Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  He didn’t have to track it far. Perhaps a fathom away, he came upon the beast, lying on its side in the leaves, paws stretched out in front of and behind it, head lolling on a log. He saw the rise and fall of its abdomen as it fought to breathe.

  Taras approached slowly, making sure to tread noisily through the grass and snapping a few twigs along the way.

  The tiger did not stir.

  He came to stand above the animal, looking down on it. Its head lay in a pillar of moonlight filtering through the canopy. He saw its eyes clearly, looking up at him from a dying body.

  Taras stared into the face of what amounted to his arch enemy since coming to live in Siberia. The monster he’d observed from a distance, seen up close, and tussled with several times. An animal that killed Anne, and nearly took Nikolai. One that gave Taras scars, damaged his home, and hurt others. Now, the intelligent golden eyes looking out at him seemed to ask why. Why did he kill it when it spared him?

  Taras thought it a shame to kill so magnificent and powerful a creature. Yet the creature actively harmed other humans, and not as a survival tactic. It chose mayhem over peace. As Anne told him so many years before, the beast didn't have logic or emotion. Even if the tiger didn't understand why, it still needed to be stopped.

  Taras glanced warily at the tiger, moving down toward its middle. He raised his knife in both hands, hovering the tip of the blade above the animal’s heart, a little behind and between its front two legs.

  Abruptly, the tiger rolled onto all fours, jumped up onto its paws and swiped a powerful paw at Taras’s legs. The claws connected solidly and Taras felt the flesh of his thigh shred. Falling onto one knee, he threw his weight into slamming his knife into the tiger’s ribcage. One, two, three times. The tiger roared with each blow, before falling onto its side once more.

  Flickering light filled the forest around them. Taras focused too intently on the tiger to wonder what it meant or where it came from.

  The animal hadn’t given up, yet. It whipped its head toward Taras, jaws wide enough to have encompassed Taras’s entire head.

  He swiped his knife at the tiger but didn’t connect. Razor-sharp, white teeth filled his vision. The jaws snapped shut and, before it reopened them, Taras lunged toward them and buried his dagger in the tiger’s eye. Its head rested on the forest floor and didn’t rise again.

  Still, he felt it breathing, felt its heat against his body.

  With a squelching sound, he yanked the knife out of the animal’s eye socket. Taras didn’t think he’d be able to put weight on his injured leg. He twisted around and dragged himself, using his elbows, back toward the animal’s midline. It took all his strength to push the tiger onto it’s back, so it’s four legs rose into the air. He crawled overtop it, straddling the abdomen, and plunged his knife into the lion's heart. The animal spasmed once. Then it went still.

  Chest heaving and leg throbbing, Taras yanked the knife from the tiger’s heart. Water gushed out, followed by blood.

  Taras glanced up to see the warriors from the village standing around him in a vague semi-circle. Several held lit torches, which is what produced the flickering light. They watched him with expressions of wonder.

  Taras slid off the tiger’s carcass, barely managing to stay on his feet. He took a few hobbling steps before his leg collapsed beneath him. Grigory hurried forward and put his shoulder under Taras’s arm, lifting him.

  The beast, at last, was dead.

  A WEEK LATER, TARAS prepared to leave the village for Anechka. It took this long for his leg to heal enough for him to make the trip back. He would probably limp for the rest of his life, due to the injury.

  In truth, it could easily have been much worse. The wound didn’t reach a great depth. Still, he’d needed to let it heal enough to put weight on his leg. No signs of infection cropped up at all. The village medicine man held a great deal of knowledge about such things. He brewed chaga tea from the bark of wild Siberian birch trees. When drunk, infection never set in. At least, not that Taras ever witnessed.

  In gratitude for his help, the villagers not only took care of him, but showered him with gifts, including the tiger’s scarred pelt. They didn't have any horses, and so gave him a goat on which to tie his many gifts. He understood they’d included the goat as part of the gift.

  The village bustled around Taras as he struggled to roll and tie the gifts in a way that would keep them secure across the goat’s back as he traveled. The villagers went about their daily tasks, preparing food, making tools, mending clothes and shelters, and doing things Taras didn’t recognize. He watched their movements with quiet satisfaction, glad they now lived free from the predator.

