Kremlins Boxset
Page 35
“You give me too much credit, Almas. I have no sway over what happens in Russia.”
“No, but you have all the sway over your own life. Will you attach such an honorable life to the deeds of Ivan the Terrible? You are a decent man, Taras. I can see you are conflicted. Never lose that decency. Never let anyone take it from you. Not for any reason. If you do, your soul will soon follow.”
Taras sighed. “What would you have me do? Russia has been good to me. I went there with nothing, and Russia has given me a new life. I’ve made it my country. Does it not deserve my loyalty?”
Silence stretched between them. Taras turned Almas’s words over in his head. He couldn’t internalize them. Not here. Almas did not push further.
“Let me worry about my soul, Almas. I cannot betray the divinely appointed ruler of this country any more than I could of any other.”
“Do you think your Divinity would approve of what the Russian army did today?”
Taras swallowed. He'd wrestled with this question since this war campaign began. When he spoke again, his voice sounded steady.
“I believe war is war, Almas, and each man does as he must. I do not condone the actions of men who brutalize the innocent. I never will. But neither can you judge an entire army—an entire nation—by the actions of a few.” Taras swallowed. Time to come to the point. “If your family were within my reach, I would protect them. I cannot free you. I cannot stay long or else risk being found. You are all to be taken back to Moscow and imprisoned there.”
Hushed, slightly frenzied whispers came from the darkness behind Almas. The other men heard this, and it made them afraid.
“I cannot do anything about it. I am sorry. I may not be able to stop the interrogations once we get to Moscow, either, but I will try. I will do everything I can to protect you, to keep you alive, so you can get back to your family.”
Almas didn't answer right away. Taras could feel the other men peering out through the bars at him.
“Even now,” Almas said, “you begin to compromise with your honor.”
“Yes,” Taras’s whispered. “Perhaps I do. This is my country, now, and you are my friend, and those two things are at odds. I will try to help you. I will do everything in my power. You have my word. This is all I can do.” Taras slipped the satchel over his shoulders and guided it into Almas’s hands. “There’s not much in here—some bread, a few blankets. It’s all I could manage. Do you need anything else?”
Almas eased the satchel through the bars of the cell. “One of our number is ill. More blankets, or perhaps something medicinal? Some mead would bring him a measure of comfort.”
“I’ll do the best I can. I don’t know if I’ll see you again before we set out for Moscow, but I’ll try to bring you something.”
Almas stuck his arm out between the bars and Taras, after a moment’s hesitation, took it.
“Thank you, Taras. Anything you do will be appreciated.”
“I’m sorry it’s not more.”
“Don’t be. You are right. This is war. We all do as we must.”
Taras left the torch so Almas might have some lingering light in the pitch-blackness. Taras dragged his feet through the dark passageways, praying for light. When he finally found it, and breathed the fresh air again, he felt both relief and guilt.
The journey back proved as uneventful as his journey in. When he returned to his tent, dawn loomed only an hour away. He slid into bed, and Inga snuggled against him.
Wrapping his arms around her, he prayed. He prayed to find a way to keep Almas alive. He prayed no one would find out what he’d done this night. Bringing bread to condemned prisoners was treason. He prayed for wisdom and that perhaps one day his loyalties would coincide, rather than clash.
Chapter 41
INGA SIGHED WISTFULLY as she gathered items from the servants’ tents and loaded them into trunks. For the first time in her life, she felt content. Natalya had been right. Inga's relationship with Taras was unlike anything she’d ever known before—more fulfilling, safe, happy. Now they'd won the war, the tsar's spirits were high as well.
They needed to break camp before the snow hit. Even as she thought it, soft, powdery flakes began to fall from the heavy white clouds covering the sky. Inga quickened her step. The tents were nearly empty, but they still needed to be pulled down and fastened to the wagons.
Inga longed to be back at home in the palace, serving out the long days and spending nights in Taras’s arms.
A bleating sound caught her attention as she headed toward where she’d last seen Yehvah ordering people around. It sounded like a goat, but strange—off somehow. Coming around a lop-sided, half-collapsed tent, Inga saw the source of the sound.
The day the towers of Kazan were blown, the servants in the camp waited feverishly for news of the battle. In the early afternoon, a Tatarian beggar wandered into the camp. At first, the men jumped on him, assuming he meant harm. They soon discovered he had no wit to speak of. Simply a wandering idiot who happened to be a Tatar.
The people of the camp were told to leave him be. No one had any obligation to feed him, but they ought to show him respect. Since then, he’d wandered around the camp, spouting nonsense and begging for scraps. Now he stared at a horse, bleating as though he thought the horse would respond. The thick-legged stock horse snorted, blinked. Ultimately, he looked bored and found some grass to chew on.
