Citadels of Fire

  ***

  Late that night Taras returned to his rooms. The meeting lasted the rest of the day. Ivan wanted to move in a month’s time, which was not nearly long enough to get everything ready. Such a march would mean not only preparing the soldiers and their equipment, but the working classes as well. An army on the march needed cooks, tailors, blacksmiths, and a whole slew of other workers to serve it. Many of the working class jumped at the chance to go with the army—not because they were invited or because they would fight, but because they could make money from the soldiers on the trail.

  This campaign against the Tatars would be one for the histories. Ivan spared no expense, and accepted no excuses.

  Entering his apartments, Taras found Inga sitting on his bed, reading a book by candlelight. She usually waited up for him. For more than six months after the fire, they'd not shared a room at night. No one had a room for that long. The soldiers slept in tents on the palace grounds. Every able-bodied man was put to work rebuilding the destroyed parts of the palace. During those months, Inga slept with the rest of the servants in makeshift quarters until the servants’ quarters in the palace were suitable for habitation again.

  After the palace was rebuilt, she’d not shared his room for another two months. Taras missed her company and found his rooms lonely without her. When he asked her about it, she said she thought the danger from Sergei had passed. Though Taras had kissed her many times since the night of the fire, he'd done no more than that. He privately thought Inga felt awkward sharing a room now that things had become more personal between them.

  He understood, but still wished she would come back. One night he passed her by chance in the corridor.

  “Inga, I know it’s awkward, but I . . . am still worried about Sergei trying to harm you.” Taras was not ashamed of how he felt about her, and wanted to speak plainly, but when looking her in the face, he found it harder than he'd imagined to tell her how he felt.

  She shook her head. “Perhaps in the future we will have to begin our pretense again. For now, Sergei is preoccupied, and rarely in the palace. There’s no reason for you to sleep on the floor unnecessarily.”

  “I’ve told you I don’t care about that. Inga,” he stepped closer to her. “I miss . . . our conversations at night.” She looked straight at him, and he took advantage, holding her gaze with his own. He stepped closer still, so his face was directly above hers, almost touching it. “I miss you.” He cradled her cheek in his hand. She shut her eyes, then abruptly opened them and stepped back, out of his reach.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She fidgeted uncomfortably. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  He knew her reaction was more about fear than anything else. Every time he tried to get close to her, she pulled away. “What are you so afraid of?”

  She heaved a frustrated sigh and studied the walls, the ceiling, the stones beneath her feet, everything except him. Finally, she looked up again.

  “Taras, I am a servant. And life is hard. It’s cold in the winter, fire in the summer . . . death . . .” She trailed off, looking distant. “I don’t think I could stand any more heartache.” A look of desperation entered her features. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  “You think I do? Inga, I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve never wanted . . .” He decided to try another approach. “It doesn’t have to be physical—it never has been before. Your company would be enough.” He stepped toward her, hand outstretched. She backed away. He dropped his hand. “Is there nothing I can say to convince you?”

  She instantly fell back on her old formality. “You can ask whatever you wish, my lord. I cannot stop you.”

  “Inga, stop it. You know I hate it when you do that.” She glanced at him with surprise, and he moderated his tone. “How many times do I have to tell you I would never force you to do anything you don’t—” He cut off. He didn't see the point of finishing a sentence he’d said a hundred times. He turned away from her, running his hand through his hair. When he faced her again, all he could come up with was, “Don’t you believe me?”

  And perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps she couldn’t. She was, as she said, a servant. Her masters did not request things of her; they demanded them. Maybe she truly didn’t understand the difference. When he persisted at something, she immediately felt the threat of the taskmaster’s whip. He wished she didn’t feel that way toward him.

  She frowned at his question, and for the first time since the conversation began, he saw emotion bubbling in her eyes. Perhaps it all lay directly beneath the surface.

  He crossed the distance between them, coming so close that she didn’t try to look up into his eyes, but rather down at his chest. He tilted her chin up with his finger.

  “If this is not something you want, then all right. Inga, you don’t have to hide from me. If you change your mind . . . or if Sergei does come around again, the offer of help still stands. I will always protect you from him, and any others like him.”

  She made no reply, so Taras walked away. When he’d gone several paces, he heard her soft voice.

