Golden Paradise

Chapter Nineteen

Behind their redoubts, the Turks were firing with such rapidity a flaming red line of fire tore into the advancing columns. As they drew closer to the entrenchments the second and third attack battalions slowed down and began to falter. In horror, Stefan saw the first break begin, the first men turn in retreat before the annihilating fire storm, and knew not a moment could be lost or his men would lose heart. He had only two battalions of sharpshooters left in reserve, the best in his detachment. Quickly waving them forward, he put himself at the head of these, picking up the stragglers in his rush forward, reaching the troops that were considering retreat and giving them the inspiration of his own courage. He gathered up the whole mass as if with a single sweeping motion of his arm and carried it toward the redoubt with a rush and a cheer.

The entire fortress before them was like a vision of hell, enveloped in flame and smoke, the steady crash of deadly rifle fire a lethal barricade they must cross, but his men pushed on because their general was a dozen yards ahead of them and they wouldn't fail him. Stefan's sword was shot in two twenty yards from the ramparts, tossed aside and replaced in a reflexive blur of motion from his saddle scabbard; his uniform was covered with mud and filth, his cross of Saint George twisted round on his shoulder, his face black with powder and smoke, but he charged forward the last few yards with a savage yell and Cleo soared over the last ditch, the scarp and counterscarp, over the parapet and swept into the redoubt like a hurricane. Stefan was smiling, feeling the old frenzied energy and brashness. He heard his own scream with a sense of exhilaration, heard the answering roar of his troops streaming in behind him and knew his men would follow him anywhere.

Like a pressured damn breaking, the Turkish defenses crumbled against the onslaught of an army that shouldn't have been able to reach their entrenchments, that should have retreated against the superiority of their Peabody-Martini rifles, that was led by a maniac they all recognized as the phenomenal White General… Bariatinsky.

And twenty bloody minutes later the Tsar's army had taken the redoubt.

The question then was how to hold it, dominated as it was by the Tabias fort, exposed to the fire of sharpshooters concealed behind the next line of trenches and the artillery sights of the citadel. Stefan knew they would be counterattacked. Mukhtar Pasha had no other choice but to try to retake Karadagh and hold that and Tabias at any cost. Both armies understood the significance of the forts protecting the entrance to the citadel.

In less than ten minutes, Stefan's cavalry met the first rush of the regrouped Turks, giving the grenadiers and infantry time to scramble over the parapets, giving the last reserves time to advance up the hill, and ten minutes later what was left of the cavalry faced the Turkish counterattack pouring down the earthworks toward them.

The fighting was brutal. Stefan and his Kurdish troopers were in the thick of the combat, slashing and parrying, slashing and parrying, the motion of their sword arms dogged and automatic, their bodies numb to any sensation save the drive to survive. Sweat streamed down their faces despite the frigid temperatures, their bodies pumping adrenaline in a frantic effort to thwart death, their minds concentrated with focused intensity only on stopping the next fatal blow… and the next… and the next.

They fought mechanically without thought, by instinct alone, their skill a fusion of courage and tactic so ingrained the question of breeding or training was moot. They fought for two hours on the parapets and parade ground and paved squares of a fortress the English and Prussians had guaranteed invincible. They fought while the sky turned a dull gray and the stars lost their brilliance.

Stefan's uniform was no longer distinguishable as white; it was bloodstained and torn from numerous wounds, the worst a saber cut on his right shoulder that had cut clear to the bone. He was fighting now with his left hand. Cleo's reins were wrapped around the saddle pommel, for his right arm was useless even for the light guidance his trained mount might need. Cleo was lathered and foaming, her black coat sleek with moisture. Haci and his men, sword and dagger in hand, marshaled around Stefan, committed to protecting him with their lives. Twice in the past hour Stefan had sent for reinforcements, but in the melee of battle there was no guarantee his dispatches had gotten through and his position was becoming untenable.

