by K L Conger
She yanked her hand out of Sacha’s grasp and disappeared back into the tavern. Sacha gave them a shrug and a nervous chuckle before hurrying after Anja.
Nikolai gave Taras a flat stare. “Well done.”
Taras rolled his eyes, chagrined, but refused to acknowledge his friend’s sarcasm.
Twenty minutes later, Sacha and Anja reappeared. Anja did not look pleased, though she did flash a smile at Taras as she walked by. Apparently, Sacha had convinced her to take them to Tatyana.
With only an hour of daylight left, they followed Anja through the narrow, muddy passageways that made up the streets of the inner city.
“Not to be juvenile,” Taras grunted, while trying to pry Jasper free of a particularly thick mud hole, “but how much further is it?” It wasn’t that they’d come a great distance, but the streets were so crammed with people and structures and muck that it took significantly longer to get anywhere than it did in the cleaner parts of the city.
“Don’t worry,” Sacha called back to him, “we’re nearly there.”
They made their way into a quiet, destitute district. The dwellings, little more than mud huts, and streets stood empty, except for those who lived in them. Anja stopped in front of a small, square structure, made up mostly of reeds and dried muck. She went inside, making them wait in the street. A moment later she returned. “She has agreed to see you. Come in.”
Nikolai turned to Sacha. “I’ll pay you a silver coin for your services.” Sacha’s eyes lit up. “You’ll only get it if, when we come back out, our horses and belongings are still here and accounted for.” He held up the silver for Sacha to see. The man’s eyes sparkled. Anja eyed it lustfully, and no wonder. That silver coin was more money than either of them saw in a year.
“Don’t worry, my lord. Everything will be here when you return.”
Nikolai grunted and handed Sacha his horse’s reins. Taras followed suit and they both ducked into the tiny hut.
The stench of musty clothing and rancid body smell immediately threatened to overwhelm them. The hut couldn’t have been more than five feet by five—smaller than the servant’s quarters in the palace. Dirt from the floor had settled on everything in the hut—the pallet-beds, the warped, pitted cookware, the two threadbare blankets. The round, white haired woman who sat in the corner, eyeing them warily.
Plump and kindly-looking, Taras didn’t think she could be much older than Nikolai, but her eyes made her look years older. She was someone for whom, Taras could tell, life had been difficult. It showed in the premature lines on her face, the dull, white color of every hair on her head, and the way she sat huddled in on herself, as though the very air might attack.
Taras suddenly respected Anja more. She'd taken in this pathetic creature out of compassion, when she could barely feed herself. Surely Tatyana would have been long dead without Anja’s kindness. Taras might end up owing Anja a great deal.
As he and Nikolai watched, she approached the old woman slowly and put a compassionate hand on her arm. “Tatyana, these men want to ask some questions about where you used to live. I don’t think they mean no harm, but you don’t got to answer if you don’t want.”
Perhaps Taras wouldn’t owe Anja anything after all.
Tatyana raised her ancient head. When she spoke, her voice sounded surprisingly sturdy. Her eyes shone with the wisdom that only comes from long, hard experience. “What can I possibly do for two of the Tsar’s soldiers?”
Taras went to stand in front of her, then fell into a squat so his eyes were level with hers. “I understand you used to live with your mother in the northern woods?”
“I did.”
“Was she, by chance, the woman who found the body of Mary Demidov?”
Tatyana dropped her eyes and silence filled the small hut for several minutes. Taras wanted to prod her. Something told him to wait.
“So,” she lifted her eyes to him again. Dark eyes—the color of mud. “You've come back, have you? I always thought you would.”
Taras frowned. “Pardon?”
“You’re her son, aren’t you?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“You don’t remember me?”
Taras’s eyebrows climbed higher still. “No. I’m sorry, I don’t. Should I?”
Tatyana smiled. She turned to Anja, whose head swiveled between her and Taras as they conversed, eyes growing wide.
“It’s all right, Anja. You should go back to work before Boris has a fit. They can stay. I’ll be well.”
