Citadels of Fire

by L.K. Hill

  Chapter 22

  Inga hurried into the stables to find a young groom—probably six years her junior—tapping his foot impatiently.

  “What took you so long?” he shouted when she appeared. “I have chores to do.”

  “Sorry. I’m here now.” She reached up to take the horse’s bridle. The boy pulled the horse’s head down, away from Inga’s reaching fingers.

  Inga glared at him. He turned his nose up stubbornly. She took a slow, deep breath, willing herself not to lose her temper. “Yehvah.”

  The boy’s nose came down and he grudgingly handed her the reins. Muttering under his breath, he retreated into the stable. “Yehvah” was all the explanation he needed.

  Satisfied with her victory, Inga turned and gave the horse’s bridle a strong heave to get him moving. Haystack, a stock horse too swaybacked in his old age to hold a rider, was still strong enough to pull a wagon. Even one filled with supplies from the market.

  The horse drew the wagon slowly but steadily out into the sunlight. Inga pulled her shawl more tightly around her. April had arrived, but winter still clung tenuously to the air. The cold did not burn away until late afternoon.

  She did not have to lead the horse once they got going. He plodded straight ahead, eyes down. If he veered slightly off course, she would give him a gentle push on the neck to correct him.

  As she reached the servant’s gate, a man stepped out from behind a tree. It was Taras. She smiled as she neared him.

  “Hello.” She tugged on Haystack’s bridle, and he stopped immediately. “This is a strange place to meet you. Have I walked into the middle of a battle?”

  He chuckled. “No. I’m only walking. Where are you off to?”

  “The market. Yehvah sent me for supplies.”

  He glanced toward the gate she headed toward. “I’ve been here a month and, except on horseback the first day I arrived, I haven’t ventured into the market.”

  She smiled. “You must learn to navigate the market in the Great Square. If you can do that, you can do anything.”

  He grinned. “Is that so?”

  She nodded. “Would you like to accompany us, lord Taras?”

  “I would.”

  He fell in beside her, and the guard at the gate nodded to them as they passed.

  Red Square consisted of the broad strip of land in front of the main gates of the Kremlin. The Kremlin Wall enclosed the royal palaces and cathedrals. The city had been built up around it. To be fair, Red Square ran the entire length of the Kremlin Wall, too oblong to be a true square. Yet, when events took place in it, they usually took place in the square courtyard directly in front of the gates.

  The vast Moskva River split at the southwest corner of the Kremlin, forming a V and running along both sides of the palace. Red Square transected the V, ending where it met the river on both sides.

  Inga and Taras exited the palace grounds through the small servant’s gate on the southeast side of the Kremlin. They followed a well-worn dirt path that led around the wall’s massive corner and into Red Square, where the daily market was in full swing.

  Inga had been to market numerous times and knew well what she needed to do. Flagging down one of the peasant boys who came to the market looking for work, she handed him Haystack’s reigns and told him to wait by the river, promising payment when she returned. Boys such as these weren't above stealing what they'd been charged with guarding. Inga told the lanky boy that the horse belonged to the tsar, and God would be displeased if anything happened to either horse or cart.

  The boy’s eyes widened as she spoke. When she asked him if he could be trusted, he nodded, taking Haystack’s reigns reverently. Inga nodded, satisfied he would be there when she returned. She saw Taras smile behind his hand.

  As she turned toward the market, Inga felt a hand on her arm. Taras gazed toward the river, watching a tense scene unfold. A group of Tatars had set up their booths on the frozen ice of the Moskva. A handful of native Muscovites shouted at them. The Tatars shouted back, and fists were shaken.

  “I don’t understand them,” Taras said. He cocked his head to one side, as if to listen more closely. “Are they speaking Russian?”

  “No. Well, sometimes. They are slipping in and out of several languages. The ones on the ice are Tatar merchants from Kazan. They all have their own tribal tongues.

  “Can you tell what’s going on?”