With a feeling of unease, Stefan heard the ominous drumbeats of another Turkish attack, the rapid staccato rhythm signaling another sortie. His men heard it too, and knew the sound to be a warning of disaster. Even if Stefan's call for reinforcements had reached their base camp, the ascent up the side of the glacis was so precipitous that troops couldn't be brought up with the same speed as Mukhtar Pasha's attack force, and after hours of fighting, Stefan's remaining men were exhausted, low on ammunition and grimly aware the next Turkish assault could be mortal.

Calling on his last reserves of strength, reaching down beyond his pain and fatigue to an inner strength that had carried him through countless campaigns in the past when the odds were as slim or worse, Stefan shouted to the men, his voice hoarse and raspy, and rode toward the advancing Turks pouring over the entrenchment. They had to stop this attack or all would be lost; he had to rally his men or the hours of fighting would be in vain; he couldn't allow this Turkish counteroffensive to succeed or all the lives lost would have been useless.

Raising his sword high, he spoke to Cleo, nudging her forward with his knees. With her own valiant spirit undiminished, she broke into a trot.

The Turkish rifles ripped into his first line, his bodyguard began to fall, and a moment later Stefan's forward cavalry was fully engaged, the infantry short yards behind. They fought like men with their backs against the wall, knowing there were no options short of death. Soon the ground was slippery with blood, strewn with the dead and dying.

When Haci fell, Stefan saw him go down in the extreme border of his peripheral vision and, shouting for help, jumped from Cleo to go to his aid. The remaining seven of Stefan's guard followed him, and standing back-to-back against the Turks, they protected Haci with their bodies. The waves of Turks seemed unending as Stefan and his bodyguard stood in a circle on the paving stones laid in an intricate variation of a herringbone pattern. They kept coming while daylight rimmed the horizon; they kept coming while Stefan and his Kurds stood unflinching; they kept coming as Turkish bodies piled up in heaps around the phalanx protecting Haci, Stefan's men firing their revolvers in relays like a well-choreographed ballet of death.

But their own casualties mounted, too, against the expensive modern Peabody-Martini rifles the Ottoman Empire had purchased from America, and at last only three of the phalanx remained standing, and then, ten bloody minutes later, none were left…

The battle washed over their bodies in the muted light of dawn, as though their gallant stand had never existed, as though their human lives were no more than a flicker of an eye in the cosmic universe, as though the heir to the Bariatinsky-Orbeliani fortune and honor were a grain of sand on an ocean shore and the battle for Kars a vast tidal wave.

The Tsar's soldiers came up at last as color brightened the sky in numbers sufficient to force a Turkish retreat, but the Turks fought like demons, street to street, house to house, to the very end. Kars was their most important stronghold, the Sultan had poured a fortune into its defenses, and their generals and ruler and religion offered them paradise if they died in its defense. So they died instead of surrendering; they stood and fought at each corner and barricade; the citadel was emptied of defenders, the auxiliary forts and trenches were emptied, and hour after hour the Turks fought until at last it was over.

As the autumn sun shone feebly from its midpoint, a silence began to gather, a silence of dead men and victory, a silence of exhaustion and weary triumph, a silence of Turkish defeat and hesitant Russian hope. The Russian cries began sporadically then, small rejoicing hurrahs from parched throats, exhalations of personal good fortune from men too tired to shout, smiles exchanged with adjacent comrades-in-arms. They had won, they began to realize. The Tsar's army had gained the impregnable, the unconquerable citadel of Islam and its defenders were vanquished. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

But only minutes after the roars of victory rose into the chill air, the shouting triumph died away and a still and utter quiet fell over the Russian army. Rumor spread like wildfire through the ranks, the awful news greeted everywhere with breath-stopping despair. The White General, the Field Marshal's admirable son, the Tsar's favorite young general was dead. After the barricades into the city had been breached by his single-handed effort, he'd been slaughtered in an assault of superior numbers, his faithful Kurds fighting with him to the death. Before he could claim victory for having defeated the Sultan's army of the east, he'd fallen.

At first they couldn't believe it. The Prince was never even wounded in battle. It wasn't true, and soon he'd appear to discount the dreadful rumors. But then the fires broke out, set off perhaps by the artillery fire, and when the munitions' dump ignited, half the western escarpment exploded into the sky. The winds picked up the red-hot ashes and the citadel was aflame in less than an hour.