Anja glanced distrustfully at Taras. “Are you sure, Tatyana? I don’t mind staying.”
“I’m sure.”
Anja sighed. “Sacha is still outside holding their horses. If they try anything, scream. He’ll come.” She got up and headed for the door. “I’ll tell him if you do, to come in with his knife drawn.” Taras suppressed a smile.
“Wouldn’t do a bit of good, lass,” Nikolai said. “Taras is one of the best soldiers in the Tsar’s guard.”
Taras turned, surprised by Nikolai’s praise.
Anja sighed. “Well, Sacha will fight him anyway—both of you, if you try to do anything to Tatyana. She’s only an old woman. She never harmed anybody—”
“Anja,” Tatyana’s voice silenced the younger woman. “I’ll be fine.”
After another moment’s hesitation, Anja gave a single bob of her head, then ducked out of the tent. Taras could hear her voice outside, telling Sacha what to do if Tatyana should scream. He ignored it, turning instead back to Tatyana.
“What do you know? What did mother tell you? Did she see the accident, or come upon my mother’s body afterward? What did she say about it?”
Her face remained expressionless except for one eyebrow that arched, so quickly he might have imagined it. “You think it was an accident?”
He shook his head. “No. But I have no proof. No details. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
She remained silent for several seconds. “May I ask how you found me?”
“With difficulty. We spoke to an old woman who worked at the palace. She'd gone away from the palace when my mother was injured, but told us to speak to a woman who’d filled in for her named Liliya. Liliya told us your mother reported what happened to the palace that day. She didn’t know where to find you. We searched—”
“The old woman from the palace is dead.”
Taras stopped, taken aback by the bitterness in Tatyana’s voice. “Yes, my lady. She is. Did you know her?”
“Not for many years, now. We were friends as children. Tell me, young man, did you speak to her before she died?”
Taras's heart sank. “Yes, we did.”
“How long before?”
So, she understood. She would, no doubt, try and protect herself.
“Not long before.”
Another silence filled the hut.
“I’m sorry,” Tatyana finally said, “I cannot help you.”
Taras didn’t try to hide the disappointed sigh that escaped him. “Please—”
“No.”
“Tatyana, I beg you to hear me out.”
Her eyes focused somewhere on the wall behind him, refusing to look at or acknowledge him.
“Tatyana, I have been looking for answers my entire life. I’ve been searching here in Russia for two years. You may be the only one who can give them to me. I know you’re scared...” He couldn’t think of a compelling way to finish the thought.
“I am an old woman, my lord. Perhaps it seems strange to you that I would be afraid to help, at my age. But I have been running from danger my entire life. I want to die in peace. Please don’t condemn me to a violent death on top of everything else.”
Taras gazed at her for a long time. Her eyes grew moist, her expression pleading. His heart hurt for her. He didn’t know what ‘everything else’ meant. She struck him as a woman who'd lived a life of intense vulnerability, one that saw innocence exploited or forcibly taken.
Taras remembered what I
nga said several weeks ago, about how terrifying the Kremlin had been while she grew up. It occurred to him that, under worse circumstances, this could be Inga in thirty years. He shuddered. No, he wouldn't allow that to happen. He would find a way to shelter Inga better than this woman had been sheltered. Her ancient eyes showed the soul-weariness of a beautiful young girl who'd been worn down by the perils of life; a woman who never had anyone to protect her. Now, she searched for something so simple, most people took it for granted: peace.
“Peace can be elusive in Russia,” he said quietly.
A tear escaped down her cheek. “Yes, my lord.”
Taras stood, knowing he ought to leave her. Knowing it was the kind thing to do. Nikolai crouched by the door, watching with inquisitive eyes. Taras couldn’t go without knowing, without trying.
“Tatyana, if I don’t find out what truly happened that day, I will never know peace either. Please, help me. Don’t consign me to so awful a fate.”
She turned away from him, guilt in her face. Taras crouched beside her again, closer this time. “You recognized me. Knew me, as soon as you heard my mother’s name. You asked if I recognized you. If you can’t talk about what you saw, can you tell me what you meant?”
