Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  “I don’t think the tiger will ever return, Papa,” Nikolai said firmly.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Taras straightened his back, feeling soft pops up and down his spine. “I hope you are. I suppose I won’t know until I’m dead.”

  Nikolai didn’t look especially happy with the response, but he didn’t ask any more questions. The two of them stared into the flames for hours. The day became silent once again.

  MAY 1565, SIBERIA

  Taras finished mucking out the stall for the final time. Jasper finally died a few days before. Taras refused to eat him. Spring had come, and the bear meat lasted easily into the warm months. The woods teamed with game and Taras refused to devour the flesh of so loyal a friend as Jasper.

  Rather, he buried him, laying a blanket of stones atop the ground to keep other animals from digging up the carcass. Today, he’d resolved to muck out Jasper’s stall for the last time.

  Taras doubted he’d ever own another horse. Any travelers who came through and owned horses needed them for their travels. The nearby villagers never kept horses for long. They’d acquired a handful of the animals over the years, but the horses always disappeared in the cold depths of winter.

  Taras could walk to Moscow to purchase a new one of course, but hardly saw the need. In the past few years, with Jasper so weak anyway, Taras learned to hunt on his own two feet.

  The barn door creaked open and Nikolai stepped in. When the snows melted sufficiently, they completely rebuilt that door. It now stood sturdier than it had in a decade, yet still creaked with the slightest bit of wind. Like Taras, perhaps it took a scar that day. One that would never heal. Taras intended to use some fat from his next successful hunt to grease the wooden hinges.

  “Traveler coming, Papa.”

  Taras turned in surprise. “Truly?” He didn’t notice anyone approaching this morning. Most days, Taras glanced toward the horizon frequently enough to see any travelers long before they arrived.

  “Don’t know where he came from,” Nikolai shook his head. “He’s already close. Will be here in a few minutes. I swear, I looked southward and the landscape stood empty. The next time I looked, he’d appeared.”

  “On horseback?” Taras asked.

  Nikolai shook his head. “On foot.” The boy had grown by leaps and bounds over past months. He now stood slightly taller than Taras, though he hadn’t when they’d fought the bear.

  Taras stowed his shovel in the corner of the barn before following Nikolai outside. Sure enough, a traveler plodded slowly toward them. A man, Taras felt sure, because of his large stature, still trudged several hundred yards away.

  He supposed perhaps he and Nikolai both felt distracted this morning, what with Jasper’s death and all.

  Taras went into the house, taking off his muddy boots to leave outside the door, and crossed to his room. Pouring water into the basin, he used it to wash his hands, face and neck before putting on fresh clothes. He walked back out onto the porch as the traveler entered the yard.

  Nikolai stood on the cabin’s porch, knife and gun displayed prominently on his belt. Though he didn’t hold either in his hands, his stance attested to his confidence with the weapons. Good boy.

  The traveler’s skin held the dark brown shade Taras only ever saw when he’d passed through the Middle Eastern countries. The man stood extremely tall, head and shoulders above Taras, with broad shoulders and a strongly-built frame.

  He came to a stop fifteen feet in front of Taras’s porch. He possessed the strangest-looking blue eyes Taras had ever seen. Light blue, rather than the brown Taras remembered seeing on most dark-skinned men. Light blue like the summer sky, they reminded him of Inga’s eyes.

  The man’s clothes, though all the earthy tones of a traveler, were cut oddly as well. Taras wondered what country the man hailed from. He carried a plain, brown pack, slung over his shoulder.

  The traveler bowed at the waist, dropping his eyes respectfully. “Greetings,” his voice boomed like a thousand honeybees. “May a traveler trespass on your kindness?”

  The man spoke English. It didn’t sound broken, but carried a bizarre accent. One completely foreign to Taras.

  “You may,” Taras answered. He hazarded a glance at Nikolai. Both excitement and anxiety danced across the boy’s features. Nikolai always proved eager to meet new people and pester visitors for new stories. Yet, by his slightly anxious stance, even Nikolai felt vaguely intimidated by this traveler.

