by K L Conger
The look she threw him said she might never be ready to leave. He ignored it. A problem for another time. “This may get worse, Inga. Sergei is not only back, he’s utterly unafraid.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like he knows he can do anything he wants without repercussions. He wouldn’t think that without cause.”
“What would be protecting him?” she asked.
Sighing, he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“The Tsar has called a meeting for this afternoon,” she offered. “I figured that must be why Sergei has returned.”
Taras arched an eyebrow. He hadn’t considered the idea until now. “You’re probably right. Maybe I’ll get some answers there.”
“We can talk of it more tonight,” Inga said, rising. “I have to get back to work.”
“You should rest your hand.”
She shook her head. “There’s too much work to be done today. I can’t take the afternoon off. Like I said, it’s not deep. I’ll be fine.”
She headed for the door. He took her arm gently. “Inga.” He stood, cupping her face in his hand. “I’m proud of you. For fighting back today. So proud.”
She gave him a smile, small and shy. It lifted his heart. Going up on her toes, she kissed him lightly on the lips.
“I’ll walk you to Yehvah,” he said. “I don’t have anything to do until the meeting. I don’t want you in the corridors alone while Sergei’s around.”
She nodded.
Chapter 14
TARAS ARRIVED AT THE meeting that afternoon with foreboding in his stomach. Everyone had been invited to this meeting, including the Chosen Council, all the nobles, and the clergy. They met in the reception hall, as usual, to hear what Ivan had to say. Unlike in the past, however, no chatter permeated the hall tonight. No discussion of what the Tsar might be up to or where his thoughts lay. Taras wondered if each boyar, including those on the Chosen Council, sat silently, contemplating his life, as Taras did. Wondering if he, like Sylvester and Adashev, would be called to stand before the Tsar for judgment tonight, accused of crimes the Tsar alone saw.
Taras took Inga to Yehvah after Sergei's attack. They’d found Nikolai in her company. He'd already explained what happened. The four of them talked for a time, all agreeing they needed to work together. Not only to keep Sergei at bay, but to keep Yehvah in the palace. Taras had told Nikolai about her health some weeks before, but Inga brought it up in this meeting.
“I can’t stay out of the corridors, Taras. If I don’t do my work, and Yehvah can’t do it, then it won’t get done, and she’ll be at risk of being thrown out.”
Yehvah immediately looked self-conscious.
“Don’t worry, Yehvah,” Nikolai said quietly. “We won’t let you be thrown out. If the head clerk gives you trouble, let me know. The man has never found the courage to stand up to me. I can handle him.”
Yehvah nodded, thanking him softly. Even Inga appeared somewhat comforted. Still, Taras doubted he'd have a moment’s peace while Sergei lived in the palace. The investigation into his mother’s death stood still at the moment. Even if he stumbled upon a lead, he wouldn’t dare leave the palace to look into it. Not with Sergei peering around every corner.
Ivan stood and raised his arms, bringing Taras out of his thoughts. An unnecessary motion on the Tsar's part, as a blanket of silence already filled the hall. Ivan looked stronger than when he punished Sylvester and Adashev, but his skin remained ashen, his eyes sunken. He moved his limbs with the lethargy of illness.
“We have an announcement to make.” A piece of straw hitting the stone floor would have been audible. “We have called you all together today because we have much to say. Your behavior toward us in past months has been appalling.” The audience visibly flinched. “You oppose us, question our divine orders, and doubt our link with the Almighty. Well, no more! We have found a solution.” The crowd paused, holding its breath in fear of Ivan’s next words. Ivan let the suspense stretch for several minutes. When he spoke again, his voice came so softly, everyone in the hall leaned forward, barely daring to breath and straining to hear.
“We have decided to divide our kingdom into two parts.” This caused a stir among the boyars—movement, but still no noise. Ivan clapped his hands and the court cartographers came forward. They unrolled large maps and held them up so everyone could see them. “The two parts,” Ivan continued, “will be known as the Oprichnina and the Zemshchina.” He pointed to the map of Russia, which had been divided into two distinct regions. “We, our person, shall reign over the Oprichnina, with absolute power. We will answer to no one, and no one will question us. Rebellion will be met with the headsman’s ax."
