Citadels of Fire
Page 85
Chapter 41
Inga sighed wistfully as she gathered items from the servants’ tents and loaded them into trunks. For the first time in her life, she felt content. Natalya had been right. Inga's relationship with Taras was unlike anything she’d ever known before—more fulfilling, safe, happy. Now they'd won the war, the tsar's spirits were high as well.
They needed to break camp before the snow hit. Even as she thought it, soft, powdery flakes began to fall from the heavy white clouds covering the sky. Inga quickened her step. The tents were nearly empty, but they still needed to be pulled down and fastened to the wagons.
Inga longed to be back at home in the palace, serving out the long days and spending nights in Taras’s arms.
A bleating sound caught her attention as she headed toward where she’d last seen Yehvah ordering people around. It sounded like a goat, but strange—off somehow. Coming around a lop-sided, half-collapsed tent, Inga saw the source of the sound.
The day the towers of Kazan were blown, the servants in the camp waited feverishly for news of the battle. In the early afternoon, a Tatarian beggar wandered into the camp. At first, the men jumped on him, assuming he meant harm. They soon discovered he had no wit to speak of. Simply a wandering idiot who happened to be a Tatar.
The people of the camp were told to leave him be. No one had any obligation to feed him, but they ought to show him respect. Since then, he’d wandered around the camp, spouting nonsense and begging for scraps. Now he stared at a horse, bleating as though he thought the horse would respond. The thick-legged stock horse snorted, blinked. Ultimately, he looked bored and found some grass to chew on.
Smiling, Inga resumed her search for Yehvah. She found her a few hundred yards away.
“You’re sure everything is out of those tents?”
“Yes, Yehvah, I made sure.”
“Good. Find something to wrap your legs in, child. We’ll be walking a good way in the snow.”
“Yes, Yehvah.”
Inga didn’t argue, though she wouldn’t have as much need for coverings as the other servants. Taras told her he would pick her up so she could ride with him. She looked forward to it.
Thoughts of Taras made her smile. He’d sent her a message from the front to say both he and Nikolai were unharmed. He’d signed it with “love,” and she’d folded it up and put it in her pocket. She felt foolish, but didn’t care. Everything she’d hoped for was happening.
Inga hummed cheerfully as she headed toward the other side of the camp to help with other tasks.
The bleating of the madman reached her ears again. It became a part of the background noise, and she didn’t register it until the beggar jumped out in front of her. Inga stopped short, barely keeping from skidding into him.
The man smelled like he hadn’t bathed in months. His hair was probably white, but so much mud matted it that it appeared dark, and moved on its own. His mouth held exactly three teeth—two yellow, one black—and dirt in every crease and pock mark on his face.
Barring her path, he gazed at her with a disgusting, yet somehow endearing grin. Inga smiled politely, then stepped around him and continued on. He ran, looking like an eager little boy, to catch up with her and stepped in front of her again.
Determined not to let him agitate her, she patted his shoulder—a hand span above her own—and stepped around him again.
This time he grabbed her wrist, his grip like an iron shackle, and spun her around.
“The crossroads, it come!”
Alarmed, she stared up into his face. “What?”
“Your crossroads, it come.”
“My crossroads?”
“Yes.”
Inga gently pried his fingers individually from her wrist. “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“No!” He grabbed her wrist again. “You must choose.”
With exasperation, she went back to trying to pry his fingers off. “Choose what?”
“Your path. You will choose wrong.”
“All . . . right,” Inga still attempted to get loose.
“Please. You must choose. The tsar, he angry.”
That got Inga’s attention. How would a slow Tatar know the term for tsar?
“No,” Inga said slowly, not trying quite so hard to get away anymore, “the tsar is happy. He’s achieved a great victory. He is in high spirits.”
“He is still sane. Will not last.”
Inga shivered, wanting to be away from the beggar. She didn’t know what he was talking about—he probably didn’t know—but it made her uncomfortable.
Then he did something stranger. He put his finger under her chin and raised her eyes to his. The fool’s jerkiness had gone. He stood perfectly still, and his eyes became alarmingly sane.
“You will fix it,” he said quietly, “in time. The little tsar will remember the girl with the golden mane.”
Inga’s stomach dropped. Her knees felt weak, and she fought to keep them locked.
The beggar then leaned forward, as though he held a secret. “The biggest decision of your life. Ivan is great, and terrible." His eyes slid to one side. "And mad."
The beggar let go of her wrist and skipped away, raising his knees to his chest and bleating.
Inga stood frozen to the spot. A few minutes later, Yehvah entered her line of vision.
Yehvah snapped her fingers in front of Inga’s eyes. “Inga? What’s wrong? You look ill.”
Inga blinked, but couldn’t gather herself enough to reassure Yehvah.