When the blazing inferno was under some control a day later, the awful truth was finally accepted. Prince Bariatinsky must be dead. He might have survived the battle, but no one could have survived the explosion and the apocalyptic fire.

The Empire had paid a grievous price for its victory over the Turks. Many said it was too great; Kars wasn't worth Prince Bariatinsky's life. The Tsar was said to have cried when news of Stefan's death was telegraphed to Saint Petersburg. He shut himself away for half a day, not allowing even his dearest Catherine to breach his solitude, and when he emerged, his courtiers thought he'd aged ten years.

An hour later the church bells began their sorrowful dirge, from Saint Petersburg to Baku, from Odessa to the emptiness of the Siberian tundra. Throughout the Empire of the Tsar, Stefan Bariatinsky's death was mourned.

Lisaveta went pale when she heard the mourning bells begin to ring, their pealing measured dirge carried on the twilight air up from the valley below, from the thirty-odd churches and bell towers, like a personal message of disaster. Without reason or thought, without need for clarification-for Stefan himself had sensed what lay ahead-she knew… before the Viceroy came. She knew for whom the bells tolled, as though their mournful clamor were directed toward the white marble palace overlooking Tiflis. He's dead…clang, clang, they rang. The Prince is dead…clang, clang. The Prince is dead and dead and dead, clang, clang.

Later in the formal drawing room, Militza sat beside Lisaveta and held her hand as the Viceroy told them what he knew of Stefan's death. The details were still sketchy but Kars had been taken, thanks to Stefan's rallying charge. The citadel was aflame in areas so his body had not yet been recovered, but eyewitnesses had seen him and the last of his Kurdish warriors overrun by a Bazhi attack. Militza asked the necessary questions because Lisaveta found it difficult to respond graciously to a man Stefan had despised.

"Thank you, Prince Melikoff," Militza said at last with a cool dignity that rose to Melikoff's sad and awkward mission, "for bringing us what news you have."

"The archbishop is planning a memorial service tomorrow if you ladies feel able to attend," he mentioned on rising to leave.

"Thank you, we shall," Stefan's aunt replied. "Stefan is a hero to this city."

"To the Empire," the Viceroy added, his manners impeccable.

Lisaveta could no longer conceal her despair. She sobbed openly, fresh tears streaming down her face.

"If you'll excuse us," Militza softly said.

That night Lisaveta slept on Stefan's bed surrounded and atop Stefan's clothes, which she'd carried from his wardrobe. She'd taken scores of his garments and piled them on his bed. His scent lingered in the linen and silk and fine wools, and she'd curled into a pitiable cocoon of misery, snuggling deep into the familiar fragrance of the materials as an injured animal burrows deep into its den to nurse its wounds.

She'd understood on a rational level that men died in battle; she'd even dealt with the fearful possibility of Stefan's death in battle since he'd gone. Or she'd thought she had. She'd known he was celebrated for his daring and bravado, that he wore his white Chevalier Gardes uniform as a taunt to his enemy, as a badge of his own courage… and he'd run the risk for years.

But until this awful moment she hadn't understood the bottomless depths of despair; she hadn't realized it would hurt to breathe, that every second of the day or night she would think, I'll never see him again, never touch him again or laugh when he laughs or know someday he'll come walking through the door again.

And he never would now.

She was so empty inside that she felt as if her own spirit and soul had departed, too. Thoughts of heaven or paradise or God's mercy didn't help or offer any solace because no philosophy, no matter how benevolent, could ever replace Stefan in her life.

Militza did her best to comfort her through the long hours of the night. Her first husband had died in wartime and she understood the desperation of Lisaveta's loss, but she knew too that the time for condolence was later. The grieving came first, the inexorable anguish and pain and tears.

Her own sense of loss was sacrificed for some future time when she could mourn her beloved nephew away from Lise. Stefan's wife needed her strength and comfort now, not her tears. Thank all the angels in heaven that Lisaveta would have Stefan's child to love, Militza thought, although in her present stricken state of hopelessness she was too distrait to find solace in that fact.

