by K L Conger
Tarasov stared up in surprise, which quickly faded to confusion. “I understood she's slept in your room since you arrived here. Have you not...in all that time...? Do you prefer men, young Taras?”
A growl rose deep in Taras’s throat.
Nikolai answered. “That’s not what he meant, Aleksey.”
Tarasov studied Nikolai, then Taras again. Gradually, an understanding light came into his eyes. His grin widened, as though he’d received a pleasant surprise.
“Ah. So, what you mean is you’ve developed feelings for this wench? You don’t think of her as only a mistress. Well,” Tarasov sat back in his chair again. “How quaint.” He chuckled and Taras briefly considered ripping his head off. “I’m sure Sergei will be most...cheered to hear of it.”
Taras felt sick to his stomach. For the first time, the full weight of the situation pressed on him. Chances were good he’d be dead soon. He would never bow to the will of people like the Tarasovs, which meant they would feed him to the bloodlust of the Tsar. Who would keep Inga from Sergei’s monstrous clutches, then? Taras’s chest constricted and his breathing became labored.
Why did Nikolai bring him here? He glanced at his friend, wondering how much longer this morbid conversation must continue. Nikolai put a hand up as if to ask for a little more of Taras’s patience, though his face said he knew there wasn’t much left.
“Aleksey,” Nikolai’s voice sounded dangerously quiet, “we did not come here to ask for help, or make a deal. We want nothing from you, and we will give you nothing.”
Tarasov’s mouth hardened into a straight line. “Then why are you here, Nikolai, if not for my good favor and protection?”
“For the same reason I came the last time. I would like Taras to see your family heirlooms, the ones you showed me.”
Tarasov threw his head back and laughed. No one else joined him. “What is this obsession you have with my family’s property, Nikolai? Do you go around asking all the boyars in the palace to show you their antiques?”
Nikolai smiled grimly. “Only you, Aleksey. I think Taras would admire them, as I did. I hoped you’d be willing to show them to us.”
Tarasov stood, putting his face close to Nikolai’s. “What are you up to, Nikolai?”
Nikolai smiled, too sweetly. “Everything will reveal itself in time, Aleksey. Please, if you're willing to show us, I promise to explain once we’ve seen them. If, that is, you don’t mind a few lesser boyars than yourself admiring your property.”
Tarasov’s chest puffed up. Nikolai was a true courtier. He knew exactly how to manipulate the pride of shallow men.
“Well,” Tarasov said, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. Come Anton,” he motioned to his servant, “I’ll need your help retrieving them. Please wait here, gentlemen.”
Nikolai bowed his head in acquiescence.
“What is going on, Nikolai?” Taras hissed when Tarasov and Anton left the room.
Nikolai turned to Taras, sighing. “Do you remember what Tatyana said? She only saw the assassin’s boots?”
“I remember. She said she saw expensive leather, embroidered with orange hawks.”
Nikolai nodded. “The Tarasov family emblem includes a hawk. Not as much emphasis is put on personal banners in the court these days as used to be, but Aleksey’s father, who was friends with my late father, preferred the color orange. His personal emblem was an orange hawk. It stood for his family coat of arms and he embroidered it on everything he owned.”
Taras shook his head. “I don’t understand. Was Aleksey’s father still alive when my mother died?”
“No. He'd already passed.”
Taras frowned, trying to put the pieces together. “Then...”
“Here we are.” Tarasov re-emerged from the other room. He carried one side of a heavy trunk. Anton held the other side as the two of them waddled into the room.
They set the trunk on a table in front of Taras and Nikolai. Tarasov produced a key. When the lock clicked open, he threw back the lid. The smell of mothballs filled the room and Taras wrinkled his nose. A host of antiques peered out from the trunk. Taras recognized several uniforms as being ancient. They'd probably belonged to the Tarasovs of several generations past who'd served in the Streltsi. Rust spotted an ancient suit of chain mail. Several pieces had the Tarasov coat of arms emblazoned on them. Though not always orange, the hawk always appeared as the centerpiece of the crest.
