by K L Conger
“Why not?”
“There are...things to keep me here.”
Things dressed as maids Nikolai had loved for twenty years, no doubt. Taras sighed, letting Nikolai’s words sink in. They made a twisted kind of sense. He’d decided he couldn’t go on living under Ivan’s carnage anymore. In the time since returning from Novgorod, Taras had been in a daze. He’d walked the halls and spent time with Inga, but made no plans. He realized now he’d put it off, not wanting to leave the Kremlin without answers about his past. He'd found those answers, now. Time to choose.
Nikolai turned to the table and poured another drink. “Do you have somewhere in mind? Some place you can go?”
Taras nodded. “There is a small and...” his throat caught, “very lonely little valley in Siberia. My family owned it. I don’t know if that ownership still applies, if it’s recognized, but it lies so far from civilization, I can’t imagine anyone would ever bother me there. Other than the wolves, of course.”
“Good.” Nikolai threw back the drink. “Go there. Take Inga. Make a life. Find peace.”
Taras shuddered as though struck, and sucked air in violently through his teeth. Nikolai turned in alarm. “What?”
“Inga!” Taras clapped his hands to his face, then ran them back through his white-blond hair. He rose, pacing to the fireplace before turning. At hearing her name, a sudden, rending agony ripped through him. Inga. The other reason he hadn’t wanted to think of leaving.
Nikolai looked bewildered. “What about her?”
Taras turned to him, his eyes wet. “I wasn’t thinking...I didn’t...Nikolai, she won’t come with me.”
Nikolai’s forehead raised in surprise. “Why do you think that?”
“I’ve raised the issue many times over the past few years. I’ve always known I wouldn’t live out my life here. She won’t hear of leaving.” He walked to the window, which was still exposed. The room had grown cold. Resting his hands on the sill, his eyes fell on the Kremlin Wall outside it. “She was born in the shadow of the Kremlin. What about that damn wall binds you all so steadfastly to it?”
Nikolai came to stand beside Taras. He, too, stared at the wall, his eyes far away. “I don’t know. It binds us with cords we cannot break. Ask her, Taras. She may surprise you.”
A tear leaked down Taras’s cheek. He brushed it away quickly. “Of course I’ll ask her,” he murmured, but couldn’t make himself hope for a miracle. He turned and went back to the table holding the vodka. He didn’t want another drink. He leaned against it instead.
“I resented my father. For years. I didn’t even realize it. I resented him for being weak; for leaving my mother alone and buried in a strange country. I thought she’d be lonely without us to visit her. I resented that he never told me what happened; that he never gave me the answers I craved; that he wouldn't share his grief with me.” Taras gazed at Nikolai, standing stone still beside the window. “How can a boy understand such things? How can a father hope to communicate them?
“I suppose I couldn’t understand his grief, or his state of mind, until I understood his loneliness. I’m sure he blamed himself. The loneliness of that, the weight of it, to be without her, because of something neither of them could control, because a few men at the Russian court decided to take matters into their own hands. He was a good father to me, but he changed after she died. The emotional mortality of the burden he carried...I think it crushed him.
“And I resented him for it.” He studied his boots. “And now, if Inga refuses to come with me...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I will have become him.”
Taras squeezed his eyes shut, letting his face contort as the pain of this day spread through his veins, searing away the last innocent sentiments he had about the world. When he felt numb with the sensation, he stood, wiping his face with his hands. “I must find Inga.”
“No.” Nikolai put himself between Taras and the door. “It’s too dangerous for you to be roaming the corridors. Tarasov’s body will be found at any moment. Let me give you supplies. Go now. Pick a place to wait. I’ll gather more of what you need and find Inga. I’ll send her out with the supplies and you can talk then. If she agrees to go with you, the two of you can simply melt away. If not, she can return, and you can leave, far ahead of anyone who might be looking for you.”
Taras nodded, too numb to argue. Nikolai hurried around the room, gathering a warm cloak, a change of clothes, and some other basics.