  Taras turned his gaze back to the man. “I am Taras Demidov. This is my son, Nikolai.”

  The tall man bowed again. “I am called Karl. Please to make your acquaintance.”

  “May I ask where you hail from, Master...Karl?” Taras asked. A strange name to go with a strange man. It sounded vaguely Swedish, but Taras couldn’t be sure. He’d never heard it before.

  “I...come from Africa,” Karl said after a slight hesitation.

  “You speak excellent English,” Taras said. He wondered whether Karl took it as a question or an observation. Even he wasn’t sure what he’d meant it to be.

  The man didn’t seem put off by it, though. He gave them a confident smile. “I have lived in many places and learned many languages, Master Demidov. Most, you probably haven’t heard of.”

  “Truly?” Nikolai chimed in eagerly. “Will you tell us about them over supper?”

  “Nikolai.” Taras let an edge of warning seep into his voice, though he fought a smile.

  “Perhaps our visitor will be so good as to tell a story or two if he chooses. But only after he is warm and his stomach is full.”

  Nikolai immediately looked chastised and motioned excitedly for Karl to come into the cabin. “This way, my lord. I will warm the stew for supper.”

  They passed the rest of the afternoon and evening in the cabin, with Karl regaling Taras and Nikolai with stories of the different parts of the world he’d seen. He told them of outlandish ports, exotic lands, high mountains and waterfalls, and animals Taras had never heard of.

  Nikolai had grown too old to be ordered to bed years ago. Hours after dark, he fell asleep in front of the fire, laying on the pelt of the bear they’d killed together several months before.

  Taras and Karl both grew silent for a time, staring into the flames, and the sounds of Nikolai’s soft snores kept them company.

  “I want to thank you again, Master Taras, for allowing me into your home. I appreciate the hospitality. You have a nice home here. A good boy.”

  Taras chuckled softly. “An overly eager boy.”

  Karl watched him in a discerning way. “Do you fear he will leave you one day?”

  Taras studied the strange man, trying to decide how to answer. He didn’t let himself contemplate the idea of Nikolai leaving him someday. It made him feel too lonely. Yet, he’d admitted to himself years before that Siberia was not enough for Nikolai. He would want to leave someday. Taras wouldn’t want to go with him. He already knew that. What if coming—and staying—in Siberia was a bad decision? What if he should have left years ago, and he was too dim to realize it?

  Taras merely met Karl’s gaze. “Yes.”

  “Will you not go with him, if he leaves?” Karl asked.

  Taras shrugged and stared into the fire. “I wait here for another,” he said softly. “A traveler like yourself. I’ve waited for many years, now, and will probably always wait for her.”

  “Her,” Karl murmured. “Ah.”

  Taras glanced up at him.

  “Do you still believe this woman will come to you? Even after years?”

  “I hope she will,” Taras said with a shrug.

  “But you don’t think she will.” Karl said. It sounded more statement than question. Taras answered anyway, not sure why he shared these things with a man he barely knew.

  “She hasn’t seen fit to yet.”

  “Are you certain she still lives?”

  Taras shrugged again. “As far as I know.”

  “Yet you haven’t given up hope of
her yet?”

  Taras chuckled, letting an edge of bitterness enter it. “No, I haven’t. Don’t try to find too much meaning in it. Only my stubbornness kicking in.”

  “Oh?” Karl peered at him with unabashed curiosity. “I’ve told you most of my stories. Perhaps, in exchange...” he let the sentence hang in the air.

  Taras smiled. What harm could it do? He launched into an explanation of his time in Moscow with Inga. He kept the story vague, leaving out details like Inga’s name, the fact that his name most likely remained on the Oprichniki’s death lists to this day, and other unimportant details.

  “So you see,” he said when he’d finished. “I truly should have moved on long ago. I don’t know what keeps me here anymore. My stubbornness. Or perhaps my pride. “You must think me mad,” Taras murmured. “My son certainly does.”

  “Not at all,” Karl said softly.