“I . . . the beggar . . . he . . .”
“Did he hurt you?” Yehvah sounded alarmed.
Inga shook her head. “No. He said . . .”
“What, child? What did he say?”
Inga stared at where the beggar had disappeared into the crowd, remembering.
A tiny, white and red freckled hand came out and settled on her knee . . .
She relived the moments stuck in a wardrobe with Ivan and Yuri, hiding from the assassin. She again saw Ivan’s frightened eyes and told him to do his duty, to be brave.
“What is it, Inga? What did he say?”
Inga shook herself. She rarely indulged the memory. One of the darkest, scariest, most tragic times of her life—and of Ivan’s—and something she didn’t wish to remember.
“He said the tsar would remember me.”
Yehvah straightened, looking confused. “What? He’s a babbling Tatar, slow of mind. You aren’t taking him seriously?”
She didn’t know why the man affected her so profoundly. He’d said it with such intensity that she felt the truth of his statement in her core. But what did it mean?
Yehvah frowned at her with concern.
“I’m sorry, Yehvah. I’m tired; the fever of victory is getting to me.”
Yehvah looked unconvinced. When Inga offered no other explanation, she seemed to accept it. “Yes, well, we’re nearly done. Do you want to sit down?”
Inga shook her head. “No.”
Not wanting to explain any further, she stepped past Yehvah and hurried in the other direction. A glance over her shoulder showed Yehvah frowning after her. Inga hurried on.
Her earlier sense of contentment had disappeared, replaced with a strange foreboding she couldn’t explain. Yehvah was right. The Tatar was only a babbling mad man, but she couldn’t shut out his words. They echoed inside her skull.
The little tsar will remember the girl with the golden mane . . .
The Russian victory was complete and Kazan would never again rise to its former majesty. The army returned home, proud, happy, and full of the spoils of war. It seemed God smiled on us, and all things fell into their perfect place.
For the first time in my life, I found a measure of happiness with Taras. I continued to serve in the palace, and our lives felt full, satisfying, even normal. The great crossroads of my life drew nearer with every breath I took. At every turn, Taras tried to prepare me for it, while Yehvah proved to be an obstacle.
End of Book 1 of Kremlins
https://www.authorlkhill.com/storysquad
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank LaRae Larkin, professor of history at Weber State University, for not only instilling a love of Russian history in me, but also for helping me with some of the research, giving encouragement, and writing the foreword. This book would not exist without her passion for her work.
Thank you to my critique group, without whom this manuscript would never have been ready for any publisher at all. The group has changed over the years, but the members are unfailingly kind and encouraging; they keep me honest. During the writing of this book, it often included Brianna Kent, Brittany Hacket-Kutz, Quincy Bravo, Laurie Klaass, and now Jernae Kowallis and Wyatt Winnie. Thank you all for your help, support, laughter, and honesty.
I’d also like to thank my wonderful publisher, Jolly Fish Press. I knew the night I met Christopher Loke that my writing would find a good home at Jolly Fish Press. Later, his wife told me that he stayed up half the night to finish Citadels of Fire. That kind of enthusiasm is invaluable and irreplaceable for a budding author. Everyone from the editors to the production team to the marketing team has been wonderful and supportive. I’m so blessed to have found Jolly Fish when I did.
Of course, I must acknowledge the support of all my friends, family, and fellow authors. They’re unfailingly supportive and enthusiastic about my writing. Thank you all so much. You have no idea how much it helps.
A special thanks to my immediate family: my dad, who’s always been my first reader and most ardent supporter; my mom, who raised me with love and taught me to think for myself; my sisters, who are my best friends in the world; and my brothers, who practically salivate to get their hands on my next manuscript. If I could write for no one else in the world, I’d write for you guys. I love you all.
Author's Note
Thank you for joining Taras and Inga on their dark adventures in Russia. Book 2 of Kremlins, Bastions of Blood, will be available from all major retailers in May 2017. Check it out on Goodreads. Here’s what you can do next:
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Also by L.K. Hill
Do you enjoy other genres? Visit Liesel K. Hill’s website to check out her crime fiction, dystopian and historical fiction series.
Crime Fiction:
Dark Remnants, Book 1 of Street Games (free on most platforms)
Desolate Mantle, Book 2 of Street Games
The Botanist
Dystopian:
Persistence of Vision, Book 1 of Interchron (free on most platforms)
Quantum Entanglement, Book 2 of Interchron
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About the Author
L.K. Hill has a degree from Weber State University and has won numerous writing awards, including garnering first place in the 2011 League of Utah Writers Writing Contest. When she’s not writing, Hill relaxes with her family in Ogden, Utah, while maintaining constant communication with her many followers.