Taras suppressed a sigh. No doubt Ivan would see any questioning of his authority as 'rebellion.'
"The Zemshchina," the Tsar continued, "will be ruled by all of you. By the boyar council. You may rule it as you please, so long as it is in general accordance with our wishes. You may not council us on how to rule our part of the country. If you do not like how we ourselves rule, move to the Zemshchina.”
The assembly did begin to whisper among themselves, now, and Ivan allowed it, looking pleased with himself.
Taras frowned. Another grasp for power from Ivan. The Oprichnina included all of Ivan’s personal family lands, Moscow, and the twenty-seven other major cities of Russia. Basically, the heart of the country. The Zemshchina, on the other hand, comprised the outskirts, the wastelands. Acreage that could be farmed only poorly, and held no connection to the trade routes. Ivan made it sound like he’d made a compromise, but no one would relish ruling the Zemshchina, let alone want to move there. It lay too far removed from society, civilization, and the general economy.
Taras didn't understand how the boyars could allow a move like this. But as he scanned the room, he saw they would. The comfort of their fine houses and rich lives were more important than taking a stand. Even if it meant Ivan could come for them at any time, on any charge.
Ivan's announcement simply meant he'd given up hiding his ravenous whims any longer. His nobles would fall into line, or suffered the consequences.
Ivan raised his hands for silence. “You all have a lot to say about this.” He smirked at the crowd. “Does anyone wish to voice objections?” Silence answered him. Those who voiced objections to Ivan’s actions in open court tended to lose limbs shortly thereafter. “Good.” Ivan smiled again; a smile that lessened a man’s heart. “We are commissioning a new military force. They will be called the Oprichniki. They will answer directly to ourselves, and their main purpose will be to root out traitors and dispose of them.”
Silence, heavy with fear, followed as people considered the implications of this announcement. Taras wasn’t sure what it meant. A new military force? What form would it take? Who would lead it? How, exactly, would it dispose of traitors? Would he and Nikolai be required to participate? He doubted the answers would be pleasant. Or fair.
“Our loyal servant, Aleksy Tarasov will command the Oprichniki. His son, Sergei, will serve as field commander. Unless any of you receive contradictory orders directly from our person, you will obey their every command, for they will speak our wishes concerning the Oprichniki.”
A stone dropped from Taras’s chest to his stomach. There it was. The reason Sergei strutted like a peacock and brazenly attacked Inga. He'd been given command of an elite force whose main purpose likely included murder, rape, and plunder. Nikolai had been right: if Taras had killed Sergei this afternoon, he would have faced execution, probably this very night.
An image of Sergei stabbing a woman Taras tried to protect in Kazan flashed through his head. Sergei, so covered in blood, it even matted his hair and stained the fronts of his teeth. Panic replaced dread as Taras considered the implications. After everything, Ivan gave hell and its demons free reign in Russia. Worse, the Tsar himself led the charge.
Taras glanced at Nikolai, who looked as worried as he felt.
“Is there an
ything else the court needs to discuss?” Ivan asked in a sickly-sweet sneer as soon as the room quieted again.
“M-m-my Lord T-tsar?” The words came from a clerk who often asked Ivan about monetary things—funds for meals, transportation of goods or prisoners, things of that nature. Taras didn’t know his name. The clerk trembled under Ivan’s indignant glare. “F-f-forgive me. Th-there is s-still the p-problem of the T-tatar prisoners—”
“You mean the ones who still refuse to convert?!” Ivan practically screamed. “Why haven’t they been executed yet?”
“F-forgive me, L-lord Tsar. Y-you have yet to...g-give the order.”
“Very well. We order it. They shall be executed in Red Square three days hence.”
Taras shut his eyes, letting out his breath and hanging his head. Three days? Ivan decreed execution for any prisoners that wouldn’t convert back when he announced his war on Livonia, but nothing came of it. Taras kept an eye on the subject, praying the idea of execution would eventually be forgotten. What could he do for Almas in three days?
