by K L Conger
A loud boom behind him brought Taras’s head around. Nikolai had slammed the door. He rested his forehead and both arms, from elbow to wrist, against the great wooden ingress. His chest heaved. After a few seconds, he turned to Taras.
“Are you calm, now?”
“Calm?” Taras snarled. “How can you expect me to be calm?”
“Everything you did, Taras, everything you said out there, is treason. True, unequivocal treason. They’ll kill you for that.”
“Then let them.”
Nikolai’s eyes widened.
Taras’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe some things are worth dying for.”
Nikolai shook his head. “This isn’t.”
Instantly Taras’s anger returned. “Maybe not for you.”
“That’s not what I mean. Taras, if you die for challenging the Tsar, you’ll die a senseless death beside a thousand other senseless, meaningless deaths. It means nothing to Ivan. Your martyrdom will go unknown and unnoticed.”
Taras turned away, shaking his head and running his hands through his hair, knocking the fur shapka from his head. It fell to the floor with a dull thud. He didn’t notice.
“This is life, Taras.”
“No. This is death.” He glared at Nikolai from ten feet away. “This is the whim of one bloodthirsty man. How can you continue to justify his actions?”
“He is the Tsar. He is the mouthpiece of God on earth—”
“No! That’s an excuse. I won’t accept it anymore.” Taras shouted. “The God I serve would never condone this!” Nikolai stayed silent and Taras crossed the space between them. “The God of the Old Testament, the Christian God...you think this is His will?”
Nikolai refused to meet Taras’s gaze.
“If it were,” Taras whispered, “he would cease to be God.”
Nikolai did look at Taras now, in surprise. “That’s blasphemy.”
Taras shook his head, exhaustion washing over him. “No. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. I do not believe in a God that would want this kind of suffering.”
“Then why doesn’t He do something to stop it?” Nikolai’s soft voice trembled.
Taras remained silent a long time, pondering. “Perhaps He’s simply not here on earth right now.” When he glanced up, Nikolai’s eyebrows had arched again. Taras threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t have the answers, Nikolai. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live this way. I’m finished with it. All of it.”
Taras stepped around Nikolai and headed for the door.
“What will you do, Taras? Will you lose your life for your convictions?”
Taras turned. Nikolai’s face looked pinched, anxious. “No. Not today. But I won’t stay here either. I ride for Moscow this minute. I’ll decide what to do when I get there.” He turned and strode through the door and out into Novgorod’s mass graveyard.
“Taras. Taras, wait!” Nikolai’s voice faded behind him as he pushed fiercely through the city-shaped graveyard.
Chapter 29
MOSCOW, FEBRUARY 1550
With a shiver, Inga pulled her cloak more closely around her. The wind blew bitterly today, and it fell on Inga to leave the shelter of the palace. Even in the dead of winter, ice was sometimes required to preserve food or battle fevers. Yehvah needed some and everyone else was busy. In truth, Inga could have passed the job off to one of the kitchen boys, but she’d wanted the respite of the grounds. Despite the bone-chilling cold, she appreciated a few precious moments of solitude.
Now she slogged back through the snow with two buckets full of ice chunks. Neither weighed much, but their swinging masses made walking awkward. Even so, she quickened her step. She’d taken her time on the way out to the ice house, savoring the solitude. Now she went faster. Not that the ice held any chance of melting before she reached the palace—not in this frigid air—but wading knee-deep in snow took its toll. Her legs had become numb. She’d been out-of-doors too long.
With the Tsar, the Ophrichniki, and most of the army in Novgorod, things were relaxed in the palace. She still had plenty to do, but all of Moscow breathed easier for the moment without Ivan looming over them.
With still a good distance to go before she reached the palace, a figure appeared against the snow. As it got closer, Inga recognized Anne. They met at the bottom of a rise.
“Yehvah sent me to see if you got lost,” Anne said, smiling.
“Does she need me for something?”
“No. She became worried when you didn’t come right back, I think.”
