by K L Conger
Nikolai appeared on the porch. Now claiming sixteen winters, he’d begun to grow a beard. It remained thin and wispy, but would grow in to match Taras’s soon. The boy‘s chest had filled out and he’d grown taller and more imposing than Taras ever managed. He retained a lean waist and held a soldier’s physique. Ah, to be a young man again.
Nikolai stood on the porch, watching Taras secure all the parcels to the saddle before checking all the saddle straps for the fourth time. Taras knew the straps to be secure, but wanted to put off Nikolai’s departure as long as possible.
Finally, Nikolai stepped down from the porch and took the horse’s bridle in one hand. “Please, Papa. Come with me. You can show me the places you’ve seen. We’ll see all new places together.”
Taras had fully expected this. Nikolai announced he planned to leave Anechka three months before. Before the snows came. No doubt in order to make preparations all winter, and to allow Taras time to get used to the idea.
The final reason had been, Taras felt certain, to allow him plenty of time to talk Taras into coming with him.
And Taras considered it. Truly, he did. More seriously than he’d considered going with Ganbold all those years ago. More seriously than he’d considered going to Poland with the three Boyars who’d passed through the last time the Tatars burnt Moscow. Certainly much more seriously than he’d considered the offers of dozens of other travelers who’d passed through Anechka over the years.
While he considered all of their offers to be sincere, he understood that most of them wanted to use him for their own gain. After speaking with him, they recognized him as a logical, educated man, and thought bringing him along would prove smart. Taras felt no interest in their lives or their troubles. Hope of Inga always kept him chained to the edge of this valley.
So many people, especially Nikolai, pointed out that in all these years, Inga never came. They were all correct. So why did he still wait for her? Did he merely lament a life that had never truly been his? In the past decade, he’d lain awake countless nights, questioning his choices and wondering if he’d merely become Fortune’s fool. Perhaps he should have left long ago. Perhaps his ‘convictions’ would prove merely the misguided beliefs of a man whose heart broke inside the Kremlin walls of Moscow. He truly didn’t know anymore.
Nearly every night of the past three months, he’d lain awake, tossing and turning more heavily than ever before about whether to leave with Nikolai or not. He’d lived side by side with his son for more years than he ever enjoyed with Inga. In truth, he’d passed that threshold a dozen years ago.
Yet at times, memories of his and Inga’s lives together danced more vividly in his head than anything here in this little valley did.
Taras loved Nikolai more than he could put into words. And yet...
The prospect of staying with Nikolai felt pleasing. The idea of traveling with him held value. Taras still couldn’t bring himself to abandon his little Siberian home. While the thought of Nikolai leaving made Taras’s chest ache with a nearly unbearable weight, the thought of leaving Siberia troubled him more.
During the past three months, he’d come to a decision about leaving many times. Roughly half of those decisions had been to go with Nikolai. The other half had been to stay. When it came right down to it, his feelings about the prospect of leaving with Nikolai felt worse than his feelings at the prospect of staying. All a man truly had to go on were his feelings.
If he left Siberia with Nikolai, he’d regret it. He’d also regret not having his son in his life anymore, but not as much.
And of course he kept remembering the words of the strange traveler who’d visited three seasons ago with his watery blue eyes and the way he’d blinked out of existence. Taras came to believe Karl had been a spirit of some kind. It didn’t explain the rock in the black bag, which still lay in its place on Taras’s hearth. No woman had ever appeared to claim it. Perhaps only angels and spirits could explain such things.
Karl encouraged Taras to stay in the valley and wait for Inga. At this point, Taras acknowledged he no longer believed she would truly come. It hardly mattered. He felt there must be some other reason he needed to stay. Something still holding him fast to this valley and his life here. Perhaps he merely needed to stick to his convictions. To see something through he’d begun twenty years ago on the border between Russian civilization and the Siberian wilderness. He wanted to see it through, loneliness and all. And so, he would stay.
Taras turned to his son. “We’ve been over this, Nikolai. You know I can’t come with you.”
“Why not?” Nikolai must have known what Taras’s answer would be. Still, his face looked utterly crest-fallen.
Taras opened his mouth, but Nikolai hurried on, cutting him off before he began.