  Though Inga only caught snatches of the language that wasn’t Russian, she didn’t need words to decipher the problem. “The Tatars are set up on the ice, which is fine in the heart of winter—many people do it then—but we are coming into spring. The ice is still frozen on top, but not necessarily beneath. The Muscovites are telling the Tatars it’s too dangerous to set up on the ice this late in the season.”

  “I take it the Tatars aren’t listening.”

  One man had separated from the other Tatar merchants and screamed as loudly as his voice would allow at the Muscovite onlookers. When it became obvious the Tatars weren’t going to move, many of the Muscovites waved their hands in dismissal and moved away. One of them passed within a few feet of Inga and Taras, muttering about foolish foreigners deserving what they got if the river swallowed them up.

  “Is it true?” Taras asked when the man passed by.

  Inga nodded. “The ice is still frozen. A few people, a few booths, would probably be safe, but they must have two hundred people out there.” She shrugged. “Perhaps nothing will happen, but I wouldn’t risk it. The water is too cold for a man to survive in.”

  As the crowd dispersed and the Tatars went back to their business, Taras lost interest as well. He followed Inga into the square.

  Inga went from booth to booth, scanning the merchandise and buying what she needed. Most of the supplies were foodstuffs for the kitchens, but Yehvah’s list also included orders from other parts of the palace: some dishes, wood for broken wagons, and a summons from the Master of the Tailors for all the clothiers Inga could find.

  As she went, she showed Taras the way; showed him the vendors and their wears and how to haggle. Of course, Inga had an advantage. No one would haggle much with a representative of the tsar. She never paid with money. Rather, she showed each vendor the palace seal. Many knew her by sight and didn't blink at the seal. Those who didn’t know her still jumped when she flashed the seal and gave her what she needed. They would then write up a bill of sale, which she marked to validate it as an honest bill. The vendor was responsible to take it to the palace treasurers for reimbursement.

  After nearly two hours, Inga had all she needed. She and Taras returned to where they'd left the cart in the hands of the nervous boy. The wagon stood full of supplies and the boy wore a wide smile. When he moved, his pockets jangled softly. Obviously, some of the vendors had tipped him when they dropped off their wares.

  Inga pulled out the coin she'd brought with her and paid him. His eyes sparkled and he licked his lips at the sight of the small bronze coin.

  “Thank you, my lady.” He bolted before he’d fully pocketed his treasure. “God bless you.”

  “And you," Inga answered. The boy had already disappeared into the crowd. Inga chuckled, then put a hand on Haystack’s bridle to turn him around. Taras took the other side to help her.

  A thunderous crack split the air. Inga felt the sickening reverberation in her stomach. Spinning to face the river, she watched the network of cracks in the ice grow out from where the group of Tatar merchants had set up. The spider-web pattern disappeared under the bridge that forded the river from Serpukhov Road, and reappeared in the ice on the other side, stretching out toward the horizon.

  Taras followed her gaze, his eyes widening as he watched the cracks spread. Horrified screams came from the center of the river.

  All at once, without any noise, the ice opened up and swallowed them. People, animals, booths, and wares all sank into the river.

  Leaving Haystack lazily chewing yellow grass, Inga ran toward the bank. Taras foll
owed.

  “Inga, wait.”

  She recognized the urgency in his voice, but ignored him. Other bystanders ran to the banks as well, stretching out their hands to those fortunate enough to be near the edge.

  Inga skidded down an embankment and climbed onto a large boulder. A woman holding a toddler ran toward her, trying to escape the cracking ice. Three feet from the shore, it gave way. As though some unseen monster from the depths had grabbed her, the woman’s body slid, serpentine, into the depths. Before her waist disappeared beneath the surface, she threw her child toward Inga. The boy didn’t reach the shore. He landed in front of the boulder, breaking through a paper-thin sheen of ice and plopping into the water beneath.

  Holding onto the rock as an anchor, Inga reached out and grasped the child's arm. He screamed, kicked, and flailed. She barely kept her hold on him. His commotion threw Inga off balance. Her fingers, clawed at the boulder, slipping farther every second. Then they gave out entirely.

