by K L Conger
And then there was Anatoly. To everyone’s shock, he'd survived, but his serving days were done. The head clerk wanted to throw him out along with Yehveh. Taras wouldn’t hear of it. He'd have paid for Anatoly’s care in the palace himself, but Inga came up with a solution. In her most recent letter, Natalya told Inga the estate needed another gardener. Anatoly wouldn’t be able to do much for a while, but the job should be mild, sitting most of the day to pull weeds and carrying watering cans to keep Lady Andreevna’s prize flowers from dying. Besides, Natalya remembered Anatoly from her days serving in the palace. She would take care of him.
It saddened Taras to lose his man-servant, but after his heroics during the riot, Anatoly deserved some peace.
As Taras reached the correct room, the guards opened the door for him. The one on the right stood a head taller than Taras, though probably five years younger. “The Tsar is expecting you, Lord Taras.”
“Thank you.” Taras limped cautiously in.
He’d never been in Yuri’s rooms before. They were spacious and comfortable, nearly as luxurious as the apartments of the Tsar, if smaller. Taras shook his head in wonder. Ivan’s loyalty could be overwhelming. He truly cared for his little brother, a man in every way beneath him. Then he marched out to Red Square and executed children in front of their parents. He forced commoners to watch the spectacle, then blamed them for rioting. How did two such different temperaments exist side by side in the same man? Were all rulers so unfathomable?
Yuri lay peacefully in a four-poster bed, the blankets drawn up to his chin. His face held a ghostly pallor and he lay utterly still. Taras had assumed Yuri's illness to be a common one. He’d always possessed a sickly constitution. Yet, the Tsar’s younger brother looked death-like.
Ivan stood across the room, looking out the window. Taras could imagine what he watched. Servants still struggled to scrub blood from the stones of Red Square. The riot’s leaders—or the men Ivan perceived to be leaders—had been executed. There’d been more than sixty of them.
The head clerk stood beside Ivan, quill and parchment in hand, looking nervous. He glanced at Taras, before shifting his eyes quickly back to the Tsar.
“Forgive me, my lord Tsar,” the clerk bounced from foot to foot, “but what should I tell them?”
Ivan glanced at the clerk and Taras sensed annoyance. “He will be interred in a place of honor and prestige.” Ivan’s voice held a nasal quality, but sounded calm. Too calm. “With all the vestments and honors befitting his station.”
“His station, your grace?” the head clerk said.
Ivan turned slowly, his gaze smoldering and the obsequious clerk squirmed. “As the Tsar’s brother.”
Taras’s eyes darted to the bed. For the first time, he realized Yuri’s chest lay completely still. The Tsar’s brother was dead. Fear gripped Taras by the throat. After Anastasia died, Ivan began to slide. How would the loss of another loved one affect him?
“Of course, my lord Tsar,” the clerk said hastily. “But the details?”
“We will leave those to you, clerk. Take care not to disappoint us.”
The head clerk swallowed audibly. “Of course not, your grace.”
“And now,” Ivan whispered, “I shall be utterly alone.”
The clerk licked his lips, glancing nervously to Taras and back again.
“I’m sorry, my lord Tsar? Is that all? If it is, I will go of course, but Lord Taras has come to see you.”
Ivan turned from the window, then, eyes utterly vacant. Despite Taras’s wariness of the man, he felt a fleeting sympathy for the look in those eyes.
“You may go, clerk.”
The head clerk backed out of the room, bowing. Taras moved to the side to prevent the clerk’s backside from bumping into him. He twisted his lips in distaste. The head clerk didn’t notice.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Ivan turned to stare at Yuri, lying in the bed. “So Taras,” Ivan said. “You’ve come.”
“You have an errand for me, my lord Tsar?” Taras bowed.
“Normally I would only ask this of my closest advisors, but I’ve already set them other tasks. I simply need you to make sure a message gets to all the important people.” Ivan’s voice sounded flat, monotone, as though he didn’t truly care about what he said.