“Any other business?” Ivan snapped, his tone assuring the room that any more business would displease him. Silence answered.
Taras tried to work moisture back into his mouth. Ivan had everyone exactly where he wanted them: too afraid to oppose him, at a loss of what to do. Ivan tugged them all toward darkness, with what felt like a long way to go. Taras didn’t want to know what lurked farther down.
“Good,” the Tsar said when no one answered. The meeting adjourned. Not truly a meeting, of course. Not a place of discussion and decision. Rather a pronouncement of judgment and intention. Ivan only heard his own voice these days.
Chapter 15
TARAS PEEKED AROUND a corner at the two guards. One sat at a wooden table with cards spread out in front of him. The other slept.
Taras doubted the tsar allowed his guards to sleep while on duty. They'd probably struck a bargain to take turns. So much the better: it made Taras’s task easier.
Moving on silent toes, he crept up behind the wakeful guard, whose head swiveled in every direction, eyes scanning every crevice and shadow of the room. Taras wondered if the man heard him approaching, and now scanned for intruders.
As Taras came up behind him, his head began to turn. Taras clubbed him in the neck with the butt of his hunting knife. The dull thud of wood clunking bone followed, and a wheeze of air from the guard. Taras caught him before his head hit the table, which would have been much louder. He stole a glance at the guard’s sleeping partner. The other man snorted and turned over, but did not waken.
Taras swiftly tied the first guard’s wrists and ankles to his chair and gagged him. That done, he clunked the sleeping man over the head, assuring he wouldn’t wake any time soon. Minutes later, the second man tied beside his comrade, Taras turned both their chairs away from the dungeon's door. If they woke before he returned, they wouldn’t see him pass by.
Then, Taras descended the ladder. He walked the familiar, winding path toward Almas’s cell, knowing this time would be the last.
In the days since the Tsar’s announcement, rumors sprang up of the Oprichniki being gathered and trained. All whispers reported their savage brutality, but no one claimed to have actually seen them. No one knew firsthand what their training or methods consisted of. It would only be a matter of time before everyone found out, he was sure. The thought made Taras's hands grow cold. One positive aspect of Ivan's Oprichniki was that they trained in secret, away from the palace. Sergei trained with them, which meant no one saw much of him. Since the night he’d chased Inga to Taras’s room, he hadn’t showed a renewed interest in her.
Darkness gathered around the Kremlin, so palpable Taras almost saw it sometimes. He needed to find answers to his mother’s death. He needed them so he could get Inga out of the Kremlin before things got any worse. His days were packed with military assignments, council meetings, and following Inga around out of worry about Sergei. He might not currently be in the palace, but he'd make an appearance eventually, and where Inga least expected him to be.
Following the winding passage as it plunged deeper into the darkness, the air became thicker and harder to breathe. Finally, he stood before the cell he needed. Plunging his torch into the soft dirt of the ground, he wiggled it back and forth until it stayed upright.
“Hello, my friend,” a familiar voice said from the darkness. Pallid fingers wound around the bars a moment later. The thick, murky shadows obscured the face above them.
“Almas, I must speak with you.”
“Tell me, what time of day is it?”
“Just after noon.”
“And is the sun out today?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. And yet you are troubled. What news do you bring?”
Taras swallowed. “You and your countrymen are to be executed a few days hence.”
Soft, fearful cries came from the darkness behind Almas, where Taras knew shackles held more Tatar prisoners.
“I see,” Almas said. “So you’ve come to say goodbye. I want to thank you, Taras, for the hospitality you’ve shown us this past year. You have made our stay much more bearable.”
Taras scoffed. “Please don’t thank me, Almas. I’ve done nothing worthy of thanks. Until now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I intend to free you.”
Almas stayed silent for a time. “Why do you do this, Taras?”
Taras sighed, not sure how to answer. He could hardly explain it to himself. “I don’t know. I suppose because my conscience demands it.”
