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Strange, to look back across the years at my utter failure and know how utterly wrong my decision not to accompany Taras was, how much fuller my life might have been.
Why do people always choose miserable paths? I don’t know why I did it myself. Happiness would not be my companion. Taras was gone. I’d tasted true happiness for perhaps the only time in my life.
My story does not end here. Nor does Taras’s. Life on God's vast earth rolls on, dragging with it both the great and the trivial; the free and the caged; the happy, and the wretched.
Life is a mystical and tragic thing. An entity all its own, and one I mused on often in the years following my failure. The only conclusion I drew was that events in our lives mold us.
In a cruel twist of chance, often we finally learn what we should have known all along, only to leave this life. Perhaps it's meant to be that way.
Life in Russia churned forward. Russia’s destiny under the man they called Grozny had not yet reached its pinnacle. Neither, it seemed, had my grief.
Ivan's sanity fled, never to return. A red-haired, gaunt-eyed devil-Tsar sat upon a throne, planning his next blood-bath while the eyes of his subjects watched the heavens.
A palace maid, her hair concealed beneath a plain platok, who'd once saved the ruler from an assassin, now cleaned his halls, resigned to a stupor of emotion.
And a lone soldier on horseback rode into the vast solitude of Siberia, wiping salt water from his cheeks every mile of the journey.
“The little tsar will remember the girl with the golden mane,” the Seer told me on the Plains of Arsk. I'd forgotten the prophecy by the time Taras disappeared toward the mountains. Even had I remembered, I couldn't have known how much that promise would change my life; that when its fulfillment finally came, it would be both the beginning and the end of all things....
End of Book 2 of Kremlins
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“My soul is full of the flames of Moscow. It’s full of the blood of Novgorod and the soiled waters of the Volga...It’s full of you, Inga..."
Siberian tigers. Witch Hunts. War. Death. Tragedy and conflict rip through Russian lives. Inga and Taras, Nikolai and Yehvah fight to survive. The Kremlin grows ever more dangerous as Ivan ages and his sanity slides farther from his grasp.
Inga and Taras must face the demons of their pasts and make choices for the future if they want to achieve the happiness that has, thus far, so eluded them.
Experience the conclusion of this epic historical romance saga. Because only Ivan the Terrible could have left a legacy like this one.
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Read an excerpt of Dungeons of Destiny below!
Dungeons of Destiny Excerpt:
IN THE YEAR of our lord, 1550, Ivan the Terrible conducted a massacre of his own people within the walls of Novgorod. It lasted a month and decimated the population.
I feel certain history will record the great massacre of Novgorod with sadness. I simply cannot imagine such an incident will be buried.
There are other things I feel quite certain it will not record: the lone soldier who fled Novgorod, unable to stomach the evil deeds going on there. The fact that he killed the father of a noble household, which forced him to flee the Kremlin all together. The young, frightened maid he asked to accompany him, who couldn’t find the courage to do so.
These things will remain unrecorded in the annals of history, along with the stories and sorrows of countless others who suffered under Ivan’s boot.
I’d come to a great crossroads in my life and made what I would later come to realize was a wrong decision.
“My soul is full of the flames of Moscow. It’s full of the blood of Novgorod and the soiled waters of the Volga...It’s full of you, Inga..."
Taras’s words echoed powerfully in my heart. I’ve never forgotten them, even if they didn’t have the power to compel my action at the time.
“The little tsar will remember the girl with the golden mane.”
The Seer from the Plains of Arsk proved correct. Eventually. Don't they always?
And yet, it all depended on me. I didn’t understand at the time. Life is a mystical and tragic thing. Words from one of the best men I ever watched die.
I felt only cold at the time and built up thick walls around my heart. I didn’t think I possessed power over my own life. I needed to learn that lesson. And I did. Amidst blood, tears, and heartache...
Chapter 1
May 1550, Moscow
The cold wind blew through the streets of Moscow as Inga stood beside Yehvah, waiting for the Tsar’s procession. It whipped tendrils of her hair that had come loose from the platok around her face and bit through her winter clothing.
