Citadels of Fire

by L.K. Hill

  Chapter 18

  The sun went down an hour later, leaving the sky black as pitch, but the oblong throne room blazed with light. Torches in sconces lined the walls. Candles flickered from every crevice and outcropping that would hold them. Chandeliers, dancing with hundreds of flickering flames, hung from the ceiling. Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of milling bodies created a thick, humid atmosphere.

  Taras danced a great deal more than he would have wished. It wasn’t as if, once he began, he could become comfortable with it. Each dance was different and intricate. He would make it through one without too many missteps, only to pray he wouldn’t fall on his face during the next.

  He wiped sweat from his brow. All around him swirled distinguished guests of the tsar. The boyar men wore long, thick beards, and were dressed much as he was. The Russian women looked . . . large. Their figures weren't truly large, but they wore so many layers, they appeared larger than most women. The women who actually were large looked bigger than the men. They wore color caked thickly over their faces. Women in England put color on their faces, but not to this extent.

  Many of the women had bright red smeared haphazardly over their cheeks, like war paint. When he asked about the fashion, Nikolai explained they were attempting to make themselves less beautiful. If they appeared unattractive to men, it would discourage adultery and help them to be loyal to their husbands. Taras thought the idea ridiculous, but didn’t say so. Nikolai seemed to think it made complete sense. Then again, Taras had to concede that the women who wore this paint, despite their obvious beauty, repulsed him. He supposed it was working.

  Then he caught sight of Inga.

  He had not noticed the servants moving silently through the crowd, offering up drinks and refreshments as the dances went on around them. Then, he came face to face with her and gazed straight down into her eyes. She smiled shyly, and offered him the tray she held. He didn’t even see it.

  She wore a fine silver gown with white embroidery, as did all the other servants. It showed her petite slenderness, in contrast to the bulky, full-figured costumes of the boyar women. Her hair was visible. She usually wore a colorless, threadbare scarf. It covered her head completely, coming down over her forehead and leaving her hair hanging in a sack at the nape of her neck. She still wore a scarf, but one made of silver silk that shimmered in the candlelight. Fine, white-blond strands peeked out between the scarf and her forehead, and below her shoulders her thick mane cascaded down her back, curling at her waist.

  She was dressed simply, compared with those attending the ball, but the lack of paint and simple elegance of her costume gave her a natural beauty, and Taras had a hard time looking away from her. She looked radiant.

  “Taras.” Nikolai’s hand on his shoulder brought him out of his trance, and he half-turned to the other man. “Come. There is someone I’d like to introduce you to.”

  Taras nodded, turning back and taking a drink from Inga’s tray as an excuse to look at her again. The goblet had to be vodka. An ornate, wooden thing, it must have been painted with some sort of oil because it, too, glistened under the candles. Taras paused, hoping she’d meet his gaze again. She did, and he winked at her before turning to follow Nikolai through the crowd.

  Nikolai stopped and addressed a man with a barrel chest and arms only equaled on a blacksmith. His beard, though full, was well groomed, and the white streaks in it gave him a distinguished look.

  “My lord, may I present Taras Nicholaevich Demidov. Taras, this is Mikhail Glinsky, Master of the Horse.”

  Taras immediately turned serious. He put his right fist to his chest and bowed from the waist. The Master of the Horse inclined his head in return. He stood taller than Taras, and more solidly built, though his gut hung a few inches over his belt.

  “It is good to meet you, Taras. I have heard much about you.” Glinsky tugged at his full beard. “Tomorrow is Sunday, so services will be held. The next day, however, I want you to report to my chambers at midmorning. I will take you to my right hand, who oversees the training of the tsar’s army. Make sure you sleep well the night before. We mean to test you thoroughly and find out what you can do and where we can best use you in the tsar’s service.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I look forward to it.”

  “As do I. Enjoy yourself tonight, so you sleep well tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

  Glinsky nodded and turned away.

  When he was out of earshot, Taras turned to Nikolai with chagrin. “You couldn’t have given me some warning before the introduction?”

  Nikolai laughed heartily—the first time Taras had heard such a sound from him.

  “You hold yourself remarkably well in the face of authority. The Master of the Horse would never deign to show his approval of a soldier, especially one who has not yet found his place in the army. One can never be told in advance of such an introduction. A man’s true colors come through when he doesn’t have time to rehearse.”

  Taras shook his head ruefully. Russia would definitely keep him on his toes. He prayed Nikolai was right about the Master of the Horse.