“I am unsurprised. Living here, your conscience must eventually demand something.”
Anger surged in Taras's belly. “That’s none of your concern. I’m here to free you. Consider it a gift.”
Almas’s hand shot out from between the bars, grabbing Taras’s arm. “I do. Please, Taras, forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The anger melted into guilt. What did he have to be angry about when Almas had lived in these conditions for months?
“What will happen now?” Almas’s voice sounded anxious.
“I'll break the lock and let you go. The guards above the door are unconscious and tied up. I’ll let you out, but I need a few minutes to get out, myself. I don’t want to see where you go. It’s better that way. I cannot control what happens afterward. If you’re recaptured, I won't be able to help again. Go, Almas. Get as far away from the Kremlin as possible.”
He hefted the leather scrip on his shoulder. “There are some supplies in here. I couldn’t manage much. Hopefully it will see you a few days from Moscow before you have to hunt.”
Anxious voices whispered urgently from the darkness. It sounded like arguing.
“What are they saying?” Taras didn’t understand the language.
“They think perhaps we are meant to die for our religion. That Allah wills it.”
“If Allah wants you dead, you will die. So far, you've survived. Perhaps I am here because it is God’s will that you live. I vowed a year ago to get you back to your family. I know this action is long overdue. If you stay, you will surely die, and it will be a horrible death. Please, go now. Go back to your wife and child.”
Almas conveyed what Taras said to the others, who became silent.
Taras took a short-handled ax from his belt. One solid clang rang through the cavern and the padlock dropped to the dirt with a thud. Taras opened the door and found himself facing Almas.
“Will you go?”
Almas nodded. “I believe I will. Our defeat has shamed us, but you’ve given us the chance to stand tall again one day. We must all stand for something, Taras. Otherwise, what purpose is there in our lives?”
Taras gazed at Almas for a time, wondering if the other man was trying to tell him something, or simply mused aloud. Taras hardly knew what he stood for anymore. He clasped Almas’s hand. “It has been an honor to know you, Almas.”
“Goodbye, my friend. The honor has been mine.�
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Chapter 16
MOSCOW, NOVEMBER 1549
“There you are.” Taras stood as Inga entered his rooms, still in his day clothes despite the late hour.
The commotion in the palace caused more messes than Inga usually dealt with, so she’d been kept late. She felt relief at seeing him, but also anxiety to find him fully dressed this time of night. She could guess why, though.
Taras crossed the room and put his hands on her shoulders. He must have seen fear in her face because his expression changed. “You’ve heard?”
She nodded. “Are you in danger?”
“I don’t think so. The ones arrested are powerful boyar families, the kind that have openly opposed Ivan and have enough money and power to be influential. Neither is true of me.”
“But you don’t know for certain?” Inga pressed.
“No. I need to speak with Nikolai.”
“Then go speak with him.”
“I’m not leaving you alone, Inga. Sergei and his father are practically prowling the corridors.”
“Sergei’s father?”
Taras nodded.
“Is he...? I don’t know anything about Sergei’s father.” Tarasov had been part of the court for as long as Inga could remember, but he always melted into the background. Inga never thought of him as a threat.
“He’s exactly like Sergei. Or Sergei’s exactly like him. Where do you think Sergei learned his lack of scruples? Besides, if the father is in charge, the son will be given free reign. I am going to speak with Nikolai. You’re coming with me.”
He took her hand, pulled her gently away from the door, then went through it, towing her behind. Their footsteps whispered through the dimly lit corridors, their shadows fleeing before them, guttering in the dim light of the sconces.
Taras didn’t have to tell Inga to be silent. She instinctively felt danger while roaming the halls. Everyone did. The Tsar had rounded up the most wealthy, influential boyar families and decreed they would be publicly executed in a week’s time.
Ivan had screamed and thrashed when someone released the Tatar prisoners only days before their execution—something Taras refused to discuss with her, for some reason—but for a ruler to publicly execute his own people was unheard of. Even for Ivan. He’d dropped every pretense of justice.