Inga chuckled, though guilt fluttered through her chest. Yehvah wasn’t being paranoid. Since Anastasia’s death, servants disappearing to complete a task and never being seen again wasn’t even uncommon.
Inga shivered. This wind would probably bring more snow tonight. Not for the first time, she wondered if Taras was warm. Not likely while traveling in winter. Inga worried about him when he left for so long. “I’m enjoying the quiet,” she said.
Anne smiled again. “I don’t blame you. Here, let me take one.”
Inga handed her one of the buckets and they trudged side by side in silence for a time. They hadn’t gotten far when Anne stopped. Inga turned toward her with a raised eyebrow and Anne nodded with her chin to something above and behind Inga.
Turning, Inga’s eyes fell on a horse and rider atop the ridge. Though he trotted too far away to make out the rider's face, Inga immediately recognized Jasper, and the way Taras sat his horse. He halted the animal atop the rise Inga had descended, directly above where she stood beside Anne, and dismounted. The snow-covered hill probably sloped too sharply, the snow too slippery, for Jasper to descend safely.
Something about Taras’s stance made Inga afraid. Why was he alone? If the army had marched for home, the palace servants would have heard. Taras must have ridden back alone through the blizzard.
“Here,” Anne said quietly, reaching for Inga’s bucket. “I’ll take them to Yehvah and let her know where you are. Better hurry, Inga. The storm gathers.”
Inga murmured her thanks before trudging up the steep hill toward Taras. She made it to the top, following the path of least resistance through the snow, and came up six feet from where he and Jasper stood. The snow atop the ridge had drifted more heavily than down below. It nearly reached Taras's hip bones.
Fear made Inga's limbs weaker than the cold had. Taras looked ghoulish. Dark circles underscored red-rimmed eyes. Painfully chapped lips turned downward on his sunken, cloud-gray face. Wind burns marred the high points of his cheekbones.
As she neared him, her heart beat faster. Stark terror leaked from his eyes. Emotions she couldn’t define flitted across his face like ghosts. Something terrible happened to him. Had Nikolai died? Had he found his mother’s murderer? She couldn't think of another scenario that might make him look like this way.
“Taras,” she whispered as she drew near him, “what—?”
He lunged at her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her shoulder. Sobs wracked his body and his tears dripped onto her neck, cool by the time they landed on her skin and slid slowly down her chest. He crushed her against him so tightly, it hurt. She didn’t complain. When he pulled back slightly, she put her face under his, pressing her forehead against his and trying to catch his eye.
“Taras, what happened?”
He refused to meet her gaze, squeezing his eyes shut, pulling back to cover them with one hand. A moment later he slid the hand down to cover his mouth, then rubbed it down over his beard. He glanced at her then. His eyes shifted constantly, still leaking tears. He shook his head and embraced her again.
Jasper bobbed his head, whinnying as the wind picked up. The temperature dropped as dark clouds gathered in the sky around them, threatening to turn all three figures atop the rise into statues of ice. The storm had arrived.
TWO WEEKS AFTER TARAS arrived back in Moscow, the Tsar followed with the Oprichniki. By then, word of what happened in Novgorod ha
d spread throughout the country. A quiet, fearful hush fell over Russia. The Tsar had graduated from individuals, to families, to estates, and now to entire cities. Who could say the entire country wouldn’t be sacrificed to Ivan’s bloodlust? Terror emanated from the far reaches of the land. Terror and helplessness. Taras felt it.
He remembered the vibrant festivity of the city on the first day he’d arrived in Moscow, nearly three years before. The Tsar celebrated his marriage and recent coronation, and the entire city pulsed with cheer. Taras hardly remembered it anymore.
The streets now stood gray and dreary. Anyone forced to walk them huddled in on themselves and avoided others. The palace felt dark and muted. Fearful silence and resigned acquiescence permeated the air, leaving the feel of the walking departed in the corridors. When the Tsar and his army returned, tensions rose, but nothing else changed.