  “Taras.”

  His heart leapt when she said his name, but he did not turn around too eagerly.

  “Thank you.”

  Though contentment was the last thing he felt, he managed to smile.

  A week later he found her at his door in the middle of the night. She confessed she, too, missed their conversations, but didn't know whether continuing them was proper.

  “Taras, I’m sorry. I’m so afraid.” When he said nothing, she added, “besides, Yehvah still disapproves.”

  “Why have you come, then?”

  Instead of answering, she rolled up the sleeve of her dress, almost to the shoulder. Sinister black and blue bruises, which faded to yellow encircled her upper arm.

  “What happened?” He fell into a squat next to where she sat on the bed to get a better look at them. They looked painful.

  “Sergei.”

  He sat back with a sigh.

  “He said if you were no longer interested . . .” She didn’t need to finish. He placed his fingers on her shoulder and gently ran his thumb over the bruise.

  “I’m sorry he hurt you.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. Taras, I’m so sorry. Please understand. I know I’m a coward, and this isn’t fair to you. It’s not that I don’t . . .”

  He waited, desperately wanting her to go on.

  “Please,” she gazed at him with desperate eyes, “be patient with me. I don’t know what I want yet.”

  “I think you do, Inga, but you are afraid to want it.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she studied the ground. Then she shrugged. He supposed it was the only reply she would give. He tilted her chin up toward him again. “Inga, you deserve to want something for yourself.” She made no reply. After a moment, he nodded, mostly to himself. He could be patient.

  He wished it had been him that brought her to his room that night, and not Sergei. Ultimately, he didn’t care. She was close by again, where he could keep her safe. And though he longed to touch her, having her close felt far better than being alone. In the end, it was enough.

  Ever since, Inga had slept in his bed. He kissed her often. Soft, barely lingering kisses. If he tried to do more, she pulled away. Often the two of them would stay up into the witching hours, talking. They talked about everything—politics, religion, life philosophies and other beliefs, childhood experiences, and more. He told her of his investigation into his mother’s death. She was, other than Nikolai, perhaps the only one in the world who knew what it meant to him.

  Their companionable, late-night discussions had become his favorite part of the day. His political duties were boring. His soldiering duties were work—not necessarily unpleasant work, but work nonetheless. Then he would enter his apartments in the evening, and Inga was light. And warmth. And companionship. To find her waiting up for him after a long, tedious day made the ominous task ahead seem less weighty.

>   She smiled at him as he entered. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met.

  “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “Something Yehvah gave me.”

  “I always mean to ask you: where does Yehvah get her books? For that matter, how did she obtain her education? You said she taught you and the other maids, but if she’s been a servant her entire life, how did she learn to read and write?”

  Inga laughed softly. “I don’t know, Taras,” she said ruefully. “I’ve asked her a hundred times. She always sidesteps my questions. As for the books, I think she may have an understanding with one of the boyars, and borrows from them.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “She brings me these books and scrolls, and they’re in good condition, but where on earth does she keep them? Not in the servants’ quarters, certainly. Borrowing is the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Do you know from whom?”

  She shook her head. “No. I have a suspicion, but I don’t know for sure.”

  While they talked, Taras removed his sword, belt, coat, and other vestments. “I suppose you’ve heard that the tsar has declared war on Kazan?”

  “Who hasn’t? The news has been up and down the palace at least a dozen times.”

  With a sigh, he sat down opposite her on the bed, his back to her, rubbing his hands over his face. He was so tired.

  “It will be a long, difficult campaign. Months, probably.”

  “You don’t want to go?” Her asked quietly.

  “It’s not a matter of wanting, Inga. I’ll have to put my investigation into my mother’s death aside. I can pick up again easily when I return. Assuming I do return. In truth, I don’t relish being away from you for so long.”

  “You won’t have to be. I’m coming too.”

  He turned to face her. “What?”

  She nodded. “Yehvah will leave Anne in charge of the palace while the army is away. Only a few servants are staying behind. They will have little to do except clean vacant rooms and cook for themselves. The rest of us will accompany Yehvah on the march, to help feed the army.”

  Taras leaned back, pondering the implications.

  “What is it, Taras? You don’t want me to come?”