Ivan dropped the royal ‘we,’ now the head clerk had gone. He used it in open court and when dealing with the public, but often dropped it when speaking with only the Chosen Council or one on one with another boyar. The clerk was not a boyar. Ivan was nothing if not a stickler for social class.
“Of course, your grace,” Taras said. “What is the message?”
“That my brother has died. Get the details of the funeral from the clerk.” He jerked his head to indicate the man who'd just left. “I will expect all my loyal subjects to be in attendance.”
“Of course, your highness.” Taras hesitated. “My condolences, your grace.”
Ivan inclined his head without taking his eyes from his brother. “Thank you.”
“Would you like anything else included in the message, Lord Tsar?” Taras asked.
“No. That is not the only reason I called for you, Taras. I understand you took some injuries during the riot. You received them while trying to defend palace servants.”
Taras’s heart beat faster. “That’s correct, Lord Tsar.”
Ivan nodded. “Again you show your loyalty to me Taras, where so many others flounder. To defend a man’s servants is to defend his very honor.”
Taras swallowed. He wished he knew some way to correct Ivan without signing his own death warrant. His defense of the servants had nothing to do with loyalty to Ivan. It had to do with protecting Inga from Ivan’s stupidity.
“I wish to reward you for it, Taras.”
Fear fluttered through Taras’s chest again, stronger this time. “I am honored, my Lord Tsar. I assure you I require no reward.”
Ivan smiled without mirth. “I know that, too. You may have your pick of any unmarried woman in the kingdom to take as bride. Choose anyone you like.” He turned a cruel, steely gaze on Taras. “I reward my loyal subjects.”
Taras swallowed. He’d avoided talk of marriage since he arrived in the Kremlin, knowing he’d be faced with it at some point. Now that it had arrived, he didn't know how to respond without giving offense, which could be as sure a death warrant as treason.
“Thank you, your grace, but...I am not sure I am ready to take a wife yet.”
“Oh, come Taras. You’ve been here more than a year’s time and not taken one yet. People begin to notice.”
“Forgive me, your majesty. I have neither land nor fortune to speak of. I have no power any family would prize.”
“You have influence, young Taras. Many in the court respect your opinion, and that’s nearly the same thing. Even if her family is powerful, I shall back you. As I said, choose whomever you wish, though it would please me greatly if you choose among the Tarasov clan.”
Taras worked to keep his eyes from bulging. Sergei’s family? “Tarasov, my lord Tsar?”
“Yes. I want this strife between you and Sergei Tarasov buried. Forget the kitchen wench. She means nothing. I need all my loyal counselors unified. Now more than ever.”
“Forgive me, my lord Tsar—”
“You will take a wife, Master Demidov,” Ivan snapped, and Taras closed his mouth. “Not a Tarasov, if you prefer, but I’ll expect you to decide by summer.”
“Yes, my Lord Tsar,” Taras said quietly, his stomach tying itself into knots.
Ivan turned back to the window.
Taras waited, unsure whether he should go. When minutes of silence passed, he opened his mouth to ask if Ivan desired anything else. As he did, Ivan’s voice came to him softly.
“Do you know the darkness, Taras?”
“The...darkness, Your Majesty?”
“The darkness of living. It takes the only things that ever kept you safe.”
A chill ran down Taras’s spin
e, and he searched for an answer. Ivan didn’t seem to need one.
“Many on the council believe I’m being too harsh. Too many executions. Too much blood. Do you concur?”
Taras swallowed. His answer might lose him his head. Ivan turned from the window, a dangerous look in his eye, confirming Taras’s suspicions. “I think you...have your reasons, Majesty,” he said warily. “I also think neither the Council nor the people understand them. Perhaps if you explain—”
“I am Tsar of Russia! I am not required to explain myself!”
Taras swallowed again, keeping his eyes on the lush carpet. “Of course, Majesty.”
Ivan gazed out the window, clasping his hands behind his back. “Why should I coddle my people? They are neither educated nor wise.”
Taras took a deep breath, praying what he said wouldn’t get him killed. “If I may speak freely, my Lord Tsar?”
Ivan turned. “Please do.” His voice sounded cold.