  The dancing continued for more than an hour. When it ended, Taras was famished. He kept busy by constantly looking around for Inga. Every time the drinks on her tray ran out, or were replaced with mostly empty goblets, she would disappear for several minutes. Invariable, though, she returned with more.

  Finally, the musicians were sent away and heavy tables dragged in, draped in lavish tablecloths of every color. The cloths felt thick enough to keep a man warm during a winter’s night. Benches were furnished and covered with plush cushions and thick pillows. Taras sat down next to Nikolai, for whom he already felt a deep kinship.

  Then the food arrived. The women brought out smaller dishes—pitchers of mead and bottles of vodka, side dishes and garnishes, sauces of every kind. The manservants, sometimes two or three at a time, brought out the main dishes: whole roasted boars and mounds of de-boned reindeer meat. One held a pile of what could only be described as limbs. Heavy bones with inches of thick, wonderful-smelling meat were piled higher on the tray than Taras was tall. They set it down directly in front of him.

  “What is this, Nikolai?”

  “This is the essence of an entire Siberian bear.”

  Taras’s eyebrows jumped to his forehead, but Nikolai had already torn into a leg large enough to fill both men's bellies. Taras picked a chunk of meat from the pile and hesitantly bit into it. The meat proved tougher than most he’d had, and was heavily spiced, but perhaps that was the taste of the meat itself. It burned his nose and throat, and he coughed trying to choke it down. Nikolai laughed again and clapped him on the back.

  “This is a man’s meat. Welcome to Russia, my boy.”

  Taras laughed and kept eating. The mound of bear disappeared amazingly fast, along with the other dishes. Hot borscht was served—something he remembered from his childhood. The soup, made of beets and heavy with garlic, brought memories of his father, who used to eat the dish religiously.

  Ivan sat on a dais above the others. He ate from an ornately gilded table, laid with a sable runner. His wife, the beautiful Anastasia, sat beside him. She had the elegant, demur beauty of a hand-crafted doll, but something about her bespoke gentleness and feminine authority. The dishes were served to the royal couple first—after the tester, of course—and Ivan watched his guests with pleasure.

  The servants wandering through the hall made sure Taras’s goblet stayed full, but he only sipped from it. He did not want to be drunk in the Russian court. Not yet. He wasn’t comfortable enough to risk doing anything he wouldn’t remember the next day.

  When the feasting died down and Taras had eaten more than his fill, the tsar stood and raised his hands. Silence fell.

  “Let the entertainments begin.”

  The boyars cheered. They looked eagerly around to see what form these “entertainments” would take. Taras leaned over to Nikolai.

  “I thought the dan
cing was the entertainment.”

  Nikolai chuckled softly, giving Taras a pitying look. “Not remotely.”

  All the diners were seated in roughly one half of the massive hall. Taras assumed it was done so everyone ate together under the watchful eye of the tsar. The other half of the room stood completely bare.

  Now, the mammoth oak doors swung inward. The dinner guests turned eagerly toward them. No less than three men threw their entire strength into swinging each of the two doors in. Through them came something that made Taras’s eyes pop.

  The largest metal cage he’d ever seen rolled in on wheels that groaned with every quarter turn. Inside sat the largest bear Taras could have imagined. Standing on all fours, it would have been six feet tall at the back, it’s head even taller. If it reared up, it would have been ten or twelve feet at least. Its thick, matted fur was the black of the night sky during a storm. Taras could smell the creature from across the room. One of the handlers grasped a heavy chain attached to a thick iron collar around the beast’s neck.

  Silence fell among the boyars, and the bear growled. A low, guttural hum, like the purr of a six-thousand-pound cat. It opened its enormous jaws and sent forth a deafening roar.

  The spell was broken.

  The boyars yelled and jeered, shaking their fists and pulling gold and silver coins from their pockets. They were taking bets.

  Taras watched the bear with fascination. He could have easily fit his entire head inside its snout. On one side of the room, two large holes had been bored into the wall. Between them stood a thick column. The man holding the bear’s chain attached it like a shackle to the metal pole. Taras realized it wasn’t two holes, but a cleared-out tunnel. He could have stuck his arm through one of the openings, around the metal column, and come out the hole on the other side. This had been purposely fashioned to chain creatures such as this to the wall.

