Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  And now, Anastasia had fallen ill.

  Months ago, in the heart of winter, Ivan nearly died, going as far as updating his will and requesting all boyars swear fealty to his infant son. Not everyone swore. Some wanted to grab for the throne when Ivan was laid to rest. Then, miraculously, Ivan recovered. He simply sat up and asked for water one day. The doctors were confounded. Sylvester, Ivan’s personal priest, and Mackary, the metropolitan of the church, proclaimed it a miracle. God had smiled on Russia.

  The old Ivan—the one Inga grew up fearing—would have enacted severe retribution on those who refused to swear fealty to the tsarevich. The new Ivan was not far behind. The Tsarina had intervened. Putting a dainty hand on Ivan’s arm, Anastasia reassured him those who hadn’t sworn were simply overcome by grief at the prospect of losing their beloved Tsar. She’d talked him into being merciful, so long as they all reaffirmed their allegiance to him now, which every boyar did without hesitation. Because she’d asked, Ivan gave her peace. The Kremlin became a place of contentment once more.

  Now Anastasia lay on her sickbed with what doctors said called a wasting sickness. The best medical minds in Russia stood at the Tsarina’s bedside. Those same minds were at a loss at what to do for her. When Ivan lay on his sickbed six months before, Inga had been afraid, but Ivan’s brutality remained the greatest threat to Russia. With him gone, things would have been uncertain, but Ivan would have been dead. If Anastasia didn’t pull through, all Ivan’s inhibitions might be put in the ground with her.

  And where was Taras? Another thing to worry her. He and Nikolai rode for an estate more than a day from the palace. Taras told her he’d be back in two days, three at most. That was six days ago. She didn't necessarily worry for his safety. Both Taras and Nikolai were Russian soldiers after all. They could take care of themselves and were somewhat known in the city. Inga knew Taras was searching for answers about his mother. No doubt one clue had led to another and he'd kept chasing them. It wouldn’t have been a problem—except that she missed him terribly—if the Tsarina wasn't ill.

  After what happened when Ivan was ill, the Tsar now demanded all his most loyal advisors, including those who sat on the Chosen Council, remain nearby to support their Tsarina. Granted, Taras and Nikolai's reason for not being present was valid—Anastasia hadn’t yet fallen ill when they left—but Ivan wasn’t accepting excuses. Questions were already being asked about where the two men were and why they hadn’t returned. Not only did it bode ill for the situation here at court, but Taras always worked not to draw attention to his investigation. The whole thing was unraveling, and she had no way to warn him.

  Inga finally reached her destination. “Anne, where’s Yehvah?”

  Anne pointed to the courtyard without looking at it. Inga leaned forward to hear her when she spoke. Anne didn't whisper; her voice was naturally soft. “Speaking to the head clerk.”

  Nodding, Inga jogged into the courtyard, her eyes sweeping for Yehvah.

  She tried not to worry about Taras. Ivan recovered. Surely Anastasia would, too. She’ll persuade the Tsar, as she always does, not to take things too much to heart, and Taras and Nikolai would be fine. She only hoped the situation didn’t impede Taras’s investigation too much.

  She caught sight of Yehvah on the far side of the courtyard. Inga slowed to a brisk walk as she neared Yehvah and the heavy-set clerk, making sure to come upon them in Yehvah’s line of sight so she would not have to interrupt. As soon as Yehvah noticed her, she motioned Inga forward.

  “Yes, my lord,” she said. “I understand. We’ll take care of it.”

  The head clerk sniffed. “See that you do.” He turned his nose up and walked away.

  “What was that about?” Inga asked.

  Yehvah waved her hand dismissively. “Logistics. What’s happening?”

  “Bogdan says everything is under control. Dinner is ready and waiting to be served, but the maids are worried because no one wants to eat.”