  Abruptly, Grigory appeared. He’d also sustained an injury that night. Five deep slashes reached from the back of his left shoulder and across his back toward his right flank. The tiger caught him cleanly across the back and he would carry the scars for the rest of his life, just as Taras would limp. He and Grigory had become brothers in truth.

  Without being asked, Grigory knelt down beside Taras and helped him bind together his gifts.

  "Do you not get lonely, living by yourself, my friend? Grigory asked.

  "I do," Taras said truthfully. “But I have reasons for always circling back to my cabin."

  Grigory nodded as though he understood. "Memories and such," he murmured.

  Taras study Grigory. Memories? Yes, of course. Memories of Nikolai and times Taras felt truly happy in the cabin. But other things, too. Things Grigory couldn't understand. Inga. The stubborn habits of a man who refused to change.

  "Why do you ask?" Taras said.

  Grigory shrugged. "If you ever wanted to come live among us, so you aren't alone, you would be welcome."

  Taras smiled. "You know, I may take you up on that one day. Not yet, but perhaps one day."

  Grigory grinned with true delight. "I hope you do." His face became more serious again. "If you change your mind and do not want to, we will respect your choice."

  Taras smiled again. "I know, my friend," he said quietly. "You always have."

  Grigory smiled once more. "Our children's children will tell stories of the yellow-haired god who slew the demon tiger," he said proudly.

  Taras frowned, and Grigory glanced at him in mild surprise.

  "As I always tell you, Grigory, I’m merely a man."

  Grigory slowly shook his head. "You sat on the back of the demon and stabbed his heart, even after he wounded you. Can men do such things? I don't think so."

  Taras heaved a deep breath. "I am a man, Grigory. A man with many regrets. I no longer fear to act because my lack of action has caused heartache in the past."

  Taras suddenly became aware of the stillness around him. Most of the villagers had ceased their tasks and stared at him. All the warriors who fought the tiger beside Taras stood closest, listening.

  Taras straightened his legs, careful to put weight on his bad leg slowly so as not to make it collapse, and swept his gaze across them. "You should be proud of what you did on the riverbank. You recognized evil and vanquished it."

  "We couldn't have done it ourselves, my friend," Grigory said, also rising to his feet.

  "Perhaps," Taras said. "But you realized you couldn't do it alone and took action by asking me for help. Now you know how to end this kind of danger and can do so again if necessary."

  In truth, Taras had come to feel satisfaction over the entire thing. He wished he could have vanquished all the demons in his life so completely.

  Grigory ordered the villagers to load Taras’s belongings onto the goat. They obeyed, and the other villagers moved back to their tasks. Grigory moved to stand directly in front of Taras.

  "I'm not sure I believe you are not a God,” he said, looking at Taras earnestly. “But I will respect what you've told me. We will be here if ever you need companionship." He offered his arm to Taras. Taras clasped it briefly before pulling Grigory into a hug. The man looked surprised at first, but clapped Taras on the
back. When Taras released him and Grigory pulled back, the man grinned broadly.

  An hour later, Taras set off with the goat. Grigory accompanied him part of the way to make sure he successfully traversed the worst of the terrain between the village and Anechka. They said their goodbyes, with Taras promising to visit as soon as his injured leg allowed. The medicine man warned that after the walk home, he should stay off it for a few days. The villagers’ gifts included enough food that Taras wouldn’t need to hunt for a while.

  In truth, he liked the thought of going to live with Grigory and the villagers. Perhaps Taras didn’t realize how lonely he'd become since Nikolai left. Having companionship, even merely sitting in the village and watching them work, felt preferable to being alone. And yet, he needed to return to Anechka one last time.

  He suspected that perhaps the reason God kept him alive this long was so he could help the villagers bring down the tiger. Perhaps now with it done, God would finally take him home.

  Chapter 32

  July 1568, Moscow

  Kiril stood along the wall of the Great Hall with his fellow pages, awaiting the pleasure of the Tsar or any of the boyars. Ivan would be giving an important audience today. A man called Possevino arrived at the court, an emissary from the Roman Pope himself.

