The Last Tsar's Dragons

Chapter 14

The mad monk had heard talk of dragons. Of course he’d often heard talk of dragons. But this time there was something different in the tenor of the conversations, and he was always alert to changes in gossip.

Gossip is the beginning of history. Someone not alert to it could let history slide past them.

This particular bit of dragon gossip had something to do with a red terror, which was odd, since the tsar’s dragons were black. But when his sources were pressed further—a kitchen maid, a boot boy, the man-boy who exercised the tsar’s dogs and slept with them as well—they could say nothing more than that. And the dog boy—whose vocabulary was interspersed with dog grunts and growls—sounded perfectly terrified when he spoke to Rasputin about it. Or rather, he tried to speak. He ended up howling like one of his charges instead.

Red terror! Rasputin tried to imagine what they meant, his hands wrangling together. It could mean nothing or everything. It could have nothing to do with dragons at all and everything to do with assassination attempts. A palace was the perfect place for such plots. Like a dish of stew left on the stove too many days, there was a stink about it.

But if there was a plot, he would know it. He would master it. He would use it for his own good.

“Find me more about this red terror,” he whispered to the kitchen maid, a skinny little thing, with a crooked nose. “And we will talk of marriage.” That he was already married mattered not a bit. He would find her a mate, someone who would lift her out of the kitchen, and she knew it.

“Find me more about this red terror,” he told the boot boy, “and I shall make sure you rise to footman.” It was his little joke, that. The boy was not smart enough for the job he already had. But there were always ways to make the boy think he’d tried.

He said nothing more to the dog’s keeper. As his old mother used to tell him: A spoken word is not a sparrow. Once it flies out, you can’t catch it. He knew the dog boy spoke in his sleep, his hands and feet scrabbling on the rushes the way his hounds did when they dreamed. Everybody listened in.

The truth that peasants speak is not the same as the truth the powerful know. Having been one and become the other, Rasputin knew this better than most. He wrung his hands once more. “Find me more about this red terror,” he muttered to no one in particular.

But even as he asked, he drew in upon himself, becoming moody, cautious, worried. Walking alone by the frozen River Neva, he tried to puzzle through all he’d heard. It was as if the world was sending him messages in code. He asked his secretary Simanovich for paper and wrote a letter to the tsar telling him of the signs and warning him, too.

The words scratched out onto the page, but while they made perfect sense to Rasputin, schooled as he was in the meanings of magic, he knew he would need more for the tsar to act on than what was offered therein. So Rasputin did not send the letter. Not yet. Once he found out all about this red terror, he would personally hand the letter to the tsar and reap his reward.

It was past time for his visit with the tsar’s son, and the boy was restless. He snapped at Rasputin, saying, “You are late. No one is late coming to me.”

The monk made a tch with his tongue, as he would to a badly trained dog, and the boy immediately came to heel. “I was looking for a special treat, little tsar,” he said smoothly. Not that he had any such treat, nor could he afford something the boy did not already have. But it worked.

“What? What?” Alexei asked, eager as always.

“We are going to go down to see the dragons, and on the way, I have a very special tale to tell you about dragons,” Rasputin said.

“Is it about the tsar’s dragons?” Alexei asked, slipping his hand in the monk’s.

“It is about….” Rasputin thought quickly, remembering the tales he’d heard from the old women in his native village. “About a dragon. But not your father’s.”

“Oh.” The boy sounded disappointed. “I don’t wish to hear about Chinese dragons.”

“But these are Russian dragons.”

“There are no Russian dragons that aren’t my father’s,” Alexei said imperiously.

“Not anymore,” Rasputin said, mysteriously.

“Tell me, tell me,” Alexei begged, not a royal command but a boy’s plea.

“As we walk along,” Rasputin said, knowing the walk would be good for the boy.

The boy looked up expectantly yet silently, so Rasputin began the tale.

“There once was a snake that lived a hundred years, and so turned into a dragon. This was in Russia, not China, so it turned into a giant dragon, not a small wyrm like we have now.”

“My father’s dragons aren’t small!” Alexei said petulantly. “They are the tsar’s dragons, which means they are the biggest—”

Rasputin smiled down at him. “Of course not,” he agreed, because disagreeing openly with royalty was never a good idea. “But compared to the Russian dragons of old? Tiny things.” He waited until the boy nodded in agreement before continuing. “After one hundred years a snake, this dragon was wild, as well. Untamable. He razed villages. Burnt whole provinces to ash.”

“Was there no tsar to stop him?”

“Of course there was! Your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather was tsar,” Rasputin said, having no idea if it was true. “He rode out to slay the dragon.”

Alexei made as if to speak, but Rasputin held his hand up to stop him. “I will never finish if you keep interrupting, my prince. The tsar rode out in his shining armor and, avoiding the flames, plunged his great sword deep into the beast’s chest.”

The boy couldn’t help himself. He burst out, “He killed the dragon!”

Rasputin smiled. “No. Because the dragon was not only large and fierce but clever, as well. He had taken out his heart and hidden it far away, where none could find it. Or so he thought.”

“Did the tsar find the dragon’s heart? Did he save the land?”

Rasputin laughed and scooped up the young prince— but gently. They neared the entrance to the barns. “Of course, he did.” And since they were at the barns now, added, “But that is a story for another day.”

They went down to the barns, but the dragons were sleeping, or so the barn boys said. And even a tsar’s son—warned Rasputin—dare not wake them. They saw only the tops of the dragons’ sleeping heads. Alexei was more than satisfied.

Rasputin was relieved.