“I believe you are correct. Most of your subjects are not...enlightened.” Ivan grunted, obviously pleased with the admission. Taras went on. "People such as those are like children. They want someone to protect them, to make them feel safe. If you showed them a sliver of compassion, they would love you. And forget all that came before.”
Ivan twisted his lips as though he’d tasted something sour. “And I’m the one who must protect them, am I?”
“You are their Cesar,” Taras said quietly.
Ivan gazed at him a moment before answering. “Compassion? They want to feel safe? Don’t you think I want that for myself as well, Taras?”
“Of course, majesty. All men do.”
“All men do,” Ivan murmured, turning back toward the window. “Do you know what I am, Taras?”
“You are Tsar of unified Russia, Majesty.”
“Yes. And a man who wishes to feel safe. Anastasia is the only person who ever made me feel that way. Before she came, my entire existence was fear. I used to hide Yuri and myself in closets at night to keep the assassins’ knives from finding our hearts in the darkness.”
Taras swallowed. Inga had told him about Ivan’s childhood, and the day she’d saved him from such an assassin.
“With Anastasia beside me, I felt invincible. I could have gone anywhere, done anything. Life without fear...that is true freedom, I think.”
Taras gazed at the Tsar’s back, not sure how to answer except with the truth. He could not keep the sadness from his voice. “I concur, your grace.”
“Then she left me. As did that fleeting freedom. Do you know the darkness, Taras? What it’s like to have your love ripped away from you?”
Taras swallowed, knowing he was gambling again. “I do not, my Lord Tsar.” Ivan turned from the window. “The woman I love is still beside me, which is why I do not wish to take another.”
Understanding came into the Tsar’s eyes and he whirled back to his window. He stayed silent so long, Taras wondered if he’d misread the look. Perhaps Ivan contemplated the best way to kill him for his insubordination. When the Tsar spoke again, his voice became hard.
“Safety? Peace? These are things God teases us with and then yanks away.” He whirled from the window and Taras nearly stepped back from the look in Ivan’s eye. “You think I won’t be made to take another wife, now Anastasia’s gone? I’m a Tsar. I must produce heirs.” Ivan growled through gritted teeth, speaking so quickly Taras barely kept up. Yet the Tsar’s voice dripped with thick with emotion. “If I must battle loneliness and fear all my days, then Russia will battle them with me. You will take a wife, and my subjects will feel the full weight of my emptiness. Do you know the darkness, Taras? It increases every moment she isn’t here!”
The light in the Tsar’s eyes looked other-worldly, and Taras’s heart pounded so wildly, his breathing became ragged.
“You and the council want me to show compassion,” Ivan spat. "That is something I cannot do. It would return me to my former state of vulnerability, and I will never go back to that existence. The darkness, it increases...” Ivan trailed off, chest heaving.
And so will the violence, Taras thought. When he spoke, he put his eyes on the ground, and his voice sounded small to his own ears. “They say time heals all wounds, Majesty.”
Ivan shook his head. “It won’t heal this.” He turned to the window once more. “Go now, Master Taras. Tell them my brother has abandoned me now, too. Tell them about his funeral. Tell them, if they don’t already know, that Russia has become a realm of darkness. And their Tsar welcomes it.”
“Yes, my lord Tsar,” Taras whispered through a nearly closed throat. He gave a bow Ivan didn't see and backed from the room. Once he made it through the outer door, he turned and fled.
Chapter 20
THE ANDREEV ESTATE, beautiful and peaceful, lay not far outside Moscow. As yet, it remained untouched by the violence happening within the Kremlin wall. Natalya reflected on this fact as she walked from the kitchens to the hut she shared with her husband and now two-year-old son, Dmitry.
It had been a long, busy day in the kitchens, but not a bad one. Natalya worked her hands raw most days, which she didn’t mind. Not so long as she got to see her son laugh each day and kiss her husband each night. There were worse things than good, honest work. The murder in Moscow was proof of that.
The Andreevs were boyars, but they did not condone the Tsar’s violence and spoke openly about it. At least, on their own estate they did. They did what they could to keep their household and those living on their estate away from the brutality of Moscow.