That very day, Nikolai appeared at Taras’s door. Midafternoon had come and perpetual, bleak clouds hid sun and sky. Taras opened the door wider to admit his friend. Nikolai still looked gaunt and haunted, but not to the same extent as in Novgorod. Taras supposed simply being away from the gore, back in Moscow helped. Of course, Yehvah was also here.
“Vodka?”
Nikolai nodded and Taras poured them both a drink. They both walked silently to stand in front of the fire with their goblets. Nikolai drained his in one gulp. He turned to Taras.
“We need to talk.”
Taras nodded. “I know.”
“Taras, you haven't much time.”
“For what?”
Nikolai sighed. “The soldiers in the alley, they heard what you said. Oprichniki soldiers aren’t the most intelligent men, but it didn’t take much for them to realize your threats aimed at the Tsar. They’ve raised questions about your loyalty.”
Taras stared into the fire, nodding absently. The news should have terrified him. It didn’t. Somehow, it felt right. About time someone questioned his loyalty; about time something forced Taras to decide. The time had come to do exactly that. What a pleasant relief.
“Normally,” Nikolai continued, “I would tell you to lay low, allow me to keep my eyes and ears open, and perhaps it would blow over." He heaved a great sigh. "But there’s more.”
When he didn’t continue, Taras turned to him. “Which is?”
“Sergei knows. He got wind of it somehow.”
Taras smiled grimly. Of course Sergei knew.
“Taras, Sergei is in a position of great power. He is at the head of the Oprichniki and one of the Tsar’s favorites, which means he has Ivan’s ear. He can point a finger at anyone and determine their fate. He doesn’t like you. He hasn’t since...”
“Since Ivan gave Inga to me and not to him.”
“Yes,” Nikolai whispered. “I'm surprised he hasn't turned on you yet, since rising to this dark power."
"Why hasn't he?"
Nikolai shrugged. "He's been too occupied with death. The possibility of triumphing over you hasn't occurred to him. Until now. I saw his face in Novgorod, Taras. He’ll find some reason, some way, now the idea has taken hold. I doubt it will be long. You know how this works. You could go to the Tsar, swearing your undying loyalty to him and it wouldn’t matter. Sergei will plant the seed of treason in Ivan’s ear and it will be the end of you.”
Taras nodded. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling utterly calm. “Thank you for telling me, my friend.”
“Don’t call me that," Nikolai snapped.
Taras studied Nikolai in surprise.
Nikolai stared determinedly into the fire. “I didn’t come here only to let you know, Taras. I have more to tell you.”
“More of Sergei?”
Nikolai shook his head, a foreboding look in his eye. “No. It's about your mother.”
Taras’s eyes widened. Strange, that news of his own impending arrest and torture didn’t unsettle him as much as hearing Nikolai speak of his mother.
“What do you mean?”
“Taras, you are perhaps the best man I’ve ever known, and certainly the best friend I’ve ever had, aside from Yehvah. And she and I weren’t on speaking terms for twenty years.” He laughed without mirth. “I feared when you found out, you’d do something about it—of course you will—and then you'd either be arrested or killed, or would simply have to leave. One of those options, it seems, can hardly be avoided now, so I might as well tell you.”
Taras's heart pounded in his chest. “Tell me what?”
Nikolai took a deep breath. “I know who killed your mother. And why.”
Taras gaped. His mouth worked but nothing came out.
Nikolai raised his hands. “I know. I can only ask forgiveness for my weakness. My reasons for keeping it from you were purely selfish. I wanted to keep you here as long as possible. Between having a friend and having Yehvah back again, my life has been...much less lonely since you arrived.”
“How long,” Taras sputtered. “How long have you known?”
“After Tatyana took us to the meadow, I suspected. It took me weeks to find out for certain, to find proof. Even when I did, I kept silent.”
Taras stared at his friend. Despite the deception, which bordered on betrayal, he felt no anger with Nikolai. “Tell me now.”
Nikolai nodded. “I can do better. Perhaps it will help redeem me in your eyes. Come.” He turned and headed for the door.