“I know the story about the woman you’re waiting for. You’ve told me a hundred times. I know you promised her. No one in the world expects you to live up to that promise after eighteen years. Why do you feel so compelled to wait? Why does it hold you so tightly that you choose solitude over companionship?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Nikolai,” Taras said gently.
Nikolai’s eyebrows hiked in surprise.
Taras made sure to keep any harshness from his voice when he went on. He didn’t want Nikolai to think Taras judged him or harbored anger about his decision to leave. Truly, he didn’t. He understood more than he could convey, but he wanted to make a point. He desperately wanted Nikolai to understand why he couldn’t leave.
“You are young, and still have your entire life ahead of you. Why do you feel the need to leave now? I doubt I’ll be around for more than another handful of years, my boy. You could wait until I’ve passed to begin your travels.”
Nikolai dropped his eyes, looking vaguely guilty. “I simply cannot stay another year in this lonely place, father. I’ve loved the home and life you’ve created for us here. I simply feel compelled to go see the wide world and make my own way.”
“Just as I feel compelled to stay here, Nikolai. Who knows why we feel what we feel or what pushes us toward one place, or pulls us toward another? Men cannot hope to understand the unseen forces that wander the world. You want to go. You feel it is time. I understand. More than I can tell you. I left my home in England and rode on horseback across the world to find justice for a mother I barely remembered. I needed to mete out the justice she never received.
“When I did, I met the only woman I ever loved and followed in my father’s footsteps by leaving her in Moscow.
“I know you think after so many years of my life, it should all be finished. For me, it hangs open like the gaping maw of an angry tiger. Perhaps I will die with the Russian threads of my life unfinished. That’s in God’s hands now. I cannot leave this place without tying them together. Whether it will be possible or not before I breathe my last, I cannot say. But I must stay. As you must go.”
He stepped forward and put his hands on Nikolai’s shoulders. “Know that you go with my blessing. With my love. You are a fine man, Nikolai. As fine as the man I named you for. You are the only man I’ve ever loved better than I loved him. I know you will find your way in the wide world. You will influence the people you meet for good. Don’t ever compromise your morals, Nikolai. Don’t ever tolerate evil in the world. Be a man of action. A good man. That alone will keep evil at bay. You will always have my love. My heart, as you did when you claimed only a few days on this earth and fell into the snow. I laid you against my chest to keep you warm. Even then, I knew you’d hold my heart forever. Go in safety, and with the grace of God.”
Nikolai’s eyes swam with tears. He lunged forward and pulled Taras into a bear hug. The time it lasted felt all too short. All good things in Taras’s life seemed of short duration. Perhaps this, more than anything else, was his lot.
“I go to Poland, Papa,” Nikolai said fiercely, pulling back to look into Taras’s face. “I don’t know how long I’ll be there. For a time, I think. I will look up this Abra
mov you met so long ago, if he still exists and lives there. Even if not, I want to earn enough money to travel comfortably, as you’ve told me to. I want to see other parts of the world. Perhaps England. I want to see the country where my father grew up.”
Taras swallowed past the lump in his throat. “There isn’t much there for you, lad. But it’s beautiful country. Visit the shore. And the moors, if you can. You’ll like them, I think.”
Nikolai nodded and dropped his arms from Taras’s shoulders. “I’ll leave word everywhere I go, so you can follow if you change your mind. If you do, please come. You should see your homeland again before you die.” He mounted the horse, raised a final hand in farewell, and trotted northward, into the Siberian wilderness. Unlike the strange traveler, Nikolai did not wink out of existence. Taras watched him grow smaller and smaller until he could no longer differentiate him from the horizon.
Wiping tears from his cheeks, Taras trudged back into the cabin.
Chapter 30
April 1568, Moscow
Ivan sat in his private chambers, stewing over the events of late. Livonia. Poland. That damned Stephen of Bathory. All of it put him in a foul mood.
A knock interrupted his thoughts and Ivan felt instant irritation.
He motioned to his servant to open the door.
Leonid Kuznetsov, one of Ivan's trusted spies, strode through the door, looking triumphant. Ivan addressed his servant. "Leave us. Close the door behind you."