Tatyana glanced at him, then away. “I saw you. When they took your mother to the palace after the accident, I followed.” She hesitated, looking undecided, then shrugged in a resigned way. “It was I, Lord Taras, not my mother, who saw what happened. She didn’t want me to report it. I insisted. I could not bring myself to leave your mother to die alone in the snow. Mother trusted the woman at the palace, but didn’t want me to be seen. She sought to protect me. I watched from a stand of trees outside your family’s apartments. I felt too much fear, back then, to speak to anyone other than my mother. She taught me to fear people, especially men.”
She swallowed, her eyes far away, seeing memories. “Then you came. They brought you and your father to see her. I liked you. You drew my eyes because, being a child, you weren't a threat to me. You were smaller than I.”
She smiled sheepishly, and he did his best to return it. Sadness tinged everything she said about herself.
She went on. “And you looked so wretched. Eyes red and swollen, crying for your mother. I knew how much I loved my own mother. How my whole world—” Tatyana’s voice broke, “and survival depended on her. My heart broke for you because I'd seen what happened. I sensed, even then, she would not live.”
Tatyana’s despair felt overpowering. Taras’s eyes grew misty listening to her. “You...saw what happened,” he murmured.
“And then you looked at me.”
Taras’s eyebrows rose. “I did?”
Tatyana barked a laugh. “Perhaps not. Perhaps it only seemed that way to me. For a moment, from my hiding place in the trees, I swore you did. As afraid as I was of men, I remember thinking if you ever came to me and stared me in the eye, asking for the truth, I would give it to you. Because I understood.”
She dropped her gaze to her lap and the silence stretched. Taras tilted her chin up with his forefinger. Her eyes raced everywhere, trying to avoid his. He held her chin there with his finger until she met his eyes.
“Tatyana, I’m asking now. Please, tell me. I must know.”
The old woman leaned back, resting her head against the wall of the hut and shutting her eyes. Fresh tears slid down her wrinkled cheeks. When she spoke, she did not open her eyes.
“I have not thought about it for many years, my lord. My mother always described the horror of the outside world. Especially how awfully men treated women. As I entered my teen years, and then became a young woman myself, I doubted her. Thought she was an old fool.” She opened her eyes. Her voice dropped to a petrified whisper. “And then I witnessed something so awful, I never doubted my mother again.”
Taras swallowed the lump in his throat.
Tatyana leaned her head against the wall again, her eyes pointed at the hut’s ceiling. She shut them, as if in pain, and shook her head silently for several seconds. “Forgive me, my lord. I can’t. I can’t I can’t, I simply can’t...” Her body trembled against the wall of the hut and the tears came in streams, now.
Taras reached out and took one of her hands in both of his, cupping it gently. “It’s all right, Tatyana. You don’t have to. It’s all right.”
A short time later, Taras and Nikolai took their horses from Sacha, who disappeared the instant Nikolai’s silver coin hit his palm, and headed for the palace.
“What now?” Nikolai asked.
Taras sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I honestly don’t know.”
Chapter 9
INGA RUSHED THROUGH the halls, looking for Yehvah. Three different maids reported Yehvah telling them she’d be in three different places this afternoon. Inga checked them all and found Yehvah in none of them. She’d checked everywhere she could think of and now headed for the only place she hadn’t searched yet that Yehvah might be: the servant's quarters. Though what she would be doing there in the middle of the day...
Inga had noticed something amiss with Yehvah lately. In past months, she’d been more secretive than usual. She snapped at the girls over small things that wouldn’t have bothered her before.
Inga came to the servant’s quarters and pushed the door open. Yehvah and most of the maids shared this room—a plain thing with two rows of hard palettes, and hooks on the walls for hanging clothes. One of the palettes was occupied—an oddity by itself in the middle of the day. The person occupying it was far stranger.
Yehvah lay on her side, sleeping soundly. Frowning, Inga tiptoed into the room, closing the door softly behind her, and made her way to Yehvah’s palette. Sitting softly on the edge of it, she put a hand on Yehvah’s cheek.
