“If I just had my powers...” Mikhail trailed off, staring at the rifle.

The mention of powers reminded me of what had happened at the temple. “Mikhail, those men were Otzvuk soldiers, weren’t they?”

He gave a weary sigh. “They were carrying their flags and wearing their uniforms, but I don’t think they were actually Otzvuk. Not the way you think.”

“But they were bogatyri.”

“It’s not uncommon for soldiers to desert. That’s what must have happened. Or...”

“Or what?”

He glanced toward the door that led downstairs, before continuing in a lower voice. “There have been reports of Stranniki stockpiling weapons in preparation to stage rebellions. Ivan shouldn’t even have that rifle—his people aren’t allowed to craft guns or bladed weapons, much less own them.”

“Why?” I asked, taken aback.

Mikhail frowned. “Why what?”

“Why aren’t Stranniki allowed to own weapons?”

“That’s how it’s always been, for hundreds of years.” He looked vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s as Ivan mentioned back at his temple. In the past, Stranniki served as guards.”

“And they were called Strazhniki,” I recalled.

“Yes, but it’s more complicated than that. After fleeing the Great Burning of the southern steppe, they became mercenaries for the old gentry. When the bogatyr ruling families came into power, they took up arms against us. They used the Unclean Force to fight back, and many died before we were able to quell their insurrection.”

“But that was hundreds of years ago.”

“Even now, there are many Stranniki fighting for the Fraktsiya.”

“Weapons could have stopped what happened today,” I pointed out.

“What I’m trying to tell you is that it could have been what caused the violence today. I’m not saying that it was justified, but you need to understand, these things don’t just happen without reason.”

I wanted to argue, but I held my tongue. Mikhail hadn’t witnessed what happened in the marketplace. He hadn’t seen the looks of hatred on those men’s faces.

Quiet voices. Creaking stairs.

“Refugees,” Vanya said, opening the kitchen door again. “The girl I was with earlier, and a boy who was caught in the attack.”

Dressed in a rain-drenched cloak fastened by rows of niello buckles and embroidered with ornate silverwork, the temple priestess stepped into the room.

Favoring Mikhail and me with a solemn nod, she set her small linen sack on the floorboards. She hung up her cloak. As she leaned over to remove her boots, Vanya said, “There’s no need. I imagine you won’t be here long.”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Her jet eyes flicked toward us. “Perhaps it would be better to continue this conversation in our own tongue.”

Vanya’s gaze darkened. “What is it? Why did you come here?”

“Something this personal should be kept between us.”

“Just say it,” he snapped.

“Tomorrow morning, I will go to the New Quarter to formally announce your execution.”

Vanya’s face drained of color. “Wh-what?”

“What did you say?” I stammered, certain I had misheard her. Mikhail glanced at the rifle, his face hardening.