Smiling, Inga resumed her search for Yehvah. She found her a few hundred yards away.
“You’re sure everything is out of those tents?”
“Yes, Yehvah, I made sure.”
“Good. Find something to wrap your legs in, child. We’ll be walking a good way in the snow.”
“Yes, Yehvah.”
Inga didn’t argue, though she wouldn’t have as much need for coverings as the other servants. Taras told her he would pick her up so she could ride with him. She looked forward to it.
Thoughts of Taras made her smile. He’d sent her a message from the front to say both he and Nikolai were unharmed. He’d signed it with “love,” and she’d folded it up and put it in her pocket. She felt foolish, but didn’t care. Everything she’d hoped for was happening.
Inga hummed cheerfully as she headed toward the other side of the camp to help with other tasks.
The bleating of the madman reached her ears again. It became a part of the background noise, and she didn’t register it until the beggar jumped out in front of her. Inga stopped short, barely keeping from skidding into him.
The man smelled like he hadn’t bathed in months. His hair was probably white, but so much mud matted it that it appeared dark, and moved on its own. His mouth held exactly three teeth—two yellow, one black—and dirt in every crease and pock mark on his face.
Barring her path, he gazed at her with a disgusting, yet somehow endearing grin. Inga smiled politely, then stepped around him and continued on. He ran, looking like an eager little boy, to catch up with her and stepped in front of her again.
Determined not to let him agitate her, she patted his shoulder—a hand span above her own—and stepped around him again.
This time he grabbed her wrist, his grip like an iron shackle, and spun her around.
“The crossroads, it come!”
Alarmed, she stared up into his face. “What?”
“Your crossroads, it come.”
“My crossroads?”
“Yes.”
Inga gently pried his fingers individually from her wrist. “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“No!” He grabbed her wrist again. “You must choose.”
With exasperation, she went back to trying to pry his fingers off. “Choose what?”
“Your path. You will choose wrong.”
“All . . . right,” Inga still attempted to get loose.
“Please. You must choose. The tsar, he angry.”
That got Inga’s attention. How would a slow Tatar know the term for tsar?
; “No,” Inga said slowly, not trying quite so hard to get away anymore, “the tsar is happy. He’s achieved a great victory. He is in high spirits.”
“He is still sane. Will not last.”
Inga shivered, wanting to be away from the beggar. She didn’t know what he was talking about—he probably didn’t know—but it made her uncomfortable.
Then he did something stranger. He put his finger under her chin and raised her eyes to his. The fool’s jerkiness had gone. He stood perfectly still, and his eyes became alarmingly sane.
“You will fix it,” he said quietly, “in time. The little tsar will remember the girl with the golden mane.”
Inga’s stomach dropped. Her knees felt weak, and she fought to keep them locked.
The beggar then leaned forward, as though he held a secret. “The biggest decision of your life. Ivan is great, and terrible." His eyes slid to one side. "And mad."
The beggar let go of her wrist and skipped away, raising his knees to his chest and bleating.
Inga stood frozen to the spot. A few minutes later, Yehvah entered her line of vision.
Yehvah snapped her fingers in front of Inga’s eyes. “Inga? What’s wrong? You look ill.”
Inga blinked, but couldn’t gather herself enough to reassure Yehvah.
“I . . . the beggar . . . he . . .”
“Did he hurt you?” Yehvah sounded alarmed.
Inga shook her head. “No. He said . . .”
“What, child? What did he say?”
Inga stared at where the beggar had disappeared into the crowd, remembering.
A tiny, white and red freckled hand came out and settled on her knee . . .
She relived the moments stuck in a wardrobe with Ivan and Yuri, hiding from the assassin. She again saw Ivan’s frightened eyes and told him to do his duty, to be brave.
“What is it, Inga? What did he say?”
Inga shook herself. She rarely indulged the memory. One of the darkest, scariest, most tragic times of her life—and of Ivan’s—and something she didn’t wish to remember.
“He said the tsar would remember me.”
Yehvah straightened, looking confused. “What? He’s a babbling Tatar, slow of mind. You aren’t taking him seriously?”
She didn’t know why the man affected her so profoundly. He’d said it with such intensity that she felt the truth of his statement in her core. But what did it mean?
Yehvah frowned at her with concern.
“I’m sorry, Yehvah. I’m tired; the fever of victory is getting to me.”
Yehvah looked unconvinced. When Inga offered no other explanation, she seemed to accept it. “Yes, well, we’re nearly done. Do you want to sit down?”
Inga shook her head. “No.”