“Where are we going?”
“We must go see Tarasov. Sergei’s father.”
Taras’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“You’ll understand when we speak with him. It was to him I first went to find proof. I’ve asked him to receive us in his rooms and he’s agreed. Come. You will understand soon.”
A feeling of utter confidence settled in Taras's chest. He didn't know where Nikolai would lead him, but he trusted his closest friend utterly. Without more questions, he got to his feet and followed Nikolai from the room.
Chapter 30
WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT Tarasov’s apartments, Nikolai rapped on the heavy wooden door. A manservant who looked to be Taras’s age answered the door, holding it wide to admit them. He kept his eyes on the ground as they entered.
One of the wealthiest men in the Kremlin, the apartments Aleksey Tarasov kept in the palace were small compared to his vast estates, which peppered Moscow and its surrounding lands, but no less lavish for that. Heavily adorned with expensive tapestries, pitchers, vases, gilded furniture, and gold-tasseled cushions, the sprawling rooms were the picture of opulence.
Tarasov sat in a heavy, gilded chair in front of the fireplace. Decked out in satin robes and wrapped in a thick black bear skin, he drank from a jewel-encrusted goblet. Colorful, heavy-looking rings adorned each of his fingers and his pointed shoes held heavy adornment.
He looked exactly like Sergei. Mostly white hair framed a face more deeply lined, but otherwise he might have been Sergei in disguise. Same physique; same facial shape; same eyes; same brutality etched in the mien.
He rose when they entered. “Ah, Nikolai. My old friend. It’s been many months since we’ve conversed. Not since you came to ask after my family heirlooms. I must admit, I worried about your motives. Then you disappeared.”
“I’ve been in Novgorod these past weeks, Aleksy. Prior to that, I was here. You’ve simply been busy.”
Tarasov eyed Nikolai before turning to Taras. He studied Taras, not trying to disguise his scrutiny. “Perhaps. Now, you come here in the presence of the Englishman. I think you must want something of me.”
“He is half Russian, too, Aleksey.”
Tarasov’s smug smile faded. “Yes, I know. Don’t strain yourselves, gentlemen. I already know what you’re here for.”
Taras glanced at Nikolai but kept silent. He didn’t know what Nikolai was up to any more than Tarasov did. He let this friend take the lead.
“Is that so?” Nikolai’s smile was not genuine.
“Of course. Sergei told me of...certain outbursts that happened in Novgo
rod. I’m certain it was only that, young Taras: an outburst. Product of the foreign blood, no doubt. Surely your loyalties are to the Tsar. I suppose such outbursts are...only human.”
His chuckle sounded so condescending, Taras envisioned punching the old man. His annoyance must have shown on his face.
“What, you disagree?” Tarasov asked.
“No, Master Tarasov.” Taras spoke quietly and felt pleased when Tarasov leaned forward to hear. “I agree completely. But I think such ‘outbursts’ as you call them show a man’s true heart. The body releases, perhaps involuntarily, what the soul can no longer contain. Yet you laugh at it as if it’s some quirk or impurity.”
“It’s weakness, son. Nothing more.” Taras nearly snapped at Tarasov not to call him ‘son,’ but Tarasov continued, addressing Nikolai before Taras could do more than open his mouth. “You were right to bring him to me, Nikolai. Outbursts such as those can be construed as treason. For a price, I can see to it that the eyes of the Oprichniki do not fall on him.”
Taras and Nikolai exchanged looks. Nikolai’s eyes begged Taras for patience. “And, out of curiosity, Aleksey, what would your price be?”
With a conspiratorial smile, Tarasov sauntered back to his throne of a chair, taking his time settling himself and regarding Taras in a calculating way. “To be honest, Nikolai, I am uncertain, as yet. It has recently been brought to my attention that Taras might be of some use. I have not decided how. There is one thing, though. My son, Sergei, wants you to hand your mistress over to him. It must happen right away. For the rest, I will let you know when I have need of you.”
“She’s not my mistress.”
