Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  Chills ran up and down Taras’s spine. Truer words were never spoken on earth. Of that, he felt absolutely certain. But no one stood up to the Tsar. No one. For the head of the church to do so would anger the Tsar beyond words. The metropolitan had signed his own death warrant.

  Ivan rose slowly from his knees as Philipp spoke. By the end of the tirade, he quivered with fury. For several seconds, he looked too angry to do anything. He slammed his iron-tipped staff into the ground. “You dare to challenge our will? It would have been better for you if you were more in agreement with us.”

  Philipp put his shoulders back and lifted his chin. “I do not grieve for those innocents who have suffered—they are God’s martyrs! I grieve for your soul, Ivan Grozny.”

  Ivan quivered with rage. He shook his fist and brandished his staff and made several other obscene gestures. When he got himself under control, slamming his staff into the ground again, his voice had a quality of menacing calm.

  “Up until now we have spared you traitors to no purpose. From now on, we shall behave as you depict us.”

  Philipp spread his hands. “Tsar, do not think I fear you, or death. I am an old man who has led a blameless life in the monastery, free of rebellious passions and worldly intrigues. It is better I should leave behind the memory of a man who died innocently affirming the truth of his faith, than that I should remain the metropolitan, silently submitting to a reign of terrible lawlessness. Do with me as you will. I am ready to suffer for the truth. If I remained silent, where would be my faith?”

  The priest beside Taras breathed deeply, and Taras glanced at him. Silent tears ran down the priest’s face. Taras sighed. His respect for Philipp increased a hundred-fold, but the man would not survive long after this. People were afraid, the priest had said. Taras now realized that was not the point. The point was why they lived in fear. When powerful, influential men, such as the metropolitan, stood up to Ivan, they were cut down. What chance then, did anyone else have?

  Ivan sputtered with fury. Taras thought he might strike the metropolitan. He didn’t. Instead, he turned on his heel and sped toward the cathedral doors. His small entourage followed. As he passed where Taras and the priest stood in the shadows, Ivan’s eyes fell on them. No recognition flitted in the Tsar’s raging gaze. Only blind hatred resided there and, for an instant, Taras feared for his life.

  Ivan and his men practically fled the cathedral, slamming the massive door behind them. When they'd gone, the clergy—the priests had come into the main chamber when they heard the Tsar shouting—and parishioners let out a collective breath. The metropolitan didn’t move. Several priests gathered around him, putting hands on his shoulders.

  Taras leaned back against the wall, concentrating on his breathing. He abruptly understood something: it was not safe to be in Moscow, or anywhere in Russia for that matter, as long as Ivan lived. Taras had come looking for answers. He supposed he'd found them. He couldn’t act on them. Not yet. At least he understood now. It was only a matter of time now. A race to find the answers he needed before the Tsar’s all-dooming eye fell on him. He would not go quietly under Ivan’s sadistic blade. As long as he stayed in the Kremlin, he risked death. He intended to stay a while longer, but he wouldn’t go quietly, or easily. That much he vowed.

  Thanking the priest, he left the cathedral.

  Chapter 25

  DESPITE THE LATE HOUR, Inga sat on the edge of the bed, listening to Taras relate the story of what happened in the cathedral. Normally, when news such as this came, a deep cold settled upon Inga. Gooseflesh appeared on her skin, then she'd start to quiver. Soon she'd have a hard time staying warm at all. Even if she regained her physical warmth—and often she couldn’t—the cold would stay in her organs, entrenching itself deeply in her soul.

  Tonight felt different, though. Taras didn’t know something else had already happened today. The cold settled around her early this morning, and never left. As she listened to him speak of what the metropolitan said—what would, undoubtedly, be his undoing—it was with perfect numbness.

  “Inga, are you all right?”

  He’d stopped speaking and she hadn’t noticed. “I’m sorry, Taras. So, the metropolitan will be next, you think?”

