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Three days after the riot, Taras limped toward the bedchamber of the Tsar’s younger brother, Yuri. Yuri had fallen ill and Ivan spent the past week—when he wasn’t attending executions—at his brother’s beside. Slow of mind, Yuri would never be fit to rule. Yet, Ivan remained loyal to his brother, and had taken prodigious care of him since the two of them were only boys. Or so everyone told Taras.
After the riot in Red Square, Ivan sent letters and couriers all over the country, trying to repair the damage. All the uninjured members of the Chosen Council were already off on errands for him, which meant when he needed another one, an injured member had to be summoned.
Taras wasn’t hurt badly, in truth. He would limp for a few days yet on his twisted ankle, and his body felt three days healed from an encounter with a blacksmith’s hammer. It wasn’t far from the truth. But Taras could work, which was more than many who’d been in the square that day could boast.
Both Inga and Nikolai took only scrapes and bruises, for which Taras felt immense relief. Yehvah turned out to be another matter. One of her legs had broken. Never a favorable situation in the dead of winter. Broken bones didn’t always heal properly and were easy sources of infection. Nikolai, of course, made sure Yehvah received the best care in the Kremlin. Even if she healed without incident, she’d be laid up for weeks, and it could only do more harm to her overall condition. She would need more help than ever to keep from being thrown out.
The head clerk hovered triumphantly around her sick bed until Nikolai’s scowl chased him away. With one glance at Nikolai the clerk’s smug look faded. He ducked his head and melted into the corridor, though Taras doubted he ever strayed far.
And then there was Anatoly. To everyone’s shock, he'd survived, but his serving days were done. The head clerk wanted to throw him out along with Yehveh. Taras wouldn’t hear of it. He'd have paid for Anatoly’s care in the palace himself, but Inga came up with a solution. In her most recent letter, Natalya told Inga the estate needed another gardener. Anatoly wouldn’t be able to do much for a while, but the job should be mild, sitting most of the day to pull weeds and carrying watering cans to keep Lady Andreevna’s prize flowers from dying. Besides, Natalya remembered Anatoly from her days serving in the palace. She would take care of him.
It saddened Taras to lose his man-servant, but after his heroics during the riot, Anatoly deserved some peace.
As Taras reached the correct room, the guards opened the door for him. The one on the right stood a head taller than Taras, though probably five years younger. “The Tsar is expecting you, Lord Taras.”
“Thank you.” Taras limped cautiously in.
He’d never been in Yuri’s rooms before. They were spacious and comfortable, nearly as luxurious as the apartments of the Tsar, if smaller. Taras shook his head in wonder. Ivan’s loyalty could be overwhelming. He truly cared for his little brother, a man in every way beneath him. Then he marched out to Red Square and executed children in front of their parents. He forced commoners to watch the spectacle, then blamed them for rioting. How did two such different temperaments exist side by side in the same man? Were all rulers so unfathomable?
Yuri lay peacefully in a four-poster bed, the blankets drawn up to his chin. His face held a ghostly pallor and he lay utterly still. Taras had assumed Yuri's illness to be a common one. He’d always possessed a sickly constitution. Yet, the Tsar’s younger brother looked death-like.
Ivan stood across the room, looking out the window. Taras could imagine what he watched. Servants still struggled to scrub blood from the stones of Red Square. The riot’s leaders—or the men Ivan perceived to be leaders—had been executed. There’d been more than sixty of them.
The head clerk stood beside Ivan, quill and parchment in hand, looking nervous. He glanced at Taras, before shifting his eyes quickly back to the Tsar.
“Forgive me, my lord Tsar,” the clerk bounced from foot to foot, “but what should I tell them?”
Ivan glanced at the clerk and Taras sensed annoyance. “He will be interred in a place of honor and prestige.” Ivan’s voice held a nasal quality, but sounded calm. Too calm. “With all the vestments and honors befitting his station.”
“His station, your grace?” the head clerk said.
Ivan turned slowly, his gaze smoldering and the obsequious clerk squirmed. “As the Tsar’s brother.”
Taras’s eyes darted to the bed. For the first time, he realized Yuri’s chest lay completely still. The Tsar’s brother was dead. Fear gripped Taras by the throat. After Anastasia died, Ivan began to slide. How would the loss of another loved one affect him?
“Of course, my lord Tsar,” the clerk said hastily. “But the details?”
