by K L Conger
“I shall, sir.”
Taras chuckled as he left, shaking his head at the amusement in Anatoly’s voice. He never confided in Anatoly, never gave him details of the happenings in his life. Yet, somehow Anatoly always figured it out. Taras didn’t know how Anatoly did it, but he could always be counted on. He often knew what Taras needed before he knew himself. He stayed out of the way when Taras needed time with Inga, was the first to berate Taras when he grew foolish or lied to himself, and he offered the most sensible advice Taras got from anyone. The little old man who shared his life was like a flesh and blood conscience.
He and Nikolai had learned nothing new since speaking with Tatyana weeks before. She'd confirmed Taras’s suspicions about what happened, but he still had no idea who did it or why. People at court grew ever less patient with him and his questions.
Inga meanwhile had taken on a permanently larger role in the work of the palace, covering for Yehvah’s limitations ever since the attack in Kazan, Taras suspected. Yehvah was grooming Inga to take her place one day. The transition was happening slowly and smoothly. He wasn’t so sure he liked it.
Things were good between him and Inga. So good, he'd been thinking a lot about marriage. They ought to get married. His mother would be ashamed of him for living with a woman for so long without marrying her, but he simply couldn’t risk it right now.
Marrying so far beneath him would lower his status at court, and he couldn’t afford to do that until he'd found all the answers he needed. People would shun him, which he preferred. He’d never cared for politicians. They also might stop answering his questions, stop being cooperative, and any chance of finding out the truth would be gone forever.
Still, Taras saved his money. He hoped one day to move away from court, buy a small estate, and bring Inga there. He would marry her and then she wouldn’t have to work her hands raw for the entirety of her life. Yet, the more Yehvah needed her, the less open Inga seemed to ever leaving the Kremlin. Taras worked on her constantly. He worried about her ties to this place. That they might be made of iron, too strong for him to break.
When he reached the reception hall, dozens of courtiers had already taken their places. Many turned as he entered. They greeted him with dignity and nods of respect. They truly accepted him as part of the court. Several families had even shown interest, over the past year, in marrying their daughters to him. He was a decorated soldier and a member of the Chosen Council, which would bring honor and prestige to any family. In truth, though, he had no property to speak of and little money. So, when he showed disinterest, the boyar families inevitably turned to other suitors who could add to their financial prospects. Taras always sighed with relief when they finally lost interest. He housed no desire for any other women in his life. His hands were filled with Inga and Yehvah. Somehow, Yehvah had become like a mother-in-law.
Making the boyars understand he possessed little in the way of financial prospects worked for now. He hoped no one ever pressed him farther. To anger a powerful family by refusing to marry a beautiful daughter might ostracize him from the court and push him farther from the answers he so craved.
For now, most of courtiers liked him well enough. Many showed surprise at seeing him enter the hall, no doubt because he rarely made appearances at these opulent soirees.
Taras greeted several people he recognized and accepted a cup of vodka from a serving man who held a large tray of them balanced on his shoulder. His eyes swept the large chamber, full of socializing aristocracy, for a particular couple. It took him nearly ten minutes and two full circles of the room before he spotted them.
Alexei and Tamara Zakharin, distant cousins of the Tsarina Anastasia, recently returned to Moscow. They possessed great wealth and had been abroad for the entire three years Taras lived in Moscow. He wanted to speak to them because Alexei and his father had been close friends.
He spotted them across the room, but by the time he made his way through the crowd, Tamara had disappeared and her husband spoke to another boyar. Taras waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt.
“Well, I must say, you look out of place here.”
Taras turned toward the rich, feminine voice coming toward him and gazed into the face of Tamara Zakharin. She wore a gaudy dress and the fashionable red muck on her face, but her eyes were an alluring catlike hazel and her skin, beneath the paint, an exquisite alabaster. Despite the red paint and the grey streaks in her hair, she was strikingly beautiful.
“I must admit I feel tremendously out of place here.”
She laughed, a deep, rich sound. “Come, come, now. I love boyar banquets. There is always some intrigue and,” she looked him up and down like a piece of meat, “naughtiness going on. Don’t you enjoy it?”
Taras chuckled self-consciously. “I try to steer clear of the ‘naughtiness’ altogether.”
She threw her head back and laughed with delight. Taras smiled with her. Despite her forwardness, her musical mirth infected him.
“I understand you’ve recently returned from abroad, Lady Zakharin. How do you find Russia on your return?”
Her eyebrow arched when he said her name. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, young man. To answer, I find it even more...inspiring than when I left.”
Taras chuckled behind his hand.
“And you are?” She held out her hand and Taras took it, kissing the top.
“My name is Taras Demidov. I have come here, I must admit, specifically to speak to you and your husband.”
Her eyes glistened with interest. “Truly?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Lady Zakharin glanced over her shoulder. Her husband was still engaged in deep conversation, and now several boyars stood around him. “My husband is embellishing his traveling stories again. Come, let’s you and I find a quieter place to talk. I know all my husband’s business anyway, and can answer any questions you have.”
