Citadels of Fire

  Chapter 34

  Taras made it back to the tsar’s camp the next night. It took hours to clear the field of corpses, but they accomplished it. Once watches were set up, everyone not on duty was ordered to bed. That especially went for the officers. The Tatars would probably attack from the forest again tomorrow, and Ivan was determined not to be caught unaware again.

  Midnight loomed when Taras rode into camp, but it still bustled with activity. It had been a busy day for everyone, and no one got to bed on time. Fires and oil lamps burned in abundance so daytime chores could be carried on into the night.

  Taras dismounted and handed Jasper’s reigns to a groom. Then he flagged down a courier. The man looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I need you to take a message to someone.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “She’s a kitchen maid under Yehvah’s charge.” He figured most people knew Yehvah. “Her name is Inga.”

  “I know who she is, my lord.”

  “Good. Tell her I’m here in camp and I’m looking for her. I have to report to my superiors, but then . . .” It dawned on Taras how late the hour was. He debated whether he should send for Inga now, though he’d promised he would. “Just tell her I’m here—unless she’s asleep. If she is, don’t wake her.”

  “Of course, my lord. Is that all?”

  Taras hardly understood the question. He rubbed his eyes.

  “Yes,” he managed. “Thank you.”

  The man hurried into the night, and Taras headed toward the tsar’s tent at the center of the camp. He'd been told to report to Mstislavsky before turning in. A ring of soldiers stood guard before the flaps of the tsar’s tent, which were down. One of them entered to announce him. When the soldier returned, he told Taras the tsar expected him.

  Taras thought his own tent too large to be called a tent. It was puny compared to the structure the tsar lived in. Several of its rooms could comfortably fit large oak tables, chairs big enough to be thrones, trunks, furniture, and thick Persian rugs to keep out the cold.

  Taras followed the lights and voices until he reached a room that held a round table, several chairs, and long, thin trunks against the far wall he knew held extra caches of weapons. A fire crackled in a large pit in the center of the room.

  Winter had only begun to set in, but this far north the cold came early. The soldiers sleeping out on the plains would see their breath when they talked.

  When Taras ducked through the short doorway, the tsar and Mstislavsky were bent over the round wooden table, studying a map of Kazan.

  “Yes, my lord,” Mstislavsky was saying. “The bathhouse is here. It is only logical the water source is nearby. It flows into the city through a hidden, underground passage. I have sappers looking for it. When they do, we will use gunpowder to collapse the passageway.”

  “And that will stop up their water supply?”

  “If done properly, yes. Only a few brackish, standing pools of water are within the city. Without this spring, they will die of thirst. We can outwait them if they are desperate for water.”

  “Very well, then.” The tsar straightened. “You will, of course, let me know as soon as the passageway is identified. Taras, please come in.” His face lit up; he smiled when he saw Taras, though it did not touch his eyes. “You have been privy to our strategic plans.”

  “I did not mean to eavesdrop, Your Grace.”

  The tsar waived his hands dismissively. “Of course, of course. What do you think?”

  “I think it is ingenious, my lord. A sure way to force them out of the city.”

  Ivan nodded, as though he'd expected this answer.

  “You fought on the plain today?” Mstislavsky asked.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “How many men would you estimate we lost?”

  “A few thousand at least, sir. I did not count. That number could easily be—”

  Mstislavsky cut him off with a raised hand. “I am simply trying to get a rough count. I’ve asked the other officers. Your answer is the same as theirs have been. What was your impression of the Tatars, today?”

  “Impression, sir?”

  “Yes. Anything you noticed—strengths, weaknesses, strategies of fighting? I’m especially interested in your view because you are a foreigner. Perhaps you could give some insight those who’ve only lived in Russia wouldn’t notice.”

  The tsar, who'd gone back to studying the map as Mstislavsky talked, looked up with interest at this.

  Taras wished this could wait until morning. Exhaustion kept him from thinking clearly. Ever since Artem died at his fingertips, Taras had walked around in a daze. Everyone around him spoke and moved in slow motion, in a cloud of fog.

  “They are ferocious fighters, sir. I suppose it’s to be expected, as we are fighting on their ground. Seasoned, disciplined men, for the most part. The biggest mistake I saw on their part today was to underestimate us. Especially on the ground.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They are excellent fighters on horseback, sir. Their cavalry is better than ours. When we get up close to them, fight hand-to-hand, our troops fare better. To get the upper hand, we have to unhorse them.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  Taras remembered a thousand battles he fought that day. “More than once today I used my horse to ram theirs. Or on foot, a soldier could use a spear.”