Yehvah’s eyes flew open with a start, settling on Inga with a horrified expression. Slowly, her shock faded and she swallowed.
“What is it, Yehvah?” Inga asked quietly. “Shall I fetch a doctor? And don’t bother denying something’s wrong,” she added quickly when Yehvah opened her mouth indignantly. “Because in all the years since you brought me to the palace, I’ve never seen you sleeping in the middle of the day.”
With a resigned sigh, Yehvah dragged herself into a sitting position. “I suppose it’s high time you knew.”
Fear clutched at Inga’s chest. “Knew what?”
Yehvah straightened her spine and stared Inga in the eye. “Ever since the...” she swallowed, her eyes darting about the room, “...the wolf attack, my wounds haven’t healed as well as I’d have liked.”
Inga’s eyes went to Yehvah’s middle, where she knew the worst of the scarring lay. Miniature trenches made tracks across her neck, ending just above her jaw, but most of the marks of the attack hid beneath her clothing. “Well, let me get one of the doctors—”
“I’ve seen them already. They tell me I’m lucky to have healed this well and there’s nothing more to be done.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll be replaced soon, girl. Perhaps put out of the palace. I can’t keep up with the work anymore. I do all I can, but I move more slowly each day, and get less done. If I don’t sleep in the middle of the day, I’m in a haze by dinner time. The head clerk has noticed. He'll find a reason to get rid of me.”
Inga’s jaw tightened. “That’s not true. We won’t let him.”
“I’ve thought that constantly since Kazan, Inga. Try as I might, I can’t seem to work any faster or get any better.”
Inga shook her head. “You don’t have to. You’ve taken care of me my entire life, Yehvah. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? I’ll take over more of your work.”
“You already work your hands raw, Inga,” Yehvah said, rubbing her forehead.
“Then I’ll scrub them to the bone. He won’t put you out. As long as everything gets done as it should, he won’t have any reason to. Anything you can’t get done, I’ll do. Tell me when you need to sleep and I’ll take over for you. We’ll make it work, Y
ehvah.”
Yehvah’s eyes grew misty. She put a cool hand to Inga’s cheek and nodded.
Chapter 10
MOSCOW, MAY 1549
“You can lower your arms now, my lord. I am finished.”
Taras had been so lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice when Anatoly left off fussing over the embellishments of his outfit. He wore showy garments made of silk and satin and covered with embroidery. His sable cloak, which Anatoly held up for him, was made of the finest pelts that could be found. Tonight, he ventured out to do something he rarely did: attend a political banquet.
He let his hands drop with a sigh. He hated wearing these things. Thankfully Inga wasn't here to see them, though she would probably be here when he returned. Anatoly, a gentle smirk on his ancient face, ducked his head.
“You look very well, my lord.”
Taras grunted. “I look like a court jester.”
Anatoly smiled broadly, now. “Surely not, my lord. You are dressed far too finely. A fool would wear motley.”
Taras squinted his eyes at Anatoly, trying to figure out if his servant was making fun of him. Anatoly pretended not to notice Taras’s scrutiny and merely shook the cloak he held to remind Taras he needed to don it. Allowing his manservant to drape the cloak over his shoulder, Taras let it hang down the other side with the gold braided rope tied in an intricate knot across his chest. Anatoly, he'd learned, retained a few tiny pleasures in life. Teasing Taras was one of them.
“Better be getting along, my lord. The party has already begun. If you don’t get there soon, you will have little time to mingle before dinner.”
Taras tried to smile. His reflection grimaced back at him from the looking glass. Mingling didn't interest him. He hadn’t told anyone—even Inga or Nikolai—why he'd decided to attend this banquet. He hated these things, but tonight someone he wanted to talk to would also be in attendance.
Taras turned to Anatoly, nodding. “The rest of the evening is yours, Anatoly. Thank you for your help.” He opened the heavy wooden door, careful to keep his cloak clear of it. “Pray for me.”