  From what Kiril understood from the gossip, Ivan sent an epistle to Rome some months past, explaining that Stephen of Bathory forged alliances with Muslims from time to time, which most perceived as a betrayal of Christianity.

  The Eastern and Western Christian churches had not agreed for some time. Ivan conjured up the brilliant idea to send an envoy to Rome and suggest a joint crusade against the Turks. He didn't offer an actual rapprochement between the two churches, of course. Only the crusade. Which meant his true aim was to put pressure on Stephen concerning the lands Ivan so desperately coveted.

  The Holy See in Rome wanted rapprochement between the two churches. He'd sent Possevino, a representative of Rome, to oversee negotiations. The papal legate already visited Venice, and word said he didn’t fare well there. He also visited Vilna and spoke to Bathory. Now, he’d come to Moscow to see Ivan.

  The servant by the door slammed his wooden staff into the ground three times to announce the arrival of the legate. The whispers in the hall quieted and the huge doors, emblazoned with Ivan's crest—a man attempting to slay a dragon—swung outward.

  Possevino entered in a calm and confident manner, striding down the aisle between the cushioned benches the boyars sat on, until he stood in front of Ivan's dais. The man had dark hair and intelligent blue eyes, with a pointed chin and naturally arched brows.

  Kiril noticed Possevino looking around in amazement. He wondered what the legate found so astonishing.

  Possevino bowed at the waist before Ivan.

  "Well met, Possevino, envoy of Rome," Ivan said formally. "You may rise."

  The man straightened and gaped around in amazement again.

  A predatory smile flickered across Ivan's face. He sat on his ivory-inlaid throne, wrapped in a robe of cloth of gold, spangled with precious stones. He held his spike-bottomed scepter in one hand, and wore the crown of Monomakh on his head.

  “You act astonished at my court, Possevino,” Ivan said smugly. “May we ask what you find so surprising?”

  “Forgive me, my lord Tsar. I do not mean to stare. I’ve traveled across Europe in the Pope’s name. Never have I seen such barbaric magnificence as I see here. The costumes of your court, your entourage of long-bearded nobles in rich, brocade tunics. I’ve not seen another court to rival it.”

  Ivan frowned, looking genuinely confused. For once, Kiril and Ivan agreed on something. What else would they wear? He wondered vaguely what the courts in Western Europe look like, if not like this.

  Possevino glanced down doubtfully at his own humble black smock before stepping up toward Ivan’s dais. He took a knee at Ivan’s feet and reached for Ivan’s hand, kissing the Tsar’s fingers. Then he stepped back to a respectful distance.

  Ivan’s mouth twisted in a sour, displeased sort of way. He called for a servant and whispered something in the man’s ear. The servant disappeared and, moments later, reappeared with a basin full of water and a rag.

  Ivan ostentatiously washed the fingers Possevino kissed.

  "And what news have you from Rome?" the Tsar said impatiently.

  Possevino cleared his throat and straightened his spine, seeming to snap back to his purpose. He smiled demurely, spreading his hands. "The Holy See wants peace between our two great churches. He is willing to support your crusade, but such a thing will take time. He hopes you’ll agree to a religious unity first. Political agreements can come later."

  Ivan clicked his tongue scornfully. "This is the same reason the Venetians turned you down," he said acidly. "They value their treaties with the Turks too highly. Did you see Stephen of Bathory as well?"

  Possevino bowed his head. "I did, my Lord.” The man hesitated, looking reluctant. “He still desires all of Livonia, the destruction or surrender of several of my Lord Tsar’s key fortresses, and the payment of a large sum in tribute to him.”

  Ivan’s jaw visibly clenched. Kiril couldn’t have been the only one to notice it, because all the boyars and clerks shifted nervously in their seats. Ivan was becoming angry, and it might prove more dangerous than Possevino understood.

  "My Lord,” Possevino said slowly, “I hardly think we will settle our differences here in a public audience. I am confident that with time and negotiations, we can come to agreement that will satisfy my Lord Tsar’s wishes. May I have your permission to commence negotiations?"

  Ivan’s abrupt smile chilled Kiril’s heart. Somehow, he didn't think Ivan planned to concede a single thing. This had been yet another attempt to wrench Poland from Bathory’s grasp. So far, it seemed to be failing.

