The group was still a week’s ride from Moscow. The day was wet, as opposed to a frozen. Wet days were worse. The snow hid sinkholes, and once a man’s clothing got wet, warmth was impossible to find again.
As midday approached, the group stopped to eat. The riders on horseback spread out around the sleighs and lunched atop their horses. Taras scanned the horizon while they ate cold cheese and stale wafers. The landscape was utterly silent—not even a wind today. Every so often, a horse would snort or wicker, and the noise echoed so loudly in the silence that Taras jumped.
“Riders approaching!” somebody shouted, shattering the oppressive stillness.
The call came from ahead of Taras, on the other side of the caravan. The men spurred their horses into action, lining up between the caravan and the approaching horses. Taras fell in beside them. The land here was flatter than farther north. The riders could be seen from a long distance, and it took them some time to approach.
As they neared the group, Taras could make out a rich sleigh lined with velvet and furs, carrying a man dressed in a thick fur coat and shapka. There were bells on the harnesses and rich, sleek horses pulling it. Taras remembered seeing grand prince Vasily driving around in a similar sleigh. To have transportation such as this, the man must be an important boyar, close to the grand prince, or one of the prince’s own family.
An armed escort of men surrounded the sleigh on horseback. Even the bodyguards’ garments were richly made. Two of Taras’s group went out to speak to them when they were close enough, and two men from the sleigh’s escort met them halfway. After a few minutes, the four men nodded. The two men from Taras’s group returned. They spoke in what Taras thought might be Turkish. The group seemed to accept whatever was said. They fell back into line and the rich sleigh fell in behind them.
Taras urged his horse up to Almas’s. “I didn’t understand that.”
Almas smiled faintly. “My apologies, my friend. I should have thought to translate it for you.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the Khan of Kasimov.”
Taras tried to remember what he’d been told of Kasimov. He’d read about wars with the Tatars, but hadn't thought about it in years. His confusion must have shown because Almas explained, “Kasimov is a Khanate of the Tatars. Battles have been fought over it for hundreds of years. The remnant of the Golden Horde used to control the grand princes of Muscovy. When the Mongols conquered the eastern lands, the grand princes paid tribute to the Khan. That was hundreds of years ago. Still, raiders from Khazan, Crimea, and Astrakhan invaded Russia. Then the grand prince created Kasimov and filled it with Tatars loyal to Russia. This is a great boon to Russia, as it opened the eastern markets for trade. It also keeps the eastern Tatars from attacking, as they would be fighting their own people. So you see, it functions as both a physical and a . . . a mind weapon as well. Forgive me, my friend. My Russian is not good on this subject.”
“I think I understand.” Taras knew the Tatars—a mixed people of Turks, Mongols, and several other ethnic groups—had conquered Moscow in ancient times. The grand princes paid annual tribute to the king of the Mongols, or what Almas called the “remnant of the Golden Horde.” Eventually Moscow won its independence, but there were still invasions of Russia from the east.
Kasimov—the land this man in the sleigh ruled—was a khanate of the Tatars. Taras thought a khanate must be similar to a colony. However, the tsar had many loyal people in Kasimov, which meant he could control the border to a large extent. It functioned as a buffer, as well as a gateway to eastern trade.
“Your people are very divided,” Taras spoke quietly, not wanting Almas to take offense. Almas merely nodded.
“We are. Some believe we ought to be united with Russia. Others think those who are in Kasimov are traitors.”
“They are well off, it seems.”
Almas shook his head. “The grand prince keeps them living in decadence because he cannot afford to lose their loyalty. They always arrive like that—in great splendor.”
Taras nodded, considering. He’d never been interested in the intrigues of court, but as he was heading into the hornet’s nest, he supposed he ought to make note of certain things. If he wanted to learn the truth of his mother’s death, he might have to engage in some maneuverings of his own.
“How close are we to Moscow?”
Almas immediately cheered up. “Not far at all. Two, three days at most. Are you . . . pleased to be going there?”
Taras thought Almas probably meant something more like ‘excited’ but didn’t correct him. “In a way, but I’m also anxious. I haven’t been to Russia in more than fifteen years. My last visit, I buried my mother. I find I am nervous to enter the Kremlin Wall again.”
“Even the most courageous of men are, my friend. Take heart. You are young, and if you gain the tsar’s favor, you have a great deal to look forward to.”
Taras gave Almas an encouraging smile. It faded quickly. No matter how hard he tried to be excited for his new life, he found only anxiety. That same old sensation—the feather running down his spine—was ever present.