The servant bowed in acquiescence and obeyed.
"You have something for me, Kuznetsov?" Ivan asked eagerly.
Kuznetsov stepped forward with a nod. "I may have found something you have long searched for, my lord Tsar.”
"Yes?” Ivan asked with irritation. "What is it?"
"A runaway serf from Vorotynsky’s estate. He's quite angry with his master. So angry, he might be willing to make...accusations."
Elation filled Ivan's chest and he leapt to his feet. "Accusations of witchcraft? The serf has agreed to this?”
Ivan had searched for a way to bring down Vorotynsky since the Tatars attacked Moscow. The man’s name sat on every tongue, praised and lauded for his military prowess wherever he went. Ivan simply didn't understand how people could be so foolish. God won the war and Ivan gave the orders. He deserved the fame and praise. Not Vorotynsky. Well, no more! The people’s worship of the famous general would at last come to an end.
"I think the serf is willing to accuse his master of nearly anything, Lord Tsar," Kuznetsov said. “If I may still be so bold as to suggest a course of action?" He bowed his head in deference.
Ivan motioned impatiently for the man to go on.
"I have already questioned this man somewhat and he’s told me something interesting. Roughly three years ago, you put the palace’s Head Maid, a woman called Yehvah, to death for witchcraft. Especially for doing harm to Tsarina Martha. This serf tells me his master held a meeting with the Head Maid’s right hand woman. The one who took her place. It's possible that because Yehvah lay in the dungeon, unable to meet Vorotynsky herself, she sent her first maid to meet on her behalf. Which means Vorotynsky held secret meetings with witches."
Ivan's mind raced with possibilities. "Secret meetings with witches,” he cried. "For the purpose of harming the Tsar’s person." Vorotynsky basically met with a convicted witch. Or at least with her proxy. He wouldn't have to stretch the truth far, it seemed.
"You’ve done excellent work for me, Kuznetsov," Ivan said formally. "You shall be rewarded. Make certain the serf has his story straight. The formal accusation will be made today. My streltsi will arrest Vorotynsky before sundown."
Kuznetsov bowed deeply at the waist before disappearing through the door.
Ivan dropped into his chair with deep satisfaction. He knew well Vorotynsky was no witch. It hardly mattered. When he meted out justice against guilty parties, Ivan always felt gratification because he knew himself to be in accordance with the judgment bar of the Almighty.
When the people he executed were innocent, the satisfaction subtly heightened for him. He admitted, if only to himself, that he often indulged in the pleasure of it. The scent of blood and burning flesh strayed beyond mere pleasure and into ecstasy when he knew the party remained innocent.
At last, he would have the pleasure of seeing Mikhail Vorotynsky’s downfall. Ivan's mouth watered and he allowed fantasies about the upcoming event to fill his mind.
KIRIL MOVED INTO RED Square as the fires roared to life and Vorotynsky trudged into view. Hundreds of people packed the square. Chances were, like Kiril, none of them wished to witness today’s torture, but they hadn't been given a choice. Ivan ordered the square be filled for his day of triumph, and so the square would be filled.
Vorotynsky did nothing wrong, and the entire court knew it. Ivan merely resented that the general’s triumphant victory brought him so much fame among the people. Ivan couldn't stand rivalries for his affections. He’d no doubt convinced himself the man deserved to die.
Guards brought the prisoner out to stand before the Tsar. Vorotynsky, muscles still carved and strong in his old age, wore only rough skins wrapped around his loins. His arms, legs, chest, and belly lay exposed to the air of the falling night.
As usual, a dais had been set up with a gilded chair for Ivan to sit on and watch the festivities. He didn’t currently sit there, however. Rather, he stood out close to the stake Vorotynsky would be tied to, between two massive fires. Apparently, the front row seat on the dais wasn't close enough for Ivan.
As soon as Vorotynsky stood in front of Ivan, the Tsar raised his hands for quiet. Given how many people stood in the square, it hadn’t truly been noisy. The low hum of conversation died entirely now as the Tsar spoke.
"You are accused of witchcraft, General Vorotynsky. Witchcraft with the aim of bringing harm to our person. What answer you to these charges?"