  “It isn’t that.” He reached over and covered her hand with his. “I’m glad I’ll be able to see you. But a campaign will be dangerous.”

  She smiled mischievously. “Don’t worry, lord Taras. The tsar will protect his servants well. Otherwise, he may have to serve himself on the war trail.” She grinned, and he laughed. “Of course, if you’re worried, you could always try to tell Yehvah who she can and cannot take.”

  “I would rather battle the Tatars by myself.” They both laughed. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

  “Will we win, do you think?”

  “Hm?”

  “The battle. Will Russia win?”

  Taras considered. It was not a question he'd asked himself.

  “I have no experience on the battlefield with the Tatars, but I understand they can be vicious. We will be attacking them on their own ground. Russia’s army is far larger and better armed than the Tatars’.” He sighed. “I don’t know. Only time will tell. Even if we win, the siege is likely to be long, and many good men will die before it’s over. War is often as cruel to the victor as it is to the vanquished.”

  “Well, it will be a new landscape for you to draw.”

  Taras smiled. Inga always seemed impressed with his drawings. She made them into a bigger accomplishment than they truly were. Drawing calmed him. She made it seem like artistry was unimaginable, or unattainable.

  “When will we set out?” she asked.

  “Three weeks from tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “In ten days’ time, I will be leaving for a few days.”

  “Where?” He’d never heard Inga talk of leaving before.

  “Remember when I told you about my friend Natalya, who married before you arrived here?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “I’ve gotten Yehvah’s permission to visit Natalya for a few days. She lives on an estate twenty miles outside the city. I feared we would have to leave before I could see her, and then it will be months before I get another chance.”

  Taras grinned. As she spoke of her friend, Inga’s voice took on a girlish excitement he rarely saw in her; she was so stoic most of the time.

  “Do you need an escort?”

  She wrinkled her nose. She often did that when she didn’t know the answer to a question.

  “I don’t know. I’m sure Yehvah has something planned. But I wouldn’t mind the extra company.”

  He smiled. “Let me know when you’re leaving.”

  Nearly stuffing his fist in his mouth to stifle a yawn, he got to his feet to make up his bed by the cold fireplace. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “Wait,” Inga said as he picked up a thick bearskin for padding against the hard stone floor. “I’ve been thinking.” She averted her eyes, seeming nervous. “You’ve more than proven I can trust you, and I do.” She looked him in the eye. “I truly do, Taras.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Well, I still feel guilty making you sleep on the floor.”

  Taras rolled his eyes. "This again?”

  “All right," she made a placating gesture with her hands. "Why don’t we both sleep in the bed?”

  Taras’s eyebrows rose slowly as understanding dawned. “Are you okay with that?”

  She raised a finger at him in mock severity. “I will have your most excellent word, good sir, that you will be on your best behavior and keep to your side of the bed. Understood?”

  A smile crept onto his face.

  “I’ll have you know, I sleep with a dagger under my pillow, and I know how to use it.”

  He tried to swallow his laughter, but didn't quite manage it. The noise he made sounded like he’d coughed and sneezed simultaneously.

  “What?” Inga looked indignant. “I do.”

  “You sleep with a dagger under your pillow?”

  Reaching behind her, she pulled out a tiny knife. It was hardly a dagger. It looked like a vegetable knife, no bigger than his thumb.

  “Inga, that knife isn’t suitable to gut a chipmunk.”

  “Doesn’t mean it couldn’t stab you in the hand and keep you from wielding your sword properly, should your hand be where it ought not to be.”

  Taras’s eyes shifted to the right, considering. “You make an excellent point,” he allowed. Inga nodded as if to say “of course I do,” but a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

  Adopting her mock severity, he gave her an elaborate bow. “You have my word, gracious lady.” He straightened and let the playfulness leave his voice. “I won’t touch you.”

  She smiled. Taras crossed the room, removed his shirt and boots, and slid into bed beside her. It was large enough to allow several feet of empty mattress between them, while still avoiding the extreme edges.

  Taras lay down with relief, grateful for the soft bed rather than the floor after the day he’d had. Inga blew out the candle she’d been reading by.

  Despite his fatigue, Taras found himself wide awake, heart beating double time, once the light was out. He would keep his promise to Inga, but he drifted off to sleep with an acute awareness of how close the sound of her breathing was.