The Silent Deal: The Card Game, Book 1 Read online

  Chapter III

  A DEADLY DARE

  The animal's powerful claws tore into the frozen ground, throwing up dirt and frost as it sprinted across the plain. Boris heard a snarl and swiveled his head, but he was too late. With deadly power, the wolf leapt off its hind legs and landed on Boris' back. Claws ripped through his coat, digging into his skin. The colossal boy was flung to the ground, but the wolf landed on its feet and circled him. Its paws clung to the earth, ready to pounce again.

  "Next time, the dog will bite," Romulus said, holding his hand out at the wolf.

  Viktor blinked. He hadn't seen the boy of the forest rise up. He had been focused on the wolf ... that now sat obediently ... because of Romulus' hand motion. Suddenly Viktor understood and was filled with fear. This is the wolf guard!

  "What have you done!" screamed a voice behind Viktor.

  He'd never seen Evenova so angry. Charlotta was pulling her back, but she broke free and marched up to Romulus, shoving him, shoving him backward and making the cloudy wolf snarl.

  "What's wrong with you!" she screamed. "You set that animal on him! That's your wolf guard? You could have killed him!"

  That's when the seriousness of Boris' wound became apparent to Viktor. The noble boxer lay flat, pale as snow and groaning. His coat was shredded and had turned dark red. Fredek dropped to his brother's side.

  "He was going to break my arm. What could I have done?" Romulus' eyes looked more pained than when Boris had twisted his arm.

  "Disappear," Evenova said.

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Go away. Go away before you hurt someone else." Evenova turned to the boys. "Fredek, Ollyver, lift Boris. He needs a doctor."

  With silent wonder, Viktor sat up and watched Romulus go. The boy of the forest bent down, picked up his Saint Benedict medallion, and turned toward the tree line, utterly alone—save for a card up his sleeve, the guard in his hand, and the wolf guard trotting along at his side. And while the fight was over, a whole new series of questions had erupted in Viktor's mind. Who was this boy who tamed wolves, who ran the forest, who held the most mysterious object in Aryk? And ... could he know the secret of the playing cards? One way or another, Viktor aimed to find out.

  The grand sign posted in Prospekt Street glittered as Viktor dashed down the cobblestone lane. He didn't have to glance at the letters to know what they read: "No playing cards, no graffiti, no firearms. Failure to follow these laws may result in punishment, imprisonment, or death."

  But why did the laws exist? If playing cards carried a death sentence, why were the people of Aryk still gambling with anything they could get their hands on—from dice to horses? And if graffiti was banned, why was the Brass Art never washed off the town walls or painted over? Even today, soldiers, hunters, and crooks carried firearms, so why did Master Molotov create each law to be a conundrum, a riddle in its own right?

  Quite often, Viktor felt a creeping sensation that people in Aryk were less free than they appeared, bearing shackles heavier than those of serfdom. It wasn't about the workload or the poverty or the hardship—it went deeper. It was the fear in the men's eyes, the grief in the women's faces. It was the silence that filled the room when a youth entered in on the conversation of elders. It was the way elders exchanged knowing looks with others who'd played no part in their own lives.

  Viktor steeled his mind shut and wove farther on Prospekt Street. Faded spades shone on the brick storefront of Greensleeves Tobacco Emporium. Behind Dragomirov Jewelers, a portrait flashed of a king wearing a crown decorated with gems in the shapes of hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds. An even larger mural of a lion was on the back of Gunin's Forge, a blacksmith shop; the great animal held up a paw, where instead of a pad, there was the imprint of a green club. Yet above all, the Brass Art was concentrated in one particular backstreet, and Viktor's nerves tingled as he leaned his back against the slick gray bricks of the final corner.

  Now was the time. He would uncover the secret of the cards. He would uncover the truth that no one was courageous or crazy enough to confront. And he would do it alone.

  But as he turned the corner and let the Brass Art soak into his skin, there was someone else.

  "Back so soon?" Romulus asked him.

  Viktor gazed at the boy of the forest, who held naught but a knife, which suddenly jutted forward. Viktor fell back, clutching his bloody throat, continuing to fall and fall and fall.

  Viktor bolted upright in cold sweat. His nails dug into his sheets, prepared for a struggle. His eyes searched the room frantically, but of course, Romulus wasn't there. It was just a dream. It was always a dream.

  Nevertheless, the dream was grounded in reality—and to a frightening extent. Aryk's three laws, the murals, the Brass Art—it all was real. The secret of the cards, that inescapable mystery, pressed Viktor on all sides.

