by K L Conger
Ivan walked directly behind the coffin. His hair had grayed overnight. His skin became sallow and stretched across the bones of his face. Dull, swollen blue eyes looked utterly vacant. Ivan stumbled, rather than walked, jerking his legs in an infantile fashion. His cousin Vladimir Andreyevich and his simple-minded brother Yuri held his arms to keep him upright.
Little Ivan, the tsarevich, toddled behind his father, each of his hands held by one of his weeping nurses. The tiny child’s eyes wandered with curiosity and awe over the sea of mourners lining the streets. As innocent as Yuri, little Ivan couldn't fathom what this day meant for him. Inga’s heart ached for him. True, his father remained, but she wondered what the loss of his mother would mean for his life. Would he follow in his father’s brutal footsteps? She couldn’t help but notice a pattern of little tsareviches losing their mothers at a young age, and what it did to them.
As the casket passed in front of Inga and Yehvah, Ivan suddenly wrenched his arms free and threw himself onto the ground, knees splashing in half-frozen puddles. He threw his forehead toward the paving stones three times before Yuri and Vladimir got a hold of him and wrenched him back to his feet.
Pressing one’s head to the ground was a common religious practice, but Ivan’s grief was so violent, he'd slammed his face into the paving stones of Red Square. Inga cringed at the sound his head made against the stone. When he was securely on his feet again, the procession continued.
Inga became aware of a chorus of sniffles surrounding her. Not much farther on—Inga could still see clearly—Ivan escaped his supporters again and lunged aggressively onto the paving stones. This time, when they pulled him back to his feet, he turned briefly and Inga caught a glimpse of his face. He’d broken skin this time and a trail of blood ran across his nose and one cheek, sliding down toward his jaw.
Inga caught sight of Taras, then. He sat his horse some way behind the Tsar with a straight spine and relaxed shoulders, looking every inch the Russian soldier, clad in ceremonial robes. He watched Ivan’s keening with worried eyes, his face a picture of sadness. He did not notice Inga.
The Russian subjects pressed in quietly behind the procession as it passed. Inga joined them, along with the rest of the palace servants, following their Tsar to the burial of his beloved. Walking with her face toward the ground, she noticed stones marked with fresh blood disappearing beneath her shoes. Evidence of Ivan’s passing.
From so far back, Inga couldn't observe the details of the funeral service or any further reactions from Ivan and the boyars. Whispers passed back through the crowd said that, by the time Ivan got to the altar, his face was a blood-streaked ruin. Even outside the cathedral, his wails drowned out the voice of the priest performing the funeral rites. They echoed through the streets of Moscow, reverberating in the chests of all who bore witness.
Inga shivered.
Chapter 6
WITH A FOREBODING FEELING in his gut, Taras stalked through the palace corridors, heading for the reception room. Ivan had called a meeting to discuss the ‘problem of Livonia’ as he put it. It worried Taras.
It had been three days since Anastasia's interment. Taras expected Ivan to mourn for weeks. Not only did he now call a political meeting, but rather than keep it between himself and his advisors, he’d invited the entire court. Given Ivan’s debilitating grief, it did not bode well.
Taras supposed Ivan deserved to find some way to keep his mind off his grief. Surely this was not it. Winter had only begun, after all, and no one relished a long march north followed by a tenuous siege. They didn’t have the supplies, the funds, or the resources for it.
The crowd already milled when Taras entered the stately room. Ivan sat on his throne in the main reception hall with the Council all around him, directly below the dais. The steady buzz of conversation filled the hall as boyars talked amongst themselves. They all wanted to know the Tsar’s mind. He'd been silent since Anastasia’s passing.
Except at night.
In the early hours of the morning, Ivan had taken to wandering the halls of the palace, wailing and keening like a tortured spirit, haunting the deserted corridors. He’d walked right by Taras’s door more than once, pulling both him and Inga from their sleep.
The first time it happened, Taras sat up, thinking a wounded dog had gotten into the palace somehow. As the sound grew nearer his room, he realized the soul-freezing wails were not canine, but human.
