Citadels of Fire

  ***

  Two days later, the army was ready. The day before, Saturday, the Feast Day of the Intercession of the Virgin Mary, Razmysl proclaimed that everything was in place. Final preparations were made all day. The siege engine administered an especially harsh bombardment—nonstop cannons from sunup to sundown. The moat around the city had been filled with dirt, debris, and tree trunks where possible, so the soldiers could cross easily once the walls were breached. Ivan addressed the troops, focusing on suffering as a gateway to victory.

  “As for myself, dear brothers and friends,” he intoned, decked out in his most royal colors, armor gleaming in the sunlight, “I too am prepared to suffer unto death for the sake of the Holy Churches, the Orthodox Faith, the Christian blood, and my own patrimony.”

  He wept unabashedly, and the army shouted they were ready to suffer with their rightful tsar.

  That evening, Taras went to see Inga. The next day’s battle would be a decisive one. With the army rushing the gates and pouring into the city, it would be more dangerous that it had been yet. Except for the day of the ambush on the plain of Arsk, Taras had not been much in the thick of battle. He was an officer, not an infantryman. Tomorrow he would see the front lines of the conflict for the second time. The chance of death was a fair one.

  Inga could not come out and see him, so he left a message that he would be at his tent until morning. He knew he might not see her before he left. He resolved to try again in the morning before he went to battle.

  The past two months had been difficult for them. Taras frequently stayed at the front for days. Inga did all of Yehvah’s work in addition to her own; the work of three people around the clock. She rested little and slept less. On the rare occasion when Taras did get to sleep in his tent, and Inga came to him for a few hours, they were too exhausted to do anything more than wrap their arms around each other and pass out.

  When Taras ducked into his tent, he found the temperature inside not much higher than that outside. He started a fire to ward off the chill. Mstislavsky said winter was coming. Taras would argue that it had already arrived. They had seen no snow since the night the wolf attacked Yehvah, but that didn’t mean winter wasn’t upon them.

  Taras felt exhausted, but didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to spend the night in prayer, especially if Inga didn't come. Hours later found him kneeling in front of a small trunk at the side of the tent. The wolf-skin he'd acquired in Siberia draped the top of it. On top sat several icons. They were different than the statues of saints he prayed to in England, but they would do. Several feet above his altar, pinned to the tent, hung a cross.

  Taras prayed for a long time. He prayed for God’s mercy and protection. He prayed that, no matter what happened to him, God would watch over his love. He prayed for the souls of his parents, and asked for their protection; that if he died on the battlefield, they would come and take him home with them.

  Taras grew up Catholic, so his prayers sounded different from the prayers of the men in other tents, mere feet away. They all worshipped the same god, though. Not only a higher being, but the same Christ. Taras prayed for their mutual protection and unity to accomplish their task.

  It was a slight change in the air, like sensing a soft breeze from a mile away that made Taras’s head come up. He turned around to see Inga in the doorway. An oversized, threadbare cloak covered her. As she came in, she let the cowl fall back, untied the string at her neck, and let it slip off her shoulders. She laid it elegantly down on a trunk as she passed it, then turned to look at him with frightened eyes.

  They crossed the room to each other, meeting in the middle.

  “The attack is tomorrow,” he began.

  “I know.” For some reason, they didn’t touch each other. “Are you afraid?”

  Taras searched her face, considering. He ought to say something that sounded confident, that would reassure her, but he wanted to be honest with her, no matter the outcome. He twisted at the waist to look back at the icons and the cross, then back at her.

  “Yes.” It came out a whisper. He studied the ground, then, wondering what a man should do on a night like this night. He'd been praying, but she was here now. What could he say to her that would be anywhere near adequate?

  His own thoughts absorbed him so fully that he failed to notice her painful swallow, or the tears that leaked down her cheeks until she took his face in her hands.

  “Promise you’ll live.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder and knowing he could promise no such thing. She huddled against his chest. When raised her head, he kissed her deeply. His praying was done for the night. Now, he wanted to be with her.