  Yehvah sighed, wiping a bead of sweat from beneath the colorless scarf covering her silver hair. The way it was tied mirrored Inga’s exactly. Yehvah, after all, had taught Inga to conceal her hair to protect herself. Yevah's had once been the color of white straw, Inga knew, though age gave it more of a silver hue. The wrinkles around Yehvah’s eyes looked more pronounced than usual today. That generally only happened when something serious went on and Yehvah was worried about the outcome. Yehvah worried a lot these days. She’d looked perpetually more tired since returning from Kazan. Understandable, of course. While there, she’d barely survived an attack by a wild wolf. Evidence of the attack was forever carved into Yehvah’s body: deep grooves in her face and neck that disappeared under the neckline of her dress, left by the wolf’s claws.

  “I suppose I should have expected it,” Yehvah said, looking resigned. “The younger maids don’t know what to do if the slightest thing is different than usual. The truth is, most of the palace may not be interested in dinner tonight. They’ll all be waiting to hear news of the Tsarina. The ones who do eat will do it on their own timetable. Inga, I’ll need you to supervise the meal tonight. Keep the girls calm, tell them everything is under control, and to give the boyars whatever they need whenever they ask for it.”

  Inga nodded as Yehvah spoke. “Of course, but...”

  “But what, girl?”

  “Is the Tsarina worse? It sounds like you’re expecting her to die.”

  Yehvah’s expression softened, along with her voice. “It’s still early, but it doesn’t look good. The doctors are...very worried.”

  “Ivan recovered,” Inga said quietly.

  “And, God willing, Anastasia will too. It’s going to be a trying night either way. I’ll need your help. Don’t expect much sleep.”

  Inga nodded. “Has there been any word from Nikolai?”

  Yehvah’s mouth tightened. “No. Fool man. I know it’s not their fault they don’t know the Tsarina is sick,” she said when Inga looked askance at her. “But they both have soldiering duties they are neglecting. They must know they can’t simply...disappear for days at a time without repercussions.”

  “Do you think something’s happened to one of them?” Inga asked, fear stirring in her chest.

  Yehvah gave her a reassuring smile. “No. Fools they may be, but they’ll probably both live forever.”

  Inga smiled. Affection lurked behind Yehvah’s angry tone.

  “Off with you,” Yehvah said. “You can send for me if anything major happens. I’ll be near the Tsarina’s rooms all night, so only if it’s an emergency.”

  Inga nodded. “I’m going to stop by the stables to see if Taras and Nikolai have come in yet. I’ll hurry.” She muttered the last over her shoulder because Yehvah’s mouth tightened the instant Inga said stables.

  The stable boys reported no sign of Taras or Nikolai, though. With a sigh, Inga turned away, heading for the kitchens. She took the long way around, simply for an excuse to be outside for a few extra minutes. Chances were, not only would she not sleep tonight, but she wouldn’t see a spare moment until the Tsarina recovered.

  Though winter still clung to the air and drifts of snow lounged in patches across the grounds, it felt warmer than a week before. In Inga’s mind, spring couldn’t come fast enough.

  She intended to walk all the way around to the kitchen door, but when still a distance away, she saw a group of men between her and it. They all looked to be boyars, in dark heavy cloaks. Beyond that, she couldn’t tell much about them. Not wanting to be sidetracked, she went in through a side door, still a few corridors from the kitchens.

  Inside, the air felt heavy, but not unpleasantly so. The corridor stood completely deserted, though that wasn’t unusual for this time of day, especially with everything going on. Up ahead of her, another door opened. Inga expected to see a servant come through. She froze when the dark-haired man stepped into the hall, wearing a thick, luxurious cloak and soft, expensive boots. He glanced in one direction, then the other, his eyes
glittering when they landed on Inga.

  Inga spun on her toe, heading back the other way.

  “Wait!”

  Inga didn’t obey. She wasn’t in the habit of disobeying boyars, but she needed to get to a more populated part of the palace before obeying this one.

  “I said stop, Maid!” Sergei’s voice echoed through the empty corridors, and fear tied Inga’s stomach in knots. Disobeying a boyar could mean death for servants. She must stay far enough ahead to could claim she hadn’t heard him.

