Citadels of Fire

by L.K. Hill

  Chapter 16

  A sharp rap at the door brought Taras’s head around. In the silence of his rooms, the thunderous fist on the wooden door startled him. He nodded at Anatoly.

  Once Taras was assigned rooms, the head clerk had attempted to find another, younger servant for him. Taras insisted on keeping Anatoly. He didn’t have any hard labor in mind for the man, so an older, wiser friend was what he needed. The clerk went on about how Anatoly was old and couldn’t move very quickly. Wouldn’t Taras prefer a younger servant with more spring in his step? Taras assured him Anatoly would be fine. The clerk walked out muttering about young men not knowing what’s good for them, and Anatoly appeared soon after.

  Taras’s apartments were intended for a family, so he had a lot of extra space. Anatoly moved into the smallest room off the main one so he would be close if Taras needed him.

  Anatoly now stood behind the door and pulled it open so it almost grazed his face. Nikolai strode in.

  “Hello, Taras.” He tossed his fur-lined cloak onto a chair. “I find I am bored. All these people arriving, and I know none of them! I thought you might like some company.” The pitch of his voice rose at the end of the sentence, making it a question.

  “Of course. Pour yourself a drink.” Taras motioned to the table laden with goblets and vodka. As Anatoly closed the door and came to help Taras tie his cloak at the shoulder, Nikolai poured some vodka and threw back two goblets in as many minutes. Taras chuckled softly.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No.” Taras shook his head. “I'd forgotten how much you Russians like your vodka.”

  “It is the bread of life,” Nikolai grinned. “What, they don’t have liquor in England?”

  “Oh, the English can drink with the best of them, but I think the vodka here is more potent. I’ll have to . . . reintroduce myself to it.”

  “I’d be more than happy to help you,” Nikolai smirked.

  Taras laughed again. “I’m sure you would.”

  Anatoly again dressed Taras in the finery he’d worn to see the tsar. It was far too extravagant for Taras’s usual tastes. He would have asked Nikolai if he looked appropriate for tonight’s event, but Nikolai wore much the same things. Different colors, of course, and slightly different styles, but still fine fabrics, intricate embroidery, and an air of affluence Taras had never seen equaled.

  “How do you like it, staying in your parents’ old apartments?”

  “Strange,” Taras conceded. “At first, I thought they must have been rebuilt, because nothing seemed familiar. But when I consider a particular corner, or the shadows fall in a specific way, a memory will come back to me suddenly; it’s breathtaking.”

  Nikolai nodded. “Memory is a haunting thing.” His voice had a far away, reminiscent quality to it.

  “What do you mean?”

  Nikolai shook his head. “Nothing.” He took some more vodka—in sips this time—and remained silent.

  “May I ask you a . . . strange question, Nikolai?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s a woman here—a kitchen maid, I think. Her name is Inga.”

  Nikolai nodded. “I know who you mean.”

  “I met her yesterday when I arrived. I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I know her from somewhere.”

  “Well, of course you do. The two of you were children together here, before your father left.”

  “That’s what she said. But . . . did we do something specific together?”

  Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “Not that I know of.”

  “I don’t remember her particularly, but her face looks so familiar to me, like I should remember something specific about her.”

  Nikolai considered, tugging on his beard. Then a smile leapt onto his face. “Perhaps you like the look of this woman and you are making up stories to bring her to you.”

  Taras frowned. “What?”

  Nikolai glanced pointedly at the bed.

  “No,” Taras shook his head, “it’s not like that.” Nikolai looked unconvinced. “Truly, Nikolai. I.. . can’t . . . place her.”

  Nikolai’s smile faded. “Well, there was the snowball incident—with the rocks?”

  “The snow—?” It flooded back to him, as the memories of this room had. The snowballs, the rocks, Sergei and his friends, the ring of blood around her on the snow. He remembered the freezing bite of the air and the smell of guilt. He'd never felt such guilt and shame in all the years since. The memory of it hit him so hard, he clutched his chest.

  Anatoly stepped toward him with concern. “My lord?”

  “Taras, are you well?”

  Taras looked up at them, regaining his composure. “Yes,” he smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “She’s the girl we threw the snow at. I’d met her before in an empty room.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Taras shook his head again and waved the question away with his hand. “Nothing. That’s what I was trying to remember—why she looked so familiar. Thank you, Nikolai.”

  Nikolai’s eyebrows climbed as Taras spoke. “I’m not sure what I did, but if it helped, you’re welcome.”

  Taras smiled and went back to the buttons on his coat.

  “You know,” Nikolai said, “if you like her, you can go and ask the tsar for her. He said he’d grant you anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Must I spell everything out for you, boy? Inga is young and beautiful. It may be spring now, but Muscovy winters are notoriously cold.”

  Taras rolled his eyes. “I meant why would I ask the tsar about such a thing? Wouldn’t I simply ask the lady?”

  Nikolai considered a moment. “When it comes to courtly relations, there is always money, prestige, and property to be considered. As Inga is only a servant, I suppose you could approach her. If she is willing . . . but even if she isn’t, the tsar can command her to come to you.”

  Taras’s head came up sharply. “Even if she doesn’t want to?”

  “Of course. The tsar’s word is law. He can force her to submit.”

  Taras frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t want that.”

  Nikolai cocked his head to the side. “Why not?”

  “For one thing, it’s not very flattering to me.”

  Nikolai raised a puzzled eyebrow.

  “The only way to a get a woman into my bed is to ask the tsar to make her come? Not a very pleasing reputation for a foreigner.”

  Nikolai laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that. Anyway, women are fickle.”

  Taras chuckled. “Pour me some vodka, will you? I need some before this party starts.”

  “That nervous, are you?”

  “I haven’t danced these dances since I was a boy. I’ve had some practice—a page named Boris helped me this afternoon. I’m still praying I don’t fall on my face in front of the entire court.”

  “An afternoon dancing with young Boris—what was that like?” Nikolai’s face looked grave, but Taras detected a teasing tone.

  “Splendid.”

  Nikolai dropped his eyes, hiding a smile. “Well,” he leaned forward conspiratorially, “if you do—fall, I mean—simply get up, put your nose in the air, and keep dancing, as though you have every right to fall on your face if you want to. The boyars will respect you more for it.”

  Taras gave Nikolai a flat-eyed stare. “That’s very reassuring.”

  Nikolai grinned and brought Taras a goblet. They chinked cups, toasting nothing in particular. Taras followed Nikolai’s example and threw the entire contents of the goblet into the back of his throat at once. It burned on the way down, making his eyes water. The drink here was stronger than in England. For all that, it wasn’t as bad as he would have thought. He got it down with only a slight wince.

  “It seems you can hold your drink better than you imagined.”

  “It seems so.”

  “Remember: you may have been raised in England, but the blood of Russia also flows through your veins.” He poure
d Taras another glass.