Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  Gritting his teeth, Taras tightened his right hand’s grip on the blade, withdrew it and stabbed again and again. After the fifth blow, the wolf’s movements began to slow. It let go of Taras’s bleeding arm. Evading the slowly snapping snout easily now, he placed the knife more precisely and plunged it into the animal’s heart.

  The animal snapped viciously—a final effort—and Taras rolled away from it, landing on his back but flipping onto his stomach and leaping to his feet, ready to attack again if necessary.

  The wolf staggered drunkenly toward the woods, almost making it to the tree line before collapsing. Its feet kicked feebly. Its head jerked from side to side. Then it lay still.

  Adrenaline coursed through Taras’s body. So much so that he no longer felt the injury to his arm. His limbs trembled with the energy of battle. He hadn't felt so alive in months. Not since leaving Moscow.

  He turned to find the villagers peeking out of their huts. His adrenaline sank somewhat at the way they gaped at him. There would be no convincing them he was not a god, now.

  The pale girl he’d noticed earlier still stood where she’d sat before. She must be either injured or ill to have moved so slowly. It had taken her as long to stand as it took the rest of the villagers to reach the relative safety of their homes. Taras felt a fleeting sympathy for her. He wondered why none of the other villagers had helped her. She, just like the others, gaped at him with eyes the size of English saucers.

  Taras sighed, feeling dejected. He didn’t know why he should, but having these people see him as a god, rather than an equal, felt lonely.

  He trudged around the huts to get his horse. Jasper had seen war and Taras trained the horse to protect itself, but not run far. He found Jasper hiding behind the villager’s huts, head near the ground in fear.

  Taras gently stroked his neck and led him by the bridle back around to the other side of the huts. Jasper rolled his eyes wildly a few times, ultimately following without a struggle. When Taras returned to where the elk still lay in the dirt, the villagers had ventured tentatively out of their huts. They stared at Taras, at the dead wolf, at the elk.

  Taras lead Jasper to the body of the wolf. Using the last of his draining adrenaline, he heaved the wolf’s body across Jasper’s saddle. Only half the weight of the elk, he still struggled to get it into place while the villagers gaped in awe. That done, he dug into his saddle bags for something to bandage his bleeding arm.

  He would have some meat after all, it seemed, and some practice cooking wolf. Its pelt would make an excellent winter blanket. Taking Jasper's reins with his uninjured arm and favoring his sore hip, he led Jasper away from the village and into the woods.

  Chapter 5

  August 1552, Moscow

  Skirting one group of boyars, Inga made a sudden turn to avoid another. She navigated the corridors as quickly as she dared on her way to the royal jewelers. Yehvah had sent a message, telling Inga to fetch the exquisite parcel and see it safely to the bridal chamber.

  Ivan had crowned a new King of Livonia earlier today. Inga caught an eyeful of the coronation ceremony from far back in the crowd, along with the other palace servants. Magnus, the new king of Livonia, was a dashing man with ears too big for his head, but beautiful brown eyes.

  Ivan conducted the coronation with much pomp and circumstance. The entire castle bustled with boyars who’d come not only for the coronation, but also for Magnus’s wedding.

  Inga worked her way through the halls, dodging groups of bored, roving boyars, all of whom would be happy to ask her for things she would be obliged to get for them. That’s why she practiced avoidance. Her current task demanded precedence.

  Up ahead, one such group entered her line of sight. A father and son from a family of outlying nobles, the Lebedev family, and their small coterie of servants. They’d stayed in the palace for the past two weeks. They were all kind to the palace servants, yet every time they saw Inga, they thought of something she could do for them.

  The royal jeweler expected Inga presently. She didn't have time to take on other tasks. Acting quickly, she opened a large closet on her right and stepped in, closing the door almost completely. She left it open a finger’s breadth, so she would know when the group had passed.

  As they approached, she heard snips of their conversation. "...Tsar is angry because of the Act of Union,” the father of the Lebedev clan said. A distinguished-looking man with gray in his beard, he spoke with an authoritative voice. “Ivan has coveted Lithuania and Poland for years. He’d hoped to get his hands on them."

  "Do you think he still can?" Lebedev’s adult son asked.