Inga sat up beside him with a gasp, clutching his arm. “Taras, what is that?” Her whisper held fear.
“It’s Ivan.” He turned toward her in the darkness. Shadows cloaked her eyes, but he felt her chest move rapidly up and down beside him.
“How do you know?” she whispered.
“People have reported him walking the halls at night and crying. Every night since she died. I’ve not heard him myself before. He must have walked other wings of the palace before now.”
Inga’s breathing slowed marginally. She leaned forward, her hand still clutching his arm. “He’s mourning for her?” The volume of the moaning went up and down as Ivan bellowed and then ran out of breath. Breathed in again. Started anew.
Taras nodded in the darkness. “The grief still has him by the lungs.”
A resounding howl, so near Ivan must have stood directly outside their door, came from the corridor. Inga flinched, her breathing growing fearful again, and clutched Taras’s bicep with both hands.
He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest and pressing his lips to her forehead. They stayed like that for several minutes. Ivan drew in a deep breath and howled again, like a wolf at the moon. Each beat of Taras’s heart hurt for Ivan. The Tsar’s grief proved so big, so all-consuming, it paralyzed and pained all in proximity to it. Did Taras not love Inga as much?
Something wet fell on Taras's hand A tear had escaped Inga’s eye and crawled sluggishly down her cheek. It cooled quickly on Taras's hand.
The cries receded slowly as Ivan moved on down the corridor. After his echoing wails faded, they sat clutching one another for several more minutes. Knowing they couldn’t remain like that all night, Taras coaxed Inga back down against the pillow.
“Poor man,” she whispered, though her body trembled with fear. Taras kept his arms around her, gently running a hand up and down her arm.
“He’s gone, now,” Taras whispered.
“Poor man,” She whispered again, snuggling closer to him.
Sometime later, Inga fell into a fitful sleep. Taras didn’t sleep any more that night.
Now, sitting in the reception hall, waiting for the meeting to start, Taras understood all too well how much the Tsar’s grief still affected him.
The members of the Chosen Council whispered together around him, asking one another what they thought the Tsar would announce. Several theories and endless speculation circulated at court. Taras preferred to reserve judgment until he heard what Ivan had to say.
Looking no different than at the funeral, Ivan sat on his throne, cheeks sunken and eyes wild. Obviously he hadn’t slept much since the Tsarina’s death. Or during her illness beforehand for that matter. Inga reported he wasn’t eating, either. He looked worse than when he'd nearly died the previous year. Hollow, somehow. Sinister, even. Taras didn’t know whether to pity or fear him.
Ivan stood. It was painful to watch him rise haltingly from his throne. He didn’t have to raise his hands. The act of standing brought instant silence. The standing boyars settled onto their respective benches, eyes riveted on the Tsar and bodies leaning forward.
“We have called everyone together to discuss the matter of Livonia.” Ivan said. His voice sounded much stronger than Taras expected, given his appearance.
From the side of the dais, Sylvester rose to his feet. Ivan's gaze shifted to the priest.
“Forgive me, your Highness, but this is a matter to be discussed by yourself and the Chosen Council. Not in open court.”
“We want it discussed in open court. We want t
o know the mind of my people, not the minds of a few select boyars.” Sylvester’s eyebrows rose as Ivan spoke and had nowhere to go when Ivan continued, his voice getting louder with each word. “The Chosen Council does not govern Russia. We do. We are Tsar. The decisions lie with us!”
Sylvester stared at Ivan in shock. Everyone did.
As Tsar, Ivan definitely had the final say, but the Chosen Council had governed with him since its inception. He always weighed their counsel carefully and judiciously. Now from the way he spread accusing glares among them, one would think they’d attempted to steal his throne.
“Your Highness,” Sylvester spoke again, “the Chosen Council has always—”
“Enough, Sylvester. We’ll hear no more from you! The Council has governed with us in the past, but no more. I govern now. Me!”
Stunned silence engulfed the room while Ivan swept his eyes over each person in attendance, daring them to gainsay him. Taras wondered if he realized he’d dropped the royal ‘we’ with that last outburst.
When Sylvester spoke again, his voice sounded quiet, respectful. “May I ask Lord Tsar, what has brought on this change of mind?”