  Taras frowned. “No telling how long it will take, but yes, I think he will die for of what he did today. He’s a good man. Ethical, God-fearing. He stood by his principles, refused to let Ivan push him around. He’s what a clergyman ought to be and now...”

  “Now he will die.” The finality of her own words made Inga shudder. The trembling began and she tried to control it. Taras didn’t notice her reaction. His gaze on the floor looked far away.

  “Yes, and then Ivan will replace him with a puppet who will condone Ivan’s violence as the ‘will of God’ or something equally absurd.” Taras swallowed. His voice dropped so low, she barely heard it. “Then Ivan will control even the church.”

  Inga shut her eyes. Warm tears coursed down her face. Their slight heat was a welcome contrast to her cold cheeks. Once they passed, the streaks they left behind made her cheeks colder than they'd been before.

  Unending trails of blood and terror stretched out before her. Would everyone, all those she loved, fall before her? When would the Tsar’s red gaze turn on her? She grasped the edge of the bed, trying to get a hold of herself.

  Abruptly, Taras sat beside her on the bed. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her toward him. “Inga, what is it?” Concern filled his face and his eyes held fear.

  Inga tried to speak, but her voice refused to work. Instead she leaned down against his chest and he wrapped his arms around her. Pressing her tear-streaked face into his neck, she burrowed into his embrace. Tonight, even Taras’s arms couldn’t make her feel better, though they did make her feel less alone.

  When she'd gathered her emotions somewhat, she straightened. Wiping her tears, she folded her arms and crossed her knees, trying to prepare herself. He refused to let her.

  “Don’t do that, Inga. You always do that.” He put his hand on her knee and gently uncrossed it from the other. Kneeling in front of her, he rested his forearms on her lap and took her hands so she couldn’t fold her arms either.

  “Do what?”

  “When you’re in the most pain, you curl up into a ball and...hide. Let me in.” He held both her hands in one of his and reached up with his other to touch her neck, bringing her face closer to his and resting his forehead against hers. “Tell me what happened.”

  Inga nodded. It would be harder with him so close, but he was right. She needed to let him in. Talking to him always made her feel better, even if he couldn’t posit a solution to what bothered her. “It’s Bogdan.”

  “What about him?”

  “The Tsar’s guards broke into his hut last night and dragged him away. They told his wife not to follow—to go back to sleep. She feared for her life if she disobeyed them. This morning she came to tell Yehvah. No one understood what happened. Yehvah asked Nikolai for help. It took most of the day, but he found out.”

  “And?”

  “Do you know a man called Vladimir of Staritsa?”

  “I know of him. He’s a prince of sorts. Loyal to Ivan. Why?”

  “I don’t think the Tsar agrees with you on the last point.”

  Taras’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Inga swallowed, tears sliding down her cheeks as she spoke. “Bogdan has been tortured. Into saying what the Tsar wants him to say.”

  “Which is?”

  “That he received poison from this Vladimir of Staritsa, and a gift of gold to put it into Ivan’s food.”

  Taras sat back on his knees, all the implications running across his face. When he raised his eyes to hers again, it was with complete understanding. He leaned toward her again, cupping her elbows in his hands. “Inga—” He swallowed. There was nothing to say, no comfort to give. She hadn’t expected any. How could he give comfort he didn't feel?

  “Maybe,” he stopped,
started, stopped, and started again. “Perhaps if he does what the Tsar wants, they will show him...”

  “Mercy?” Inga shook her head, looking away from his gaze. “You don’t believe that, Taras. None of us do. They forced him to say it happened, and admit to accepting the money. They’ll keep him alive long enough to take down this Vladimir, I’m sure. Then he’ll be convicted of conspiracy to murder the Tsar. Bogdan’s as good as dead already.”

  She got through the last sentence before her resolve cracked. Her face crumpled and sobs wracked her body.

  Taras pulled her toward him, into an embrace. She slid off the bed and into his lap, wrapping herself around him. He pressed his face into her shoulder, rubbing his hands up and down her back. His cool breath brushed her neck. The stark reality of the situation stared them in the face, and they had no alternative, no solution.