  The father sighed. “Sigismund Augustus has control over both countries. Lithuania retains its independence only in matters of internal politics. Augustus is a shrewd man. He will not allow Ivan to take what is his."

  "Ivan wants Magnus to besiege Reval as soon as..." The conversation faded as they moved away from Inga’s hiding place.

  Once they’d gone, she stepped out and headed for the jewelers.

  When she arrived, a guard opened the door for her. The Tsar’s jewels must be protected, after all. Inga stepped inside, trying not to let the room’s furnishings shock her. She’d visited the jeweler’s chambers before. The room rivaled Ivan’s own for finery. Thick, plush Persian rugs draped the floors. Expensive tapestries decorated the walls. Every raised surface held ropes of shining jewels.

  “You’re late.”

  The jeweler, an elderly, sanctimonious man with an abnormally large nose wore more jewels on one finger than Inga could have comfortably carried on her entire person.

  “Apologies, my lord. The corridors are quite full.”

  “Don’t make excuses, Maid. Get this to Euphemia. The Tsar wants her to wear it on her wedding day.”

  He held up a plain, brown woolen bag.

  “Yehvah has explained everything to you, has she?” The jeweler sniffed. Though he stood a few inches shorter than Inga, he still managed to look down his nose at her.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The jeweler hesitated, studying her face suspiciously. “Very well,” he finally said, holding out the woolen bag.

  Inga reached out to take it.

  The jeweler snatched it back. “Take care, woman. If it goes missing, the price will be taken out of your flesh.”

  Inga felt simultaneous flashes of fear and annoyance. Fear because he was correct. If anything happened to this piece, she didn’t have enough flesh to make up the cost. Annoyance because Inga was perfectly capable of keeping it safe. She didn’t need to be reminded of its price.

  With another nod, the jeweler put the bag into Inga’s hands.

  Inga returned swiftly to the corridor. Clutching the heavy woolen bag tightly to her chest, she once again hurried through the Terem Palace. She could not stop or do any other chores until she completed this one. It would be too risky. By design, the plain wool of the bag hid the real treasure inside. No one looked twice at what Inga carried. If they knew, they might try to take it from her. Or at least stop her to get a good look.

  She moved as swiftly as possible past the open doors of the Great Hall, doing her best to use the boyars mulling about in the corridor as a shield. Ivan and Magnus sat inside with hundreds of nobles, feasting and making ready for the wedding. Not that Magnus would guess what a lowly palace maid carried in her bag if he saw her, but Inga felt nervous carrying it in the open this way. She kept her head down and pushed through the passageways without interruption or incident.

  When she reached the anteroom of the bridal chamber, she paused. Dozens of boyar women lounged inside. Most sat on cushioned benches with bejeweled goblets in their hands. They wore soft, padded dresses, heavy jewelry and red makeup on their faces. Though the makeup did not flatter them, it served a specific purpose, making them less attractive to the men of the court so they wouldn't be tempted to cheat on their husbands. It also kept men other than their husbands from lusting after them, helping to encourage fidelity on
both sides.

  Inga immediately recognized Toma, the bride's mother. The woman had a formidable look about her, yet a consistent vacancy lived in her expression. Ivan murdered her husband, Euphemia’s father, the year before. Now he’d betrothed Euphemia to Magnus, the new King of Livonia.

  Toma met Inga’s gaze and jerked her head toward the bridal chamber. Inga nodded. She understood she needed to take the parcel in to Euphemia.

  With great difficulty, Inga opened the heavy wooden door on her own and slipped inside, barely managing not to crush the bag in the wooden door frame.

  Inside, four women waited for her. Three were attendants, standing in various places around the room, looking relaxed. Inga didn’t know any of these women well, as they didn’t live in the palace. They came from Euphemia’s household to help her during the wedding.

  The bride stood in front of a long, regal glass, scrutinizing herself. Euphemia wore a traditional red wedding gown to symbolize joy in her marriage. Made of lace and satin, the pinafore dress covered her chest all the way to her neckline. The bodice fell in straight lines to hide the curves of her shape and brushed the ground. Only the tips of her red fur slippers peeked out from beneath. A red kaftan, embroidered with turquoise and thread of gold covered her arms, tapering prettily around her hands. A stole of jewels sat across her shoulders, and a sheer red veil draped her head. In Inga’s bag sat the final piece that would both complete the costume and hold the veil in place.

