by K L Conger
A powerful gust of wind filled the corridor with a deafening roar. The path of the wind became evident by watching the flakes, which swirled and eddied down the hallway. Tiny frozen crystals hit Taras’s bare arms and chest with the tiny, prickling pains of shattered glass. He turned his face and put his arm up to protect it.
When he gazed forward, Inga stood framed in the large doorway. The wind billowed her shift out behind her, her hair swirling crazily. The snow sparkled and glittered around her, making her look like an angel or fairy from a dream.
“Tatyana,” he whispered. Fairy princess, the name meant.
Taras pushed forward, feeling like he moved through water. The scene was one of immense beauty, but Inga would still freeze to death if he didn’t get her back inside.
She walked out to the edge of the balcony, bordered by a low wall, and fell to her knees in the deep drifts of snow. As Taras watched, hurrying toward her, she sucked in a deep breath as she had at the Andreev estate, her entire body expanding as she pulled it in, and screamed.
He understood. She hadn’t gotten it all out before: the images, the stench, the sickly vines that took root in the bellies of all who’d visited the Andreev estate today. She needed to release the turmoil strangling her heart. Shaking out the blanket as he passed through the doors, he fell onto his knees behind her and wrapped the blanket around her. Once he'd pulled it tightly over her shoulders and torso, he wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug. He didn’t try to stop her from screaming, but held her as she did.
She drew breath after breath, each scream more painful than the last. Then she heaved the painful breaths in and out, but screamed no more. Taras waited another few minutes, until her heaving chest slowed, and he knew she'd finished. Then he gathered her into arms.
His feet and knees grew numb with cold from kneeling in the snow. She wore less than he, and had knelt for longer. He needed to get her warm fast. His fingers had less feeling in them than they ought to and his face felt frozen in place.
Hurling himself back through the door, carrying Inga in front of him, he nearly collided with a figure there. Yehvah wore only a nightgown, but a shawl hugged her shoulders. She clutched the two ends of it tightly at her chest. Taras and Yehvah stared at one another for several seconds. She stepped around him and began pushing the doors closed. Taras laid Inga down against the wall. She curled up into a ball, as she had earlier, but she sobbed loudly now.
Yehvah pushed the door on the right closed. Taras moved to help her. She was not much larger than Inga, and the wooden doors were heavy, especially against the wind. Taras threw his weight against the left door. It took all his strength to move the door against the swirling storm. During the time it stood open, small snow drifts had piled against it. Yehvah mostly closed the other door during a brief respite from the gusting wind. As it started up again, the door swung open again, despite her efforts. She didn't weigh enough to hold it in place.
Movement in Taras’s periphery turned out to be Nikolai, coming to help. He relieved Yehvah and pushed her door shut. Together the two men returned the plank to its place. The corridor once again fell quiet, still, and dark. The wind snarled on the other side of the door, a hollow sound.
The corridor near the door acquired nearly half a foot of snow during the brief minutes Inga knelt outside. The expensive carpets were sodden. Taras suspected they'd be crunchy with inlaid ice by morning, rather than dry.
Yehvah went to sit by Inga and wrapped her arms around the younger woman. Taras only barely discerned their dark silhouettes against the wall. “Yehvah, how did you know? How did you know where to come, or that she...?” Is there a word for the pain she’s in?
“The place where I sleep is directly below that balcony. I heard her screaming.” Yehvah’s voice caught. “A mother always knows the sound of her child’s sorrow.”
The three of them stood silently for several minutes. Taras felt surprised no one else had awakened and come running.
“Where did you come from Nikolai?” Yehvah asked quietly.
Taras raised an eyebrow. He’d assumed they’d come together.
“I was coming to get Taras,” Nikolai said. “I heard the commotion, felt the cold.”
“What did you need me for?” Taras asked.
“I received a message from one of my contacts. It’s from Tatyana.”
Taras’s eyebrows raised higher. Strange to hear the name in this setting, especially after he’d thought of her after seeing Inga silhouetted against the storm. “The old woman? What does she say?”
