Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  Kiril did not sleep with the darkness, as he’d planned. He spent most of the night carrying Endar to a place outside the city, by the main road, and digging a small grave for him.

  Red Beard helped him.

  As he dug, he let bitter, seditious thoughts churn through his head. Endar should have lived. Kiril should have been able to save him. The two of them should have grown up together in Novgorod and raised families of their own. They didn't. Perhaps Kiril could do nothing about that, but he should have been able to.

  And he would. He didn’t know when, but one day, he would.

  Afterward covering his friend with a layer of dirt, and then stones, he found a short, fat tree branch and used his knife to cut it in half. Then he used what little writing he’d learned from Evgen to carve Endar’s name into the wood, along with the words “boyhood friend.” He placed the wood securely between two rocks and said a prayer for Endar’s soul, and the souls of all those betrayed by their fallen Tsar.

  Then he plodded back toward Moscow. Red Beard walked by his side.

  Chapter 19

  July 1556, Moscow

  Breathing hard, Inga shouldered through the younger maids until she stood at Yehvah’s side. She’d already pushed her way through the streets of Moscow, crowds standing hundreds of people deep, to reach Yehvah’s side. The younger maids parted easily by comparison.

  Yehvah turned her head toward Inga without moving her body. "Where have you been? They're about to start."

  "Apologies, Yehvah. I lost track of time."

  Yehvah gave her a scathing look, but didn’t press the issue, for which Inga felt grateful. Her explanation for having lost track of time was true, but she had no justification for it. She often found herself daydreaming these days, and could lose hours to absolutely nothing. Today, she'd been thinking of Anne.

  Inga found herself missing Anne’s company. She’d never felt as close to the woman as she felt to Yehvah. Yet, she’d grown up with Anne’s steady presence at her shoulder. She knew she’d never see Anne again. In truth, no one could know her fate for certain. She might die on the journey to Kazan, or sometime after. She might live a long time, or be dead already. Based on what Ekaterina reported, the chances of her falling to the fire were minimal, though parts of the city still burned when the Tatars took her.

  Inga’s heart ached for not being able to help her friend. Yet that did not excuse her mental absence or tardiness. She turned her thoughts to Ivan’s pending speech.

  Yehvah had secured a relatively good spot outside the Cathedral of the Assumption. Near the back, she stood directly below one of the windows. Granted, they still wouldn’t be able to hear or see much—spots making that possible were reserved for boyars, politicians and clergymen—but they’d observe a good bit more than most of the crowd behind them. They’d also hear the news passed back more quickly.

  Ivan favored this Cathedral, Inga thought, with its white façade and five golden domes—styled to represent Christ and the four evangelists—because he’d been crowned Tsar here. He often used it for events he deemed vitally important to his reign.

  The window’s lower edge sat above their heads, but that problem had already been solved. Three men held a fourth on their shoulders. He would peer through the window and report what he saw.

  From inside the Cathedral, a low, respectful hum of conversation buzzed.

  “Will Leonid be sympathetic to Ivan’s plight?” Yehvah asked.

  It took Inga a moment to realize Yehvah addressed Nikolai, who stood on Yehvah’s opposite side. Inga knew a new Metropolitan had yet to be chosen since the last one passed. The Leonid Yehvah mentioned was the Archbishop of Novgorod. He would preside over the ecclesiastical council Ivan had convoked.

  Nikolai snorted. "If anyone will, he will. He's a simpering, greedy man. He'll do whatever he thinks will bring him the most power. I hope they don’t approve the marriage. I won’t get my wish, though.”

  Yehvah frowned at Nikolai. “Why don’t you want them to?”

  Before he could answer, the conversation emanating from the cathedral abruptly went silent. The man peering through the window raised a hand. His clothes had the wrinkled, worked-in appearance of a merchant, and his beard looked well-kept. He would have to be someone with some education to convey what he saw effectively to the crowd, but obviously not a boyar or wealthy man.

  “What do you see?” A male voice from somewhere behind Inga asked.

  “They’ve set up a dais—a raised platform—at the front of the room,” the man answered. “The Bishops all sit upon it. The Tsar now stands and raises his arms. He’s about to begin.”