“I’ll collect all your belongings from your room and send them with Inga. I don’t know how long it will take. She may not get to you until late tonight. Perhaps not for a few days, depending on what happens when Tarasov is discovered.”
Taras nodded. “If the murder is traced back to me, she may be in danger.”
Nikolai nodded. “I’ll keep her safe. Take the servants’ corridors, not the main ones. Get down to the stable and saddle your horse yourself. Don’t bring anyone into it, if it can be avoided. The fewer people who see you, the better. Make sure no one knows which way you went.”
Taras nodded, at the door now. It occurred to him that he would never see Nikolai again. Nikolai would make sure Inga made it to him safely, but it would be too dangerous for him to ride out with her, so Taras would not see his friend again before he turned his back on Moscow forever.
The two men stared at one another. Nikolai held out his hand and Taras clasped it.
“Thank you, Nikolai. Thank you for your help and loyalty. For your friendship.”
“No. Thank you.”
Forsaking the handshake, the two men embraced fiercely.
“Go now,” Nikolai said, pulling back. “Go now and live.”
Taras wished for something to say in return. No words came. He doubted his voice would work anyway, so he merely nodded.
Stepping into the hall with the bundle of supplies Nikolai gave him, he tried to look casual while remaining alert. Keeping to the side of the corridor that nursed the deepest shadows, he moved between them silently. He reached the corner and, before turning down the intersecting hallway, peered back. Nikolai had already shut the door.
Chapter 31
INGA WALKED THE CORRIDORS in the east wing, making yet another trip for dinner supplies. With the return of the Tsar and his army from Novgorod, the meals would return to their previous volume. She sighed, a hundred worries on her mind.
Taras acted so differently since his return. He’d told her some of what he saw in Novgorod, but she sensed he left out the worst of it, to spare her the horror he felt. What he did say more than terrified her. More than once, he’d awakened violently in the middle of the night, sweating and crying out. Despite everything they’d been through in the last few years—the fire, Kazan, the exploits of the Oprichniki—he’d never been bothered by it like this before. She wondered what would become of them all.
“Inga.” Yehvah’s sharp call brought her out of her thoughts. She and Anne strode toward Inga from an intersecting corridor. Inga changed directions to meet them.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve been sent to the supply closet at the far side of this wing. We need to pull more linen out of storage before supper.”
Yehvah nodded. “Let Anne do it.” Without a word Anne walked by Inga, giving her a worried look as she passed, and headed in the direction Inga had been going.
Inga studied Yehvah’s face, her expression unreadable. She only looked that way when she brought bad news, gave tongue-lashings, or tried to hide her emotions. Inga wondered which it would be.
“What is it, Yehvah?”
Yehvah’s mouth settled into a straight line. “Something’s happened. Come.”
Yehvah strode away and Inga followed. She knew better than to badger Yehvah with questions when her face looked like that. As they walked, a strange, cold fear settled in the pit of Inga's stomach. Whatever Yehvah had to say, it couldn’t be good.
They went all the way back to the servants’ quarters. Inga hadn't visited them in
some time. The room stood empty and silent now, all the maids out working hard. Inga ran her eyes over the rows of hard, plain beds and shivered. Taras’s room was so much warmer than this place. Not only because his bed held thick animal pelts and his room, a huge fireplace, but because he lived there, always putting his arms around Inga and breathing in her ear.
Yehvah walked calm circles around the perimeter of the room. Her eyes swept the area behind curtains, in closets, and any other shadowy places. Making certain they were alone, Inga realized. Such precautions meant Yehvah's news was both serious and dangerous. Inga wanted to press her, but Yehvah would make her wait until she felt satisfied the conversation was private, so Inga kept her silence. Yehvah finally completed her sweep.
“Yehvah, what’s happened?”
“Sit down, child.”
“No. Tell me.”
Yehvah took a deep breath, her gaze steady on Inga’s face. “I've come from speaking with Nikolai. He found me in the courtyard, frantic.”
“Why?”
“Taras has killed Aleksey Tarasov.”
All feeling drained from Inga’s fingers. Her tongue went numb and she felt sick to her stomach. “Sergie’s father?” The words came out slurred, as though she was drunk.