  Euphemia, dark of hair and eye, with striking though utterly indelicate features, gazed toward Inga, eyes riveted on Inga’s bag. Euphemia’s countenance lit up with joy. “Do you have it?” she asked, eagerly turning from the glass to stare expectantly at Inga’s plain bag.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  From the bag, she gently pulled the bejeweled headdress. The delicate kokoshnik looked much like a Persian tiara, though larger, more crescent-shaped, and much heavier. The top scalloped to a high point above the eyes, in the center of the forehead. It shimmered with jewels worth more than Inga—and perhaps even Euphemia—would ever see again in their lives. Only the best for the wedding of the Tsar’s niece.

  Euphemia’s mouth formed a silent ‘oh,’ as she stared at it in wonder.

  Inga crossed to the bride. The other three women came to stand around Euphemia and offer their help. They adjusted the sheer veil so it stayed out of Euphemia’s face, using the kokoshnik to hold it back. The veil cascaded down her back, brushing her waistline.

  "It is quite beautiful," Euphemia said. "Thank you."

  Inga frowned. The woman’s grateful tone made it sound like Inga had done her a grand favor. Surely Euphemia didn’t think Inga owned this piece. “I...merely brought it, my lady,” Inga said uncertainly.

  Euphemia smiled broadly. "I understand. Thank you all the same."

  Inga smiled and ducked her head in response.

  "These jewels make me so happy," Euphemia gushed. "My marriage day makes me so happy."

  Inga felt a pang of annoyance. "Yes, your grace?" Inga asked skeptically. She froze, realizing she’d sounded insolent.

  Euphemia didn't seem to notice. "Of course!” the woman burst out. “Wouldn’t you be?"

  Ivan murdered Euphemia's father the year before. Granted, enough time had passed for adequate mourning, but Inga didn't think she’d feel comfortable accepting any gift from Ivan after all he'd done.

  "My new husband will be King of Livonia, answering only to my uncle, the Supreme Tsar. It means Caesar, you know. Like the Romans in the old Empire. Magnus will win many victories for my uncle. He shall be a powerful man. The Tsar has done my family wrong in the past. He's making up for it, now. Giving me the chance to be someone important at court. My new life shall be blessed, both by God’s anointed Tsar and His Holy Orthodox church."

  Inga smiled politely. She couldn't keep her thoughts from rebelling, however.

  Euphemia struck her as ignorant. She didn’t understand court politics as well as Inga did. It wasn’t Euphemia’s fault. Inga only understood them because Nikolai educated Yehvah, who in turn educated Inga.

  Livonia would become a self-governed country. Separate from Russia, but loyal to and controlled by Ivan. He would instruct Magnus to besiege territories Ivan intended to control himself. Inga wished she could explain to Euphemia that Ivan was using her betrothed for his own aims. The woman seemed kind-hearted, and Inga had a sinking feeling she would be hurt by Ivan’s schemes.

  Of course, Inga could do no such thing. Propriety forbade it.

  Nikolai said the Act of Union enraged Ivan mostly because Lithuania and Poland were now controlled by Sigismund Augustus, whom Ivan considered an arch-rival. And because Kiev had been ceded to Little Poland, an especially sore point. Kiev was the Orthodox mother of all Russian cities. Ivan believed it should be under his control.

  Of course he did.

  Inga sighed as she studied the bride’s hopeful expression in the glass. Perhaps things would work out as Euphemia believed. Perhaps Magnus would prove a great general, and she would be married to one of the most powerful men in Russia.

  On the other hand, Inga had observed many men such as Magnus over the years. As long as Magnus continued to help Ivan get what he wanted, Ivan would continue to grant Magnus his royal favor. The instant Magnus ceased to be useful, Ivan would discard him, as he had Euphemia’s father and so many others.

  "I wish you well, my lady," Inga said sincerely. “I wish you and your husband all the happiness God can bestow upon your marriage."

