Citadels of Fire
Page 32
Chapter 15
Taras bathed, lunched, then slept most of the afternoon away. When he awoke, it was still too early for supper. He wandered the palace corridors, familiarizing himself with their layout.
He strolled over the palace grounds, toward the apartments where he'd lived with his parents nearly fifteen years before. Passing by them at a distance, he wondered if they were currently occupied. He doubted it. Even with the sinking sun casting a homey light over the Kremlin, they looked cold and vacant. Twenty minutes later he found himself in the graveyard.
Taras thought he would have to search for his mother’s grave. He assumed things would have changed so much, he wouldn’t remember its location. That wasn't the case. As he entered the cemetery, long suppressed memories stirred in the back of his mind, coming back with vigor and clarity.
The last of the winter snow clung on the ground in tufts over the yellow grass. It crunched under his boots as he walked. His mother’s headstone was plain and old now, but still readable. With a gloved hand, he wiped away some caked-on dirt. Then he sat back and breathed in deeply. He squatted inches above his mother’s body. It gave him a quiet comfort to have her there, to be near her again, his one comfort in this alien place.
He placed his hand on the frozen ground in front of the stone.
“Hello, Mother,” he said. It felt strange, speaking aloud to her. He had never done that—not in all his years in England. But then, she wasn't buried in England.
He sighed. “I don’t have any idea what I’m doing here. I wish I had your guidance.” He scooped up a handful of earth. The frozen ground only yielded a smattering of dust and frozen rocks. “For the first time since I left, I may be in a position to keep my promise.” A numbing wind thundered past him, and he shivered.
He pulled a small square of parchment from his belt pouch, the only piece he had left. He made a mental note to ask the clerks how much it would cost to secure some more. Pulling a nub of charred wood from another pouch, he sketched his mother’s headstone, complete with the patches of melting snow on it and the Siberian landscape behind it.
The distant crunch of snow announced a visitor. Irritated, Taras waited patiently for the new-comer to pass him by. This was not his personal cemetery, after all. The footsteps drew near, not from the Palace, but toward it. Still squatting, Taras spun silently on one toe.
The newcomer had to be a woman; the frame did not look large enough to be a man. A threadbare skin hugged her shoulders, leaving her forearms exposed. She carried a heavy-looking basket. He peered intently at her, trying to make out details.
She emerged from the shadows of the overhanging trees.
“Inga?” he called.
Inga froze, then turned slowly to him. She immediately dropped into a curtsy.
“My lord. I am so sorry to have disturbed you.”
“You haven’t.” He straightened his legs. “Are you visiting a loved one?”
Inga smiled sheepishly, keeping her eyes on the ground between them. “No, my lord. I take a shortcut through the cemetery when I’m sent to the market in Red Square.”
Taras smiled. “There are some who would find it disturbing—even morbid. Aren’t you afraid of the serdechniki?”
Inga glanced up at him. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it again.
“It’s all right,” Taras prodded. “You may speak your mind to me, with no fear of repercussions.”
She gazed up at him steadily. “I do not think evil spirits roam the cemeteries, my lord.”
“No?”
“No. People are superstitious. All these graves belong to people who were once someone’s loved ones. I find it peaceful.”
Taras stared at her intently. Serdechniki were evil, mischievous spirits that supposedly roamed Russia, creating havoc everywhere they went—the same way goblins and imps apparently plagued England. When bad things happened, people often attributed them to the deeds of the serdechniki. How strange to find a non-superstitious Russian, especially a kitchen maid who wandered through graveyards between her errands.
“I know exactly what you mean.” He smiled at her. She returned the smile shyly, then dropped her eyes again.
“If my lord does not need anything, I must be getting back . . .”
“Yes, of course. My apologies. Don’t let me keep you.” He glanced down at his mother’s grave, but decided his visit for this evening was complete. Folding the parchment carefully, he returned it to his belt pouch. “Would you like some company?” He peered into her face, but she refused to look at him.
“My lord can do whatever he wishes.”
Taras pursed his lips. He already saw a pattern. She truly believed she had no choice when it came to the wishes of the higher class. Perhaps in Russia it was true of most boyars. He did not want their relationship to be like that.
He crossed the distance between them until he stood over her. Reaching out to touch her arm, he paused when he realized her breathing was shaky.
“Inga, look at me.” When she did, her eyes were unreadable. “I’m asking if you would like the company. It’s acceptable to say no if you’d rather walk alone.”
Her gaze left his, but wandered, rather than dropping again. She blinked several times, flustered. “N-no, my lord. I . . . would be glad of your company.”
He grinned. “Well then, shall we?”
She gave him the first genuine smile he’d seen from her.