  Nearly a year before, Inga had been required to dress above her station to serve at one of the Tsar’s balls. It left her hair uncovered, and Sergei’s eye fell on her. He was not known for being kind to his women. Taras arrived in the Kremlin around that time, and Inga asked him to take her on as his mistress, to keep her from Sergei’s bed. At the time, it had only been a ruse—Taras slept on the floor for the better part of a year—but Sergei remembered being out-done by Taras all too well. He wasn’t the sort of man who ever forgot such slights. Or forgave them.

  Inga rounded one corner. Then another. Then another. Where was everyone? She rounded several more in quick succession, hoping she could lose him in the maze of intersecting hallways. It seemed to work. The sound of his footsteps faded and Inga breathed a sigh of relief. She concentrated on finding her way to the kitchens.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she found the corridor empty. She rounded another corner...and plowed into Sergei’s chest. His dark, greasy hair hung to his shoulders, looking like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. Dark eyes and strong features twisted into a gleeful scowl as his hand lanced out to wrap around her throat, his grip so tight Inga could hardly breathe. She dug at his fingers, clawed at his wrist. It felt like trying to claw free the stones of the Kremlin wall.

  Grasping her waist with his other hand, he forced her into one of the empty rooms off the corridor. Still fighting to breathe, Inga desperately scanned the unused guest room, looking for an escape. Thick sheets covered the furniture and the windows sat unadorned. Angling toward the bare, four-poster bed, Sergei slammed her into one of the posts. The breath left her lungs in a rush and dark feathers brushed the corner of her vision.

  A brown burlap tarp covered the small table next to the bed. The shapes underneath looked suspiciously like a pitcher and wash basin. Inga abandoned futile attempts to open Sergei’s hand and reached for the pitcher.

  “Oh-ho no,” Sergei grabbed her wrist. “The last time, you hit me with a brick and I didn’t walk straight for a week. So long, in fact, Master Taras anticipated me in asking the Tsar for you. It won’t happen again.”

  Inga didn’t miss the bitterness in his voice when he said Taras’s name. She’d always relied on the fact that Sergei feared Taras as much as he hated him. “Taras...still...here,” she managed from beneath his pressing thumb.

  Sergei put his face close to hers. His breath smelled foul, his teeth more yellow than white. “Ah, but he’s not, is he? Taras and that lapdog of his have been gone for more than a week. No one knows where they are or when they’re coming back.”

  Inga’s heart sank. Sergei did always seem more brazen when Taras wasn’t around, though until now his behavior consisted only of leers and comments. One reason of many she always felt anxious for Taras to return—a reason she didn’t generally admit, even to herself—was that she feared Sergei took note of his absences. She always hoped Sergei stayed too busy with his own life for it to be true. A vain hope, obviously. She made a vicious kick for his groin. He pivoted, twisting his hip and she only connected with the thick cords of muscle on his outer thigh.

  “Do you think I’ll give you any chance to get away from me this time? Maid?” Sergei’s hands left her throat and clamped around her left arm, one up high, brushing her armpit, the other lower, near her elbow.

  The instant his hands left her throat, Inga sucked in a breath. She didn’t know why he let go, but was glad for the reprieve.

  Sergei gripped her arm tightly and twisted. Hard. A snap came from somewhere under Inga’s skin and she screamed.

  Pain lanced from her arm out to every part of her body, making her vision blur and her teeth ache. Sergei pushed her down onto the bed and Inga went limp, trying to move as little as possible. Each movement, no matter how small, left her moaning in agony.

  Looming over her, Sergei put one hand on either side of her head, his breath coming hot against her face. “Now, where were we?”

  Sergei lifted a leg, moving to straddle her. This would be her only chance. Holding her injured arm tightly against her stomach, she gritted her teeth, gathered all the energy she could muster and slammed her knee up into his crotch. Thinking the fight had left her, he’d left himself completely open and she connected solidly with soft flesh.

  With a cry, Sergei rolled away from her. Inga slid down off the bed, groaning through gritted teeth when her knees hit the floor, sending another jolt through her arm. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her headscarf caught on something. Inga couldn't worry about the platok now. Scrambling brokenly across the floor, Inga gained her feet as she reached the door, yanking it open wide.