  Her sobs eventually subsided, though the tears did not. “He is the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had.”

  He leaned back and frowned down at her, surprised. “Bogdan is like a father to you?”

  She shrugged. “He was always kind to me. He used to sneak rice cakes to Natalya and I behind Yehvah’s back when he thought she worked us too hard.” Inga laughed sheepishly, the first time she’d smiled all day.

  Taras gave her a sad smile in return. He reached up and wiped the tears from under one eye with his thumb.

  “Taras, he’s always been here, since before Yehvah took me in as a child. I can’t imagine the palace without him in the kitchens.” Her voice got softer as she spoke. “And there’s nothing we can do for him, is there?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  She dropped her gaze and shut her eyes, trying to shut out the pain. It only got worse.

  Taras tilted her chin up with his finger. “Inga, promise me you won’t try.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him.

  “I know it sounds callous, but if you try to help him, you may end up sharing his fate.” He sighed. “I’d go mad if anything happened to you—”

  “Don’t say that Taras!”

  He leaned back, surprised by her strong reaction. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s what happened to Ivan. His wife died and he went mad.”

  Taras stared at her with troubled eyes, then took her face in his hands. “That’s not what I meant," he said gently. "I wouldn’t...” his eyes went to the window, his gaze encompassing all the violence Ivan had done ub Russia. “All I meant ...I mean, Ivan is...”

  “Insane?”

  Taras stared at her again. Fear—real, stark fear—shown out from his eyes. She'd never seen that from him before. Taras, sure and confident and never frightened to be himself, was afraid. Inga would have thought such a thing would unhinge her. On the contrary, she felt utterly calm.

  Taras roughly, almost violently, pushed away from her. He paced back and forth several times, then went to the wall. Leaning on both his forearms, he laid his head against it, his eyes shut again.

  Guilt set in. She rose and crossed the room, laying her hands on his broad back. He tensed slightly when she touched him. She rested her head between his shoulder blades.

  “Taras, what did I say that upset you so?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He let out his breath and all the tension went with it. He turned to face her and took her hands. “It isn’t you, Inga. When you said that, I felt myself...understand Ivan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His grief. If anything ever happened to you...”

  The fear Inga expected to feel earlier rushed in, flooding her spine and taking her breath away. “Taras,” she breathed, “you aren’t Ivan.”

  “I know I’m not. I never will be," he said firmly. "Even in grief I would never...take lives as Ivan has done. But, in a way I understand Ivan’s drive, the anger and raw emotion this kind of grief can bring.” His hands tightened on her wrists, almost to the point of pain. “I suppose I never thought of it that way before and—” he shut his eyes again, still battling demons she couldn’t see. “I don’t know how such grief would affect me. It’s...unsettling.” He took a deep breath and jerked his head swiftly back and forth, as though trying to shake off an unpleasant sensation. The chill in Inga’s spine spread to her fingers and toes. Whatever Taras shook off, the sensation didn't belong to the body, but to the soul.

  “Inga,” he put his hands on her shoulders and stared directly down into her eyes. “Today, when Ivan left the cathedral, he looked at me. I don’t think he’s truly human anymore. The man who received me when I first arrived in Moscow was wise and generous. He genuinely tried to be a good ruler. That man doesn’t exist anymore. He’s like a rabid animal. Only hatred stares out from his eyes. He didn’t even recognize me. I was afraid. Paralyzed by it.”

  “Everyone’s paralyzed by it.”

  He shook his head. “I never have been. My father taught me not to shun fear. He told me to feel it, welcome it, let it fill me up.”

  Inga had never heard anything so strange. A father told his son that? “Why?”

  “So I would learn to work through it. For most people, the sensation of fear is so foreign, so negative, they’re paralyzed by it. If a man allows himself to feel fear, welcomes it, then he becomes used to it. He can act, despite it.” Taras studied the ground between them, as though gathering his thoughts. “Inga, today I was paralyzed. Only for half a moment, but still. When his eyes fell on me, I felt doom close in, as though he might come for me next.”