Tarasov fished out a silk-wrapped bundle. He set it on the table and un-wrapped it. Taras stood on the opposite side, eyes on the bundle.
When the covering slipped away in a whisper of fabric, a worn pair of brown leather boots nestled beneath it. When worn, they would have risen only to mid-calf. A large, gaudy orange hawk had been embroidered on the front of each shin. To a woman hiding under a bush, it would have been impossible to miss. The bird’s wingspan covered most of the boot.
“They are exquisite pieces, are they not?” said Tarasov, admiring the boots with an indulgent smile. “My father had them specially cobbled. He wore them most of his life. So well made, he never wore through them. He passed them down to me when he deemed me man enough to fill them. They are too old to wear now, of course. I will pass them to Sergei when I die. They’ve become a family tradition, standing for service to the Tsar.”
“And how did you serve the Tsar in them, Aleksey?” Nikolai asked quietly. Taras sensed truth lurking below the surface of Nikolai’s pretense, so close he could taste it. Taras's nerves grew more raw with each passing moment; with each tantalizing clue.
“What do you mean?” Tarasov asked.
“I understand in your younger years, you functioned as the Tsar’s personal assassin.”
Tarasov’s eyes came up. They shifted from Nikolai to Taras. His body snapped upright in shock when he noticed the look in Taras’s eyes. Did he truly only now realize this was not a friendly social call?
Tarasov peered down at the boots, then between the two men again. When his eyes met Taras’s for the second time, a look of understanding crossed his face. Understanding, and terror.
Dropping the boots on the table, he staggered back several steps. “I never did anything except what the Grand Prince ordered me to do.”
Taras walked slowly, lithely around the table. Tarasov backed away, maneuvering into the open part of the room so he wouldn't find himself trapped against the wall or any furniture. Anton faded silently into the shadows. As most servants did, he sensed when something happened he should not be part of. Nikolai remained motionless.
“You killed my mother.”
“Now, young man, you must understand the circumstances—”
“You say you were ordered to kill her. By who? The Tsar? Did Vasily order her death?”
“Of course not. He could not be linked to such a thing.”
“But he knew about it?”
“Of course. Everyone knew.”
“Why would ‘everyone’ suddenly want her dead?”
“Your father was at fault. He did something he shouldn’t have done. He brought her here, into the heart of Russia, and lied about her true identity.”
“What do you mean, 'true identity?' Everyone knew who she was.”
“Yes. Your mother, the heathen.”
Taras had never been more confused in his life. “She was a Catholic.”
“Exactly. We are Orthodox Russians here. We couldn’t have a heretic from the west running in the innermost circles of society with the grand prince. Your father knew that. He brought her here anyway, concealing her true religion from Vasily.”
Cold seized Taras’s chest. Could it truly be so simple? He spoke through gritted teeth. “And when you found out, you killed her for it?”
“I did what needed to be done to protect the grand prince. If anyone found out, there would have been scandal. Your father sat at the Grand Prince's right hand, his closest and most trusted advisor. His reputation could only be saved if your mother died in a simple accident. He took the coward’s
way out and ran. Vasily banished him for it.”
Mounds of snow covered Russia, yet Taras's throat felt as dry as an African desert. “He did it to protect me.”
Tarasov glanced at the space between himself and Taras. Though Taras had slowly backed him toward a corner, the distance between them remained the same. Tarasov seemed to take courage. He lifted his chin. “Couldn’t protect your mother though, could he?”
Taras lunged.
Tarasov leapt behind his chair for protection.
“He shouldn’t have had to protect her,” Taras thundered. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“She was a heretic. Might as well have run with the heathens.’
“She was a Christian!”
“She worshipped idols.”
“You worship icons!”
Taras’s vision blurred. He fought to process the information being thrown at him.
“Your mother was an English whore who prostituted herself to a wealthy foreigner because her family fell on hard financial times—”
“She was my mother!” Taras screamed—another outburst from his soul—though his voice cracked at the end.