  The man holding the chain finished securing it. Those who had helped push the bear in stood back. The man who’d held the chain hefted a ten-foot staff. He carefully unlocked the padlock that secured the door of the bear’s cage, then stood back, using the staff to push the lock off the gate. He then used the hook on the other end of the staff to pull the door open.

  Breaking into an awkward lope, the bear bounded down out of the cage, barely noticing the two-foot drop, and made straight for the boyars. He came within six feet of the outer-most table before the chain jerked him back. Dust rose from where the chain attached to the wall, and the entire palace shuddered.

  The boyars cheered and slurred about what good sport this would be. Taras put his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his fists and watching with interest.

  Another, much smaller cage was brought in. This one held two dogs. They were large hunting dogs, obviously ferocious. Next to the bear, they looked like puppies. The servants set the two cages down and released the dogs.

  The dogs launched themselves at the bear, barking and snapping. Taras found his knees straightening. Entranced, he simply could not sit anymore.

  Nikolai watched Taras watch the spectacle.

  As soon as the first dog touched the bear, jumping onto its back and ripping out a chunk of fur and flesh, the war was on. The bear howled and swatted at the dog, which let go and jumped back, even as the second dog darted in at one of the bear’s hind legs.

  And so it went on: the dogs attacked; the bear swatted and snapped at them, sometimes making contact, sometimes missing.

  Minutes later, the first breakthrough came. The bear lashed a foreleg out toward one of the dogs, raking its razor-sharp claw across the animal’s underbelly. The dog yelped, its high-pitched squeal contrasting sharply with the barking. The bear, seeing its advantage, lunged toward the injured animal, but the dog backed far enough away to be out of reach. The bear licked blood from its paws while the dog settled down to lick its wound, its entrails poking out of the injury.

  The instant the dog screamed, the courtiers went wild, screaming and cheering, some instantly collecting on bets. A line of servants stood between the boyars and the ‘show’ to keep them from getting too close for safety. Most of the boyars were drunk. They abused the servants standing between them and the bear, shouting at them to move out of the way. The servants stood fast, however. If any of the boyars got through and were hurt, it would likely mean death for them.

  Taras pulled his gaze away from the spectacle long enough to look at the tsar. Ivan sat on his throne, fingers steepled, and watched the happenings in the room with self-reservation, but obvious pleasure. The tsarina must have excused herself some time before because she no longer sat beside her husband. Taras supposed it was a rather barbaric display. He couldn’t help but be fascinated.

  The uninjured dog took more risks. Ten minutes later, things became considerably messier. The bear reared up on its hind legs in frustration, unable to catch the uninjured hound. Then the injured dog re-entered the fight. He sunk his teeth into the back of the bear’s hind leg and pulled hard. The bear staggered, trying to keep its balance, but the dog kept pulling, its teeth sinking down to where the bear’s ankle would have been—Taras was unsure whether bears had ankles or not. Bouncing on one leg, the bear fell flat onto its belly with a crash.

  The uninjured dog leaped right when it should have gone left, and barely got out of the way in time. It landed only inches shy of the bear’s snout. The bear lunged up onto its feet, trapping the dog beneath its front paw. The injured dog retreated. The other was trapped. With its other paw, the bear dug into the trapped dog’s belly and, when it yanked it’s claw back, the dog was torn in two.

  Blood sprayed the front row of spectators with blood. They hardly noticed. Screams and cheers erupted and more bets were collected upon. Taras could hear the bear crunching the dog’s bones between its teeth.

  He sat down slowly. A deep, cold void expanded in his chest. He’d seen death before—both of animals and men. This felt different. When an animal was slaughtered to feed a family, it was done with respect and a worthwhile purpose. When a man died on the battlefield in defense of something he held dear, rich, drunken spectators did not cheer the bloodletting to its gory climax.

  Deciding perhaps sobriety was not the way to go, he picked up his goblet and drained it. When he lowered it to the table again, his hands shook. Nikolai reached across the table for a pitcher of vodka. He refilled Taras’s goblet.

  “Might as well drink up,” he said. “It’s not going to get any better.” Taras obeyed, draining another goblet.

  The show came to a standstill, as the bear seemed content with his one conquest. The boyars, however, were not. They threw things at the bear—spoons, knives, food, cushions—trying to provoke it. The servants kept throwing the injured dog into the path of the bear. Eventually the second animal was torn limb from limb, as the first had been. More cheering ensued, and Taras drank more deeply from his goblet.

  Taras wanted to fill the empty chasm of his chest with warm mead and wait for daylight.