Spring came weeks ago, melting the snow from Moscow’s cobblestone streets and wooden structures. In truth, summer was well on its way, but the remnants of a storm clung to the city, and the air felt colder than it should have.
Then again, perhaps Inga simply perceived it that way. She’d felt cold ever since Taras left. No matter what she did, she couldn’t find warmth, or anything to smile about.
Stories of Ivan's exploits preceded him, of course. Taras and Nikolai brought them back, but so did countless others. The stories rampaged across the country like wildfires, striking fear into the heart of every Russian. Some hope could be found in the fact that Ivan showed mercy to the people of Pskov when they prostrated themselves before him. The entire country took the example to heart and began regularly declaring unswerving loyalty to the Tsar and his oprichniki.
Ivan’s army now stood outside of Moscow, waiting to enter. People lined the streets, ready to welcome their god and king home. They trembled with anticipation. Like Inga, the masses of Moscow considered Ivan a God, and one that could bring his wrath down on them with a twitch of his wrist.
"How much longer?" Inga asked quietly. She felt impatient and meant to convey that. Even to her own ears her voice sounded far away and listless.
Yehvah, standing beside her, cast Inga a sidelong glance. As usual, Yehvah concealed her once-blonde hair—long since turned silver with age—beneath her headscarf.
Inga’s platok mirrored Yehvah’s exactly. It covered her hair from the middle of her forehead on back, knotting at the nape of her neck so her voluminous blond hair hung concealed in a small sack.
"One must not rush the supreme Tsar of Russia, Inga,” Yehvah said patiently. “He will come when he comes, and we will be here to greet him when he does."
Yehvah was right, of course. Inga didn’t have urgent tasks to complete in the palace—she’d feel as impatient there as she did here—but standing in any place for too long allowed Inga’s mind to wander, which always brought thoughts of Taras.
A bone-deep sadness inevitably followed, weighing Inga down so heavily, she fought to breathe. She missed him terribly, yet she could not forsake her home to live with him in Siberia. She knew he didn’t understand why. Inga barely understood herself. For reasons she couldn’t have put into words, she simply couldn’t leave her home in the Kremlin. It was all she knew. She couldn’t venture into the wilds of Siberia as Taras could. Staying here, even while feeling lonely for him, felt like the safer choice.
She wanted to be busy doing something. Anything to keep her mind off the loneliness she knew would creep up on her when day faded to night and she could do nothing but lay still in her bed, unable to distract herself from tender thoughts of Taras. Love didn’t go away with distance, and Inga missed him terribly. So much, thoughts of him made her chest hurt.
A cheer rose from the crowd. Inga and Yehvah stretched their necks out, trying to see. Inga didn’t feel any particular excitement at seeing Ivan after all these years of serving him in the palace, but the spectacle of the Supreme Tsar of Russia was hard to turn away from.
In the distance, a horse plodded down the wide, cobblestone street toward them. Not the Tsar, though. Not a magnificent stallion carrying the supreme leader of Russia. Rather, a small pack pony trudged slowly down the street. On it sat one of Ivan's well-known fools. Dressed in Motley, the Fool juggled colorful wooden pins while the horse plodded slowly forward.
Guiding the horse with his knees didn’t turn out to be enough. The beast wandered lazily from one side of the street to another, close enough to the let the crowd pet him. Then he stopped completely in the middle of the road. The small-statured fool made a great show of trying to get the pony going again, and the crowd laughed raucously at the joke.
Inga couldn’t fathom how everyone could be so happy when she felt so miserable. She could no longer remember what brought such happiness. It seemed like years since she’d felt it herself.
As the fool got the pony moving again and neared Inga, he leaned forward in the saddle, putting his weight on his hands. Slowly raising his legs, he brought them first up to his waist, and then up above his head, fashioning his body into a straight, spear-like shape. He stood perfectly upside-down on his hands atop a moving horse.
