Beside me, Vanya sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging. He caught my gaze and offered a weak smile, as if trying to convince me everything would be okay. But it wouldn’t be, would it?

The hoofbeats grew louder, accompanied by the rumbling of wagon wheels. A light flickered past the trees, where the road curved.

The blood pounded in my ears. I gnawed on my lower lip, racking my brain for an escape plan. Even if the soldiers took us to a nearby encampment, it would soon become clear to them that I wasn’t Duchess Aloisia. Vanya and I would be killed, and Mikhail would be returned to Koschei’s custody. I couldn’t just stand here and let that happen. What should I do? Damn it, what should I do?

A wagon appeared from around the bend. It was overladen with crates and barrels, the two horses straining on their leads. Just a farmer or a traveler. Not someone who could help us.

“Stop,” Dronov called, stepping into the middle of the road.

The wagon trundled to a stop. Another cart traveled behind it, drawn by four horses. My heartbeat quickened as I spotted the second cart’s cargo—a massive gun mounted on wheels, with a short barrel as thick around as my thigh. The weapon vaguely reminded me of the lead toy cannon Galina had found one summer in the river muck, one of her most precious belongings. Except this was no toy, and the two Fraktsiya soldiers who sat behind the gun looked well prepared to use it.

Dronov stepped forward to the man in the first wagon. Spoke. Gestured back at us.

My heart sank.

As the two men talked, Dronov turned and pointed at Vanya. I heard the word rusalki and then I heard koldun.

Vanya caught my gaze. Held in my own, his hand trembled like a captured bird.

Dronov returned to us, carrying a bundle of rope and a machete. He dropped one end of the rope on the ground, where it curled like a noose, and cut sections from the other end. He handed a length of rope to the dark-haired soldier with the knotted scar bisecting his face from brow to chin. “Tie her hands, Ilyich.”

I tucked my hands against my chest and stared at the bayonet blades aimed at me. If I refused, the men would shoot me. If I tried to run, the men would shoot me. I could try grabbing Ilyich’s rifle, but then there would still be half a dozen other soldiers to deal with, not to mention the gun crew, and one or the other would, inevitably, shoot me.

Reluctantly, I stretched out my arms. I tensed as the rope tightened around my wrists, my breath hissing from my lungs. It seemed insane to just stand and obey. Why wasn’t I fighting? Why did it feel like my legs were frozen?

“The duchess and Tsar are going to go for a little wagon ride,” Dronov said, once another soldier had bound Mikhail’s wrists. “You two help them to the wagon. If one of them tries to run, aim for the legs.”