“Of course, Lord Oleg.” Dymitri lifted his chin. “But I don’t think the dear father would have given this man any information.”
Oleg would not be surprised if Father Izaias had indeed withstood torture. The man was one of the most steadfast humans he’d ever encountered. He had become a priest after being a soldier for many years, and there were few humans with more inner resolve.
In fact, if Izaias had been a decade younger and not suffering from arthritis in his knees, there might have been a different victim of this attack. Then again, Oleg did not know if the priest would have attacked another man, even one who was trying to kill him.
As much respect as Oleg had for the human, Father Izaias was not his spiritual shepherd. Oleg had not offered a prayer to any deity since the night he became knyaz of the Kievan Rus.
“Is your wife well?” Oleg asked. “Your family?” He must not forget the living while he avenged the dead. Father Izaias was dead. His soul was at peace. But the peace of the village hadbeen broken, and that was as much a crime in Oleg’s eyes as the priest’s murder.
“She is well, Lord Oleg. All of them are doing very well.”
“I am glad to hear that.”
“Does the lady know?” Dymitri looked up. “My wife was asking about her health, Lord Oleg.”
“Your lady is well and looks forward to visiting the village soon.” Oleg patted Dima’s knee again, then patted his wrinkled cheek. “It may be some time before we have another priest here in the village. Make sure the people are praying, yes? The church is the people, not the building.”
“Yes, Lord Oleg. And we will take care of Matushka Katrina.”
“Thank you, Dima.” Oleg had no doubt that the priest’s wife was crushed by this violent murder, but he also knew that she had as much backbone as her husband. “Make sure she does not feel that she must leave her home. You must let her know that our people are her family as much as her blood.”
“Yes, Lord Oleg.” The task clearly gave Dymitri some purpose in his grief. He lifted his head. “I will make sure I take care of Matushka as if she were my own daughter.”
“Thank you.” Oleg stood. “Mika and I will talk now. When I have news about this crime, I will tell you.”
“He’s strikingat the heart of your territory.”
“You speak as if you are sure of who did this. Are we?”
Oleg and Mika were sitting in Oleg’s library at the citadel, a lavish, wood-paneled room that smelled of lemon oil and beeswax. There were tall gothic windows washed in black andsilver by the clear, starry night. A fire burned on both ends of the room from twin fireplaces. Over one was a mosaic representing the summer and the winter, deep reds and icy, cold blues dominating an extreme landscape lush with wheat fields and snowy forests.
Over the other mantel was a gentler mosaic representing the spring and the fall, verdant green-budded trees melting into vibrant orange, yellow, and rust.
“I am sure.” Mika persisted through Oleg’s silence. “If we do not answer this offense?—”
“It will be answered.” It wasn’t hard to imagine that Ivan was behind Father Izaias’s death. It was exactly the kind of cowardly thing Ivan would do.
“Is this an answer to the shooting in Moscow? We pierce his ear and he bludgeons a protected human to death using an assassin?”
“It’s possible my brother will try to distance himself when the assassin is caught. It’s possible the human was hired by someone else and Ivan knew nothing.”
“The priest wastortured.”
“Trust me, I remember.”
The seasons changed, centuries passed, and yet the library where they were sitting kept a record of it all. Oleg’s personal journals were kept here as well as the daily logs from a hundred different house managers. There were framed photographs and oil paintings of him through different periods of history. There were pictures of his children. And their children.
In this place, Oleg could tell the story of his life. Not verbally—he was no poet or bard—but visibly, physically, his story was built into the very walls of this castle and the land that surrounded it.
The village hall washishall.
The schoolhouse was his place of learning.
The church was his church even though he did not attend.
And the priest who had been murdered…
“He was tortured to extract information,” Mika repeated. “There can only be one suspect.”