  “Ramming could kill our horses. Weapons will kill theirs, and captured horses are worth a lot of money.”

  The tsar nodded thoughtfully at Mstislavsky’s words.

  “Yes, my lord. There isn’t an easy way to do it, but it can be done.”

  Mstislavsky nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing comes to mind, sir.”

  The commander chuckled. “Quite right. You’re wanting your bed, soldier. Report back here with the dawn. Tomorrow will be another day like today, only we will be ready to defend the plain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mstislavsky studied Taras. “Are you all right? Were you injured? You don’t look so well, even for a soldier come back from hard battle.”

  “Not injured, sir. I . . . lost so many men. One in particular I was sad to lose.”

  Mstislavsky nodded. “Then I am sorry for you. It happens to us all. Let us pray we don’t lose many more before the siege is lifted.”

  “Amen,” Ivan barely got through the last word before a yawn took over. “We will go to bed ourselves, General, unless you have any other business?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. The rest can wait for morning.”

  The tsar rose but came toward Taras. “Perhaps we will walk a bit, first. Get some air before turning in. Would you walk with us, Taras?”

  Mstislavsky’s face mirrored the surprise Taras felt. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Come.” As they left, Mstislavsky gave him a calculating look. He fought to suppress a sigh. Exactly what he needed: the commander of the Russian army finding intrigues in the fact that the tsar would speak with Taras alone.

  The moment Ivan left the tent, a contingent of soldiers fell in around him, keeping their distance.

  “I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate the service you’ve done me today, Taras.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, Your Grace," Taras said cautiously, noting Ivan had dropped the royal 'we' now the two of them spoke privately.

  The tsar smiled. “You’re so modest. I’ve heard of your deeds on the battlefield. Already a dozen soldiers have commented on how well you fought, how loyal you were to Russia.”

  Taras thought of Almas and a wave of guilt washed over him. If Almas had been anyone else, Taras would have killed him. Almas still breathed only because he'd once befriended Taras. Did that amount to disloyalty?

  “I think you may be the kind of soldier people write songs about, Taras.”

  “I hope not, my lord.”

  The tsar chuckled. ?
??I don’t think you realize how closely you were watched today. You’ve proven yourself to be an apt military man, but this was a true test, to see how you would fight against an enemy that has never been your own, but is Russia’s. From what I’ve heard, you fought as though your own freedom was on the line.”

  The tsar stopped and turned to look at Taras. “Can you tell me what inspires such loyalty, that I might dispense it to the rest of my army?” He gave an easy smile. Taras was too exhausted to return it.

  “May I speak plainly, my lord?”

  “Please do.”

  “I think you give me too much credit.”

  “How so?”

  Taras considered, trying to frame his words to be suitable for the tsar. “I don’t know how to do anything half-way. I came to Russia, looking to build a life for myself. I had no right to ask or expect anything. You gave me much. If I am to make my life here, I ought to fight for my right to it.”

  Taras ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not sure I’m being clear, Your Grace. I think it is what any man would do.”

  “No, you are being very clear. It proves my point. You are a loyal and deserving man, Taras. Your service does not go unnoticed.” He began walking again, and Taras fell in beside him. “And I agree a man ought to fight for his life, especially for that which he loves. I don’t think you’ve been in Mother Russia long enough to love her. Perhaps there is something else here you love? Or someone?”

  Taras glanced sideways at the tsar, who chuckled.

  “Yes,” Ivan continued. “Many people have noticed. They are surprised you have taken no other mistresses. There are plenty of rich women who would be happy to fill your bed, if you should want it.”

  An awkward silence stretched. Taras didn’t know what to say. The tsar didn’t know that Taras had never bedded Inga, but he supposed it didn’t matter. He preferred Inga’s company to the favors of the Russian aristocratic women any day.

  “Very well,” Ivan continued when Taras didn’t respond, “keep her as long as you like. I only bring this up to tell you that you have options. After this campaign, your prestige will have spread. You could marry far above you, enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life. Even before marriage, wealthy, powerful mistresses can bring you a great deal. Keep that in mind. Keep your maid, if you wish, but branch out to others as well.”

  Taras didn’t see why his ‘prestige’ should be expanded, but he had a sinking feeling. Already he’d been inconspicuously approached by both men and women looking to pull him into their alliances. He’d managed to decline without insult. That would get harder if the tsar spoke the truth.

  “Thank you for your advice, Your Grace. I will think about it.”

