by K L Conger
I know this ending is difficult to stomach. I've had some reports of early readers contemplating throwing the book against the wall, and hating Inga for her choice. (They didn't actually throw the book because most read on expensive electronics. Ah, 2017.)
I understand that reaction completely. I can only ask you to trust me enough to read book 3, which will arrive soon. Inga and Taras are young yet and have many years to learn, change, and perhaps find the happiness which, as yet, has so eluded them.
Acknowledgements
I have so many people to thank for supporting me in this. First and foremost, my family. My father and brothers who are my greatest cheerleaders and always encourage me. My mom, sisters, and extended family, who are unfailingly enthusiastic and believe in me.
Thanks to all my online friends, especially in the TWD community. Though you have little invested in this particular fiction, you're a huge part of my life. You keep me grounded, sane, entertained, and feeling loved. A special thanks to everyone in the Safe Zone for your unfailing support and generosity.
Thank you to all my fellow authors. Camaraderie and support among peers is priceless, so I thank all those who give up themselves, bring so much enrichment to my life, and make my writing life so much easier.
Thank you to my critique group, who keep me both working and laughing. Most especially Author Jernae Kowallis, Wyatt Winne, and McKella Sawyer. I love you guys! I hope we can all screw around—uh, get stuff edited together for many years to come.
Thank you to Chris Loke for the beautiful cover art. It's gorgeous and brings so much to the story.
Special thanks to my little nieces and nephews who so enrich my life. Their shenanigans keep me laughing, keep me grounded in reality, and remind me that a sense of humor is the most valuable treasure on earth.
Thanks as always to Professor LaRae Larkin of Weber State University, who taught me Russian history to begin with and whose passion for it infected me from day one. Without you, this trilogy would not exist. The world needs more great teachers and historians like you.
And thank you to my readers. To those who bask in the beautiful tragedy of historical fiction and love Inga and Taras enough to care about what happens to them. I hope you stick around to read the conclusion of their story in book 3.
Dungeons of Destiny
Kremlins #3
By K.L. Conger
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2010 by K.L. Conger
Cover Art by Clarissa Yeo, Yocla Designs
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior return permission of the publisher.
THE SCANNING, UPLOADING, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy or copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
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Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
Copyright
Free Book Offer
Dedication
Historical Note
Ivan IV
Journal 1
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgements
What You Can Do Next
Connect With the Author
About the Author
To Abe and Camille. For your endless love and support. I love you both!
Historical Note
The history in this book is based on true events. Ivan the Terrible is one of the most well-known and notorious leaders in Russian history. He was the first leader of unified Russia to crown himself Tsar, and his marriage resulted in the elevation of the Romanov family—the descendants of whom would remain royalty for many years, culminating in the notorious fate of Nicholas and his family during the Bolshevik revolution just prior to World War I.
As a deep respecter of history, I’ve tried to stay true to it as much as I could. It’s important to note, however, that I have collapsed the timeline a bit. Things in this book happen more quickly than they did in the actual history, so the dates may not always line up correctly. I’ve taken these liberties in order to serve the story, though I did my best to remain true to the events and characters as they are described in the annals.
—K.L. Conger
Ivan Grozny
Lightning strikes the Kremlin Wall
A baby wails at birth.
Learns survival, climbs through intrigue, hides in deceit
The infant cries
Village-pillage; innocent-ravage
Young animals on spikes
The child laughs
Love. Matrimony.
Tranquility is almost skin deep.
Loss is rage, rage is frenzied brutality.
The building blocks of Red Square bleed.
Games of torture—play in Novgorod
Bodies swim through red water
The Volkhov clogs.
Oiled frying pans and human skewers
Blood and steam and death and heat
The man laughs
Age and Marriage bring greed, not wisdom
Poisoned water
Bodies fill the river
Snow brings beasts and scars.
Old age; legacy of death.
A scepter through the heir’s head.
Legacy of death and chess games.
And the Tsar dies.
In the year of our lord, 1550, Ivan the Terrible conducted a massacre of his own people within the walls of Novgorod. It lasted a month and decimated the population.
I feel certain history will record the great massacre of Novgorod with sadness. I simply cannot imagine such an incident will be buried.
There are other things I feel quite certain it will not record: the lone soldier who fled Novgorod, unable to stomach the evil deeds going on there. The fact that he killed the father of a noble household, which forced him to flee the Kremlin all together. The young, frightened maid he asked to accompany him, who couldn’t find the courage to do so.
These things will remain unrecorded in the annals of history, along with the stories and sorrows of countless others who suffered under Ivan’s boot.
I’d come to a great crossroads in my life and made what I would later come to realize was a wrong decision.