The tricks and entertainment continued as he passed , with the crowd cheering and screaming, happy for the lighthearted spectacle.
Only after the fool on his pack pony disappeared into the distance did Ivan himself appear. He turned onto the street in the distance, and a reverent hush fell over the crowd. Even from so far away, no one could have mistaken the Tsar’s form. Though he’d always cut an imposing figure, he looked more sinister than ever today.
Riding at the head of his oprichniki, Ivan wore their signature black robes. His horse, an enormous, sleek, black stallion, threw its head majestically. Around its neck hung a cord with a dried-out, severed dog’s head attached. The mummified head bounced as the animal pranced across the cobblestones. It felt as if Ivan wanted his people to know with absolute clarity that he led the oprichniki and was one of them.
The fear from the crowd grew palpable and the people drew in on themselves. Most kept their eyes down, as though hoping Ivan wouldn’t notice them. As entertained as they had been by the fool, they were equally cowed by Ivan’s passing.
The rest of the army followed, as always. They rode with heads held high and smirks on their faces. Behind the men came wagons of riches. Treasure looted from across the Russian countryside.
Inga felt a cold stab of resentment and folded her arms tightly against it. They marched in like war heroes, returning from a great battle against an enemy. In truth, the only battle they’d conducted had been against their own unarmed countrymen. Ivan slaughtered his people without impunity and then confiscated their worldly goods. His coffers would be full, his tables heavily laden, while his subjects starved and scratched out a living from the dirt beneath their fingernails.
Inga frowned. Strange. She’d never allowed herself to think such seditious thoughts about the Tsar before. Another symptom of the darkness that had overtaken her when Taras left.
Taras. Normally, he and Nikolai would be in the army somewhere. This would be a joyous homecoming. Inga had always been able to put aside worry of anything Ivan did, because Taras stood beside her and they would figure out any problems together. He no longer stood there. Inga felt not only lonely, but naked. She didn't think she’d ever feel warm or safe again.
********
HOURS LATER, WHEN IVAN had made it safely into the Terem Palace, Inga returned to her work, along with all the other maids. She kept busy dusting one of the Tsar's trophy rooms when the quick patter of footsteps in the corridor reached her ears. She turned in time to see Anne come around the corner, looking worried.
"What is it?" Inga asked.
Anne’s dark hair had begun to turn gray, like Yehvah’s, but she still looked mousy, which matched her timid temperament. "The Head Clerk calls for you. Yehvah sent me to fetch you."
Inga frowned. "What does the Head Clerk want?"
Fear came into Anne's eyes and the lines of her face deepened. "I don't know, specifically. Inga, I know he's been tasked by the Tsar with looking into Sergei’s murder."
Inga’s stomach twisted into knots. Truly, she didn't feel fear. The knots were a grieved reaction to Taras having killed Sergei to keep her safe. It made her want to cry and scream and fall on the floor. Fear of the Head Clerk? That, Inga didn't feel.
She hadn't killed Sergei or had anything to do with his death. No one could prove otherwise. Of course, everyone at court knew she and Taras were lovers. She couldn’t escape association with him but didn’t want to. She would claim that association with her head held high.
Without another word, she followed Anne through the corridors. They eventually arrived at one of the larger banquet rooms. The Tsar and his boyars often feasted in this room, using it for informal meals. He used the fancier rooms for feasts and visiting dignitaries, but this room would do on any other night. The heavy doors were pulled open and Inga entered.
The Tsar did not occupy the room today. A long table had been set up along one side. The Head Clerk’s gray, wiry hair had been combed neatly over his ears, leaving the top of his bald head bare and shining in the firelight. Sitting in the only chair behind the table, his round belly pressed against the wooden surface, but it didn’t seem to inhibit him.
He scanned a sheet of parchment intently while scratching away at it with a feather quill.
Yehvah stood beside the Clerk’s table, her eyes wrinkled with worry. They’d followed Inga and Anne’s progress as they made their way across the room.
A full three minutes must have passed with Inga and Anne standing before the clerk before he finished writing and glanced up.