  She fell up to her middle into the river. A pair of strong hands wrapped around her arm below the shoulder, and heaved her out of the wet, black abyss. The toddler still squirmed. She hung onto him as another arm wrapped around her waist, and lifted together both of them onto the boulder.

  As soon as the boy’s tiny body cleared the water, Inga let him slip out of her grasp with relief. Flexing sore fingers, chest heaving, she raised her head. Taras sat beside her, arm still around her.

  “Are you all right?” He brushed a stray hair from her face.

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. She didn’t recall seeing him next to her, any more than any of the other activity around her. People screamed and cried, dragging precious few survivors onto the bank and shouting for doctors. Inga had been so focused on the small boy, she’d blocked out everything else around her.

  If not for the incident, Inga and Taras would have returned to the palace within minutes. Instead they stayed in the Square for another hour. Inga took it upon herself to find someone to look after for the small boy; no one wanted the task. She found a woman who ran an orphanage in the city. The woman did not want to take the boy either. Inga took the woman’s arm and pulled her aside.

  “Please, Mistress. I am a servant at the Kremlin palace and have been away too long already.”

  “I have no more room—”

  “Please listen. This boy is parentless now and he fell, fully immersed, into the river.”

  The woman stopped, pursing her lips. Her gaze shifted to where the small boy—blue eyed, tow-headed, and plump-cheeked—nestled against Taras, wrapped in his sable cloak. His lips and fingernails had turned a deep shade of purple.

  “I cannot take him to the palace with me,” Inga insisted.

  The woman sighed and bowed her head in acquiescence. Inga took the woman’s hands and looked into her eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  The woman nodded, returning Inga’s direct gaze, and an understanding passed between them.

  When they started back to the palace, Inga was shivering from her ducking in the icy waters. As long as she still shivered, she would be all right. She needed to change out of her wet clothes. Taras guided Haystack until they got back through the servant’s gate. From the other side of the horse he spoke.

  “Will the boy live?”

  Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, Inga shook her head.

  “No. He fell into the river. The mistress of the orphanage will make sure he is comfortable, but in a day or two, the cold will take him, as it took his parents.”

  Taras stayed silent after that, and she was glad. She did not have the strength to make conversation and make her legs move at the same time. When they'd reached the midpoint between the servant’s gate and the stables, Inga’s knees gave out. Without warning, she found herself on all fours.

  Hands and arms shaking violently, she tried to get up, but could not make anything below her hips move. Then Taras knelt beside her.

  “Inga, what’s wrong? What is it?”

  “T-take me to Y-yehvah,” she breathed. “D-doctor. Before I s-stop sh-shivering.”

  Taras scooped her up in his arms and made swiftly for the palace. Looking over his shoulder, Inga saw that Haystack contentedly munched the grass lining the path. She wanted to tell Taras to let Bogdan know, so he could see about the supplies, but couldn’t make her mouth form the words.

  Letting her head fall back, she saw the sky. It filled her eyes, the brilliance of the blue paining them. She rested her head against Taras’s shoulder. Her legs were so cold, they hurt. She couldn’t feel her feet anymore. It was a relief, but also dangerous. Yehvah always said pain helps you know you are still alive. When it doesn’t hurt anymore, death is already spreading its undergrowth through your body.

  Muffled voices reached her ears, but couldn’t understand what they meant.

  “Where is Yehvah? She needs a doctor.”

  “This way, my lord.”

  “You are Bogdan?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “The horse and supply cart are between here and the servant’s gate, unattended.”

  “I will see to them, my lord.”

  A whoosh of hot air, though she only felt it above her waist.

  A woman’s voice: “What happened? Anne, go for the doctor. Now, woman!”

  “She fell partially into the river, trying to save a child.”

  “What was a child doing in the river this time of year?”

  “Some Tatars set up booths. The ice cracked.”

  “Lay her here. Did she save the child?”

  “Yes, but not before he fell in. She said he wouldn’t live. Yehvah, will she?”

  “She is still shivering. That’s a good sign. Master Taras, you must go. We must get her out of these clothes.”

  Their voices faded, and her vision blurred. The darkness was warm and inviting.