Vorotynsky stood a little taller, despite his lack of raiment. He raised his voice and addressed Ivan.
“I have not learned, O Tsar, nor have I received the custom from ancestors, to practice magic or believe in devilry. But I have learned to praise the One God, who is glorified in the Trinity. And to serve you, my Tsar and Sovereign. The man accusing me is a servant who ran away after attempting to rob me. You should not believe him or accept any evidence from such a man. For he is an evil-doer and has betrayed me, bearing false witness against me.”
"Exactly what a witch would say," Ivan sneered. "Tie him to the stake!"
Obediently, the guards bound Vorotynsky to the stake, wrapping his arms backward around it and securing his wrists and ankles. Then, the fires were stoked. Though the fires burned close to Vorotynsky’s person, the flames didn't truly touch him. At first, Kiril supposed it merely felt like a great amount of heat. Over time, Vorotynsky’s skin darkened and blistered. He groaned in agony as his skin smoked and split. The hero of Khazan and Molody slowly roasted alive.
Ivan walked to one of the two fires and pulled out a long metal poker. Kiril didn’t notice at first, but half a dozen of them stuck out from the coals. He didn’t understand their function until Ivan pushed one of them against Vorotynsky’s bare flesh. Brands. Vorotynsky groaned between gritted teeth as his skin hissed and smoked where the brand touched him.
Ivan seemed to find sport in moving the brands up and down and all over Vorotynsky's body. When the fires became too hot and Ivan couldn't stand close enough to administer the brands, he lashed them to the end of his staff with a leather tie to get more length and used the staff to move them up and down.
The smells of cooking meat and burnt hair filled the square.
Ivan had killed many innocents in his day, but this man represented more than mere innocence. He’d done Ivan and Russia a great service by saving them from the Tatars. Still, Ivan tortured him. The Tsar’s face held a sadistic, childlike glee and Vorotynsky screamed.
Kiril didn't seethe with anger. He felt the anger, boiling down deep in his guts. He'd learned to c
ontrol it long ago. He allowed himself to feel it, but not to show it. His time approached. He felt it. After all these years, he knew how to be patient.
Two hours later, Vorotynsky still lived. Barely. Horribly burnt, he was loosed from the stake and laid on a litter. The burns covering his body ranged from red to black. Large chunks of his skin flaked off like ash and much of his hair and beard had burnt away.
His litter was destined for the Monastery of Belozersk to live out what remained of his life. Kiril sent up a prayer to God for Vorotynsky’s soul. He had work to do.
KIRIL STOOD IN THE Great Hall days later when Ivan received a letter. The Tsar read the letter silently a moment before his face became a rictus of rage. Ivan picked up the plate in front of him, still holding part of his uneaten dinner, and hurled it against the wall, shattering it into tiny shards. He leapt to his feet, screaming obscenities and stabbed one of the kitchen men in the foot with the spike on the end of his staff. Then he stormed out of the Great Hall, leaving his court staring after him.
It took a few days, but Kiril figured out what Ivan’s letter said.
Vorotynsky never made it to the monastery. It was common knowledge around the court. He’d died on the way.
The letter said Ivan’s mortal enemy, Andre Kurbsky, heard about Vorotynsky’s torture and death. He sent Ivan some scathing words on the subject.
“Oh most excellent and steadfast of men,” Kurbsky wrote of Vorotynsky. “Great and glorious is your blessed memory! You have been counted worthy to receive great reward by suffering in your innocence at the hands of that great drinker of blood. You have been counted worthy together with all the great martyrs to receive crowns from Christ our God in His Kingdom. From your youth up to a little before your sixtieth year, you many a time bravely defended His sheep against the Mussulman wolf.”
Ivan screamed and broke vases, pottery, and even icons all night long.
Kiril didn’t understand why Ivan let Kurbsky get to him so. If they hated one another anyway, what did Ivan care what Kurbsky said of him? Court gossip said they’d once been friends. Kurbsky betrayed Ivan by defecting to Poland. It happened years before Kiril came to court. Yet the wound, for Ivan, obviously still felt fresh. Kiril supposed the more a man loved a person, the deeper and longer their betrayal stung. Kiril supposed he understood that much.