"Ah," he set the parchment aside for the ink to dry. "You there," he addressed Anne. "Go stand over there." He jerked his head in Yehvah’s direction. Anne scurried to obey.
Inga stood alone before the Head Clerk.
"You," he spared Inga the briefest of glances before looking down at an unrolled parchment on the table. "Were you or were you not Taras Demidov’s mistress?"
Inga wanted to scream at him that she’d been more than that. He’d been the love of her life, and treated her as an equal. Yet she couldn’t tell the Head Clerk that. Best to down-play her relationship to Taras. She rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin slightly. "I was."
"When did you see him last?"
Yehvah and Inga had already discussed her answer. They knew questions about Inga’s involvement would come and had already worked out what she would be truthful about and what she wouldn’t.
"More than two months ago, my Lord. He returned from Novgorod and stayed only a few days before leaving."
The clerk’s eyebrow rose as she spoke. He looked shocked at her answer. Perhaps at how willingly she’d given the information. "Where did he go?"
"He told me he could no longer stay in Moscow." Inga felt a fresh wave of tears coming on. She squashed them savagely and steeled her voice. "He took his horse and rode into Siberia, my lord. Other than the general northerly direction, I do not know which way he went."
That part, of course, was misleading. She knew he’d gone to the little valley his family owned, Anechka. He’d shown her a way to get there if she wanted to follow. But she couldn’t tell the Head Clerk that. Between the snowstorm that night and the fact that Taras must have returned at some point to kill Sergei, she truly didn’t know if he’d taken a direct or roundabout route to the valley.
"Did he give any reason for his departure?" The Head Clerk asked. "Did he say why he couldn't stay in Moscow any longer?"
Inga hesitated. Here too, she needed to lie for her own safety. If she told them the truth of Taras's reasons, she could be labeled a traitor simply for knowing his mind and not reporting him. "He merely said Moscow didn't agree with his lifestyle anymore. He no longer wished to remain in Russia. He wanted to see the world and then return to his homeland of England."
The Head Clerk glared at her. "Your lover was a soldier in the Tsar's Imperial Army. It is treason to leave it without discharge."
Inga dropped her gaze, hoping it looked humble. "He told me he'd been discharged, my Lord. He said he’d obtained the Tsar's blessing."
The Head Clerk’s face contorted in shock. "He told you that?"
Inga nodded vigorously.
"Do you know what he told you was a lie?"
Inga nodded again, meekly, keeping her eyes downcast and hoping she looked convincingly frightened. "I have been told since, my Lord. I had no reason not to believe him at the time."
The Head Clerk sighed. He rose to his feet and came around the long table to stand in front of Inga. "Do you also know, Maid," he lifted her chin with an index finger to force her to look into his face. "That Master Demidov murdered one of the Tsar's most loyal men before he abandoned you?"
Inga shook her head. "I've heard it whispered, my Lord. But Taras could not have killed Lord Sergei. He left early in the evening that night in January. Lord Sergei’s servants did not discover him until the morning."
The Head Clerk’s open-palmed slap came so suddenly, Inga didn't even see his hand move. The blow landed on her jaw with a crack that made her head spin. Though she stayed on her feet, the impact jerked her head and shoulders violently to one side.
"Stupid girl," the Head Clerk spat. "Lord Sergei’s body was not found until the morning because everyone assumed him to be asleep, and Lord Sergei did not like to be disturbed. Your lover obviously told you he was leaving but circled back around to kill Sergei. He's a traitor and a murderer. Our noble Tsar has tasked me with finding him."
The clerk straightened his spine arrogantly and walked slowly back around the table to sit down. Inga used the time to compose herself. She could see Yehvah and Anne staring at her in her peripheral vision. She didn’t dare look directly at them, or her emotions might have begun spilling out.
At length, the Head Clerk spoke again. "You say you don't know where he went?"
"No, my Lord." Inga said calmly.