“Yes.”
“But...why has no alarm been raised?”
“The body hasn’t been discovered yet. It still lies in his chamber. No one knows, Inga. Not yet. We must keep it that way as long as possible.”
Inga nodded. “So, you think no one will suspect Taras?”
Yehvah gave her a sympathetic look. “Of course they will, Inga," she said softly, then sighed. "Even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Nikolai told me that, while in Novgorod, Taras became angry. Enraged. He wanted to kill the Tsar and he said so.”
Inga's mouth fell open.
Yehvah went on. “Nikolai restrained him, of course, but several men—Oprichniki soldiers—heard his words. They probably added his name to the death lists that very night. His time here would have been short, anyway.”
Inga shook her head, trying to sort through the implications. “He...didn’t say anything...and what do you mean ‘anyway’?”
“Inga—”
“No. Why are you sure they’ll know it was him? Why wouldn’t it matter?”
Yehvah put her hands on Inga’s shoulder and stared straight into her eyes. “Taras has been marked for death. Think about it. Only days after his name goes on the list, Tarasov is murdered? A man as high as one can be in the Oprichniki? And after Taras said something treasonous in front of witnesses? Inga, it will be all too obvious. Once the Oprichniki have a name, they don’t care about proof or fealty or anything else. It’s over for him.”
Something wet and cool slid down Inga's jaw. She didn’t realize she was crying until the tear cooled and reached the bottom of her face. She wiped it away from the underside of her chin. “There has to be something—”
Yehvah made calming gestures. “Hush. Not so loud. Inga, he can’t stay here anymore. He’ll be dead in days if he does. Nikolai has convinced him to leave.”
Leave. Taras would leave. Of course he would. He’d spoken of it since he arrived. Inga’s legs gave out. She collapsed onto the bed she stood beside. Inga didn’t want to be without Taras, but the thought of leaving the Kremlin terrified her. It wasn’t so much that she felt nostalgia for this place—her life had been cold and sadness, for the most part—but a deep fear of what lay beyond made her tremble. At least here she knew what to expect, what others expected. Life in the palace could be difficult, but Yehvah taught her to be grateful that she had a roof over her head and food in her stomach.
Taras didn't think like that. He’d set out from England on horseback with a bit of spare change in his pockets. He’d ridden all the way to Russia, stopping to work along the way. He was independent and freer than she'd ever been, the antithesis of everything in her life. Perhaps she loved him for that. Despite the differences, she trusted him, more than she’d ever trusted any other human being, except perhaps Yehvah. No doubt he would ask her to trust him now.
She didn’t know if she could.
“Inga, listen to me.” Yehvah knelt down in front of her, putting her hands on Inga’s knees. “When Nikolai thinks it’s safe, he’s going to send you out to speak with Taras.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Nikolai does. He’s hiding somewhere outside the city. He must lay low to avoid arrest. Inga, when you go to him, he’ll ask you to go with him. I’m sure of it.”
Inga studied her hands in her lap until Yehvah used a finger to lift Inga’s gaze to hers.
“Inga, I’m asking you not to.”
Cold settled on Inga. It didn’t rush in with a sudden shock, but drifted over her like curtains of snow carried by the wind. Choose between Taras and Yehvah? Between the only man she’d ever loved and the only mother she’d ever known? Between Ivan’s brutality and the unknown terror beyond the Kremlin wall?
She couldn't think deeply enough, couldn’t comprehend all the consequences of either path. She needed time to consider. She knew she'd only get minutes—an hour at most.
“Why not?” she asked softly.
“You don’t know what’s out there. You don’t know if he can take care of you. He’s a good man, but this is the heart of winter. If you go, you could be dead in weeks.”
“If he doesn’t go, he’ll be dead in days.”
Yehvah shut her eyes, letting the lids push tears down her cheeks. “Yes. Inga, if you go, I’ll never know what happened to you.” Yehvah’s voice broke and Inga tears fell afresh. “Inga," her voice remained thick with tears, "you don’t know what you mean to me. I know I don’t show it enough. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Even physically, you know I can't keep up. Between my injuries and how many of the servants have simply disappeared...”