  Taras raised an eyebrow at him, finding himself genuinely curious about Karl’s opinion. “Why not?”

  Karl sat forward on his wooden stool, resting his massive forearms on his knees. “I think all men are influenced by the people we meet in our lives. Nothing happens by chance. We become entangled with them. Linked to them, in ways only God understands. If you feel you should stay here and wait for this woman, there’s a reason for it.”

  Taras turned Karl’s words over in his mind for a long time. Eventually the two of them turned in as well. Taras roused Nikolai, who stumbled sleepily to his bedroom. He offered Anne’s room to Karl, as he did with all his visitors. Many preferred to sleep by the fire during cooler months, but spring reigned and the night felt warm. The man graciously accepted.

  The next morning, Karl gathered his belongings and made ready to leave.

  “Thank you again,” he said. “It is most appreciated. I’d like to ask one more favor of you, Master Demidov.”

  Taras raised an eyebrow. “What favor?”

  From his pack, Karl pulled a small black bag, slightly larger than Taras’s hand. “Would you be so good as to keep this for me? Someone will come up behind me to fetch it. A woman. Are you willing to give it to her when she comes?”

  Taras held out his hand and Karl gingerly placed the bag into his palm. “What’s in it?”

  “Only a stone,” Karl answered. “You may look if you wish.”

  Taras loosened the bag’s ties. The material felt bizarre under Taras’s fingers. It shimmered in the morning light like silk, yet felt colder, sturdier, and less soft. Inside lay a perfectly round, white rock. Semi-transparent, but too opaque to truly see through, it reminded Taras of a jewel or crystal. Except it didn’t look clear or shiny enough to qualify as either. Merely a pleasing white rock.

  “What is it?” Nikolai asked, peering over Taras’s shoulder.

  Karl shrugged in an off-handed way. “Merely a stone. It holds sentimental value to the one coming for it. Nothing more. What say you? Will you hold it for her?”

  “When should I expect her?” Taras asked.

  “Next season, I think,” Karl answered. “Shouldn’t be more than a year.”

  Taras didn’t see any harm in holding the stone. “I will keep it for you. What is this woman’s name? Can you describe her, so I know it’s her when she arrives?

  Karl nodded. “Her name is Maggie. She has brown hair and hazel eyes. There, ah, may be a streak of white in her hair.”

  Taras frowned. Might be? Such an odd man. Either a person’s hair turned white or it didn’t.

  “She’ll ask for this parcel specifically, so you’ll know it’s her.

  Taras nodded. He dropped the rock back into the bag and pulled the strings tight. A eccentric request, to be sure, but he’d been asked stranger things in his life. “Very well.”

  “Thank you.” Karl bowed graciously at the waist again. “It is much appreciated. Well, I must be getting on my way.”

  Something occurred to Taras. It made him smile for some reason.

  “You know, Master Karl,” he said. “You’re one of few visitors who’s passed through without inviting me to come along with him.”

  Karl smiled, and Taras thought it held melancholy. “You cannot come where I’m going, Master Demidov. Besides, if you do, you won’t be here when your lady friend arrives.” He winked at Taras before shouldering his pack and stepping off the porch. He headed north, into the wilds of Siberia. Toward the distant mountains with snow still decorating their peaks.

  Taras and Nikolai watched him go until his figure looked small and dark in the distance.

  Nikolai heaved a deep breath. “I’m gonna go check the small game traps,” he said. He disappeared into the house and re-emerged a minute later, armed with his hunting knife on his belt. Taras threw a glance his way as he hopped off the porch and headed into the woods.

  Then Taras peered back toward Karl’s retreating figure. He’d disappeared. Taras traced the horizon with his eyes. Nothing. The man still walked there a moment before, getting smaller and smaller. Now, nothing. As though he’d winked out of existence.

  Definitely a strange man. Still, Taras felt encouraged by what Karl said. Taras would never claim to be perfect or understand the will of God, but what Karl said made sense. If God wanted Taras to move on, shouldn’t he feel compelled to do so? He’d always felt like staying right here, in Anechka.