  It felt as though the entire country quieted to listen.

  Inga had assumed they wouldn't be able to hear what was said, but from so close to the building, Ivan's voice rang powerfully from the cathedral. The stone walls still muffled it, yet utter silence reigned in the courtyard, and if Inga concentrated, she could make out the words.

  "Holy Bishops,” Ivan began. “Evil men used sorcery to take the life of my first wife Anastasia. I hesitated before making up my mind to marry again. The second, a Circassian princess, was likewise poisoned and died in painful convulsions. I hesitated before making up my mind to marry a third time, as I felt commanded to do by my temperament and the position of my children, who have not yet reached the age of reason. Their youth prevented me from withdrawing from the world. To live in the world without a wife is to live in constant temptation. With the blessings of the Metropolitan, I searched for a spouse for many months and at last chose one after careful examination. Hatred and envy caused Martha’s death. She, truly only Tsarina in name, was scarcely betrothed when she lost her health. Two weeks after our wedding, she died a virgin.”

  Yehvah snorted softly.

  Inga felt a pang of fear. A reaction like that, if observed, could be construed as treason. Nikolai must have concurred because he took Yehvah’s hand, furtively but firmly. Inga understood the reaction, of course. Based on the number of times Ivan had visited his third wife’s rooms, and the noises that followed, the idea of her having remained a virgin was laughable.

  “Desperate,” Ivan continued in the cathedral. “Overcome with grief, I wanted to devote myself to the monastic life. Yet, having once again considered the youth of my sons and the distress of my dominions, I dared to marry a fourth time. Now I beg the holy bishops to grant me absolution, and their benediction.”

  In the brief silence that followed, Inga joined the crowd in looking askance of the man peering through the window.

  “The Tsar has swept down onto one knee in front of the Bishops,” the man said. He squinted his eyes, as if to better discern what he saw. “Archbishop Leonid is standing. He’s going to speak.”

  Inga leaned forward, listening with the rest of the crowd. A second, deeper, more sonorous voice than Ivan’s carried out of the cathedral.

  "Supreme Tsar, anointed of God to sit on the throne of Russia. Moving forward with your marriage, especially without the Church’s holy benediction, constituted an illegal act. Despite that, we are deeply moved by this powerful act of contrition. We will confirm the Tsar's marriage under the following set of circumstances. You, Almighty Tsar, are forbidden to enter a church before Easter Sunday. For one year, you will take your place among the penitents and only the next year among the faithful, except in the case of war.”

  A short pause followed, and Inga imagined the Archbishop, decked out in all his Orthodox finery, sweeping his gaze across the crowd.

  “The Tsar’s marriage is allowed only because God smiles upon the Supreme Tsar and he stands apart from other mortals. Should any of his subjects take it upon themselves to follow the Tsar’s example with a fourth marriage, they will receive a fulminating anathema."

  The crowd buzzed with the pronouncement.

  “It’s over,” the man at the window announced. “The Tsar has left the room and the archbishops are getting to their feet.”

  Not that they needed t
he information at that point. The noise from the cathedral became a low roar as the conversation increased and the patrons inside began flooding out.

  A hand rested lightly on Inga’s shoulder. Inga twisted around to see Ekaterina leaning toward her. "What's a fermenting Athena?" Ekaterina asked, her deep, dark eyes genuinely curious.

  Inga didn’t laugh much these days, but the corners of her mouth pulled upward at the girl’s mispronunciation. "It means anyone else who marries a fourth time will be excommunicated."

  Ekaterina’s eyes widened. "Oh."

  Inga leaned around Yehvah to address Nikolai. "I'm surprised the Archbishop agreed to the marriage so quickly."

  Nikolai glanced down at her. "The archbishops have their reasons. They need to vote on a new Metropolitan. They’ve already been too long without one. I'm sure Leonid hopes he will be chosen. Either way, they have bigger things to worry about than the Tsar’s marriage."

  "You said you hoped they wouldn't confirm it, Nikolai," Yehvah said. “They have. So now tell me why."