  “Good.” The tsar clapped him on the shoulder. “If you continue, Taras, you could be a powerful man someday. You’re young, idealistic, and passionate. Exactly the kind of man Russia needs. Well, I must find some sleep. You ought to do the same.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good night, Master Taras.”

  Taras clapped a hand to his chest and bowed. “Good night, Your Grace.”

  Ivan and his bodyguards disappeared into the night. Taras watched him go before turning himself, wondering if he’d make it to his own tent.

  It wasn’t truly exhaustion that troubled him. He didn’t feel a particular urge to sleep. Though his limbs ached, his heart beat as if he’d just awakened. Rather, battle fatigue ailed him. The blood, the noise, the violence, was all getting to him—echoing in the deepest recesses of his being, where he couldn’t grasp it, expel it, even identify it. He wanted to sleep, or bathe, or do something to expel this mood. It hung in the air around him like a humid cloud, ready to burst. He’d experienced it before, in England, but never to this extent. Nothing would fix it—only time could do that. Even then, the cloud never truly went away. It receded into the background, but always remained for him to see, whenever he had occasion to look.

  Eventually he reached his tent, though he didn’t remember crossing the camp. Despite only being in the tsar’s tent a few minutes, the camp had quieted considerably when he emerged. People were settling down for the night—or perhaps simply passing out, unable to work anymore without sleep. He debated whether or not to enter his tent. His bed was there, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep right away, and it would be cold, dark, and lonely. At least outside the flap, he could sense other people, see fires around the camp, and hear the whinnies of horses and the periodic passing of sentries.

  He held his hand out to push the flap aside, then let it drop. He stood outside for several seconds, mustering his courage. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back. His neck cracked loudly. When he opened his eyes, the stars winked back at him. They were beautiful, and the night grew loudly silent, a stark contrast to the rest of his day.

  With a dejected sigh, he ducked into his tent. It was not at all what he expected. A fire blazed in the pit in the center of the room, casting warm shadows and filling the tent with pleasant heat. At first, Taras didn’t see anyone. Then Inga stood up. She'd been crouching by the fire pit, tending to the flames. She blended perfectly into the background.

  She, like him, had probably not eaten, slept, or bathed much in the last few days, but standing there, she looked perfect. So refreshing to his eyes—to his soul—that it brought tears.

  “Inga.” Even her name on his tongue felt merciful.

  She crossed the space between them, her brow furrowed in concern.

  “Are you all right?”

  He stared at her for several seconds before coming to himself enough to answer.

  “Yes. Yes.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “What happened? You look . . .” She put a hand on his face. It felt warm compared to the air outside. She looked afraid. He realized her fear was for him.

  He took her hand, cupping her wrist in both of his. “I’m well. Truly. I’m not hurt. It’s only. . . I . . . lost so many men today.”

  “The boy on the field? Artem, wasn’t it?”

  Taras gazed into the fire, blinking rapidly. “Could we not talk about that?” He couldn’t force out more than a whisper.

  She stepped closer to him and put her other hand up to his face. “Taras, what can I do?” He shut his eyes, wanting so much to step into her embrace.

  He took both her wrists and pushed them gently back toward her. Then he stepped back, not touching her at all.

  “Inga, I don’t want to be harsh, or make this day any worse, but maybe you shouldn’t stay here tonight.” He expected her to be hurt, or at least surprised. She merely stared at him, face unreadable. “I mean . . . I don’t think I can . . . if you don’t want . . .”

  “But I do. I do want.”

  He frowned at her in surprise, then wondered if they spoke of the same thing.

  “That’s why I’m here.” She reached back and worked at something near the base of her neck. It took several minutes and Taras didn't understand what she was doing. Her hands appeared from behind her head, and the cloth tails of her headscarf came with them. She circled her head several times, unwrapping the scarf. When she'd completely removed it, her thick, honeysuckle hair cascaded down over one shoulder, shimmering in the firelight.

  Stepping close to her, he put his hands into her hair, above her ears, and ran his fingers all the way down her scalp and then out to the ends. It felt like bolts of silk. Even the smell of her hair intoxicated him. She gazed up at him through her lashes, chest heaving.

  He swooped and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her. She kissed him back. It was not like before. She’d always been cautious, hesitant, so he’d never pressed it too far. Now she kissed him whole-heartedly, with abandon. Her passion mirrored his.

  His lips left hers and went to her neck. Reaching lower with his arms, he hoisted her up. She didn’t object, but wrapped her arms and knees around him. Wanting to forget himself and this day in her, he carried her to the bed.