That night, Evgeny Obolensky bowed as he entered the armory to greet Nikolai. “Your Imperial Highness, it is a great honor to finally meet you.” Obolensky had a soft, round face that made him appear younger than his twenty-nine years, but Nikolai knew better than to judge by appearances. Obolensky was aide-de-camp to the most elite of the Imperial Army’s regiments, and his family could trace their noble roots all the way back to the age of Rurik, the dynasty that ruled Russia centuries ago.
Major General Volkonsky and Ilya were with him, and they bowed as well.
“I’m glad you could come.” Nikolai pushed off from the wall against which he’d been leaning, between two racks of muskets. He wore his facade again, so he looked like a person, but the habit of hiding in the shadows was hard to shake.
“Where is Trubetskoy?” Nikolai asked. If Trubetskoy was supposed to be the leader of the entire movement, his absence the night before the coup was mildly disturbing.
Volkonsky shrugged. “Don’t worry about him, Your Imperial Highness. If there is anyone whose blood runs thicker with the ideals of our cause than Trubetskoy, I haven’t met him.”
“I saw him earlier,” Obolensky said. “He had something urgent to take care of for his wife.”
“More likely for Lebzeltern,” Volkonsky said. “His brother-in-law.”
“That’s the Austrian Empire’s minister here in our capital,” Obolensky added.
Nikolai crossed his arms. “I know who Lebzeltern is.” He’d made it his business long ago to know everyone who was important in Saint Petersburg, even if they did not know him.
“Of course. My apologies, Your Imperial Highness.” Obolensky dipped his head.
“Tell me all your men are ready,” Nikolai said. Obolensky and Volkonsky had better make Nikolai comfortable that tomorrow would go as planned.
“As ready as the swords and pistols in this room,” Ilya said, his first words since entering the armory.
Nikolai looked at the weapons, hanging on racks and tucked away in cases and shelves. As if asleep. “That is not particularly encouraging.”
Ilya reddened and looked at his boots.
Volkonsky stepped forward. “Your Imperial Highness, you may rest assured that the soldiers in all the regiments stationed in Saint Petersburg shall support you. We have fought with these men in battles across Europe. We have eaten with them in the camps, lay wounded with them in infirmaries, charged into enemy lines with them by our sides. The men are loyal to the commanders with whom they’ve sweated and bled, not to a figurehead they hardly know. They will follow us tomorrow morning in rejecting the oath to your brother. I have no doubt.”
“And how many soldiers do we have?”
“Twenty thousand,” Obolensky said, confirming the number Ilya had provided.
Nikolai picked up a pistol and weighed it in his hand. The military portion of the coup was meant to establish Nikolai’s legitimacy among not only the soldiers, but also the people of Saint Petersburg. They wouldn’t understand or rally behind him if he simply deposed Pasha secretly by magic. But if some military might was shown, and the large numbers of the Decembrists overwhelmed Pasha’s smaller forces—which they ought to, given the element of surprise—then Nikolai could securely ascend the throne.
Securely, but not simply. For there was also the complication of magic.
“We must be ready for a blizzard,” Nikolai said, pistol still in hand. “I have no doubt Pasha will allow his Imperial Enchanter use of her powers again once we march against him. She’ll command the elements against us.”
“We’ll see to it that our men are prepared,” Obolensky said.
“All right,” Nikolai said. “Unless there is anything else, I will see you in Peter’s Square in the morning.”
Obolensky, Volkonsky, and Ilya bowed. “Until morning, Your Imperial Highness,” Volkonsky said. They left the armory.
When the door shut, Nikolai set the pistol down in its place. He surveyed again the walls lined with muskets, and the swords hanging, points down, blades gleaming.
Yes, he would have twenty thousand men marching for him tomorrow. But he could not leave his future solely in the hands of those men.
Nikolai threw a commanding look at the muskets. They leaped off the walls and floated in the air, barrels pointed forward, all in a neat row, as disciplined as the soldiers who would carry them in the morning. He nodded to the pistols, who sprang from their shelves and lined up beneath the muskets, like another regiment ready for battle. And then Nikolai looked to the swords, and they sliced through the air in a satisfying metallic swish, ready to come to the artillery’s aid.
“Another marvelous thing about being an enchanter,” Nikolai said aloud to himself, “is that I don’t even need guns in order to use their bullets.” He charmed open the drawers in the armory, revealing all the ammunition inside. He’d be able to command them as easily as he gave orders to the weaponry. Vika might be able to create a storm of snow, but Nikolai could direct a blizzard of bullets.
“Well done,” Nikolai said to the guns, swords, and ammunition. “I shall see you, too, in the morning.” They relaxed and returned to their racks and shelves and drawers, like soldiers at ease, going back to their barracks for a good night’s sleep.
As for Nikolai, there would be no rest. Adrenaline swirled through his veins and stirred the energy within. And although he didn’t think Vika would try to find him again in his dreams, he didn’t want to risk sleeping. Dancing with her once, hearing her utter the three words he’d longed to hear, had been enough to make him falter in his resolve. But she had not agreed to join him, and she was still on Pasha’s side, so Nikolai could not return to his dreams.
There was entirely too much at stake.