“We will leave those to you, clerk. Take care not to disappoint us.”
The head clerk swallowed audibly. “Of course not, your grace.”
“And now,” Ivan whispered, “I shall be utterly alone.”
The clerk licked his lips, glancing nervously to Taras and back again.
“I’m sorry, my lord Tsar? Is that all? If it is, I will go of course, but Lord Taras has come to see you.”
Ivan turned from the window, then, eyes utterly vacant. Despite Taras’s wariness of the man, he felt a fleeting sympathy for the look in those eyes.
“You may go, clerk.”
The head clerk backed out of the room, bowing. Taras moved to the side to prevent the clerk’s backside from bumping into him. He twisted his lips in distaste. The head clerk didn’t notice.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Ivan turned to stare at Yuri, lying in the bed. “So Taras,” Ivan said. “You’ve come.”
“You have an errand for me, my lord Tsar?” Taras bowed.
“Normally I would only ask this of my closest advisors, but I’ve already set them other tasks. I simply need you to make sure a message gets to all the important people.” Ivan’s voice sounded flat, monotone, as though he didn’t truly care about what he said.
Ivan dropped the royal ‘we,’ now the head clerk had gone. He used it in open court and when dealing with the public, but often dropped it when speaking with only the Chosen Council or one on one with another boyar. The clerk was not a boyar. Ivan was nothing if not a stickler for social class.
“Of course, your grace,” Taras said. “What is the message?”
“That my brother has died. Get the details of the funeral from the clerk.” He jerked his head to indicate the man who'd just left. “I will expect all my loyal subjects to be in attendance.”
“Of course, your highness.” Taras hesitated. “My condolences, your grace.”
Ivan inclined his head without taking his eyes from his brother. “Thank you.”
“Would you like anything else included in the message, Lord Tsar?” Taras asked.
“No. That is not the only reason I called for you, Taras. I understand you took some injuries during the riot. You received them while trying to defend palace servants.”
Taras’s heart beat faster. “That’s correct, Lord Tsar.”
Ivan nodded. “Again you show your loyalty to me, Taras, where so many others flounder. To defend a man’s servants is to defend his very honor.”
Taras swallowed. He wished he knew some way to correct Ivan without signing his own death warrant. His defense of the servants had nothing to do with loyalty to Ivan. It had to do with protecting Inga from Ivan’s stupidity.
“I wish to reward you for it, Taras.”
Fear fluttered through Taras’s chest again, stronger this time. “I am honored, my Lord Tsar. I assure you I require no reward.”
Ivan smiled without mirth. “I know that, too. You may have your pick of any unmarried woman in the kingdom to take as bride. Choose anyone you like.” He turned a cruel, steely gaze on Taras. “I reward my loyal subjects.”
Taras swallowed. He’d avoided talk of marriage since he arrived in the Kremlin, knowing he’d be faced with it at some point. Now that it had arrived, he didn't know how to respond without giving offense, which could be as sure a death warrant as treason.
“Thank you, your grace, but...I am not sure I am ready to take a wife yet.”
“Oh, come Taras. You’ve been here more than a year’s time and not taken one yet. People begin to notice.”
“Forgive me, your majesty. I have neither land nor fortune to speak of. I have no power any family would prize.”
“You have influence, young Taras. Many in the court respect your opinion, and that’s nearly the same thing. Even if her family is powerful, I shall back you. As I said, choose whomever you wish, though it would please me greatly if you choose among the Tarasov clan.”
Taras worked to keep his eyes from bulging. Sergei’s family? “Tarasov, my lord Tsar?”
“Yes. I want this strife between you and Sergei Tarasov buried. Forget the kitchen wench. She means nothing. I need all my loyal counselors unified. Now more than ever.”
“Forgive me, my lord Tsar—”
“You will take a wife, Master Demidov,” Ivan snapped, and Taras closed his mouth. “Not a Tarasov, if you prefer, but I’ll expect you to decide by summer.”
“Yes, my Lord Tsar,” Taras said quietly, his stomach tying itself into knots.
Ivan turned back to the window.
Taras waited, unsure whether he should go. When minutes of silence passed, he opened his mouth to ask if Ivan desired anything else. As he did, Ivan’s voice came to him softly.
“Do you know the darkness, Taras?”
“The...darkness, Your Majesty?”