  Panic clutched at Inga. “Do you think he’s coming after you?”

  “No.” Taras shook his head. “I don’t. I don't think he even registered me standing there. He stared right through me.” He took a deep breath. “In that moment, I understood what the priest meant. I understood why no one fights back—because that kind of fear is debilitating. I’ve never felt it before—never allowed myself to feel it before. Now I have. Inga, I can’t live like this forever. I can’t live like this for much longer at all.”

  The calm returned. It settled in her stomach, beside the fear. The darkness began to settle on her, coiling around her like a snake. She felt content to let it, though she knew somehow her doom came for her as well.

  Taras let go of her shoulders, straightening his back to attain his full height. “I’m going to be more overt in looking for answers to my mother’s death. It all seems so far away, so inappropriate a thing to pursue at a time like this. But it's why I came here—for answers. Tatyana gave us something to go on.”

  “The orange hawk sigil?” Inga asked quietly.

  Taras nodded. “Yes. I will no longer walk on quicksand for these boyars. I won’t dance around court intrigues and traditions. I will find out what happened once and for all.”

  “That's dangerous, Taras.”

  “We’re all in danger. Standing here talking, we’re in danger. I refuse to let fear of danger wear me down. I won’t be paralyzed again. I won’t live my life this way.” He paused, looking at her. Something in her face must have given him pause, because she saw him change what he'd been about to say. “Then everything will change.”

  Inga still felt calm, but she couldn’t stop the tears from gushing anew. “You mean, then you’ll leave.”

  “Inga,” he stepped toward her and she stepped back away from him. “I’ll take you with me.”

  She glanced away. He still didn’t understand. He stepped toward her again, concern and questions in his eyes, and again she backed away. She didn’t want him to touch her right now.

  “Inga, talk to me.”

  She shook her head, hurriedly wiping the tears away. “I have to go check on Bogdan’s wife. She’s staying in the servants’ quarters here in the palace until we hear more news about him. When he’s executed”—there was no if about it— “she may find herself without a home, but we’ll take care of her. Yehvah will make sure she’s all right. She and Bogdan are like family, after all. We servants h
ave only each other. We must learn to rely on one another.”

  Taras looked confused. “Inga—”

  “Don’t wait up for me. I may be an hour. You need sleep.”

  She spun and headed for the door, glancing over her shoulder. Taras made no move to stop her. As the door swung shut, he gazed after her with a deep foreboding in his eyes.

  Chapter 26

  MOSCOW, JANUARY 1550

  “Step forward, Sergei,” the Tsar’s voice rang loud, yet his lips barely moved. Ivan hunched on his gilded throne, swathed in a thick, sable cloak. His skin looked ashen, his cheeks sunken. He might have been an invalid. Whispers circulated that, under the cloak, Ivan’s body looked skeletal, like it ate itself from the inside out.

  Sergei Tarasov knew first-hand the rumors were true. The Tsar was a living skeleton. It didn’t bother Sergei. So long as the animated corpse of unified Russia continued to allow Sergei to lead the Ophrichniki raids, he could be the devil incarnate, for all Sergei cared.

  Sergei stepped forward, bowing low. “Thank you, my Lord Tsar. I would like to bring your highness’s attention to a matter I know has long occupied you.”

  Ivan remained still as a statue, his lips moving only enough to show life. “And what is that?”

  “Novgorod.”

  Ivan’s lips moved again, though not in speech. They curled into a sneer, peeling back from his teeth. Everyone knew Ivan had long viewed the city of Novgorod as a thorn in his side. He’d searched a long time for a reason to bring the prosperous city to its knees.

  “If I may address the council, your grace?” Sergei spread his hands and dipped his head obsequiously.

  Ivan shifted positions for the first time since the meeting began, sitting up straighter and leaning forward. “You may.”

  Sergei turned to address the entire room. Twenty men stared back at him, all senior members of the Oprichniki order, including Sergei's father. Tonight's meeting of the Oprichniki council had been called in secret.