“My soul is full of the flames of Moscow. It’s full of the blood of Novgorod and the soiled waters of the Volga...It’s full of you, Inga..."<
br />
Taras’s words echoed powerfully in my heart. I’ve never forgotten them, even if they didn’t have the power to compel my action at the time.
“The little tsar will remember the girl with the golden mane.”
The Seer from the Plains of Arsk proved correct. Eventually. Don't they always?
And yet, it all depended on me. I didn’t understand at the time. Life is a mystical and tragic thing. Words from one of the best men I ever watched die.
I felt only cold at the time and built up thick walls around my heart. I didn’t think I possessed power over my own life. I needed to learn that lesson. And I did. Amidst blood, tears, and heartache...
Prologue
February 1550, Novgorod
The enormous man stepped out from an intersecting alley, dried blood caking his beard, and grasped Kiril by the arm. He had a flat face and bulbous nose. Dark hair somehow accentuated his strong jaw.
"You’re coming with me, boy." Without another word, the man dragged Kiril down the street toward the center of the city, his sausage-like fingers digging into Kiril’s lean upper arm.
A month ago, Kiril might have protested. He might have struggled, despite recognizing the man's uniform. In his stupor, Kiril still knew the black robes of the Tsar’s oprichniki.
Four weeks ago, Kiril would have felt something. Sadness, panic, perhaps even misplaced hope. Now, he felt only this eternal numbness. He let the black-robed man drag him toward the city’s center, where the worst of the violence took place.
Kiril couldn't make himself care. If anything, he felt some small hope that it would finally be over. After watching his father be gutted, his mother’s beheading, and his little sister be thrown off a bridge and drowned in the depths of the river, Kiril only wished to rest—eternally—from the things he'd seen in past weeks.
He wanted to forget the screams, the squelching sounds of bodies being violated with metal and insides squishing their way to the outside. Kiril wanted the spectacle of it all to leave his mind. Yet, he knew it wouldn’t. Not while he lived. He would forever see the bodies of his closest loved ones in his mind’s eye, in a way God never intended anyone to be seen.
The oprichniki guard towed Kiril past mounds of bodies. Their glassy eyes stared blankly skyward. The guard acted like he didn't see them, his eyes passing over them as they might a rock or flower.
Kiril saw them, but he took them in with the same numbness that overwhelmed everything else. His horror faded away only a few days after the Tsar’s arrival. Still, he supposed he might look nonchalant to others, as the guard did.
Kiril's boots sloshed through ankle-deep crimson rivers. Mixed with the muddy, melting snow, the blood ran thin. Weeks ago, Kiril’s shoes became stained beyond saving. The blood-water didn’t soak the insides, as it might have with the shoes of others. Kiril’s father had been a cobbler, and Kiril, his apprentice for the past three years. He’d been nearly ready to open his own shop. Not that he’d do it now. If the oprichniki guard took him to the center of the city, it would be Kiril’s turn to die.
Finally, they reached the square in the center of Novgorod. The Tsar’s oprichniki guards had rounded up other survivors as well. Like Kiril, they were herded into the square by the black-robed guards. Kiril took in the torn, disheveled rags of his fellow survivors. More often than not, blood, human waste, and other things Kiril neither could nor wanted to identify covered them. They appeared emaciated, gaunt, with haunted eyes. Kiril didn’t know how he himself looked. Much like them, he imagined. In their eyes, he saw they expected, even welcomed, death. Kiril recognized the look, because he felt the same.
Ivan Grozny, supreme Tsar of unified Russia, appointed by God and Caesar of the Motherland, sat on a throne-like chair in the center of the square. The Tsar’s head of reddish hair had mostly turned white. Kiril had never believed stories about Ivan, which claimed that, while he remained a young man, his hair turned white overnight when he lost his beloved Anastasia. Kiril knew the Tsar was not an old man. Not yet. Still, his hair looked like the hair of the blacksmith's father, Boris, who claimed nearly sixty winters. Perhaps the stories were true after all.
Despite how thin Ivan looked, Kiril still found the Tsar an inspiring spectacle. His dark robes were richly tailored. His boots, though obviously made for travel, were of thick leather and Kiril thought the studs might be real silver. Kiril couldn’t truly judge. He’d only seen real silver twice in his life.
Ivan sat with a ramrod-straight spine, his neck elongated. His head rose so far off his shoulders, it looked unnatural. Yet, Kiril’s chest filled with awe. Gods must hold themselves this way. Ivan might only be a man, but he’d been ordained by God and granted a portion of God's power. Kiril’s family was not among the rebels who spoke out against the Tsar, but he knew others in Novgorod had done so. How did Ivan know unless God told him? If God sanctioned this slaughter, God must be displeased with Novgorod. Perhaps they truly did deserve all God allowed Ivan to do to them.
