by K L Conger
Bursting out onto his front porch, saber drawn, Taras cut his eyes in every direction, looking for the threat that so terrified Jasper. The horse stopped screaming and jumping when he saw Taras, but the wild look did not leave his eyes. Taras’s eyes fell on a long, lithe figure at the edge of the clearing his cabin hunched in.
Roughly a furlong away, across the stretch of ground Taras had already cleared and plowed, crouched the largest tiger Taras had ever seen.
Taras felt as though his stomach had fallen away. His heart pounded in his throat. He’d heard tales of Siberian tigers before, but never seen one, other than in artwork. The animal simply watched him and Jasper. Even from so far away, it looked enormous. Probably weighed thirty-eight stone. Far more than Taras himself.
The animal’s hide was the color of summer peaches, much lighter than Taras would have expected given the drawings he’d seen, and black stripes ran from the nape of its neck to the tip of its tail. The light color allowed it to blend into the still-dead grass of the terrain. A circle of stark white fur covered its left eye, making it look strange.
If this animal decided to attack, Taras knew he didn't have the strength or the tools to fight it.
A soft step behind him announced he no longer stood alone on the porch. “Here," a masculine voice said from behind him. "Please, my friend. Use this.” Taras turned his head ever so slightly toward his visitor, keeping his eyes on the enormous cat. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he realized Ganbold held out something metallic. Taras reached back for it. The Mongol pressed the small, heavy arabesque into Taras’s palm.
Taras made ready to fire the weapon, doing exactly as Ganbold had shown him only the evening before. Taras had seen many such weapons as he’d traveled from England to Russia, but never handled one until the previous night. Most places in Europe, they called this weapon a musket.
The tiger crouched facing the cabin head on. Its intelligent eyes took in Taras, his Mongol visitor, and Jasper’s flighty form. Turning to one side, so Taras could appreciate its full length, it eyed Taras a moment longer before turning its head and padding slowly away.
Taras’s shoulders slumped with relief. Even with the musket, he doubted he could have downed the tiger. It was simply too large to be subdued by one powder shot. Once the animal disappeared entirely, Taras handed the gun back to its owner.
He strode to Jasper and stroked his nose and back, attempting to comfort the horse. Jasper stamped and threw his head back. Taras doubted he would be calm for at least a day now. The horse sensed the predator and it traumatized him.
"Perhaps you should keep your horse indoors with you, my friend," Ganbold said in broken Russian. "At least until you get a shelter built for him."
Taras glanced at the Mongol. He’d been thinking the same thing. His house still wasn't finished, and it would be another month before he managed a barn for Jasper. “A good suggestion. My thanks for the use of your weapon. I’m glad it wasn't needed."
Ganbold only nodded, taking the gun back from Taras. The little man only reached Taras’s chest for height. He sported the black, silky hair and thin, almond-shaped eyes of the Easterners. He also possessed a solemn, steady dignity that reminded Taras a great deal of Nikolai.
“Why did you not use the weapon yourself?” Taras asked. The man had shown him how to use the gun, but obviously Ganbold would have been more proficient with the weapon.
The little man shrugged. “A man should be the one to defend what is his. Do you not agree?”
Taras contemplated the reply briefly before nodding.
Ganbold appeared the night before, just as the sun began to set. Taras sat by his hearth, eating a solitary meal of rabbit when he'd heard a human voice calling from outside the cabin. It startled him more than it should have. He hadn’t heard any voice besides his own for months. Taras had begun speaking aloud to Jasper and himself, to keep the silence at bay.
The Mongol asked for a meal and shelter for the night. Taras, of course, had agreed. He fed the man and laid some animal pelts by the fire for him. He’d worried, at first, that communication would be difficult. Ganbold spoke no English, and Taras certainly spoke no Mongolian. Soon enough, they discovered they both spoke Russian. Ganbold’s accent and limited vocabulary made him hard to understand at times, but if Taras listened carefully, he caught enough meaning to conduct a conversation.