"Well," the clerk passed a hand wearily over his eyes. "You may be telling the truth. You may also be lying to save yourself. We must be certain. You will be taken by my men and questioned to be sure you've told us all you know."
Yehvah stepped away from the wall. "No, my Lord Clerk! Please. She’s told you everything. I myself can vouch for the fact that Lord Taras left early in the evening and she didn't see him again."
"Keep your place, woman!" The Head Clerk snapped. "Only speak when spoken to!" He sighed. "Perhaps you can vouch for when he left, but did you hear your maid’s last conversation with her lover? Can you be absolutely certain he never told her where he intended to go?"
Yehvah hesitated only an instant. It was enough for the clerk. "Exactly." He gave a self-assured nod. "Then she will be questioned."
Inga didn't fight as two guards came forward, gripped her upper arms, and dragged her backward from the room. She didn’t see the point. She’d felt only numbness for weeks now, Nothing about her coming ordeal changed that.
Yehvah’s eyes looked wide with terror and tears as Inga left her behind. Inga felt a faraway pang of sympathy for Yehvah, but not for herself. Inga built walls around her heart long ago. Taras had gotten through them, such as they were. She reinforced them now. Whatever happened to her, she no doubt deserved. It was the will of Almighty God. Inga’s walls would help her endure whatever He wanted her to.
Questioning meant she’d be taken to the dungeons and tortured for information. Her next few days would be hellish.
Before Taras left, such a thing would have struck terror in Inga’s chest. Now, she felt only resignation. No fear. No regret. Well, perhaps she felt one thing: determination. Inga would not break. The only legacies Taras left her stemmed from his strength and love. She refused to waste them now.
Let them do what they would. She would not give up the man she loved.
Chapter 2
May 1551, Siberia
Something felt wrong even before Taras completely awakened. He felt it because of the sounds that woke him. In his light slumber, the kind a man floats in between true sleep and wakefulness, he registered the sounds of Jasper nickering.
Dawn had to be close, but Taras didn't pay Jasper’s nervous noises much mind. Until the horse began stamping his hooves directly outside where Taras slept, and his whinnies became shrill.
Taras’s eyes flew open half a second before the wall at the head of his bed shuddered inward. Jasper must have kicked the outside of the cabin wall with his hind legs.
Taras shot up out of bed, grabbing his saber on the way. Lunging through the doorway of the now mostly built cabin in the Anechka valley, he prepared to defend Jasper against what he felt sure would be Siberian wolves. He hadn't seen any in weeks, but they’d appeared at the edge of the bowl-shaped valley once or twice when Taras first arrived.
Bursting out onto his front porch, saber drawn, Taras cut his eyes in every direction, looking for the threat that so terrified Jasper. The horse stopped screaming and jumping when he saw Taras, but the wild look did not leave his eyes. Taras’s eyes fell on a long, lithe figure at the edge of the clearing his cabin hunched in.
Roughly a furlong away, across the stretch of ground Taras had already cleared and plowed, crouched the largest tiger Taras had ever seen.
Taras felt as though his stomach had fallen away. His heart pounded in his throat. He’d heard tales of Siberian tigers before, but never seen one, other than in artwork. The animal simply watched him and Jasper. Even from so far away, it looked enormous. Probably weighed thirty-eight stone. Far more than Taras himself.
The animal’s hide was the color of summer peaches, much lighter than Taras would have expected given the drawings he’d seen, and black stripes ran from the nape of its neck to the tip of its tail. The light color allowed it to blend into the still-dead grass of the terrain. A circle of stark white fur covered its left eye, making it look strange.
If this animal decided to attack, Taras knew he didn't have the strength or the tools to fight it.
A soft step behind him announced he no longer stood alone on the porch. “Here," a masculine voice said from behind him. "Please, my friend. Use this.” Taras turned his head ever so slightly toward his visitor, keeping his eyes on the enormous cat. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he realized Ganbold held out something metallic. Taras reached back for it. The Mongol pressed the small, heavy arabesque into Taras’s palm.