Tarasov sneered at him. All fear had gone from the old man’s face. His jaw set stubbornly, cruelly, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “A fact that didn’t save her from the bite of my sword.”
Taras lunged like lightning, drawing his sword and lancing toward Tarasov all in one breath. Tarasov, not entirely decrepit, had once been a soldier, too. He threw himself backward, across the room, to where a shining coat of arms hung on display. His own, no doubt, from when he was Sergei’s age and still agile enough to be part of the Muscovite army. From the scabbard, he yanked a long, heavy, gleaming sword and whirled in time to meet Taras’s arcing weapon. The two swords slammed together with a heavy clang. It echoed through the chamber.
Nikolai skirted the outer perimeter of the room, avoiding the sword fight, and stood in front of the door.
Taras claimed fewer years, more strength and agility. He held the advantage from the start. Raining down blows as hard and fast as he could on the other man’s sword, his rage fueled his energy to inhuman proportions. Tarasov met and deflected the blows. Barely. One wrong move would be his doom. He fought with strength born of desperation.
They circled the room again and again, toppling Tarasov’s expensive pitchers and gilded works of art. Furniture jumped askew and expensive tapestries ripped from the walls as Taras's sword clanged down on Tarasov's again and again, pouring all his anger, hatred, frustration, and sickness into the motion. Tiny drops of water flicked from the ends of Taras's hair and his jaw ached from clenching his teeth, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
They came to the far side of the room, near the window. The force of Taras’s blow slammed Tarasov into the wall. Taras slid his sword off the other man’s and brought the hilt down with all his might on Tarasov’s wrist. It deadened Tarasov’s hand and he dropped his sword. Taras immediately lunged forward, thrusting his elbow into Tarasov’s neck. Holding his sword by the hilt, he pressed the tip of it into Tarasov’s throat.
“Wait. Wait! Please, young man. I can help you.” Tarasov’s face and neck shimmered with slick sweat. His damp hair stuck to his forehead. “Not only can I keep you safe, I can give you everything you could ever want for in this life.”
Taras shook his head and spoke through gritted teeth. “Ivan can give you your wealth one minute and take it away the next. You’ve seen him do it time and again. I’m finished with what the Russian court can offer me.” His chest heaved, his hands trembling. “Did you honestly believe your actions would have no consequences?”
Tarasov’s jaw hardened. He drew back, then threw his head forward, spitting through his teeth and spraying saliva all over Taras’s face. “I think your mother got what she deserved. So the pup avenges the bitch. How fitting for a half-breed.”
Taras nodded, his face statuesque. He straightened, letting Tarasov go. The man arched an eyebrow in mild surprise. Feeling nothing at all, Taras whipped his sword around in a tight circle. Grasping the hilt with both hands, he plunged it into Tarasov’s chest.
The old man’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open with the blow. The next minute, his face relaxed, his expression fading to nothing. He was dead. Simply dead.
Taras yanked his sword free of the body, letting it slide to the floor at his feet. Trembling, he squatted down and cleaned his sword on Tarasov’s fine robes. Chest heaving, he wiped blood and spittle from his face.
He vaguely registered footsteps crossing the room, Nikolai’s quiet voice speaking to Anton.
“Do you know Inga, and Yehvah?”
“Yes.” No emotion tinged Anton’s voice.
“Do you wish them harm?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you must leave and remain silent about what you’ve seen. Find something to do—some errand your master sent you on. You will be as surprised as everyone else when his body is discovered. You saw nothing. Understand?”
The door opening and closing. Footsteps retreating in the hallway. Nikolai’s hand on his shoulder.
“Taras, we must go. If anyone heard, and I can’t imagine someone didn’t, others will be here soon and asking questions.”
“You said it yourself, Nikolai, my time here is limited. Let them find me. Let them take me away. What difference does it make what I die for? You said if Sergei poisoned the Tsar against me, my death would be meaningless. At least this way I will die avenging my mother.” Taras put the tip of his sword on the ground next to Tarsov’s body and rested his forehead on the hilt. “I can accept that.”
“No.” Nikolai dragged Taras to his feet and spun him around. “You will not give up and lie down. We must go.”