“The darkness of living. It takes the only things that ever kept you safe.”
A chill ran down Taras’s spine, and he searched for an answer. Ivan didn’t seem to need one.
“Many on the council believe I’m being too harsh. Too many executions. Too much blood. Do you concur?”
Taras swallowed. His answer might lose him his head. Ivan turned from the window, a dangerous look in his eye, confirming Taras’s suspicions. “I think you...have your reasons, Majesty,” he said warily. “I also think neither the Council nor the people understand them. Perhaps if you explain—”
“I am Tsar of Russia! I am not required to explain myself!”
Taras swallowed again, keeping his eyes on the lush carpet. “Of course, Majesty.”
Ivan gazed out the window, clasping his hands behind his back. “Why should I coddle my people? They are neither educated nor wise.”
Taras took a deep breath, praying what he said wouldn’t get him killed. “If I may speak freely, my Lord Tsar?”
Ivan turned. “Please do.” His voice sounded cold.
“I believe you are correct. Most of your subjects are not...enlightened.” Ivan grunted, obviously pleased with the admission. Taras went on. "People such as those are like children. They want someone to protect them, to make them feel safe. If you showed them a sliver of compassion, they would love you. And forget all that came before.”
Ivan twisted his lips as though he’d tasted something sour. “And I’m the one who must protect them, am I?”
“You are their Cesar,” Taras said quietly.
Ivan gazed at him a moment before answering. “Compassion? They want to feel safe? Don’t you think I want that for myself as well, Taras?”
“Of course, majesty. All men do.”
“All men do,” Ivan murmured, turning back toward the window. “Do you know what I am, Taras?”
“You are Tsar of unified Russia, Majesty.”
“Yes. And a man who wishes to feel safe. Anastasia is the only person who ever made me feel that way. Before she came, my entire existence was fear. I used to hide Yuri and myself in closets at night to keep the assassins’ knives from finding our hearts in the darkness.”
Taras swallowed. Inga had told him about Ivan’s childhood, and the day she’d saved him from such an assassin.
“With Anastasia beside me, I felt invincible. I could have gone anywhere, done anything. Life without fear...that is true freedom, I think.”
Taras gazed at the Tsar’s back, not sure how to answer except with the truth. He could not keep the sadness from his voice. “I concur, your grace.”
“Then she left me. As did that fleeting freedom. Do you know the darkness, Taras? What it’s like to have your love ripped away from you?”
Taras swallowed, knowing he was gambling again. “I do not, my Lord Tsar.” Ivan turned from the window. “The woman I love is still beside me, which is why I do not wish to take another.”
Understanding came into the Tsar’s eyes and he whirled back to his window. He stayed silent so long, Taras wondered if he’d misread the look. Perhaps Ivan contemplated the best way to kill him for his insubordination. When the Tsar spoke again, his voice became hard.
“Safety? Peace? These are things God teases us with and then yanks away.” He whirled from the window and Taras nearly stepped back from the look in Ivan’s eye. “You think I won’t be made to take another wife, now Anastasia’s gone? I’m a Tsar. I must produce heirs.” Ivan growled through gritted teeth, speaking so quickly Taras barely kept up. Yet the Tsar’s voice dripped with thick with emotion. “If I must battle loneliness and fear all my days, then Russia will battle them with me. You will take a wife, and my subjects will feel the full weight of my emptiness. Do you know the darkness, Taras? It increases every moment she isn’t here!”
The light in the Tsar’s eyes looked other-worldly, and Taras’s heart pounded so wildly, his breathing became ragged.
“You and the council want me to show compassion,” Ivan spat. "That is something I cannot do. It would return me to my former state of vulnerability, and I will never go back to that existence. The darkness, it increases...” Ivan trailed off, chest heaving.
And so will the violence, Taras thought. When he spoke, he put his eyes on the ground, and his voice sounded small to his own ears. “They say time heals all wounds, Majesty.”
Ivan shook his head. “It won’t heal this.” He turned to the window once more. “Go now, Master Taras. Tell them my brother has abandoned me now, too. Tell them about his funeral. Tell them, if they don’t already know, that Russia has become a realm of darkness. And their Tsar welcomes it.”
“Yes, my lord Tsar,” Taras whispered through a nearly closed throat. He gave a bow Ivan didn't see and backed from the room. Once he made it through the outer door, he turned and fled.