"I want to die, too," Lisaveta murmured, lying in Stefan's bed, too pale and quiet, her voice detached somehow as though she'd partially left the world already.

"No," Militza said simply, offering no argument or banal commonplace. "I won't let you," she finished, her dark Orbeliani eyes fierce with determination. Stefan had left his wife and child in her trust and she wouldn't fail him. "Your baby needs you," she gently added.

"I can't even feel the baby," Lisaveta whispered. She was now certain there would be one, but despair overwhelmed her. "Maybe it died, too."

"Nonsense," Militza replied, her voice soothing despite her emphatic denial. "It's too early to feel the baby… Stefan's baby," she added, taking Lise's ashen face tenderly between her hands. "Stefan's baby," she whispered, willing herself not to cry. "The baby he wanted so much… Do you know what he ordered before he left for Kars?" Militza began talking then of the plans Stefan had made for the baby. He'd ordered toys in Saint Petersburg, given carte blanche to Madame Drouet for a layette, left instructions for the estate carpenters to add a rocking horse to the nursery like the one he'd had as a child. The Tsar's physician had been retained for the months before Lisaveta's delivery and would be arriving in Tiflis soon after the new year. He'd even said he wanted a grove of cypress planted when the baby was born to commemorate its birth.

Her words seemed to rouse Lisaveta from her lethargy so she continued speaking, telling her of Stefan's childhood, of his first words and toddling steps, of his favorite puppy and pony, how he'd learned to ride almost before he'd learned to walk. She spoke of the way he thrived on competition and soon could outride, outfight, outswim and outrun all the other young warriors. She described Stefan's love for Tiflis and the population's adoration of their Prince. He conversed with everyone when he went down into the city, Militza said, stopping in the cafes or talking to the people in the street. There were times his strolls took on the look of a parade. She depicted Stefan at length in all the varied facets of his life because her conversation kept Lisaveta from drifting away, because each word she uttered seemed to bring her back from the void of her wretchedness, because each memory and reminiscence of Stefan made him more alive and less dead, and the images could be added to Lisaveta's own loving memories of her husband.

"He was a generous warmhearted man," she quietly finished, pleased to see some color back in Lisaveta's cheeks. "And he loved you very much."

"This baby will be part of Stefan, with his beautiful eyes, perhaps, or his smile," Lisaveta murmured, Stefan's presence so real for a moment that she drew in a breath of surprise. "Was he always tall?"

"He was tall in a country of tall men," Militza replied with a smile, rejoicing in Lisaveta's first sign of interest, her first words implying a future.

"We'll teach the baby how to ride young like Stefan." Her golden eyes had taken on life.

"Or her," Militza softly suggested.

"Or her," Lisaveta echoed, her voice warm with feeling. "It's up to us to see to Stefan's wishes, isn't it?" she went on, more animated, some of the old resourcefulness Stefan had admired prominent in her tone. And sitting up slowly, she brushed her heavy chestnut hair away from her face. She smiled, a small rueful upturning of her mouth. "He wouldn't have tolerated all my self-pity, would he?"

Militza smiled back. "Not for long," she quietly replied. "Stefan believed in taking charge of one's life."

"He did, didn't he?" Her pallor had been replaced by a rosy glow of health and her expression was wryly musing.

"Sometimes with a vengeance," Militza said with a wide smile.

"In that case," Lisaveta said, lifting up one of Stefan's shirts and beginning to fold it away, "I mustn't let him down."

How resilient youth is, Militza thought, seeing the ashen wraith of moments ago restored to a healthy bloom. And how valiant and brave, she mused, gazing at the beautiful young woman who'd brought such happiness to her nephew. "Stefan would be proud of you, my dear," she said softly.

The rumors started almost immediately after his death because the bodies of Stefan and his Kurdish bodyguard had never been found. The logical explanation took into account the fire that swept through the citadel after the battle, a fire that had spread so fast and burnt so high the night sky had been lighted up for a hundred miles. Half the dead bodies and unfortunate wounded were cremated where they lay. The screams of the dying had been more horrible than the bloody hours of battle. The night sky, survivors said, echoed with their shrieking agony, like a scene from hell.