  It was hard to believe that a month had passed since that first fateful day of school. And as fearful as Viktor was of Romulus, all the while he had hoped for the boy's return, awaited it, and yet it didn't come. Instead the boy of the forest appeared only in Viktor's nightmares, interrupting his inspection of the Brass Art, ruining his chance of inspiration. Not for the first time, Viktor felt set on a course of defeat, but he was unaware of deeper wills, currents that would push him toward his ends.

  Dawn broke as Viktor dressed and entered the kitchen. His stomach growled, but he didn't plan on eating. He wanted to slip out before his mother awoke and pestered him about school.

  "Why are you up so early?"

  Viktor startled. He hadn't seen his father leaning against the woodstove. A miner, Vassi wore heavy boots, thick pants, and a dark wool jacket. Stubble covered a face permanently lined with coal dust—a kind, wise face but one that looked worn to the bone.

  "I couldn't sleep," Viktor answered slowly, his nightmares still flooding his thoughts.

  "Hmm. How has school been going?"

  Viktor hid his bruised knuckles. He hadn't been getting along very well with Miss Dimovna lately. "Decent. What about the mines?"

  "Same as always. Nobody keeps track of gunpowder. The new boys are slow to learn the work. Though of course, there's not nearly as many as usual."

  "How come?" Viktor asked.

  He had long wondered why he didn't see many children his age around Aryk. Away from school, there seemed to be an evident skew in generations, as if the adult serfs were unwilling to bring more children into such a harsh world.

  Vassi cleared his throat. "What?"

  "How come there aren't as many new boys as usual?"

  "Well ... I guess I can't answer that."

  Something about the way his father answered made Viktor question the reply. Can't ... or won't?

  Vassi shoved a piece of bread in his pocket and winked. "I'd better be off. In the mines, you get more than a rap on the knuckles for showing up late."

  "Maybe I'll be going to work with you soon," Viktor muttered.

  That stopped his father in his tracks. "Now why would you say that?"

  "Our teacher doesn't think I'll get very far in Molotov's program."

  "Look, Viktor ..." His father sighed. "You're a young man. I know you have dreams."

  Viktor froze. Did his father know where his subconscious visited?

  "I know some dreams are persistent ..."

  Had he yelled out in his sleep?

  "I know they can feel constricting ..."

  Viktor's chest burned. He couldn't breathe.

  "But you mustn't let them control you—"

  "I don't mean to dream of the Brass Art!"

  The words slipped out of Viktor's mouth before he could stop them, and they hit his father like a bundle of bricks. And as youths often see their elders in intense moments, Viktor watched his father grow more powerful before his eyes, as heavy boots echoed across the floor and a great hand pulled him roughly face-to-face.

  "Never—ever—speak on that subject in my house again. Those are the markings of lost souls.
Do not look at them, do not talk of them, and do not dwell on them!"

  Viktor winced, his eyes watering.

  Abruptly, Vassi's face dropped, his armed slacked. A great weight fell on his shoulders, like a lifetime's worth of sorrow burdened his mind. "Viktor," he spoke gently, "this is for your own good. Do you understand me?"

  With a tightened throat, Viktor nodded and left.

  But as he took a last glance back at his crude log home before heading west, his spirit flared in revolt. Yes, he understood his father, but that didn't mean he meant to obey. How could he? His family, his friends—they didn't understand. They didn't see the hangman's face whenever they closed their eyes. They didn't know what it felt like to be haunted by cards, to have them eat away at both waking and sleeping life.

  I am alone in this, Viktor thought, but I will not let go.

  At school, Viktor's day continued to darken, particularly in midmorning lecture when the door burst open to reveal not Romulus but Boris Spektor, whose gaping wounds had taken a full month to heal. Boris had told his boxer father a wolf had attacked him, but Viktor knew through chatter that the proud boy had left out the detail that his foe was actually the guardian of a fellow student. For it was without interference that Boris and Fredek meant to avenge their family's name; that much was quickly clear to Viktor as the brothers drew in boys for a noontime discussion outside.

  "You all can guess why we're talking today," Boris said, crossing his burly arms.

  Viktor's friend, Ollyver, rolled his eyes, but Mikhail nodded his white-shocked hair up and down. Uri, the small, rabbit-like boy, trembled with fear.

  Boris raised an eyebrow. "Romulus is dangerous. We need to be rid of him. But we need evidence against him before he attacks again, because if a weakling like Uri here had gotten attacked, he'd be dead. I'm just glad it was me."

  "Yeah, we're glad it was you, too," muttered Viktor.

  "Finally—some sense," Fredek growled, oblivious to the sarcasm.