  Euphemia turned to beam at Inga. "Spasibo,” she said softly, sounding like she meant it. She turned back to examine her image in the glass once more.

  You’re welcome, Inga thought.

  For herself, she didn't think she’d ever trust Ivan or any other boyar again in her lifetime. Some, like Taras and Nikolai, were genuinely decent, God-fearing people. Most, however, possessed enough money to use people for their aims, so that's exactly what they did.

  Being female meant Euphemia was more trapped than free in the Imperial court of Russia. Even had she not wanted the marriage, Euphemia would have no choice except to obey the Tsar and marry whom he appointed for her.

  Inga wished there were some way to rebel against the injustice of it all. But Inga couldn’t do that. Euphemia couldn’t either. No one defied Ivan the Terrible.

  No, that wasn't true. Taras did.

  Inga felt a pang of longing when his name, accompanied by his handsome image, intruded upon her thoughts. Thoughts of missing Taras always made the perpetual cold in her chest more potent. Taras had been a foreigner, however. Different than most people in Russia. Surely no one else could do what he’d done and live.

  In many ways, Inga envied him that. She envied the freedom he lived by. He’d never feared anything. Inga wished she knew the secret to that kind of freedom.

  The door opened and Toma stepped in, her eyes falling instantly on her daughter. "Your husband awaits, my dear. Are you ready?"

  Euphemia turned triumphantly from the mirror. "Yes mother. I am ready to enter my new life."

  Toma smiled at her daughter. Inga saw gentle adoration in the look, but also a soft sadness. Inga couldn’t help but wonder if Toma knew all too well how naïve her daughter was being.

  Euphemia glided regally from the room and the boyar women in the anteroom fell in behind to serve as her wedding retinue.

  Inga watched Euphemia move toward her new life. She felt Toma’s sadness more than she felt Euphemia's triumph. Along with a vague sense of envy at Euphemia’s happiness. She would never have that with Taras. But then, she never would have anyway. If Taras had stayed in Moscow, she’d have been forced to watch him marry another. Just as Yehvah had watched Nikolai marry.

  Pain flared in Inga’s chest. She missed Taras and hated herself for the fear that overwhelmed her any time she even considered leaving to find him.

  She truly did wish the young woman well. Though she hoped, more than believed, things would turn out as Eu
phemia wanted.

  Filled with longing for Taras and all Inga once thought she would have with him, she moved into the corridor. The wedding would begin soon.

  Chapter 6

  August 1552, Siberia

  The wind whistled menacingly through Taras’s cabin. He’d built it sturdily and harbored no doubt it would hold up to the Siberian winter, keeping him both alive and warm throughout. It certainly had in years past and he’d reinforced it over the summer. Still, the wind proved crafty, finding its way into tiny knotholes the human eye couldn't see.

  Howling ferociously through the trees, it reminded Taras of the Russian legend of the Vila. Inga told it to him one winter’s night when the wind howled through the palace unceasingly. The Vila were wind nymphs. They lived around hills, mountains, and high mounds, and delighted in causing wind storms. Inga said they often appeared as ghost-like figures with long, billowing cloaks wrapped around them. Taras smiled fondly at the memory, feeling a stab of loneliness. He missed Inga terribly.

  Jasper stomped one foot idly in the corner of the cabin. Taras constructed a barn for Jasper the year before but he’d been reinforcing one wall and hadn’t finished yet. That meant large gaps in the barn wall, so when the wind picked up, he’d brought Jasper indoors. As soon as the storm passed, he would have to be quick about finishing the barn. After all, Siberia often saw snow as early as October, which gave him only a few months until winter, once again, hit his little valley.

  For now, Jasper slept inside with him. The fire kept them both warm. It melted the worst of the chill from the air, keeping the cold fingers of winter at the perimeter of the cabin.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Taras leapt to his feet. What on earth would be pounding on his door at this time of night in the storm? For a fleeting moment, he thought perhaps Inga’s legends weren’t legends at all. Perhaps a ghoul had come to suck his soul from his body.

  The next moment, it occurred to him that if a traveler like Ganbold walked in the storm, Taras’s cabin would be a godsend for them. Hand gripping the hilt of the hunting knife hanging at his belt, Taras crossed the room and flung the door wide.