“She wants us to come to her tomorrow. She wants to speak with you. I thought it important; didn’t want to wait until morning to tell you.”
With a sigh, Taras ran his hands through his hair, flicking melted snow off them and onto the floor. “Nikolai, I’ve been with Inga all day. How are people taking news of what happened on the estate?”
“Everyone...understands.”
“Understands what?”
Nikolai sighed in the darkness. “That this is how it will be, now. Everyone must watch their backs, and not risk disloyalty, or they will pay for it dearly.”
“How can we live like that?” Taras’s whispered. He wasn’t sure he could accept this as a way of life.
“I don’t know. Perhaps we won’t.”
Taras’s head shot up, staring at Nikolai in astonishment. Nikolai didn’t mean it as an allusion to revolution, but as a reference to death. Either they would live with it, or they would die. Does no one see any other option?
“The chill is deepening,” Nikolai said. “We should all return to our rooms and dry off. We’ll go first thing in the morning then?” He directed that last at Taras.
Taras glanced at Inga doubtfully. She huddled under Yehvah’s arm, quivering violently. “I...would rather not leave Inga.”
Nikolai’s eyes widened in the dim light. “Tatyana may not give us another chance if we don’t come now, Taras.”
Taras took a deep breath, considering. Surely Nikolai was right, but the timing couldn’t be worse.
“Taras.” Yehvah’s soft, steady voice came to him through the opaqueness. Yes, that was the word. Everything was opaque. “I know you love her and want to help. Perhaps it would be prudent to let her come stay with us for a while.”
“With you?”
“In the servants’ quarters. They aren’t as comfortable as your rooms, but all the people there knew and loved Natalya. Let her come with us, so we can all grieve together. It might help.”
Taras stayed silent for several minutes. His reasons for keeping Inga with him were purely selfish. The events of the day had left everyone feeling lonely and isolated, even when in one another’s company. The thought of going back to his rooms alone terrified him. No, Inga must stay with him. He couldn’t be without her. She was in pain, but he would help her through it. Him and no one else.
“If you think it best,” he murmured.
“I do.”
Taras nodded, then realized Yehvah could not see it in the darkness. “All right.”
Taras and Nikolai escorted the two women through the dark passages to the servants’ quarters. Inga didn’t look back at Taras even once. When they'd disappeared inside with the door firmly closed, Taras rested his forehead against the cold stones of the wall. Nikolai stood silently beside him.
“How long until sunrise, Nikolai?”
“At least two or three hours. Probably more.”
Taras sighed.
“You know,” Nikolai went on, “I have a good deal of vodka in my rooms. I could stoke the fire and we could drink ourselves to sunrise.”
Taras had never heard a better idea in his life.
Chapter 23
BOTH MEN FELL ASLEEP in the chairs in front of the fire in Nikolai’s rooms and slept until mid-morning. When they awoke, Taras went back to his rooms to change and freshen up. He saw no sign of Inga.
The palace remained subdued. Few people walked the corridors. Those who did kept to
themselves. Taras stopped by the servant’s quarters. They told him Inga was working and couldn’t come out.
“Will you let her know I came and I’m leaving the palace with Nikolai for a while?” he asked Anne.
“Of course, Lord Taras.”
As long as she stayed in the servant’s quarters, she’d be safe from Sergei even if he returned, which he hadn’t for many days.
He and Nikolai walked to the stables and mounted up in silence. The air felt frigid. The kind of bone-throbbing cold that made a man doubt living had any point. The clouds moved out after the storm, leaving the sky brutally clear and savagely majestic. Several feet of fresh snow covered everything.
The streets of the city were quieter than usual, like the corridors of the palace. People went about their daily tasks, but no one seemed to want to socialize. Most people gave them a wide berth and avenues spontaneously opened in front of their horses as they moved forward. Other than that, the people showed little fear for the two armed, mounted soldiers. The more he thought of it, the more it surprised Taras. After news of the Andreev estate spread, wouldn't they fear all soldiers?