  The son of a trader, Sevastian shrugged. "Nah, I rather like that vampyre—he boosts my garlic necklace sales. Mikhail alone must've bought a dozen."

  Everyone glanced sidelong at the superstitious boy and scooted away. The pungent smell coming off his person was intolerable.

  "Besides," Sevastian said, "the way you say it, Boris, it sounds like you're trying to get him hanged."

  Viktor flinched at the word.

  "That's right! Mark my words—that boy is a killer, and there's a way to prove it." Now that Boris had everyone's attention, he spoke slowly. "We've got to follow him into the forest. We'll see where he goes, what he's hiding."

  "Absolutely not!" Mikhail hissed. "If you knew what things lurked in the forest, you'd never enter!"

  "Mikhail's actually making sense for once. That's a bad idea," said Ollyver.

  "And Romulus would see all of us," Uri squeaked.

  Boris snorted. "Obviously, imbecile. That's why only one of us will go. We'll draw sticks for it. Short stick gets picked."

  Stefan, Aryk's bookmaker, had been quiet up till now. He drummed his fingers on his gambling records. "One in nine odds. That's an eleven percent chance. Good odds for a betting man."

  "I'm in," Fredek said, looking to Boris for approval. "Don't tell me the rest of you are afraid of a one in eleven percent of ... nine chance."

  Viktor was far away, picturing the king of spades Romulus had shown him. Then he blinked, and the hanged man who ate up his dreams seared his eyelids. "I'm in," he gasped.

  "Fine," Ollyver said with a sigh. "I'm in too."

  And so the chain went as, one by one, the boys fell in line, Uri last of all.

  Naturally Stefan took charge of the drawing and broke a stick into nine pieces, holding them tight in his fist.

  "One more thing," Boris added. "The loser has to follow Romulus the very next time we see him."

  Everyone agreed to this fairly easily, seeing as how Romulus might never show his face in Aryk again. So with the details decided, Stefan walked around in a circle, and everyone chose a stick until he was left holding the last piece.

  The boys fell silent as they compared their fragments with one another. Sevastian threw up his top hat upon seeing he was out of the running. Ollyver wiped his dirty forehead with relief. Panic was written all over Uri's face. It looked like he would have the shortest stick.

  Viktor felt a crushing guilt; this wasn't Uri's fight—it was his. He'd swung the boys' vote to enter the forest. It was he who needed to reconcile his obsession over the king of spades card. And while he wouldn't let Uri take the fall, he didn't want to make him look like a coward, either.

  An idea struck Viktor. With his thumb, he snapped his stick in two and hid the larger half in his hand. Then in front of the whole group, he compared the small half of his stick with the one Uri held.

  Boris laughed at Viktor. "Congratulations, the stick matches the wits."

  Viktor's friends grimaced and offered him bits of advice.

  Mikhail was the worst. "Just enjoy the time you have left," he said, sniffling.

  Viktor started back to the schoolhouse, focusing on the silver lining of the situation: He had time to plan out his trip into the forest so that, when Romulus returned, he would be ready.

  "Oh, Viktor!" called Fredek, making sure the group was listening. "Sorry, I forgot to tell you—Romulus has been watching everyone get out of school each day. He hides at the edge of the forest."

  Boris smirked. "I guess you'll be following him sooner rather than later."

  Viktor's mouth went dry. If he was stupid enough to be conned into a deal by the Spektor brothers, what did that say of his chances of surviving the horrors of the woods?

  Afternoon lessons were a blur. Time, Viktor's archenemy, had skipped to the moment of his doom. Now he stood at the western edge of the forest, armed with only a red ball of memory yarn and Ollyver's pocketknife. So much for preparation.

  Viktor sliced off a few pieces of the yarn with his knife. These woods had been known to bewilder expert hunters and trappers, so he swore that, no matter what, he would mark his trail every dozen feet. After all, this was the place he'd been warned never to enter. It was the vast expanse where roamed beasts, dark creatures, and spirits alike. He hadn't dared set foot in its bounds ... until now.

  Oddly enough, those first steps into the trees didn't make Viktor feel any different, and his confidence rose as he set off east along the edge of the forest, darting from one massive tree to another, carefully avoiding roots and icy branches while making sure to keep his eyes and ears sharp. For nerve-wracking minutes on end, he crept onward, till abruptly, he froze. Twenty meters in front of him, Romulus stood in the shadows, staring toward the open field. Viktor rested his back against a sappy pine tree and peered out from around the trunk.

  The wild youth was watching the field with a hungry look on his face, but try as Viktor might, he couldn't tell what Romulus' shaded eyes were looking at. His blond hair was disheveled, and his clothes were tattered as ever, but now he didn't seem out of place. On the contrary, the faded material made him blend perfectly into the forest.