Time passed. Kiril didn't know how much, but more and more survivors like him were brought to the square. As more flowed in, they pressed Kiril toward the center of the square. The crowd fidgeted, often staring at feet or hands, or the back of the person in front of them. Kiril did the same. He kept his gaze averted from the Tsar, and didn’t particularly want to meet anyone else’s eye either. The events of this past month made him want to fold in on himself and shut everyone else out. Once the crowd stood packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, into the square, the black-robed oprichniki surrounded them in a ring.
Ivan rose to his feet.
Kiril stood twenty feet behind the Tsar’s right shoulder. He couldn't see Ivan's face clearly. Ivan turned in a circle, letting his eyes sweep over the survivors. When the Tsar’s eyes landed briefly on Kiril, a cold shiver ran down Kiril’s spine.
Yet, he felt surprise. The Tsar wore a kindly expression. After sweeping his eyes across the crowd, the Tsar raised his hands.
"Inhabitants of Novgorod," Ivan intoned in a voice both majestic and gentle. "You who remain alive, pray that God will grant us a happy reign. Pray for the army of Christ to triumph over its visible and invisible enemies. May God judge your Archbishop Pimen and his abominable accomplices. It is they who are responsible for the blood that has flowed in your city. Now, let the weeping and groaning cease. Go home in peace!"
Kiril stared. He didn't believe it. This must be a cruel joke. Surely the Tsar would not let him and his fellow Novgorodians live.
Ivan turned toward the entrance to the square, as if he’d finished his pronouncement and already forgotten the survivors.
The clop of horse hooves on cobblestone reached Kiril's ears. The pace sounded slow, as if the horse were being led at a slow walk. A full minute passed before the horse, a small white mare, appeared. Kiril recognized the man sitting astride it.
Archbishop Pimen possessed a full head of the blackest hair Kiril had ever seen. Now disheveled, it stuck out in tufts around his ears. Chunks of it seemed to be missing, as small patches of white scalp peeked out in various places on Pimen’s head. His once-fine Archbishop’s robes hung on him in tatters. The fabric had burnt away in places, and Kiril saw welts and puckered skin below.
Kiril didn't know the Archbishop personally. Why would he? A cobbler’s apprentice—especially one barely old enough to be called a man—had no reason to speak directly with a clergyman. Kiril's father respected Pimen, though. He’d always called Pimen a decent man and a good clergyman. To see him in such a state filled Kiril with deep sadness.
Other onlookers in the square let out a collective gasp upon seeing Pimen. Kiril, it seemed, wasn't the only one who felt sympathy for the Archbishop. Some of the onlookers dropped their eyes in embarrassment or shame. Others didn't seem to be able to tear their eyes from him. Still others watched him with haunted gazes, melancholy respect in their eyes. They bowed their heads as his horse passed them and crossed themselves.
No matter what Pimen had done, Kiril couldn't bring
himself to hate the man. If the Archbishop truly betrayed the Tsar, God would dispense whatever justice He saw fit. To Kiril, Piman had always seemed a kindly sort who helped the people of Novgorod better themselves. As the white mare passed, perhaps three paces in front of Kiril, he bowed his head respectfully and made the sign of the cross. He would have liked to catch Pimen’s eye, but the clergyman's gaze remained on the pommel of his saddle, unfocused and vacant.
The Tsar spoke again as the mare wove through the square for all to see. "Archbishop Pimen will ride with us to Moscow under escort. There, he will be subject to our justice. A new Archbishop, more righteous and loyal, will be appointed in his stead. Good people of Novgorod, now is the time to rebuild and show your loyalty to the Tsar. May God smile upon you."
With that, Ivan strode from the square. The guard leading Pimen’s mare followed, and the survivors were left to stare at one another with confusion and disbelief.
After a time, the survivors began slowly shuffling out of the square. Some collapsed around the perimeter, looking listless. Kiril followed their example once he reached the edge of the square. He had nowhere to go and felt exhausted. Leaning against the stone wall, he slid down it until his backside met the hard cobblestones beneath his feet.
Rebuild? How could they? They would first need to remove the bodies from the city and burn them. They’d be lucky if they weren’t hit with a bout of plague.
Kiril couldn’t imagine staying in this place now. Or rebuilding without his family. He didn’t have much choice. He possessed no money or resources to strike out on his own, and Kiril wouldn’t survive in the wilderness. He’d only ever known city life and his father's cobbling shop.
The next several hours felt blurry and abstract. The Tsar and his army prepared to leave the city, so there was much bustling and gathering of supplies. Kiril numbly watched the sun creep across the sky as the armed Muscovites bustled around him.
A shadow fell across him and he craned his neck upward. An oprichniki guard—not the same one who’d brought him to the square—stared down at him.