Not wanting to explain any further, she stepped past Yehvah and hurried in the other direction. A glance over her shoulder showed Yehvah frowning after her. Inga hurried on.
Her earlier sense of contentment had disappeared, replaced with a strange foreboding she couldn’t explain. Yehvah was right. The Tatar was only a babbling mad man, but she couldn’t shut out his words. They echoed inside her skull.
The little tsar will remember the girl with the golden mane . . .
The Russian victory was complete and Kazan would never again rise to its former majesty. The army returned home, proud, happy, and full of the spoils of war. It seemed God smiled on us, and all things fell into their perfect place.
For the first time in my life, I found a measure of happiness with Taras. I continued to serve in the palace, and our lives felt full, satisfying, even normal. The great crossroads of my life drew nearer with every breath I took. At every turn, Taras tried to prepare me for it, while Yehvah proved to be an obstacle.
For all of us, the greatest decisions of our lives would be made in the midst of an ancient country, the bloody battles of a war-torn people, and the madness of the greatest ruler Russia had ever known.
End of Book 1 of Kremlins
Want to hear more about Nikolai and Yehvah’s past relationship?
JOIN MY STORY SQUAD and get a free novella that tracks the doomed romance between Nikolai and Yehvah when they were young:
Download Turrets of Turbulence Now!
Love in the Kremlin is beyond complicated...
Yehvah is a no-nonsense maid in training in the medieval Kremlin. Nikolai is a rich boyar trying to extricate himself from his father. The two are destined for tragedy. And love.
Download Turrets of Turbulence Now!
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank LaRae Larkin, professor of history at Weber State University, for not only instilling a love of Russian history in me, but also for helping me with some of the research, giving encouragement, and writing the foreword. This book would not exist without her passion for her work.
Thank you to my critique group, without whom this manuscript would never have been ready for any publisher at all. The group has changed over the years, but the members are unfailingly kind and encouraging; they keep me honest. During the writing of this book, it often included Brianna Kent, Brittany Hacket-Kutz, Quincy Bravo, Laurie Klaass, and now Jernae Kowallis and Wyatt Winnie. Thank you all for your help, support, laughter, and honesty.
I’d also like to thank my wonderful publisher, Jolly Fish Press. I knew the night I met Christopher Loke that my writing would find a good home at Jolly Fish Press. Later, his wife told me that he stayed up half the night to finish Citadels of Fire. That kind of enthusiasm is invaluable and irreplaceable for a budding author. Everyone from the editors to the production team to the marketing team has been wonderful and supportive. I’m so blessed to have found Jolly Fish when I did.
Of course, I must acknowledge the support of all my friends, family, and fellow authors. They’re unfailingly supportive and enthusiastic about my writing. Thank you all so much. You have no idea how much it helps.
A special thanks to my immediate family: my dad, who’s always been my first reader and most ardent supporter; my mom, who raised me with love and taught me to think for myself; my sisters, who are my best friends in the world; and my brothers, who practically salivate to get their hands on my next manuscript. If I could write for no one else in the world, I’d write for you guys. I love you all.
Bastions of Blood
Book 2 of Kremlins
By K.L. Conger
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2017 by L. K. Hill
Cover Art by Clarissa Yeo, Yocla Designs
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior return permission of the publisher.
First Paperback Edition: June 2017
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy or copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Get K.L. Conger’s Starter Library for FREE
Sign up for my no-spam Story Squad and get 4 FREE reads and tons more exclusive content. Details can be found at the end of this book.
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
Copyright
Free Starter Library
Dedication
Historical Note
Ivan Grozny
Journal 1
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
>
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Journal 2
A Note to the Reader
Acknowledgements
What's Next?
Also by L.K. Hill
Connect With the Author
About the Author
For my eight brothers, my constant, loving supporters. Scotty, Lucas, Abram, Noah, Ben, Josh, Micah, and Isaac. You guys always make me smile. You have no idea how much who you are affects who I am. Never stop being exactly who you are. I love you all!
Historical Note
The history in this book is based on true events. Ivan the Terrible is one of the most well-known and notorious leaders in Russian history. He was the first leader of unified Russia to crown himself Tsar, and his marriage resulted in the elevation of the Romanov family—the descendants of whom would remain royalty for many years, culminating in the notorious fate of Nicholas and his family during the Bolshevik revolution just prior to World War I.
As a deep respecter of history, I’ve tried to stay true to it as much as I could. It’s important to note, however, that I have collapsed the timeline a bit. Things in this book happen more quickly than they did in the actual history, so the dates may not always line up correctly. I’ve taken these liberties in order to serve the story, though I did my best to remain true to the events and characters as they are described in the annals.
—K.L. Conger