themselves on him and he put it aside for later.

The bath was located beneath the dacha - the building built over a hot spring for that very purpose - the water just the pleasant side of intolerable. The cavern was quiet, silence broken only by the quiet hiss of the oil lamps, the occasional splash made by the movement of his body. For a time he soaked, the hot water comforting as well as cleansing. His mind drifted, floating as free as his body on the water. By the time he emerged, slaves towelling him dry, skin wrinkled and soft with immersion, breakfast was waiting for him - freshly baked black bread and tea, strong and sour, liberally ladled with honey, set out in the dacha's small dining room. The shutters along the eastern wall had been thrown open so that the room was part of the garden, the light of the rising sun filling the room.

Piotr was already eating, standing quickly as he entered. Andrey waved him down, sat opposite him, facing the garden and the woods beyond. Yuri, his plump but effective majordomo was standing at the back of the room - slaves and servants, poised to serve, gathered about him, along the edges of the room out of his line of sight. A young woman wearing the mark of a slave on her wrist poured him tea, her hand shaking ever so slightly. The mark was dark, the ink in her skin fresh. His eyes flicked to her face - she looked down. He didn't recognise her.

"Are we ready?" he said, blowing steam from the surface of the tea. It wasn't a good time to be a new face in his household, he thought, not with his life on offer.

Piotr chewed his bread. "Yes." He paused, ruminated. "Highness, are you set on this course?"

Andrey sniffed his tea, looking at him through the steam.

With the sudden speed of a striking snake he was on his feet, his hand gripping the girl's hair like a vice, pulling her head back. She cried out, once, a brief cry of shock and pain. Unregarded, the tea cup fell to the floor, hot liquid spilling across the wood of the table, bouncing noisily on the wooden floor. He sensed a new tension amongst the other staff. Nobody moved. From the corner of his eye he saw Yuri poised to intervene.

For a moment he held her still, feeling her body moving, breathing, the rise and fall of her chest - rapid, anxious - the tension that permeated her. Slowly he twisted the girl's head to face him, looking into her eyes - she was pretty, a wide mouth, soft lips, her eyes blue, wide and frightened. His soul took her. He didn't bother with subtlety - his power flashed through her like an electric shock, her body jerking with the sudden invasion. In the back of his mind he was aware that she was moaning, a sound caught somewhere between agony and ecstasy. He ripped through her, searching, feeling for danger, for corruption - something that might indicate treachery, that she was trying to poison him.

There was nothing.

Satisfied he withdrew, the girl groaning almost sexually as he did so. She looked dazed, confused. As soon as he loosened his grip on her hair she collapsed onto the floor, struggling to stand, to crawl away, to control her own limbs. Yuri surged forward, waving other servants on to pick her up, to clear the table.