Taras made ready to fire the weapon, doing exactly as Ganbold had shown him only the evening before. Taras had seen many such weapons as he’d traveled from England to Russia, but never handled one until the previous night. Most places in Europe, they called this weapon a musket.
The tiger crouched facing the cabin head on. Its intelligent eyes took in Taras, his Mongol visitor, and Jasper’s flighty form. Turning to one side, so Taras could appreciate its full length, it eyed Taras a moment longer before turning its head and padding slowly away.
Taras’s shoulders slumped with relief. Even with the musket, he doubted he could have downed the tiger. It was simply too large to be subdued by one powder shot. Once the animal disappeared entirely, Taras handed the gun back to its owner.
He strode to Jasper and stroked his nose and back, attempting to comfort the horse. Jasper stamped and threw his head back. Taras doubted he would be calm for at least a day now. The horse sensed the predator and it traumatized him.
"Perhaps you should keep your horse indoors with you, my friend," Ganbold said in broken Russian. "At least until you get a shelter built for him."
Taras glanced at the Mongol. He’d been thinking the same thing. His house still wasn't finished, and it would be another month before he managed a barn for Jasper. “A good suggestion. My thanks for the use of your weapon. I’m glad it wasn't needed."
Ganbold only nodded, taking the gun back from Taras. The little man only reached Taras’s chest for height. He sported the black, silky hair and thin, almond-shaped eyes of the Easterners. He also possessed a solemn, steady dignity that reminded Taras a great deal of Nikolai.
“Why did you not use the weapon yourself?” Taras asked. The man had shown him how to use the gun, but obviously Ganbold would have been more proficient with the weapon.
The little man shrugged. “A man should be the one to defend what is his. Do you not agree?”
Taras contemplated the reply briefly before nodding.
Ganbold appeared the night before, just as the sun began to set. Taras sat by his hearth, eating a solitary meal of rabbit when he'd heard a human voice calling from outside the cabin. It startled him more than it should have. He hadn’t heard any voice besides his own for months. Taras had begun speaking aloud to Jasper and himself, to keep the silence at bay.
The Mongol asked for a meal and shelter for the night. Taras, of course, had agreed. He fed the man and laid some animal pelts by the fire for him. He’d worried, at first, that communication would be difficult. Ganbold spoke no English, and Taras certainly spoke no Mongolian. Soon enough, they discovered they both spoke Russian. Ganbold’s accent and limited vocabulary made him hard to understand at times, but if Taras listened carefully, he caught enough meaning to conduct a conversation.
Truth be told, he felt relieved to have company. He regretted that the Mongol would be moving on today. Ganbold explained that he’d been selling his wares in Moscow. He traveled across Siberia on his way back to his home in Mongolia. Taras wished his visitor would stay longer. It would have been nice to have another human being around again.
Ten minutes later, Jasper had settled enough to stop throwing his head and kicking his hooves, though his eyes still held a wild look. Taras motioned Ganbold back into the cabin. "Come. Let's have some breakfast."
The two of them ate in companionable silence. Taras left the door open so he could keep an eye on Jasper and move quickly should the tiger return.
After cleaning the wooden plate Taras carved from a white pine tree, Ganbold spoke. "I thank you for your hospitality, my friend. May I ask a personal question?"
Taras regarded the man curiously before nodding.
"What if this woman of yours never comes? Will you spend the rest of your life here in solitude?”
The prior evening, the two men exchanged stories about their lives and families, as was the custom when travelers met one another on their journeys. Taras told Ganbold that life in Moscow no longer suited him. He purposely left out seditious words about Ivan, just in case Ganbold turned out to be a loyalist. Taras told Ganbold he hoped that, even if it wasn't for another year or two, Inga would join him in Siberia.
"I believe she will come, sooner or later. I will wait for her here."
Ganbold studied Taras in a calculating way. After a moment, he nodded. "Each man's life is his own. I suppose you can get enough company from the nearby village, if you need it."
Taras's head snapped up. "Nearby village?"