As they’d thrown back vodka shots the previous night, Nikolai told him some of the stories circulating. He supposed as long as they didn't wear dark robes with pointed masks, people wouldn’t see any reason to be afraid.
Between how long it took to leave the palace, and how slowly the inner city moved, it was mid-afternoon before they arrived at Tatyana’s hut. Taras wondered where the day went.
They found Anja sitting on the stoop in front of the hut, looking none too happy. She got to her feet when she saw them coming.
“There you two are. She said you’d come today. I didn’t believe her, but stayed anyway. Glad you didn’t waste my time.”
Taras dismounted. “Can we go in, then?”
Anja’s lips twisted as though she’d eaten a sour plume. “No. She’ll come out to you.”
Nikolai arched an eyebrow. “She’s coming out, Mistress?”
“I tried to talk her out of it,” Anja said defensively. “I told her there’s fresh snow and it’s cold. She ought to stay inside. Right as that devil’s-work of a storm got to its worst, she insisted I take a message to Sacha’s friend so he could take it to you in the palace. I said no and she said if I didn’t, she’d do it herself. She said you had to come, it had to be today and she must take you somewhere.”
Taras frowned. “Take us where, Anja?”
She shrugged. “’Ell if I know.” She disappeared into the hut. Taras and Nikolai waited nearly half an hour for the old woman to emerge. When she did, her eyes travelled briefly between Nikolai and Taras, resting significantly on Taras.
“Mistress Tatyana, what is it? We’re here. What is it you wish to tell us?”
“I wish to take you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Come, we’re losing the light quickly.”
She moved away from the hut. Taras took her arm. “You shouldn’t walk through the snow. You’ll get to cold. Can you mount my horse?”
Tatyana hesitated only a moment before nodding. “It will be difficult for me, my lord, but I think I can manage it.”
“Here, let me,” Nikolai said. “You mount first, Taras. I’ll put her up behind you.”
Taras nodded. It took a good ten minutes to get Tatyana onto the horse. She was obviously un-used to riding and her joints refused to cooperate. Finally, they were ready to go. Anya stood watching them outside the hut, arms folded across her stomach and scowling.
“You soldiers better get her back safe,” she practically snarled at them.
“You have my word, good mistress,” Taras said, guiding Jasper in the direction Tatyana indicated.
Nearly an hour later, and with the sun well on its way to sleep in the west, Tatyana told Taras to stop. Due to her fragile age, he hadn’t dared let Jasper do more than walk, even when they left the inner city. Every bounce of the horse brought a grunt of pain from Tatyana, which grew more pronounced as they travelled.
She’d stopped them in a small clearing. Taras dismounted, wondering why Tatyana had brought them here. This particular spot didn’t seem more significant than any other they’d ridden through in the forest. He helped the old woman down and Nikolai followed suite.
Tatyana turned to Taras. “Do you recognize this place, my lord?”
Taras peered around in earnest, but didn’t answer.
“Imagine standing three or four feet higher on packed snow. Imagine the firs smaller like saplings. Imagine innumerable tracks in the snow, crossing and crisscrossing one another.”
Taras squatted, surveying the site from ground level.
“Imagine an overturned sledge and blood on the snow.”
Taras’s heart grew fainter in his chest, as if to testify this place had a history of death. He’d not been to the accident site since the previous summer. Everything looked different in winter, and he hadn’t recognized it.
By the time he'd visited the place where his mother died—the day he and his father left Russia—everything had been cleaned up. The sledge was gone. The carcasses of the injured horses had been hauled away.
And his mother had disappeared.
There were, however, visible tracks in the snow that day, from other sledges. Too many crisscrossed in the snow to tell hers from others or which direction any of them originated from. Taras remembered the blood. Blood on the snow, on the trees, on a nearby rock. He'd studied it, knowing it was his mother’s blood. It haunted him for many years. He often woke up in the middle of the night, screaming about having blood on his hands. His father and aunt shook him and assured him he'd only had a nightmare. That his hands were clean and dry.
