The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)

Chapter 11. Besson's Dark Secret

With Uncle Vasilii and Matvei looking expectantly at him, in complete silence, Besson had no choice but to resume his tale.

People crowded into the courtyard. Besson hadn't seen a gathering this large since he'd left Moscow. At first, men and women mostly kept their distance from Dmitrii's body and milled, shocked by what they saw.

Besson was hardly different. The bloody scene burned on his cornea. A dark place was what he needed, a cellar or a well, to shut down his troublesome eyesight for a while and come to his senses, to think. When he rubbed his eyes, pressing down, in hopes to displace the vision, it surprised him to see that hot moisture dripping out was tears, not blood.

He stumbled half-blind, even though some of the gathered servants pushed him back. Then, someone shoved him instead of pushing.

Osip, who tried to go to his mother, cried out, as rough arms grabbed him to keep him in place. Besson stifled a cry: confusion was turning to anger, and he was too afraid to attract attention to himself. Bitiagovskii was braver. He yelled, "Unhand him! He's not a murderer!"

Then Maria Nagaya's keening pierced the air. Shouts echoed, rising like the storm. The loudest echo came from a bell that tolled from the nearby belfry. It tolled like it would for a Tatar raid. Rise, citizens, rise! Trouble at the gates!

The other bell joined in, further down, then so many more picked up the thrilling, ancient beat, it was impossible to tell which bell rang from what church. Birds sprung into the sky in their multitudes and zigzagged through it, alone and in flocks, terrified out of their tiny brains. The shouts in the courtyard weaved into one non-stop howl.

To Besson's right, a scuffle broke out. Huge Bitiagovskii pummeled the guards, crushing his way toward the gates of kremlin, screaming, "Let us go! We're innocent!" Osip yelled that an unholy spirit killed Dmitrii over Bitiagovskii's bass again and again until his high-pitched cries edged with hoarseness.

If Besson fought through the throng to Bitiagovskii and Osip, if they held together, maybe they could have protected one another until someone listened to their tale. But Besson's gut pushed him in another direction. As a page at Moscow's court, he had seen how cruel men can be in a moment of anger.

I didn't call him a coward or anything, but Besson's memories flooded me, one more grotesque than the next.

Flailed men, wriggling on the spikes like red worms on fishing hooks; bleeding breasts of the wives force-fed to husbands until they choked; and the dogs... there always were snarling dogs, savoring human flesh. Self-righteous laughter howled and barked with the dogs.

This was Ivan the Terrible's justice, and Ivan had died seven years ago, and Besson was currently eighteen... This math made me gag. Enough! I snapped at him, missing the body parts to clench.

Besson shrunk into himself.

Sorry! I wasn't angry with him. I even agreed with him. The town while a child-prince lay dead, the bells were tolling; and the mother wept over the body wouldn't have justice on the forefront of their minds. I felt pissed because I maxed out on being helpless to do anything about everything. It sucked.

Not on the forefront of their minds... Besson smiled wanly at me. Aye, you said it right.

"Murderer! The hellion killed my son!" Maria shrieked.

Besson couldn't see who she was pointing at, but it wasn't him, because the chests, shoulders and elbows, previously in his way, turned a little. Mindlessly, he nudged his way through, barely even realizing that the aggression turned on Osip and Bitiagovskii, until Osip screamed. Besson glanced.