  One thought struck fear in Viktor: Please don't let him have the wolf. He calmed his nerves and snuck another glance—the animal wasn't anywhere to be seen, but neither was Romulus! Fading footsteps sounded. Throwing caution to the wind, Viktor stole off on the trail.

  An immediate dilemma faced Viktor: He didn't want to lose the boy of the forest, but he couldn't follow too closely or his cover would be blown. He tried to tread silently and keep a wide buffer, but it took painstaking effort to keep Romulus in sight. It wasn't that the boy's pace was too quick—for he was only moving at a brisk walk—but rather, it was the unnatural confidence in which he shifted through the forest. Every step he took was effortless. He didn't snag his clothes on tendrils of thorns or catch his legs in vines like Viktor did. The plants seemed to shift out of his way. In fact, the farther Viktor followed him into the twisting trees, the more he began
to wonder how Romulus was even dirty at all. He might as well have been a ghost gliding through the woods.

  Legend did nothing to ease Viktor's mind. In the gloom of the forest, tall tales were stripped of their childishness, and despite Viktor's skepticism, he found himself half-expecting a witch to bind his limbs with magic or an angry Vila to swoop overhead. Trickling streams and stagnant pools summoned images of the Vodyanoy, that scaly male spirit of the water, and Rusalki, the beautiful but deadly women that would lure him to his death. Even the plants of all shapes and colors were no comfort; who knew when the Leshy, the keeper of the trees, might stride through their foliage. Worst of all, there was the thought of Ivan the Terrible's bane, the monster that Staryi Castle had been built to protect against.

  Soon Viktor had cut off so many pieces of yarn that his ball was all but spent. Endlessly winding circles had left him disoriented to direction, and the sun was quickly setting. The yearning to discover Romulus' secret kept Viktor sane, but then the boy of the forest did the one thing that extinguished Viktor's last hope: He whistled.

  Blood hammered in Viktor's ears as he ducked behind a white birch. Romulus had called his wolf. It would pick up a foreign scent. Viktor would be found out! Plucking up his last bit of courage, he stole a look at the clearing. But Romulus had disappeared.

  In that moment, the graveness of the situation dawned on Viktor: The hunter had become the hunted. The cards didn't matter anymore. He had to get out of the forest—and fast.

  Tracing his steps backward, Viktor found a piece of yarn a few meters away, and then another, but the third was missing. His sweeping circles widened to no avail. Minute after fruitless minute ticked by. The markers were gone!

  Panic gripped Viktor like never before. All the gruesome stories about victims of the woods flooded in his thoughts. Think. Keep calm. But he couldn't. He was lost. There has to be a way. The map!

  Viktor thought back to the map Romulus had drawn on the second day of school. The Great Fairy Ring had been to the west, and he wasn't near Aryk's river and Earth's Edge to the north. He had traveled east into the forest, which meant ... he could only be at one point on the map—the boulder outcropping.

  Romulus' words echoed in his head: "It's a place you never want to be."

  Viktor's head screamed, Run! And he did. He threw his feet forward, propelling himself up a small embankment and over a hill.

  SNAP.

  A gnarled root sent him reeling headfirst down the other side of the ridge. He rolled and smashed into a tree trunk. Panting and prickling with nettles, it took a few moments for the stars to swim out of his vision; he wished they hadn't. It left his eyes confronted by a cluster of giant boulders, and out a dark gap in the formation's base came a creature that shifted in the shadows.

  White knuckled, Viktor gripped the pocketknife. Come on, then, he thought. Do it. Let the wolf pounce. He rose up and faced his enemy, but it wasn't the foe he predicted, for out of the tunnel emerged the colossal form of a full-grown black bear.

  The beast snapped through bushes like twigs and stood tall on its hind legs, releasing a thunderous roar. Viktor thought his eardrums might crack. He gripped the trunk behind him with a trembling heart. No middle ground remained—he would escape or die in the attempt.

  But the speed of the bear outmatched him. Barely had Viktor scrambled sideways when a great claw struck his shoulder. His feet left the ground. His knife flew away. He was finished without a fight. The beast roared, more furious than before. It lurched forward and raised up its massive arm, ready to strike, ready to deliver a deathblow.

  And this is how it ends, Viktor lamented.

  How many times had his mother told him he nearly died as a child? How many bouts of sicknesses had he endured? Even now, his dry skin was parched and cracked, his breath ragged. He was fated to leave this world in the same manner he had lived in it: By tooth and nail.