Ganbold raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Yes. You do not know? It is not so far a distance from here. Not more than one ortoo." He pointed to the northwest.
Taras knew an ortoo was a Mongolian unit of distance. He remembered hearing some Tartars use it during Ivan’s campaign against Kazan. He just wasn’t entirely certain what distance it represented. He thought it was perhaps one hundred and fifty furlongs, which for him and Jasper would be half a day’s ride.
Taras ran over the Siberian terrain in his head. He’d never been one hundred and fifty furlongs to the northwest. The land around his little valley teemed with wildlife Taras could eat and skin for pelts to store up against winter. He hadn’t yet needed to venture that far.
“Not a large village,” Ganbold went on. “But enough to keep you company and make you some friends. Even some women, if you desire. They are simple people, my friend. They do not have your knowledge. I think they would be willing to trade with you, however.”
Taras nodded. “Thank you for the information. Perhaps I will go meet these villagers.”
Ganbold nodded in return. He stood and began gathering his few belongings into his blanket, which Taras knew he would roll up and carry on his back.
Taras watched him with regret. It had been nice to have companionship. To have conversation. Taras didn’t realize how much he missed Nikolai until now.
When Ganbold finished readying himself, he turned to Taras, the small arabesque still clutched in his hand. “I hope I do not offend you, my English friend. My curiosity is strong. I do not understand why your woman did not come with you in the first place.”
Taras smiled to himself. Ganbold had tried to pronounce his name several times the night before. His Mongol tongue had found it too difficult. He hadn’t tried even once this morning.
Taras didn’t know the best way to explain things to Ganbold. He’d tried last night, but obviously hadn’t been clear. Even if the two of them could communicate more effectively, this sort of thing was hard to convey. He and Ganbold had only broken Russian and the strangeness of strangers to go on.
“Some people,” Taras began slowly, “are not free in their own minds. They put up walls. Put themselves in their own dungeons. They must break free of these walls in their minds before they can truly live. Do you understand?”
Ganbold hesitated, and Taras didn’t think he did.
“Some people,” Ganbold said. “Believe they are slaves, when they are not. Others, believe themselves free, when they are not. She must choose to come here, or she’ll never be free. Never be your equal.”
Taras eyebrows rose steadily as Ganbold spoke. “Yes. That’s it, exactly,” he said.
Ganbold nodded. “But you do not know how long it will take her to do this. It is not an easy thing you ask of someone who has been a slave her entire life. What if she lives and dies in her chains?”
Taras sighed. He did not wish to offend his visitor, but he wished Ganbold would not ask such uncomfortable questions. “Then I suppose...I’ll live and die in mine. Here. Waiting for her.”
“Is this thing not...” Gangold struggled, then uttered a Mongolian word Taras didn’t recognize.
He shook his head to show he didn’t understand.
Gangold looked frustrated, the first negative emotion Taras had seen from the mild-mannered Mongol. “Do you not practice the same behavior you wish her to change? You stay in your chains here yet wait for her to break hers.”
Taras thought on that. He had to concede the point. “I suppose there are different kinds of chains. I was in prison in Moscow too. I broke free. Once Inga does, we’ll live here together. Free. You’re right, but I promised her I would be here when she comes. I feel confident she will. I don’t see it as a chain so much as keeping a promise.”
Ganbold seemed to consider that. “You spoke of riding through the Middle countries to arrive in Moscow,” he said. “You have never been farther East than Kazan. Is this correct?”
Taras nodded. “Yes.”
“I travel home to my wife and sons. I still have much distance to cover, but I could show you such sights and places on the Silk Road, most westerners cannot dream of them. Will you come with me? My home is a place of beauty. My wife will be happy to find you a woman. Strong and beautiful to bear you many sons.”
Taras smiled and considered. Truly considered. His loneliness would evaporate. Seeing more of the world did have a certain appeal. The idea of sharing another woman’s bed brought thoughts of Inga, though. It made his chest hurt with longing for her, and the idea of other women became repulsive. Ultimately, he shook his head.
