would not be right for him to dress as a prince until after the wedding, and even then modesty suggested he might wear slightly humbler clothing. Only when he became king would the distinction disappear. To jump from peasant garb to boyar's clothing was shock enough.
Sergei valued such solitary time at a writing desk. Father Lukas so disdained Sergei's copywork that he rarely gave the young man much of anything to do that used his skill with letters. Until now, Sergei had not thought he had any. But over these days of furious writing, he could see how his hand had become smoother, tighter, more regular. He could also see how much more fluidly the language came from him. Looking over the first tales he wrote down, he saw that not only were the letters too large and ill-shaped, but also the language was awkward and sometimes confusing. What he was writing now, however, was in letters much smaller and yet more, not less, legible.
The trouble was, all the blank space on the backs of the parchments was nearly full. Sergei hated to see the project end. Though he had chosen the best stories to write down first, there were so many more yet to write; and when the work ended, what would there be for Sergei then, except more slavelike labor at the church? Father Lukas would not know how Sergei's hand had improved. He would have him hobbling about emptying slops, sweeping up, carrying things. Sergei had never understood why, if his malformed body made him so unfit for the physical labor of the village, they determined to give him to the priest - to perform his physical labor. Perhaps they felt that Father Lukas did not need to have his menial work performed quickly or well. Or perhaps they expected him to be more patient with Sergei's slowness and clumsiness. If so, they were mistaken. Well, not entirely. Father Lukas did not yell at him to hurry, or curse him when he spilled or broke something. But the look of beatific patience in Father Lukas's eyes as he mumbled a prayer - of course it was a prayer, he was a priest, wasn't he? - could stab deeper than the shouts of the village men and women ever had.
A message to a faraway land, to be wrapped and double wrapped and saved for a thousand years in the earth. It was surely an age of miracles, that such things were possible. Christ himself never buried a message.
Thinking of Christ in the context of stories made Sergei remember the parable of the stewards with their talents. It occurred to him that he, Sergei, was the steward with the single talent, and he was indeed planning to bury his talent in the earth. But how could he do otherwise? These stories were already had among his people - he could hardly show them his writings, for they would say, "We all know the story, Sergei, why would you write it down?" There was nothing to do but bury it. Still, it made him uneasy, to know that he was like the foolish steward in this way. But perhaps he was misinterpreting the parable. Or at least misapplying it. If only he could ask Father Lukas about it.
Out in the corridor, Sergei heard voices for a few moments before they came near enough for him to make out what they were saying. Two men.
"Of course she'll try to disrupt the wedding. This is a disaster for her."
"It's the child she'll go after, when a boy is conceived. What's the wedding to her?"
''The wedding is everything. She must respect widow-right, even without children, because she herself holds her kingdom by widow-right alone."
"Less widow-right than sheer terror. Who in her benighted land would dare stand against her? Only a few of them have even enough courage to flee."
"She will move against the wedding, and we must be prepared."
"If you say so. It costs nothing to be vigilant. Katerina and Ivana will have our protection."
The use of the female form of the name Ivan struck Sergei hard. He had not heard anyone speak so offensively against Ivan. Or perhaps he had, but now he knew Ivan better and so it bothered him more.
"As for the twig-man, the vigilance ends after he's bedded her."
The other chuckled. "I see now why you care so much for widow-right."
"Let's just say that it's to the Pretender's benefit to kill him before the wedding; afterward, we're the ones