Taras stroked his beard, letting the memory wash over him. He'd not thought of that in years. Until this moment.
“Tatyana,” he looked up at her. “What did you see?”
Tatyana stared at the ground in front of her. “I walked through the woods toward town. My mother, God rest her, was ill. She often took ill in the winter time. She felt too fearful to go into town for medicine, so I went instead. While I walked, I heard voices. Mother taught me to hide if I heard strangers in the woods. Always. I knew a few people in the city I trusted, but out here, away from anyone, I was completely defenseless. So, I hid, and waited for the people to pass by.”
As she spoke, fear ebbed slowly through Taras’s body. She spoke of things, answers he’d sought for years. Now that he stood on the cusp of ultimate knowledge, a cold hand wrapped around his heart, making it harder for him to breathe, or keep from trembling. Perhaps the chill of the day simply overwhelmed him.
“I hid under a low bush,” Tatyana walked a few paces away, toward some snow-dusted, overgrown foliage. She put a hand out, as if seeing the girl she once was, cowering beneath it. “I saw the rails of the sledge, the feet of a team of horses, and then the feet of a lone horse, standing as a barrier in the path. The sky looked so overcast, it felt like twilight, though it was mid-morning. The woman on the sledge begged the man on the horse to let her pass. He refused. His horse walked circles around the sledge.” Tatyana shut her eyes, as if seeing the memory.
“I think she knew. Understood what would happen. She told him she had a son waiting for her, and wouldn’t he please let her go? She feared her son might die without her to protect him.”
Tears came unbidden to Taras’s eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat, straining for every word Tatyana whispered.
“The man called her son a half-breed and an abomination before God, and said it would be better if he died. He called her names I didn’t understand.”
“What names?” Taras’s mouth felt dry, and his voice came out thin and wispy.
“The awful names men sometimes call women. If he called her a whore, I wouldn’t have understood. I’d never heard them, so to me they sounded like a foreign language. I don’t remember the particular words. Only that they lashed from his tongue like a whip, and I felt yo
ur mother's fear.
“He hit her with something. I don’t know what—a rock or branch of some kind, perhaps. She fell forward, into the snow. When she did, blood came from the back of her head. I saw it. And she saw me.” Tatyana turned to look at Taras, still in his squat. Her eyes had grown misty. “She stared right at me, hiding under the bush, with eyes that knew death stood over her. I felt paralyzed. Too afraid to do anything.
She didn’t cry out for help. Either she couldn’t, or she didn’t want to put me in danger. I’ll never forget those eyes, boring into mine. She knew I hid there, watching, the only one in the world,” Tatyana’s voice cracked. “Who would know what happened. She saw me. She began to cry.”
Tears rolled down Taras’s cheeks. The frigid air ensured they only made it part-way down, solidifying into thin tracks of ice on his face.
Tatyana turned away from him again. “He got off his horse—I saw his feet. I remember his boots looked peculiar. Made of good leather—the kind only a boyar would wear—and embroidered with orange hawks. I remember because I thought boots a strange place to have embroidery, even for a rich man.”
“Orange hawks?” Nikolai asked, his eyes wide. “Are you sure woman?”
Taras eyed Nikolai, his heart pounding wildly. He wanted to ask what it made Nikolai think of, but didn’t dare interrupt Tatyana’s narrative. He felt an irrational fear that if she stopped talking, she’d never start again
Orange hawks weren’t significant to Taras. He didn’t know of any boyar family that used them as a crest. Nikolai’s face became unreadable. Taras couldn’t tell if the crest meant something to him, or if he'd simply meant to clarify the detail.”
“I’m sure,” Tatyana said calmly. “He got off his horse and dragged her by the arm into the middle of the clearing. Then he got on the sledge and ran her over. Three times. On the third time, her body sprayed out from under the rail and flew into a stand of trees. She hit her head and, if she wasn’t dead before, I was certain she'd died then.