“Thank you for the offer. I appreciate it more than I can say. But I made a promise to a woman who remains in Moscow. I must keep that promise.”
Ganbold nodded, as though he’d expected as much. “You have a horse and I am afoot. If your mind is changed, you can catch me easily in days or weeks.” He held his arabesque out. “A gift, in exchange for your gifts of hospitality.”
Taras’s eyes widened. “I cannot accept this, Ganbold. It is too dear.”
“It is a gift. Do not dishonor it." Ganbold thrust it toward Taras insistently.
“Won’t you need it on your travels?”
“I have another,” Ganbold answered. “I will see many peddlers on my path and can buy another if I have the need. Do me the honor of taking it. To give me peace of mind, if not more.”
Taras took the heavy weapon in his hands. “How will my taking this give you peace of mind?”
“I know you’ll have it if your striped friend returns.” He nodded with his chin in the direction the tiger had gone.
Unable to come up with more excuses, Taras nodded. “Thank you.”
A deep, cold loneliness settled on him as the Mongol moved away.
Inga would come. Of course Taras held onto his certainty like a man dying of thirst.
Late at night, when the cold wind blew through the imperfections of his wooden cabin, he found himself angry with Inga. Bitter that she hadn’t come with him. Frustrated that he’d been here for months without her.
Watching Ganbold melt into the horizon, Taras knelt in the grass beside Jasper and prayed. He prayed Inga would come to him. He prayed God would let him keep his life, and his sanity, long enough to fulfill whatever roles still lay in store for him. He prayed the monsters of Siberia would leave him and Jasper be, and that he would have the strength and fortitude to keep Jasper—his only friend in the world now—safe.
Taras rose to his feet. He needed to fell more wood to finish his home and then start on a barn. Until then, Jasper would sleep in the cabin with him.
The howl of a wolf floated to Taras on the wind. Jasper threw his head back with a frightened whinny. So, the warm weather had brought wolves into the area. None had ventured as close as that tiger, though.
Taras didn’t feel fear. Whatever challenged him, he would face it with confidence.
Taras watched Ganbold walk toward the far horizon until he was nothing more than a moving speck. He watched until he could no longer differentiate the speck from the rest of the landscape. And listened to the Siberian wolves howl in the distance.
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A Note to the Reader
Hello there, masochistic reader. If you made it all the way through book 2, you must have a strong stomach and a love of emotional torture.
All jokes aside, book 2 of a trilogy, in many ways, can be infinitely harder than book 1. I want you to know that I'm aware of how difficult this book is to read. Of how devastating and horrible some of the events are.
Some say truth is stranger than fiction. Others claim you just can't make this shit up. Both ring true for me. The violence and gore I've included in this installment of Kremlins did not come out of my own head. It slashes through the annals of history with both textbook detachment and compelling emotion.
I felt it necessary for two reasons: First, to understand what life truly looked like for the uneducated masses living in Russia at this time, who had neither the intellect nor the resources to change their situations. Their belief in Ivan's divine kingship ran deep and crippled them. They truly thought opposing him would mean a sure seat in hell for their souls, and could not understand the truth: that Ivan could have walked in the ways of the Christian god, had he wanted to. Perhaps for a time, he did. The masses he ruled couldn't accept that when he chose to deviate from his Christian course, that choice was Ivan's, not God's. They had no cultural or religious frame of reference for such a notion.
Second, to understand why Inga made the choice she did, I needed to convey the depth of trauma both she and Taras endured and how they dealt with it differently. Taras allowed it to set him free, while Inga remained crippled by it.
I know this ending is difficult to stomach. I've had some reports of early readers contemplating throwing the book against the wall, and hating Inga for her choice. (They didn't actually throw the book because most read on expensive electronics. Ah, 2017.)
I understand that reaction completely. I can only ask you to trust me enough to read book 3, which will arrive soon. Inga and Taras are young yet and have many years to learn, change, and perhaps find the happiness which, as yet, has so eluded them.
—Liesel