Inga took Yehvah’s hands. “You have Nikolai now. He won’t let them throw you out.” Even as she said it, she felt ashamed. She didn't want to rationalize Yehvah’s loneliness.
Yehvah dropped her face toward Inga’s lap. When her head came back up, her eyes looked bleaker, more vulnerable than Inga had ever seen them. “I had Nikolai once before. When I lost him, it nearly killed me.” She smiled suddenly, beautifully. “And you saved me, Inga.”
Inga frowned. “What do you mean? What happened between you and Nikolai so long ago? Why twenty years of silence between you two?”
Yehvah sat back on her knees, her face resigned.
“When we were young—not much older than you are now—I fell in love with Nikolai. He was a young, dashing courtier. He saw me in the palace and pursued me. We loved, we bedded. He said he loved me too. His father still lived then and insisted Nikolai marry. His marriage needed to be one of prudence, one of fortune, to further the wealth and power of the Petrov family. Nikolai had to make a choice: marriage or disinheritance. He’d lived his entire life as a boyar. He didn't know how to survive on his own. The thought of poverty terrified him. I’d been a servant my whole life, so it didn’t frighten me, but what did I have to say about it? I had nothing to offer except a life of servitude.
His father arranged a match with a beauty from an outlying boyar family. They’ve since fallen out of favor. Nikolai said he loved me. He said he didn’t want to marry. He wanted me to stay with him, as his mistress. Married nobles commonly kept lovers, but I couldn't bear the thought of sharing him with another woman.
“Not that it ended up mattering anyway. Nikolai’s father noticed our relationship. He understood our closeness—that Nikolai truly loved me—and took the choice from us. He thought such a relationship dangerous, both to his family and to his son’s future. He forced Nikolai to give me up. Which he did. Nikolai married. I felt abandoned.”
Inga marveled. So much history she'd known nothing about. Surely no one except Yehvah and Nikolai remembered it anymore. For who in the court cared for the
plight of a maid? Yehvah would be remembered as nothing more than a dalliance Nikolai once indulged in, if anyone remembered her at all. Inga supposed if the unseen things in people’s hearts were revealed, the entire world would marvel.
“What happened to the lady?”
Yehvah wiped her tears. “She died in childbirth.”
Inga’s eyebrows shot up. Another surprise. “Nikolai has a child?”
Yehvah shook her head. “His son died during the birth as well. He lost them both.”
A deep sadness for Nikolai tightened Inga's chest. Poor man. How lonely he must have been. Inga stayed silent for a moment, letting Yehvah gather herself. “Then what happened?” she finally asked.
Yehvah gazed up at Inga, smiling sadly. When she spoke, her voice sounded heart-wrenchingly lonely. “Nothing. Over the first year of their marriage, before her death, Nikolai grew fond of his wife. She was sweet and gentle and unassuming. She saw he was in pain. I don’t know if she knew why—if he ever told her—but she was...kind to him." Her voice broke again. When she went on it was an octave higher. “I felt grateful because I loved him even as I hated him.” Yehvah sniffed and took a deep breath.
Inga wiped tears from her own cheeks.
“When mother and child died, Nikolai grew angry, disillusioned with life. He told his father he wouldn't marry again. His father insisted Nikolai take another wife, and threatened disinheritance once more. Nikolai asked for time to mourn, which his father granted. In truth, Nikolai merely wanted time to find some way to support himself, so he didn't have to live by his father’s purse anymore.”
Understanding dawned on Inga. “He took up soldiering.”
Yehvah nodded. “Yes. His father died suddenly a year later, and Nikolai inherited everything anyway. I don’t know if he wanted me back at that point. He probably thought I wouldn’t forgive him. Back then, he was right.” She smiled and Inga cried. “He stuck to his soldiering and I to my work. What happened between us seemed finished. I felt lonely, Inga. So lonely. I contemplated jumping into the Moskva.”