Before he could protest, she'd wrapped her arm in his, her hand resting daintily in the crook of his elbow, and guided him away from the crowd. To Taras’s relief, she didn’t pull him toward the outer corridor, which might have led to her goading him into a private bedroom. Rather they ventured into the garden off the reception room. Spacious enough to allow privacy, there were no doors to close, and the other guests could walk it at their leisure. It had been well lit for the banquet. Hundreds of tiny candles sparkled among the bushes, flower patches and walkways.
“So, what is it you wanted to speak to me and my husband about?”
“I was a child here at court. My father advised Vasily.”
Lady Zakharin nodded. “Ivan’s honored father, yes.”
“My mother died here, in Moscow, and I've been searching for anyone who knows the details surrounding her death.”
She stopped walking and turned to face him, her face compassionate and almost motherly. “Why?”
He walked slowly forward again, trying to keep things casual. “For my own closure and personal need. You see, her death was called an accident, but no one seems to know much about what actually happened. I simply want to know more.”
“And you think I can help?”
“Perhaps. I am told you knew both my parents. That your husband and my father were particularly close.”
“I know a great many people, Master Taras. I may not remember your parents at all. What was your mother’s name?”
“Mary Demidov. She died suddenly in an accident when her sledge overturned in the woods. My father—”
Taras abruptly realized Lady Zakharin no longer walked beside him. He turned to find her frozen two paces back. Her face had grown ashen, her eyes wide.
“Lady Zakharin, are you all right?”
She closed her mouth and swallowed. “What was your name again?”
“Taras Demidov.”
When she spoke again, her voice came out a whisper. “Nicholas and Mary’s son?”
Taras’s heart beat wildly. She looked like she’d seen a ghost and, when he�
��d repeated his name, a kind of knowing came into her eyes, as though she hadn’t connected the pieces when they were first introduced, but now had.
She bowed her head formally, as if collecting herself. “I’m sorry, Master Taras. I cannot help you. I...did not know your mother.” She turned curtly and walked toward the reception hall. Anger flared in Taras’s chest. He had not asked if she knew his mother. He already knew she did. She’d admitted it.
Striding forward, he snatched her wrist and spun her to face him, then glanced conspicuously around the gardens. Doing that to a married woman might be construed as a proposition. Or worse. Lady Zakharin did not look surprised or in the least bit scandalized. Her eyes remained on the ground, her face a visage of guilt.
“Please, Lady Zakharin. I need your help.” He spoke with urgency, keeping his voice low.
“I can’t help you.” She still didn’t look up at him.
“Yes, you can. You simply won’t.”
“Young man,” she raised her face to his, “you must understand how dangerous it is to ask the questions you’re asking.”
“I’ve asked them for three years and have gotten nowhere. I’ve searched for answers my entire life. You are the only noble who's so much as admitted to knowing something.”
“Well, at least you haven’t lost any ground tonight.” She heaved a deep breath, as though trying to calm herself. She spoke in a whisper. “You must understand what you’re asking. With the Tsar’s grief still overcoming his sense and his temper more volatile than before he met Anastasia, it’s a dangerous time to live here at court. Those who remember Ivan as he used to be will not risk angering him. You may include me in that group.” She turned to go again.
Taras sighed in frustration, trying to think of something compelling enough to make her want to help him.
“I already know what happened.”
She stopped a few feet away, not turning.
“A witness saw the entire thing. It was not an accident. But the witness didn’t see the murderer’s face. She's a commoner, so probably couldn’t have identified him if she had.” It’s probably what Tatyana would have told him, if she'd been willing.
Lady Zakharin had turned, bit by bit, as he’d spoken and now stared at him in astonishment. “How did you find such a person?”
Taras let out a laugh, relieved she continued to speak to him. “I did. That’s what matters. Lady Zakharin, there are only two pieces of the puzzle I have yet to discover.”
Lady Zakharin pressed her lips together, and after what felt like an eternity, asked, “What are they?”
“Who did it—”
Lady Zakharin turned to go.
“Wait! Please, hear me out.” He took hold of both her arms this time, and she reluctantly turned back to him. “Who did it, and why.”
Without moving her head, she shifted her eyes to him, looking up at him through her lashes in a calculating way.
Taras let go of her arms. “I think if I can figure out one, I can solve the other. So, if you can’t tell me everything you know, give me something. Something that won’t get you into trouble. Tell me why.”
She didn’t answer, and her eyes went back to the floor.
“I was still a boy when my mother died,” Taras pressed on, afraid if he stopped, she would disappear on him. “Naïve and sheltered. I didn’t understand most of what happened around me. Despite that, I thought people here liked my mother.”
“They did. Your mother was a good woman.”
His voice dropped to a pleading whisper. “Then why did someone want her dead?”
She studied him, then the floor, then half turned away, sweeping her eyes around the gardens, as if the answer would be there. He could see her wrestling with herself. She walked a few paces away from him, still considering, and Taras held his breath. Finally, she turned to face him fully. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Taras let his head fall back in exasperation. Disappointment and frustration built up so violently in his chest, he felt torn between putting his fist through the nearest wall and falling to his knees to weep. Before him stood a woman capable of giving him all the answers he’d sought for years, and she wouldn’t. He couldn’t force her.