TEN MINUTES LATER THEY arrived back at Nikolai’s rooms. He pushed Taras in ahead of him and went straight to the small table in the corner that held vodka. Pouring a glass, he held it out to Taras.
Taras ignored him. Crossing to the window, he pulled back the heavy skin covering it, letting the arctic wind fill his lungs.
A loud gulp announced Nikolai had swallowed the drink himself, and two more before speaking. “Vodka?”
Taras turned from the window and leaned against it. He stared at the drink Nikolai held out to him, but didn’t move.
“Come, man. It will help.”
Taras crossed the room and snatched the goblet from Nikolai, throwing the drink into the back of his throat and swallowing without hesitation. He squeezed his eyes shut as it burned its way down, jerking his head from side to side to lessen the violence of the sensation.
The two men stood in silence for several minutes, the only sounds their collective, ragged breathing.
“What now?” Taras whispered. He asked himself as much as Nikolai.
“Now you must leave, Taras. Tarasov’s body will be discovered soon enough. It won’t take much to trace it back to you. There are people who keep track of Tarasov’s appointments. How convenient that your name shows up on the Oprichniki’s secret death lists, then three days later he meets with us and ends up dead. Sergei will make certain his father is avenged.”
“And so the cycle begins again,” Taras whispered. He recognized his own guilt in perpetuating the same circumstances he'd lived with for the last twenty years: leaving a man without a beloved parent. Granted, Sergei was an adult, where Taras had been a child. He doubted that would be much comfort to Sergei. If he left, as Nikolai suggested, would Sergei find him in twenty years and kill him? Would Taras's children then kill Sergei to avenge their father?
Despite the distinct possibility, Taras couldn’t bring himself to regret his actions. The man stood—no, slithered—a monster among monsters.
“What does Ivan know of this? Of my family, of what happened before?”
Nikolai studied him calculatingly. “He knows everything, Taras. He always did.”
The words sunk in. Taras punched the stone wall. Something in his hand cracked. “He
knew I searched for answers. When you first presented me, I told him I wanted to find out what happened. He never volunteered anything. He watched me search and flounder and never said a word.”
“Did you expect any different?”
“Ivan used to be a good man.”
“True. But he’s always been a Tsar.”
Taras shut his eyes, letting the implications wash over him, realizing what a fool he’d been. Ivan knew all along. Now Taras would die for finding out.
“You must go, Taras. You must leave.”
“You would have me run, like a coward?”
“It’s not cowardice to want to live, Taras.” Nikolai's voice became a whisper, his eyes full of conviction. “And the Tsar is a madman now.” He placed his palms carefully on the table, as if fighting for patience. “You’re a good man, Taras. You always have been. What hope is there in the world if good men like you—the best men—all fall under the knife of a tyrant?”
Taras blinked in surprise. “I thought you still defended Ivan.”
Nikolai's brows furrowed, but in sorrow, not anger. Taras had never seen him look so conflicted. “I defend him because it’s what I’ve been raised to do—to trust the will of the divinely ordained ruler. That doesn’t mean I condone the bloodshed.” He came around the table to stand by Taras, waving his hands for emphasis. “I don’t know how to fight it. I don’t know how to rebel. You were raised in a different place. A different world. If you can fight it, Taras, you should. Fight it any way you can. But this fight cannot take place here. You will lose. You will die if you challenge Ivan.”
“Leaving is not challenging him. It’s running away.”
“Perhaps in this case leaving is the only rebellion left. Refuse to live by his rules, to live under his thumb, to be terrorized by him any longer. You are the only man in Russia with the ability, means, and strength to walk away, Taras.”
“And you, Nikolai? Will you not come with me? You stood in that room when Tarasov died too.”
Nikolai shook his head. “I still have enough sway with the right people to keep myself alive. I can tell them I made the appointment but you insisted on speaking to Tarasov alone. You are still a foreigner, Taras. Where they’ll be suspicious of you, they’ll believe me completely. Besides, I’m not ready to leave Russia. Not yet.”