Truth be told, he felt relieved to have company. He regretted that the Mongol would be moving on today. Ganbold explained that he’d been selling his wares in Moscow. He traveled across Siberia on his way back to his home in Mongolia. Taras wished his visitor would stay longer. It would have been nice to have another human being around again.
Ten minutes later, Jasper had settled enough to stop throwing his head and kicking his hooves, though his eyes still held a wild look. Taras motioned Ganbold back into the cabin. "Come. Let's have some breakfast."
The two of them ate in companionable silence. Taras left the door open so he could keep an eye on Jasper and move quickly should the tiger return.
After cleaning the wooden plate Taras carved from a white pine tree, Ganbold spoke. "I thank you for your hospitality, my friend. May I ask a personal question?"
Taras regarded the man curiously before nodding.
"What if this woman of yours never comes? Will you spend the rest of your life here in solitude?”
The prior evening, the two men exchanged stories about their lives and families, as was the custom when travelers met one another on their journeys. Taras told Ganbold that life in Moscow no longer suited him. He purposely left out seditious words about Ivan, just in case Ganbold turned out to be a loyalist. Taras told Ganbold he hoped that, even if it wasn't for another year or two, Inga would join him in Siberia.
"I believe she will come, sooner or later. I will wait for her here."
Ganbold studied Taras in a calculating way. After a moment, he nodded. "Each man's life is his own. I suppose you can get enough company from the nearby village, if you need it."
Taras's head snapped up. "Nearby village?"
Ganbold raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Yes. You do not know? It is not so far a distance from here. Not more than one ortoo." He pointed to the northwest.
Taras knew an ortoo was a Mongolian unit of distance. He remembered hearing some Tartars use it during Ivan’s campaign against Kazan. He just wasn’t entirely certain what distance it represented. He thought it was perhaps one hundred and fifty furlongs, which for him and Jasper would be half a day’s ride.
Taras ran over the Siberian terrain in his head. He’d never been one hundred and fifty furlongs to the northwest. The land around his little valley teemed with wildlife Taras could eat and skin for pelts to store up against winter. He hadn’t yet needed to venture that far.
“Not a large village,” Ganbold went on. “But enough to keep you company and make you some friends. Even some women, if you desire. They are simple people, my friend. They do not have your knowledge. I think they would be willing to trade with you, however.”
Taras nodded. “Thank you for the information. Perhaps I will go meet these villagers.”
Ganbold nodded in return. He stood and began gathering his few belongings into his blanket, which Taras knew he would roll up and carry on his back.
Taras watched him with regret. It had been nice to have companionship. To have conversation. Taras didn’t realize how much he missed Nikolai until now.
When Ganbold finished readying himself, he turned to Taras, the small arabesque still clutched in his hand. “I hope I do not offend you, my English friend. My curiosity is strong. I do not understand why your woman did not come with you in the first place.”
Taras smiled to himself. Ganbold had tried to pronounce his name several times the night before. His Mongol tongue had found it too difficult. He hadn’t tried even once this morning.
Taras didn’t know the best way to explain things to Ganbold. He’d tried last night, but obviously hadn’t been cl
ear. Even if the two of them could communicate more effectively, this sort of thing was hard to convey. He and Ganbold had only broken Russian and the strangeness of strangers to go on.
“Some people,” Taras began slowly, “are not free in their own minds. They put up walls. Put themselves in their own dungeons. They must break free of these walls in their minds before they can truly live. Do you understand?”
Ganbold hesitated, and Taras didn’t think he did.
“Some people,” Ganbold said. “Believe they are slaves, when they are not. Others, believe themselves free, when they are not. She must choose to come here, or she’ll never be free. Never be your equal.”
Taras eyebrows rose steadily as Ganbold spoke. “Yes. That’s it, exactly,” he said.
Ganbold nodded. “But you do not know how long it will take her to do this. It is not an easy thing you ask of someone who has been a slave her entire life. What if she lives and dies in her chains?”
Taras sighed. He did not wish to offend his visitor, but he wished Ganbold would not ask such uncomfortable questions. “Then I suppose...I’ll live and die in mine. Here. Waiting for her.”