“All I’m asking for is the truth.” She stared at him, scrutinizing him, for several seconds before shaking her head.
“No, I don’t think that’s true.”
Taras blinked. “What?”
“Master Taras, if those who have the answers you seek believed you would simply carry them with you and sleep a little better at night, you would have them already. You’re a passionate man. I can see that. You don’t only want knowledge of the truth. You want justice. Vengeance. I can’t give them to you.”
Taras scowled. “Why not?”
“I don’t expect you to understand. I simply can’t.”
“Well I expect you to understand me. If it were you, trying to find out about a loved one—a parent or child or sibling—what would you do? Don’t I have the right to know?”
“Of course you do—”
“Is everything all right out here?” The deep voice of a man came at the exact moment his shadow filled the pathway between them and the hall. Taras recognized Lady Zakharin’s husband.
Lady Zakharin put on a winning smile before turning to face her husband. “Of course. Alexei,” she held her hand out to him, and he walked to her, taking it. “Come meet my dashing young friend, here. This is Taras Demidov.” Alexei put his hand on his chest and bent from the waist, bowing formally to Taras. “Son of Nicholas Demidov.” Zakharin stumbled with surprise, mid-bow. His eyes focused on Taras.
“Nicholas Demidov.” He smiled broadly. “I remember him well. A good man. The best. I was sorry to hear of his passing. My, my,” he looked Taras up and down with decidedly less innuendo than his wife had. “You’ve grown into quite a young man. I’ve heard you are an officer in the Tsar’s army.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your father would be proud.”
“Thank you, sir.”
While Taras and Lord Zakharin exchanged pleasantries, Lady Zakharin walked to a huge stone pot, filled with flowers of every kind. She took her stylish wrap from her shoulders and set it fastidiously on the stone lip of the pot. Taras wondered why, but was too engaged in the conversation with her husband to think on it.
“Well, son. I wish you the very best. If you ever need anything, let me know.”
Taras’s gave the man a genuine smile. Alexei’s apparent pleasure when speaking of Nicholas made it obvious they'd had a friendly relationship. He found it refreshing to find someone who spoke so well and so openly of his parents, though he noticed Alexei did not specifically mention Taras’s mother.
“Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you and your wife.”
Zakharin bowed his head in thanks, then turned. “They are nearly ready to serve dinner, Tamara. Shall we go?”
“Of course.” He held out his elbow to her and she took it, glancing over her shoulder at Taras.
Taras watched them go with a sigh, feeling guilty for some reason about trying to force the truth out of her.
Just before they disappeared around the corner, the faint murmur of Lady Zakharin’s voice reached his ears again. A moment later, she reappeared in the doorway, alone.
“My wrap,” she pointed. He picked it up, planning to take it to her, but she crossed the room and dropped her voice, putting her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I cannot be of more help. Taras, you already have all the information you need to solve this mystery.”
“If that’s true, then why haven’t I yet?”
“Because you are looking in the wrong place. Thinking about it the wrong way.”
Taras let out his breath, not trying to hide his annoyance. He didn’t want riddles. “Explain that to me.”
She stayed silent for a moment, thinking. “It was your father’s fault.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“He never should h
ave brought her here. He never should have married her at all. He knew the risks.”
“What risks?”
“Try to think of any reason an English woman might be disliked here. Try to think of why the Russian court would be suspicious of her.” She patted his hand. “You already have all the pieces. You must only fit them together. But I warn you, when you do, and I have no doubt you will, you won’t like what you find.”
Without further explanation, she walked away. Taras heard the soft rumble of her husband’s voice when she rejoined him.
Then he stood alone in the gardens.
TARAS SUFFERED THROUGH the entire banquet. The Tsar, looking as sickly and miserable as the day after Anastasia’s death, sat in attendance. Taras couldn’t simply disappear.
The boyars gave toasts and slapped one another on the back. When the Tsar finally excused himself and the boyars grew drunk enough for things to become rowdy, Taras ducked quietly out of the party. By then, midnight loomed and he wanted his bed.
In his rooms, the fire had burnt down to embers, but the room remained warm enough to ward off the chill in the air. Taras built the fire back up before disrobing—literally, as he wore much finer robes rather than his regular garb—and slipping into bed.
Surprising, that Inga was not there. He'd been sure she'd be waiting for him. He drifted off into a troubled sleep, with Lady Zakharin’s words marching through his thoughts.
When Inga crawled into bed beside him sometime later, he glanced at the floor to see how the moonlight on the ground had changed. It must have been two or three hours since he fell asleep.
“It’s late,” he whispered, pulling her up against his chest. “Where have you been?”
“Helping Yehvah.”
Taras wouldn’t have needed any more explanation, but a moment later Inga turned in his arms, so their faces lay inches apart.
“Something’s wrong, Taras.” The sound of fear in her voice cleared the fog from Taras’s head. He sat up on one elbow.
“What is it?”
“Yehvah. Her wounds from when the wolf attacked her haven't healed properly. She can't keep up with things as she used to. She’s afraid she'll be put out of the palace.”