Citadels of Fire
Page 83
Chapter 39
Taras did not see Sergei again, except from across the field. The army breached the deepest antechamber of the khan’s palace less than an hour after the Russians entered. The pretender to the khanate, as well as his wife and son, were taken to the tsar in chains.
When the fighting ended, and only the keening wails of women and children drifted in the air—cushioned by the cheery laughter of the Russians, clapping each other on the back and fingering their spoils—a carpet of bodies covered the ground from one end of Kazan to the other. Even the rooms of the buildings were cluttered with corpses, as well as the ground outside the walls for several hundred feet.
Hours later, the army stood on the plain of Arsk, which, beyond the bodies ringing the city walls, stood relatively clear. The army stood on foot, radiating out from a central spot where the tsar sat in gleaming armor astride a radiant white horse. His generals formed the closest ring around him. Behind them stood the lesser generals and officers, including Taras. From there, the army stood, sometimes according to rank. Most of the noncombatants from the camp came to the plain to see the ceremony. They were too far away for Taras to tell if Inga stood among them.
“My people,” Ivan raised a fist above his head. His impeccable armor sparkled in the sunlight. “Victory is ours!”
A deafening cheer went up from the crowd, the sound radiating in waves. Ivan let them cheer for several minutes before raising his fist for quiet. “We have only come by this victory by the grace of God and the prayers of the Most Pure Mother and of the saints of Moscow and of all Russia. God has made me, for my humility, Lord of Great Russia and of the eastern kingdom of Kazan.”
The cheers rose again, and Ivan made no move to stop them. He embraced several of his generals from atop his horse and beamed proudly at the crowd.
“You are not pleased with the victory?” Nikolai’s voice came from Taras’s elbow. He smiled briefly at his friend, though he didn't feel it.
“Of course I am. A long day.”
Nikolai kept his steady gaze on Taras’s face. Taras sighed, looking away. On the other side of the tsar’s circle, he could see Sergei, toasting with several other men. He wore a jewel-bedecked crown on his head—booty from the palace, no doubt.
“I find enemies where I thought to find friends, and friends among our enemies.” Taras thought of Almas, wondering what had become of him.
“Such is the nature of war.”
“I know.” He looked at Nikolai, wanting to explain how he felt, but not knowing how. His chest was a turmoil of pain, fear, and despair. Throwing something like victory into the mix felt . . . odd.
“Come, Taras,” Nikolai’s hand on his shoulder felt both jovial and consoling, “Of course war is a difficult business. Any man who tries to tell you differently is either a fool or a madman."
Taras glanced up at Sergei again.
“Take the good where you can find it," Nikolai continued. "We’ve won this battle; the tsar is in good spirits; you fought well. Tonight, go to your woman and be content in our victory.”
Taras glanced at Nikolai’s encouraging smile and, after a moment, returned it. He supposed Nikolai was right. Life was never easy, nor as black and white as the sovereign in front of him would have his people believe. Taras could only be responsible for his own actions. They'd achieved victory, and things could have been much worse.
The deep, resonating voice of a royal herald interrupted Taras’s thoughts.
“All hail Ivan Vasilivich Grozny the IV, Tsar of all Russia and the eastern kingdoms.” The generals around Ivan clapped a fist to their chests and went to one knee. Those behind followed and, in a great wave, the entire multitude which stretched several miles back, bowed before the first tsar of Russia.
Grozny meant great or terrible. A fitting name for the tsar. When the multitude stood, the Khan and his family were brought before Ivan.
“Tell them,” Ivan spoke to an interpreter, “that according to our merciful custom, we reprieve them from the sentence of death, and order them to be released from their bonds.” When the message was translated and the bonds released, the former Khan came forward and kissed the stirrup of Ivan’s horse, before he and his family prostrated themselves on the ground.
“Ivan,” Nikolai spoke quietly, for Taras’s ears only, “has been many things in his past; many things for so young a man. Today he is a good man. Today, despite what his individual soldiers may have done, he has led his people to victory.” Nikolai turned his head to look at Taras. “Today he is the tsar Russia needs him to be.”
Taras nodded, watching the young tsar with awe. He was an enigma, a child-god on earth standing before them, and a magnificent specter of a ruler.
Something would have to be done about Sergei. Eventually. The thought that Sergei had wanted—and probably still did want—Inga in his bed made Taras sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to think about what might have happened to her. He couldn’t protect all the women in the palace from men like Sergei, but he could protect Inga. With God as his witness, he would keep her safe.
Thoughts like those were dangerous. Sergei came from a powerful family. If Taras took him on, he would not be taking on one man, but an entire clan. Perhaps even the tsar. Sergei’s family remained loyal to Ivan. So much in the Russian court lay beyond Taras's control.
He still needed answers about his mother’s death. He intended to keep seeking them, no matter how long it took. Yet another thing to divide his attention.
And Almas—what could he do about Almas? What could he possibly do?
Taras shut his eyes. If he ran though all his worries, he’d go mad. His head still felt too jumbled from battle. He took a deep, cleansing breath.
Nikolai’s eyes slid toward Taras. He said nothing, pretending not to notice Taras’s struggle.
Life in Russia had proved much more complicated than he would have thought possible. Parts of him—parts he’d been certain he had an iron grasp on—were slipping away.