“Is this thing not...” Gangold struggled, then uttered a Mongolian word Taras didn’t recognize.
He shook his head to show he didn’t understand.
Gangold looked frustrated, the first negative emotion Taras had seen from the mild-mannered Mongol. “Do you not practice the same behavior you wish her to change? You stay in your chains here yet wait for her to break hers.”
Taras thought on that. He had to concede the point. “I suppose there are different kinds of chains. I was in prison in Moscow too. I broke free. Once Inga does, we’ll live here together. Free. You’re right, but I promised her I would be here when she comes. I feel confident she will. I don’t see it as a chain so much as keeping a promise.”
Ganbold seemed to consider that. “You spoke of riding through the Middle countries to arrive in Moscow,” he said. “You have never been farther East than Kazan. Is this correct?”
Taras nodded. “Yes.”
“I travel home to my wife and sons. I still have much distance to cover, but I could show you such sights and places on the Silk Road, most westerners cannot dream of them. Will you come with me? My home is a place of beauty. My wife will be happy to find you a woman. Strong and beautiful to bear you many sons.”
Taras smiled and considered. Truly considered. His loneliness would evaporate. Seeing more of the world did have a certain appeal. The idea of sharing another woman’s bed brought thoughts of Inga, though. It made his chest hurt with longing for her, and the idea of other women became repulsive. Ultimately, he shook his head.
“Thank you for the offer. I appreciate it more than I can say. But I made a promise to a woman who remains in Moscow. I must keep that promise.”
Ganbold nodded, as though he’d expected as much. “You have a horse and I am afoot. If your mind is changed, you can catch me easily in days or weeks.” He held his arabesque out. “A gift, in exchange for your gifts of hospitality.”
Taras’s eyes widened. “I cannot accept this, Ganbold. It is too dear.”
“It is a gift. Do not dishonor it." Ganbold thrust it toward Taras insistently.
“Won’t you need it on your travels?”
“I have another,” Ganbold answered. “I will see many peddlers on my path and can buy another if I have the need. Do me the honor of taking it. To give me peace of mind, if not more.”
Taras took the heavy weapon in his hands. “How will my taking this give you peace of mind?”
“I know you’ll have it if your striped friend returns.” He nodded with his chin in the direction the tiger had gone.
Unable to come up with more excuses, Taras nodded. “Thank you.”
A deep, cold loneliness settled on him as the Mongol moved away.
Inga would come. Of course Taras held onto his certainty like a man dying of thirst.
Late at night, when the cold wind blew through the imperfections of his wooden cabin, he found himself angry with Inga. Bitter that she hadn’t come with him. Frustrated that he’d been here for months without her.
Watching Ganbold melt into the horizon, Taras knelt in the grass beside Jasper and prayed. He prayed Inga would come to him. He prayed God would let him keep his life, and his sanity, long enough to fulfill whatever roles still lay in store for him. He prayed the monsters of Siberia would leave him and Jasper be, and that he would have the strength and fortitude to keep Jasper—his only friend in the world now—safe.
Taras rose to his feet. He needed to fell more wood to finish his home and then start on a barn. Until then, Jasper would sleep in the cabin with him.
The howl of a wolf floated to Taras on the wind. Jasper threw his head back with a frightened whinny. So, the warm weather had brought wolves into the area. None had ventured as close as that tiger, though.
Taras didn’t feel fear. Whatever challenged him, he would face it with confidence.
Taras watched Ganbold walk toward the far horizon until he was nothing more than a moving speck. He watched until he could no longer differentiate the speck from the rest of the landscape. And listened to the Siberian wolves howl in the distance.
Chapter 3
October 1551, Moscow
“Inga.”
Though it wasn’t loud, Inga jumped at the stern sound of Yehvah’s voice.
“Come,” Yehvah waved Inga toward her from down the corridor.