Ivan stared at Sylvester for several seconds before answering. “You have, Sylvester.” Sylvester blinked warily and Ivan lounged against his throne, adopting a pose as though to explain. “Guards, arrest the priest Sylvester.”
Gasps came from around the room and several men on the Council jumped to their feet. Taras exchanged looks with Nikolai, who sat beside him. What was Ivan doing? Sylvester was his most trusted priest.
Two guards seized Sylvester’s arms and hauled him across the room. He broke free and ran to stand directly in front of Ivan’s dais. There, he fell to his knees and the room silenced once again. Sylvester pressed his forehead to the floor for long seconds, before raising it to address Ivan, keeping his eyes downcast.
“My lord, if my service at court has become undesirable, then I will willingly withdraw to live a life of solitude in a monastery.”
“Not good enough, Sylvester. Not nearly good enough. You will be imprisoned in a place of our choosing. It will not be pleasant or comfortable. Anastasia’s final days were neither of those things.”
When he said her name, Ivan’s voice broke. Taras did not feel pity. Only foreboding. Anastasia’s death was not Sylvester’s fault. Ivan had renounced the Chosen Council and his chief advisor. In his grief, he lashed out in all the wrong directions.
“Adashev.” Ivan’s eyes stayed on Sylvester.
Adashev got to his feet and walked quickly and silently to stand beside Sylvester, keeping his eyes cast down. Fear made the man’s hands tremble as he knelt, copying Sylvester’s posture.
“Yes, my lord.”
Ivan tore his gaze from Sylvester to bestow it on Adashev. The Tsar glared at Adashev for a long time, then at Sylvester, then back at Adashev. The silence was painful.
“You will join him.”
The room erupted with sound. People leapt to their feet, crying out in surprise and fear. Adashev’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, fear making them look childlike.
Nikolai’s face looked as close to fear as Taras had ever seen it. Sylvester and Adashev were not only Ivan’s advisors but his social favorites. If they weren’t safe, no one was. Gradually, a clear voice rose above the collective moan of the crowd. Sylvester. All heads swiveled toward him to listen.
“My lord Tsar, I have devoted my life to God, and the service of Russia. If you point me to prison, I will go there. But tell me why. In God’s name, why?”
Ivan stared at Sylvester with stony eyes. “Because you lied to us.”
Sylvester spread his hands. “I have never told you an untruth, my lord. Not in all the years I’ve served you.”
Ivan stepped to the edge of the dais. He could come no closer to Sylvester and Adashev without stepping off it.
“You told us when bad things happened, it was because of our sins. That God punished us. We believed you. We reformed ourself. We attached ourself to you in the hopes that your good character and merit could guide us toward a righteous life. Now our queen is dead.”
“Things happen, my lord,” Adashev spoke now, obviously grasping for some way to save himself. “The Tsarina Anastasia was extremely ill—”
Ivan did step down from the dais, then. Putting the toe of one foot on the ground, he struck Adashev across the face. Not a high-pitched slap, but a dull thud that must have made the man’s ears ring. It echoed off the walls as if someone had thrown a stone into the corner.
“DON’T YOU EVER SPEAK HER NAME!”
Ivan’s shriek echoed once before fading rapidly. Heavy silence filled the chamber, broken only by a chorus of harsh breathing. Taras’s heart pounded in his ears. Adashev’s eyes furiously studied the ground in front of him.
Ivan stepped calmly back up onto the dais. “You are both hypocrites. Last year when we lay upon what might have been our deathbed, you withdrew your loyalty from our son. We have not forgiven you for that, though you thought we did.” Ivan took a deep breath, letting his eyes sweep the room. “God has broken with us. He has lashed out against us for no reason.” He turned his glare on Sylvester. “From now on, we go our own way. We, Ivan Vasilievich Grozny, are Tsar of Russia! We will rule as we see fit. We will no longer listen to the advice of fallen priests and petty councils.”