As she neared the hut by way of a carved-out path in the snow, frozen from so many feet walking back and forth on it, Natalya saw Alexander had a fire going to ward off the winter chill. Passing a hand across her eyes, she found herself relieved to be home. She couldn't wait to tumble securely into the world of dreams.
As she reached the door, Dmitry’s dainty, little-boy laugh floated to her from inside. She entered and a flood of warmth met her, and not only from the fire. Her husband and son sprawled on the floor in front of the hearth, wrestling together like puppies in spring. She smiled as Alexander pretended Dmitry held him in a chokehold and begged convincingly for mercy.
Dmitry noticed Natalya. He grinned at her and pointed triumphantly down to where Alexander lay, apparently helpless, on the floor. “Wook, Mama, wook!”
“Now Dmitry, stop beating up on your father. He works hard all day.”
Dmitry grinned, let go of his father’s shoulders and ran toward Natalya. She swept him into her arms, ruffling his thick hair. Alexander’s hair was not blond, but still much lighter than Natalya’s. Dmitry inherited it, cowlicks and all. His countenance was all her, though. The combination made him handsome. He would be a popular one with the girls someday.
“Did you get enough for dinner?”
“Yeth, Mamma.” He swung his body playfully to the side and she nearly dropped him. Alexander came and rested his hands on Dmitry’s waist, helping steady his weight, then leaned down and kissed her.
“How was your day?”
She smiled at him. “Better now I’ve come home in time to put Dmitry to bed.” She often worked late in the kitchens and he fell asleep before she got in. Tonight, she would sing to him and tell him a bible story.
When, nearly two hours later, she collapsed into bed and Alexander wrapped his long arms around her, she felt relief. Even after Dmitry fell asleep, household chores remained: socks to be darned, clothes to be mended, things to be set out for the morning.
Alexander pressed his face into the back of her neck, resting it there. She felt the light, cool puff of his breath on her skin. She closed her eyes, comforted by his presence.
“They say things are worsening in the Kremlin.”
Natalya’s eyes opened on their own. “What’s wrong with him, do you think?”
“I don’t know. He lost his wife. He’s grieving.”
Natalya turned to face her husband. “Yes. But how long can violence born of
grief last? If I died, would you start executing people sun up to sun down? They say he spends all his time with mistresses and drinks constantly.”
“I don’t have an answer, Natalya. I don’t know how I'd react if I lost you. I’d rather not think on it, if you don’t mind.”
Natalya smiled at him in the darkness and he put his thumb to her lips, tracing the smile, seeing it with his fingers. He kissed her again softly.
“We are blessed to be here, with the Andreevs, and away from the worst of the violence.”
She sighed. “I know. I’m glad we don’t have to worry every minute of every day about Dmitry’s safety.”
“But?”
“I worry so about Inga. And Yehvah. All the others.”
“Yehvah keeps you updated, does she not?”
“Yes. That’s part of the problem. I feel like I’m waiting for bad news. Like something terrible is coming and I’m powerless to stop it. By the time news travels, it will already be done with.”
Alexander stayed quiet for a long time. She would have thought he’d fallen asleep, if not for his hand rubbing a path up and down her back. At length, he spoke again. “Natalya, I think this will get worse before it gets better. They say the Oprichniki are gathering. That they'll be a force to be reckoned with. I, too, have friends outside of this estate. I think there is a good chance that some—perhaps many—will die before the Tsar finds his sanity again. There are many people I will mourn, if they die. Some deeply. But I can face it, so long as you are by my side and Dmitry is in my arms.”
Natalya pondered. She knew he would wait for her answer. She finally nodded.
“I agree. I know if certain people are killed, I will mourn. I should warn you, if Inga dies, I don’t know how I will...react. I suppose that’s what scares me. Inga is my sister and, in many ways, my savior. When I think of her being in danger, panic takes over. I’m afraid if bad news ever comes concerning her, it will keep me from being a proper wife and mother anymore.”
Alexander pressed a comforting hand to her cheek.
"You are right," she went on. "If you and Dmitry are safe, I can face it. We can get through anything together.”