  Sergei’s weight slammed into her, crushing her into the open door. Inga screamed again as her bodyweight crushed her injured arm against hard oak. White splotches appeared in her vision and she her breath came painfully. She tried to yell. Only wordless cries escaped her lips. With every movement, white-hot pain lanced through her arm. It felt like being stabbed with a hot poker.

  “Inga, are you all right?”

  The voice from the corridor sounded tiny, but it made Sergei step away from her. He only moved far enough to no longer be crushing her against the door. She still felt his hot breath on her ear. He grunted through his teeth with each breath, obviously still in pain. She must have hurt him badly with her knee.

  Trying not to cry out, Inga used her good arm to push away from the door. Her injured arm felt heavier than a horse, pulling her down to the ground, excruciating.

  Inga turned her head to find a young boy in the corridor staring at them. He was a page, an errand-runner, not more than twelve years old. She couldn’t recall his name. His disheveled brown hair stuck out at every angle, but his face and clothing were clean, his mouth screwed up into a worried grimace.

  Breathing hard, Inga took a tentative step toward the boy. Sergei’s hand closed around the wrist of her good arm, his thumb pressing the side of it so hard, her vision grew hazy again. “Get rid of him,” he growled in her ear, squeezing to the point of pain. The threat was obvious, but whether made against her or the boy wasn’t clear. Not that it mattered. Inga needed to protect the boy, and she silently prayed he wouldn’t be hurt on her account, but this would be her only chance to escape Sergei. Even if the boy ran for help, it would return too late.

  “What’s your name?” she asked the boy, her voice whisper-soft.

  “Anton.” His worry turned to confusion. “Inga, are you okay?”

  Inga forced a nod. “What do you need, Anton? Where are you going?”

  Anton glanced uncertainly down the hall. “I’m taking a message to Bogdan.”

  “Bogdan!” Inga almost shouted. “How wonderful. I’m so glad you came this way, Anton. I’m going to see Bogdan myself. If...if I don’t come soon, he’ll come looking for me. Perhaps you can accompany me?”

  Anton glanced distrustfully at Sergei, but nodded. “Of course.”

  Inga stepped forward, praying against hope that Sergei would let her go. He didn’t.

  Before she took a second step, strong fingers dug into her scalp at the nape of her neck, yanking her backward. Inga yelped before she could stop herself. Chunks of her now free-flowing hair ripped out of her head as he pulled, tighter and tighter.

  She became vaguely aware of a soft thudding sound, followed by Anton’s small voice. “You leave Inga alone! Stop hurting her!” The boy pounded on Sergei’s thigh with his fists. Sergei swung his arm down and the sound of him backhanding Anton echoed in the empty co
rridor. Anton hit the ground outside Inga’s line of sight with a thump.

  “You think your soldier can protect you forever,” Sergei rasped in her ear. “But he’s asking the wrong kinds of questions, and it’s only a matter of time. When he’s gone—and he will be, sooner rather than later—nothing will keep you from me. Hear?”

  He grabbed her injured arm, squeezing until she fell to her knees screaming. With a growl, he flung her hard against the stone wall and walked away, obviously trying hard to hide his limp.

  Sucking in deep breaths, it took a full minute before the pain receded enough for Inga to look around. Anton lay six feet from her, sprawled on his backside. He'd sat up on his elbows, face wet with tears.

  Wiping the tears off her face, Inga got to her feet, and nearly fell back down when the pain in her arm intensified. She limped to Anton, falling into a squat beside him, and put her good arm around him. He lunged forward and clung to her with a viciousness that sent jolts of shock through her arm. She grunted, but managed not to cry out.

  “L-let’s go, Anton. We must go find B-Bogdan.”

  Anton nodded, but didn’t let go.

  “I can’t carry you, Anton. My arm is injured. You’ll have to walk. I’ll hold your hand, all right?”

  The two of them waddled into the kitchens five minutes later. Bodgan busily arranged food at the great stone table in the center of the kitchen. His hands moved with great skill and speed for being so large. A soiled apron strained across his thick chest and slight gut, covering part of the now mostly grey beard that fanned across his chest. Inga should announce their presence, but couldn’t find her voice. Talking took so much effort.