  "You have our permission," Ivan said.

  Possevino looked relieved. He bowed from the waist again. "Many thanks, Magnanimous Tsar. Please allow me to confer on you gifts from Rome. We have gifts for you, for your son, the Tsarevich—“ he nodded toward where young Ivan, who now claimed twenty-one winters, stood beside Ivan’s throne. ”—And for the Tsarina, Anastasia."

  The entire room gasped audibly. Kiril held his breath. Why on earth did Possevino bring a gift for Ivan's long dead first wife?

  On his throne, Ivan froze. His eyes slid slowly toward Possevino. "The Tsarina...Anastasia?" he asked quietly. Usually when Ivan's voice became quiet, a hint of danger belied it. This time, Kiril swore he heard fear, or perhaps uncertainty.

  Possevino obviously felt the shift in the energy of the room because he froze and glanced around, confused. "Yes, of course. Rome would not forget the Tsar's honorable wife in their considerations."

  Ivan leapt off his throne with the energy of a spry young man, bounded down the three steps of the dais and screamed in Possevino’s face. "ANASTASIA IS DEAD! SHE’S BEEN DEAD FOR YEARS AND REPLACED MANY TIMES! WHY DOES ROME NOT KNOW THIS?”

  Possevino stumbled backward in shock, barely keeping from falling to the ground.

  "F-forgive me, my Lord Tsar. The trip to Rome is long and far. We did not realize your first wife dwelt with God." He fell to his knees, bowing his head and clasping his hands in front of him. "P-please, accept my many apologies on behalf of myself and Rome. I misspoke terribly, my Lord Tsar. My deepest apologies."

  Ivan stood in the spot Possevino formerly occupied, chest heaving and eyes wild with insanity.

  Very slowly, the tension seeped out of Ivan’s shoulders and his spine straightened. His eyes returned to their normal width and his face relaxed. Without speaking, he turned and stalked from the room, leaving his terrified court to peer after him.

  A MONTH LATER, KIRIL watched Possevino take his leave from Moscow. For four weeks, the legate debated with six of Ivan’s boyars. They’d run constantly to Ivan to ask for permissions or guidance on what to concede. Sometimes Ivan asked Possevino to his chambers for a private meeting. He
always washed his hand when Possevino kissed it. In all, Ivan simply defended his position on Poland. As Kiril suspected, Ivan never conceded a single thing, nor did he show any real interest in the crusade he’d proposed. Kiril suspected Possevino realized he wasted his time here.

  Though Kiril obviously didn’t know Possevino well, he’d taken messages to and from the man several times while negotiations proceeded. The papal legate seemed a decent sort. The kind of man who truly wanted peace between the two churches and genuinely believed in the work he did.

  Kiril felt glad to see the man go. It would only have been a matter of time before he inadvertently angered Ivan or Ivan remembered the anger he felt when Possevino mistakenly thought Anastasia still lived. At least this way, the man left Moscow with his head and guts intact.

  Since the night Possevino mentioned Anastasia— probably the first time anyone said her name out loud at court since her death — Ivan had not been the same. He’d acted worse than usual, abusing servants more, and growing irate over the tiniest things.

  In Kiril's mind, Ivan went mad years ago. These past weeks, he’d become truly unhinged. The time had come. Kiril felt it.

  Ivan instructed Possevino to return after he negotiated with Stephen of Bathory again. Kiril didn't intend for Ivan to live to see the return of the papal legate.

  INGA GATHERED HER SKIRTS and bolted through the palace. A young courier came to tell her about Bogdan and the kitchens. By the paleness of the courier’s face and the hint of mist in his eyes, Inga thought she knew what she would find. Even so, she bulled her way through the corridors, knocking aside servant and boyar alike when they stood in her way, as if her speed might change reality.

  When she came upon the kitchens, a large crowd stood around the door, most up on their tiptoes, trying to peer over the shoulders of those in front of them. Inga vaguely noted that the crowd consisted exclusively of servants, grooms, cooks, or other palace workers. No clergymen or boyars here. Oh no. This kind of crisis lay beneath them.