  Chapter 28

  May 1565, Moscow

  Inga carried a bucket of ice in each hand as she moved back toward the palace. She’d gone out to the icehouse to get some for Yehvah, who was administering to a few sick maids. Illness had been going around the last few weeks. What the maids suffered from hadn’t proved terribly serious thus far. Yehvah didn't think it would be fatal. That said, they still had fevers and couldn't work for a few days, until the symptoms subsided. That meant more work for the maids who weren't ill. Working so hard might lead to their illness.

  Still, they all did the best they could. Inga had been glad to get out of the palace, even for a few minutes, and walk the open air of the grounds. She hadn't dawdled though, knowing there was much to be done and she didn't have the luxury of taking time to herself. Since Nikolai’s death two years ago, Yehvah had become more and more despondent. Inga did most of her work, now, and she didn’t know how much longer Yehvah would continue to serve in any capacity. She tried not to think on that.

  As the door of the kitchens came into view, Inga heard her name being called.

  Her eyes were down on the ground in front of her. Not for any particular reason other than to look where she was going and that, while neither bucket of ice was particularly heavy, after carrying them so far, they’d began to strain her shoulders.

  "Inga! Inga!"

  She looked up to find Ekaterina running toward her. The girl's face looked stricken. Something twisted in Inga's middle. Something was wrong.

  Ekaterina ran until she stood directly in front of Inga.

  "What is it? Inga asked.

  "It's Yehvah. The Tsar’s guards just arrested her."

  Inga's mouth dropped open. It was the last thing she would have ever expected to hear. "The...do you jest with me, girl?" Even as Inga asked the question, she knew the answer was no. Ekaterina wasn’t the jesting type, and the expression on her face bespoke abject fear.

  Ekaterina shook her head. "Truly, I don't. They took her to the dungeons."

  Inga dropped the buckets where she stood. "Why on earth would the Tsar's guards arrest an elderly maid?"

  "They think she murdered the Tsarina."

  Inga had never been so confused in her life. "Why on earth would they think that?"

  Ekaterina shook her head. "I don't know. I heard them talking, but I didn't understand what they meant. Something about herbs and after the Tsarina took them, she died."

  Cold tingled down Inga’s spine. She knew what Ekaterina referred to. The Tsarina had wanted to conceive quickly. Inga didn't blame her. As capricious as Ivan was these days, any wife he took would want to please him and make sure he saw her as useful. The
best way to do that was to produce heirs quickly. The Tsarina and her mother asked Yehvah to find them an herbal concoction to help the Tsarina conceive a few weeks after the marriage. A few weeks after the marriage took place, she'd grown sick and died. That had been years ago, but such details would hardly matter to Ivan.

  He must believe Yehvah’s herbs had been the reason for the Tsarina's death.

  Inga lunged into action, heading for the palace. "Take that ice to the sick wing, Ekaterina. Now, girl!" She said it over her shoulder as she broke into a run.

  INGA APPROACHED THE door of the dungeon. Outside it, a guard sat on a wooden chair, looking bored. Inga had been trying to get him to let her in all day, but to no avail. She’d decided to try a different tactic. Looped over one arm, she carried a small basket with a trivial amount of bread and cheese in it. A torch hissed and sputtered in her other hand.

  As she approached the door, the guard stood, looking protective.

  "I told you, miss. No one is to see the prisoner. Not until the Tsar commands it."

  "I understand, but the Tsar also wants the prisoner kept alive for her trial, does he not?"

  The guard opened his mouth, then shut it again, looking uncertain.

  "I only ask two or three minutes so that I can give her some sustenance. As you can see, it isn't much, but perhaps enough to keep her alive. The Tsar would want the prisoner to live, wouldn't he?"

  She could see her argument made sense to him, but he also worried about disobeying an order.

  Inga stepped closer and lowered her voice. "This can stay between you and I, soldier. No one need know you let me in. A simple maid like me can’t possibly break her out in only a few minutes’ time."