Citadels of Fire

  ***

  Taras Demidov sighed heavily and retraced his footsteps yet again. The short, three-pace line he’d been walking for the last hour had worn through the snow and turned into a brown streak through the grass. He ought to stop. The grounds keeper had a short-temper when it came to his gardens, especially with the children. Not that Taras considered himself a child, but most did not think him old enough to be called a man yet.

  Taras claimed fourteen winters. His father was Russian, a close advisor of the grand prince. His mother had English blood. His parents met when his father traveled to London as the grand prince’s envoy to King Henry. They met, married, and now owned estates in both Russia and the England. Taras spent most of his life in England. He missed his family's country estate there terribly.

  Surprisingly, his mother's wishes had brought them back to Russia, only six months before. She’d told Taras there was trouble, because the King of England had taken a mistress. Taras did not know the details of the scandal. Only that his parents opposed the match, and then suddenly fled to Russia. Seeing his confusion, his mother had smiled and patted his arm.

  “You’ll understand better when you’re older, my son.”

  Taras thought his parents truly left for his sake, though they never said it. Often, they would sit discussing events in England, and would become quiet and look at him in a strange way. When he told Mother he wanted to go home, she said they did not know when it would be safe to return to England, so he ought to get used to it here. Taras sighed and began pacing the small course again.

  None of the children here were his age. Some came close, but enough years divided them to make him lonely. Those younger were young enough that he considered them children, and the older ones thought him a child, so he spent his afternoons in solitude. Now, with the royal baby on the way, people ran around like madmen before a coming storm, and they paid even less attention to him than usual.

  Voices came to him from around the corner. Three boys played nearby, hitting rocks with sticks. He recognized them; they were three years his junior, the sons of boyars. They often invited him to play, but their games couldn’t hold his interest for long. He stepped behind the massive trunk of a nearby tree until they passed.

  A movement off to his right caught his attention, and he turned toward it. A little servant girl scurried across the courtyard. She carried a small bucket in her hands. He recognized her as the girl he’d met in the east wing a few weeks back.

  She trudged away from the closer buildings—a strange thing for a young maid to do. He tried to remember what lay out the way she was headed. The tannery, the icehouse, a few outlying sheds and horse-shelters only used in summer, and acres of land. He shrugged, already bored with thinking of her. No doubt she was on some all-important errand for the grand prince.

  Taras sat down, resting his back against the tree trunk. Five men holding hands would not have been able to reach around its girth. He picked at his shirt, his solid winter boots. Then he picked up a stick and idly drew figures in the frozen dirt.

  He was so bored.

  “Taras!” a voice shouted.

  Taras flinched at the sound of his name. Two young men, four or five years older than he, approached.

  “Taras, we’re going to play a trick. Want to come?” The speaker was Yuri. A decent boy, he'd been kind to Taras since his arrival in the Kremlin. Taras liked him. Yuri’s companion was a different matter.

  Taras could not abide Sergei. Where Yuri had light hair and blue eyes, Sergei was dark haired and brown eyed, his face perpetually screwed up into a sneer. He had a nasty temperament, and a flare for causing pain, especially to younger children and small animals. Yuri was good-natured for the most part, but Sergei always picked fights. Yuri had been welcoming to Taras, but Sergei bullied him.

  “I don’t know. Who are you playing the trick on?”

  “The younger boys,” Yuri waved his hands excitedly as he explained. “There is a little maid girl carrying ice up to the kitchen. We want to throw snowballs at her, but she is younger than we are. We’d get in trouble. We’re going to tell the younger boys she’s a wild fox. They’ll throw the snowballs, and we can stand by and watch.”

  Taras frowned. “How old is this girl?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe seven or eight.”

  Sergei snickered. Taras smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. If she doesn’t know it’s coming, she could get hurt. The snow is slick near the kitchen.”

  “Oh, come now, Taras,” Sergei cut in. “Enough of your English nobility. A few snowballs never hurt anyone.”

  Taras didn’t answer.

  “Look, you don’t have to come if you don’t want. We saw you sitting here and thought we’d invite you to have some fun with us. If you’d rather be alone than have some harmless laughs, suit yourself.” He swung his hips pompously as he turned and strutted away.

  Yuri looked disappointed, but after a moment he followed Sergei toward the kitchen.

  Taras sighed. His father would be cross if he found out Taras was involved in this, but the way Yuri told it, no one would find out. The three of them would be hidden. Besides, Sergei was right. What harm could a few snowballs do anyway?

  “Wait,” Taras jumped to his feet. “I’m coming.”