Without a word, Inga changed directions and walked toward Yehvah, who turned as soon as she knew Inga would follow. Inga obeyed woodenly, as she did all things these days. She didn’t know why Yehvah interrupted her work, cleaning spare rooms in the East wing, in the middle of the day. She didn’t much care. Inga couldn’t make herself care about much of what happened around her. In the year and a half since Ivan returned to Moscow and Taras left, Inga had become a living stone.
“Girls! Come!”
Yehvah’s voice startled Inga again.
Down the hall, two young maids dawdled, carrying baskets of storeroom supplies and whispering quietly. The crack of Yehvah’s command straightened their spines instantly. They hurried toward Inga and Yehvah and silently fell in behind Inga.
Yehvah collected maids as she went. When she passed other servants—pages, stable hands, Bogdan's kitchen boys—she snapped at them to get where they needed to be. Everyone stepped more quickly when they heard Yehvah’s tone.
When they reached the servants quarters, Yehvah stepped to one side and hurried all the maids in—there were six, counting Inga—before bringing up the rear. Inga noticed the small deviation in Yehvah’s behavior because Yehvah rarely did this. She usually preferred to lead.
Once in the room, Inga turned to see Yehvah glance worriedly up and down the corridor before shutting the door firmly behind her, as if she feared something coming up behind them.
Only then did Inga remember the ‘festivities’ the Tsar had planned for today. By ‘festivities,’ everyone understood Ivan had planned executions. Inga heard talk of them for weeks. In her numbness, she’d forgotten today was the day.
Standing in the middle of the servants’ quarters, she waited for Yehvah to give her and the other maids instructions. Yehvah merely stepped farther into the room and frowned at her. Inga opened her mouth to ask what they were doing, then noticed she now stood in the center of the room alone. The other maids sat on their various cots, conversing quietly.
What did Inga miss? Festivities or no, never in all the years she'd been in the Kremlin had they all been allowed to retire to their rooms in the middle of the day and rest. She turned in confusion. "What are you doing, Yehvah?"
Yehvah frowned. "Staying here until the executions are over. I told you that earlier."
Had she? Probably. Inga had developed a bad habit of hearing things, but not internalizing them. Yehvah had scolded her more than once in past months for needing things repeated. "Of course," she murmur
ed.
Inga slinked to her own cot and perched on the edge of it.
Yehvah approached a moment later and sat on the one across from her. "Are you...all right?” she asked hesitantly. “Are your shoulders bothering you?"
Inga’s right hand automatically went to rest on her left shoulder. Though both shoulders received equal treatment in the dungeons seventeen months ago, the left one seemed to have sustained the worse injury.
She’d been tortured in the dungeons for three days, often wishing for death. At least she hadn’t been raped—a method of torture she knew was often employed against women—and for that she felt grateful.
On the afternoon of the second day, they’d done something that left her needing a skilled healer to snap her shoulders back into their proper places. Even now, months later, they still popped in strange ways at strange times of the day.
Her questioners didn’t wear hoods, but she still couldn’t see their faces. The dungeons were too dim to make out features, even with the hissing torches lit. Inga’s vision had blurred with the pain long ago. It took too much energy to try and focus on any one thing. She knew their voices, though. Or one, at least.
Three men were constantly present, but only one—the chief questioner—ever spoke. He had a deeper voice than any man’s she’d ever heard.
They pulled on the chain attached to a hook that in turn attached to Inga’s shackles. Her arms, secured at the small of her back, rose upward slowly. The rest of her body followed. Her toes rose several inches from the floor and her shoulders screamed in pain. It felt as though someone slowly pulled her shoulders from their proper places.
“You know where Taras Demidov went, don’t you?”
“No!” Inga screamed through gritted teeth. Sweat rolled off her forehead and she found it hard to draw breath.
“You do. Answer and we’ll let you down. Remain silent, and you’ll stay here all night.”
Inga pressed her lips and teeth together, her body trembling violently.
“Very well,” the Inquisitor said.
The three men who’d rigged the chain and hook did something to keep it in place. They stalked calmly from the dungeon, taking the torches with them.