  Nikolai sighed. He gathered Yehvah and Inga up with his eyes and jerked his head to one side. They followed him into a quiet corner of the Cathedral's courtyard. Ekaterina moved to follow.

  “Stay put, Dear One,” Inga said quietly. “Give us a minute.” She trusted Ekaterina, of course, but the girl was still young.

  Ekaterina nodded and obeyed.

  Nikolai lowered his voice. "The word is, the Tsar plans to take his new bride on a honeymoon. To Novgorod."

  Inga and Yehvah gasped in unison. “Why?" Yehvah asked.

  "Officially, because Novgorod is a beautiful city and now that Ivan has brought it under control,” Nikolai emphasized the words with disdain, “he wants his new bride to see it. He is most pleased with her."

  Inga knew the reason Ivan felt so pleased with his new wife was because she wasn't too sick to perform in the bedroom.

  "There are also unofficial reasons for his visit?" Yehvah asked.

  Nikolai heaved a sigh. "He wants to conclude his armistice with Sweden."

  "Conclude? As in, bring all the soldiers home?" Yehvah asked.

  Nikolai nodded, glancing around as if to make certain no one else stood close enough to hear. "The Tatars are threatening Moscow again."

  “Will they invade?" Inga asked quietly. Knowing they were close again didn’t surprise Inga, but it did frighten her.

  Nikolai shook his head. "I don't know. Ivan wants all his soldiers here, just in case. He ought to stay in Moscow, especially as the city is still getting back on its feet. His presence would bolster the morale of the people. I think part of his reason for going to Novgorod is so he'll be far away if an attack does happen." He turned to Yehvah. "I'll be going with Ivan to Novgorod as part of his security detail. You’ll be coming along as well."

  Yehvah frowned. "Why?"

  "Tsarina Anna Koltovskaya is asking for you specifically. Everyone observed how well you took care of Martha in the days before her death. The Tsarina wants you by her side in case she conceives while they are on their honeymoon."

  Yehvah looked both grim and resigned. She turned to Inga. "You’ll have to oversee the palace while we're away."

  A pang of icy dread gripped Inga’s stomach. She pushed it down. She didn’t like the idea of being without Yehvah and Nikolai, but she would be fine for a few weeks. At the same time, she wouldn’t have wanted to leave Ekaterina, and she wouldn’t have wanted the girl along on a dangerous trip to Novgorod, so there were some advantages to staying.

  Inga nodded at Yehvah’s words. “I will.”

  They walked back toward the palace through the crowded streets. Everyone buzzed with news of what happened in the cathedral.

  Inga didn't have a good feeling about this trip. She would be lonely without Yehvah and Nikolai in the palace, yet it was more than that. She didn't think anything good could come of Ivan returning to Novgorod.

  Chapter 20

  August 1556, Siberia

  The blood drops grew larger and closer together over the space of an hour. The animal Taras stalked silently through the woods had slowed considerably. He carefully placed one foot in front of the other with each step, after checking to make sure no dry leaves or twigs lay below them. He drew close to his prey and didn’t want to spook it.

  He’d shot the deer with two of his arrows earlier this morning. His shots didn’t prove lethal. Hours later, he finally drew close. Deep furrows in the dirt on either side of the trail of blood suggested the animal dragged its hind legs. It might already be dead when Taras reached it. All the more reason to hurry. If the animal stopped moving, other woodland scavengers could get to it before Taras did.

  Ten minutes later, he crested a shallow rise and gazed down the other side. The forest floor declined sharply here, yet trees still grew thickly all down the slope.

  Taras lowered himself onto his belly and lay still for several minutes, searching for movement. After several minutes, he spied the barest flicker of motion through the trees. He stared at the spot, focusing and relaxing his eyes by turns, but didn’t discern anything other than tree trunks and foliage. That didn’t mean the deer didn’t hide there, though. Animals blended expertly with their surroundings.

  Taras rose slowly and moved stealthily down the slope. Minutes later, he came upon the deer. At first, it looked like a log. As he neared it, he discerned the fur of its hide and the distinctive shape of its antlers. The animal weighed three times what Taras did. It lay sprawled on the woodland floor, it’s front legs stretched out in front of it, it’s head lolling to one side. It’s back legs, wet with blood and dirt-caked, lay crumpled beneath it.