He glared around the room again, daring anyone to defy him. “The war with Livonia will resume. Adashev, we have changed our mind. You will not join Sylvester in prison. You, who spoke so strongly against our war in Livonia will lead it. You will go to the front and take command of the army. If you fail us in any way, you will die for it.”
Adashev commenced a trembling bow. “As you wish, your grace.”
“Take them both to their new lives.”
The guards obeyed without hesitation. Sylvester said nothing more. His expression fell into acceptance and sadness. He went willingly with the guards. Before they'd escorted him halfway across the room, he stopped, turning back toward the dais.
“May I ask, my lord Tsar, who your priest will be now?”
Ivan sneered. “We will have no more advisors of your sort, Sylvester.”
Sylvester let his gaze roam the room before settling on Ivan again. “Then Russia is doomed.”
Sylvester and Adashev disappeared, and Taras doubted they would be seen in court again. Ivan was drowning in his anguish. Without the Chosen Council, his friends, or Anastasia’s calming influence, he would be left to his capricious vices.
For the first time, Taras understood why Inga had been so afraid the night Sergei broke her arm. She'd been right. Taras hadn't understood what Ivan was capable of. He had a feeling that, even now, he only glimpsed the tiniest inkling.
Ivan fell back against his throne, slumping down in the seat. “What else is there?”
No one answered. Ivan leaned forward, eyes glittering darkly. “We understood the Council had some business to bring before us. We will hear it now. What is it?” Most dropped trembling gazes to the ground, unable to meet his eye.
Kurbsky leapt to his feet. “My lord Tsar, the matter concerned the Tatars still in our dungeons. A handful of prisoners were taken last year when Your Majesty conquered Kazan. They remain in prison because they refuse to convert and be baptized. The Council hoped to ask your opinion on what to do with them. It’s been over a year.”
“Kill them.”
A soft gasp escaped the crowd. Taras gasped with them. Kill Almas, whom Taras befriended long before the war with Kazan, and his countrymen? Surely not.
Ivan’s head snapped up, his eyes roaming the room as though shocked that anyone would show such insubordination as to gasp at his decision. Taras, along with all his fellow boyars, studied his hands.
“My lord,” Kurbsky’s heel tapped up and down against the stone floor. Taras had never seen signs of nervousness in the man before. “There are many Tatars in Kazan and Russia who have not been forced to convert. Can we
not consign these prisoners to slavery to get them out of the dungeons, or—”
“No. God may have broken with us but He still exists. If they will not acknowledge Him, they will die for it. They are strong-willed, to be in our dungeons for a year and still not broken. Russia is feeding them too well, it seems. They will convert or they will be executed.”
Kurbsky opened his mouth as if to say more. Ivan glared at him and, after a moment, Kurbsky bowed his head in acquiescence. He sat down and the uncomfortable silence returned.
“Is there any other business?”
No one answered.
“Good.” Ivan stood. “Kurbsky, the Council will convene tomorrow. We will discuss not if, but what we will do about Livonia. War preparations must be made.”
He stomped down the dais and out of the room, refusing to acknowledge the suddenly-standing boyars on his way out.
After he left, silence remained. The boyars filed out, too afraid to converse with one another.
Perhaps this was simply Ivan’s grief talking, but how long would that grief last? Inga said Ivan was capable of terrible things; that Anastasia humanized him. Taras had the gnawing feeling he would soon know exactly what she meant.
Chapter 7
TARAS NODDED TO THE dungeon guards as he passed them. He’d come frequently over the past few months and they'd become used to his visits. Without a word, he shifted the pack he’d brought to the opposite shoulder and descended the ladder into the pit.
The dungeon housing the prisoners of Kazan was anything but hospitable. Dark, damp, and frigid, Taras couldn’t understand how anyone survived a winter down here with no blankets or fire, but many did. The cells hunched, cramped and black, with nothing to pass the time in them. The air felt oppressive. The smell of human bodies, urine and stale wheat assaulted his nose.
As he passed into the underground area, lit only by the torch he clutched, prisoners skittered away from the light, like spiders and night crawlers from a fire. Many of them had been confined in darkness so long, they feared the light. Taras imagined the solitude of the cells would drive a man mad after a while. Death would be a mercy, then.