  By the way it lay, Taras thought perhaps the deer had already expired. As he neared, though, he saw it still breathed. It wouldn’t be making another get-away, though. Too much blood pooled beneath it. It didn’t even open its eyes when Taras lay a hand on its shallowly-moving ribcage.

  Unsheathing his hunting knife, Taras quickly cut its throat.

  He then set about the arduous task of gutting the animal and cutting the meat into manageable portions to carry home. He preferred to do this work in the woods, rather than slinging the entire animal across his shoulders. He’d become too old for such things.

  While he didn’t exactly need to rush, he still worked quickly. He wanted to return to his cabin before the sun set, so he’d have time to hang and salt the meat before dark. The afternoon still loomed ahead, and he should make it with no problem. Still, a long trek lay ahead of him. One never knew what hid in the wilds of Siberia to delay him.

  He pulled a thick roll of pelts from his bag. He regularly coated the insides of them with animal fat to keep the blood from the fresh meat from soaking through. After wrapping the meat in the pelts, he secured each one with rope-like vines he’d woven together from the skinny, docile branches of Siberian trees. He stuffed as much of the meat into his pack as he could. The animal proved large enough to ensure relatively little of it fit. The rest of the pelts he tied together with more vines and slung them over his shoulder, as a peddler carried a bag of goods.

  Taras made use of more than three quarters of the animal he’d killed, including the pelt, the bladder, and large chunks of bone, from which Anne could boil broth. The rest, he left for the woodland scavengers.

  Two hours later found Taras hiking back toward his cabin in Anechka. He breathed hard, his back bent under the weight of his burden. Just because he’d left behind what he couldn’t use didn’t mean he carried a light load. One of the larger bucks he’d killed this year, it would feed them for weeks.

  Taras reached a part of the forest shaped like a small bowl. Perhaps a dozen fathoms long, he saw the end of it up ahead as soon as he entered it. He walked down the slope of one side before realizing he should have walked the short distance to right or left and avoided the climb back up the slope on the other side. Oh well. Too late now. He trudged onward, breathing hard and sweating under the weight of the meat.

  From some
where off to his left, a sudden, bone-jarring growl met his ears. It came so suddenly in the quiet of the woods, Taras jumped, lost his footing, and fell forward onto all fours, dropping most of his parcels.

  Before he could react, a second, deeper snarl followed the first. Taras froze. He recognized that growl.

  The first one, he felt certain, came from a Siberian wolf. Vicious and intelligent, often growing as large as horses, they were not animals to be trifled with. The second, lower growl, however, concerned Taras more.

  It truly sounded lower—probably because it came from a larger animal—yet it also held a whiny, high-pitched quality. Where the wolves emanated deep, guttural groans, this had been the angry scream of an enormous cat.

  The tiger.

  He’d returned. Taras hadn’t seen him in months. He’d thought the animal left the area, or perhaps died. From what the villagers told him, Siberian tigers were known to roam over long distances.

  Taras couldn’t be sure of anything. Perhaps this was a different animal. Or perhaps the same one from before had returned. He needed to know.

  Another low growl emanated from Taras’s left, followed by a screech and a whimper. Taras pushed himself to his feet, listening intently. The wolf sounded wounded. The growls sounded loud, as if he stood directly beside them. They couldn’t be far.

  Abandoning the parcels of meat for the moment, Taras crept silently up the side of the bowl-like crevice and slowly raised his head to peer over the top. Sure enough, his eyes fell instantly on the warring animals.

  Not one, but three large, gray wolves fought with the enormous tiger.

  Taras immediately recognized it as the one that visited his valley from time to time. He could tell by its size and color, and the white patch over its left eye.

  Why would three wolves attack a Siberian tiger? Wolves were too intelligent for such risks. Even starving wolves didn’t generally attack other predators unless they already lay dead or dying, or would die easily. Obviously not the case here.

  One of the wolves, while still alive and snapping a saliva-dripping snout in the tiger’s general direction, lay in a pool of its own blood in the snow. The yelp and whimper Taras heard earlier most likely came from that one.