The added and awful tragedy cast a pall over the glorious victory.

But it was the apocalyptic nature of the fire that fueled the first stories of Stefan's rise from the dead.

The mystic tendencies of the peasant mentality and the religious imagery of the common soldier deified in a pagan mythical hopefulness the best and favorite of their leaders. Stefan had always possessed a personal bond with his army; he had fought at their side, ate, slept and suffered with his soldiers, understood their fears, shared their triumphs and the intimacies of their lives. They would not relinquish his memory and refused to concede his death. The White General, the Prince, the Savior of Mirum had never been defeated. Even Kars, the citadel of citadels, had fallen before his courage. He couldn't be dead, no more than he could be defeated.

He'd become a pilgrim, they said, like the pious and gentle Alexander I, wandering the countryside and steppes and forests, searching for peace, seeking solace in the solitude of vast Mother Russia. To touch him was good fortune; to see him even from afar was acknowledgement from God that a better life lay ahead… a life without suffering and pain, a life of serenity and peace.

Nikki heard the rumors very early, no more than two weeks after the battle. He accepted them as natural for a country unable to come to terms with Stefan's death. The loss of Russia's favorite general had struck the Empire to the core; there was no one to replace Stefan in temperament and charisma, in competence or ability.

Another two weeks passed but the rumors of Stefan's resurrection persisted; they were, in fact, augmented daily by additional reports and new tales. Nikki considered himself a pragmatic man, so he ignored the stories at first when he heard them at the club or in the military offices, and he'd patiently listen to the latest hearsay with a tolerant courtesy. Then one day Haci's name was mentioned in the most current report of Stefan's reappearance. Stefan was in the mountains, rumor had it, nursing his aide back to health. Details were included this time by a villager who had supposedly talked to him.

Nikki went home and set his valet to packing.

And then he went in search of his wife to explain his impractical journey.

Alisa was in the nursery, rocking baby Georgi. When her husband declared his intention in an erratic presentation at the same time hopeful and hopeless, she gazed at him over the head of their youngest child sleeping in her arms and said, "Could it even remotely be true?" Her thoughts were on Lisaveta.

"Realistically, no one could survive the fire," he replied with a small sigh. Nikki had spoken with many of the survivors and he wasn't optimistic about "even remotely." Bodies had been charred to ashes in the flaming inferno. The fact Stefan's body hadn't been recovered wasn't an isolated incident. Thousands of men had disappeared into ashes. "I don't know what to say-" he shrugged, his expression grave "-that won't sound pessimistic…"

"Yet you're going," his wife softly declared. "Why?"

"To set my conscience at ease, I suppose. And for Stefan," Nikki slowly said. "Because I'd want him to look for me, too, even if it was a chance in a million."

Nikki arrived in Tiflis four days later. He spoke to Militza first for he wasn't certain how Lisaveta was dealing with Stefan's death. If she wasn't emotionally stable, he didn't wish to inform her of his mission. He felt compelled to follow the rumors however unprosperous their substance, however fruitless his search, because his friendship with Stefan demanded it. But something in him did insist on hope. What he hadn't mentioned to Alisa, for it seemed too tenuous even to himself, were his own feelings about Stefan's extraordinary will to survive. In fact, over the years they'd been friends, he'd often wondered if Stefan recognized the finality of death or whether he'd do battle with the grim reaper, too, when his time came. And since his body had never been identified-although in the charred remains of so many tragic souls, his could have been as unrecognizable as any other-Nikki retained the minutest, unsubstantial, inexplicable hope Stefan might have lived.

With all his heart and every dim, obscure mystical interpretation of his spirit, he wished the rumors true.

A month had passed since the fall of Kars, slightly longer still since Nikki had seen Lisaveta on her wedding day, and she looked altered walking into the morning room, paler, more delicate, her luminous eyes strangely otherworldly and underscored with dark and melancholy shadows.

"You must eat," he said immediately, rising to greet her.

She smiled. "I am, Nikki, for Stefan's child."

"You're too pale." He took her hands in his and gazed at her in the judgmental familiar way of family. Was she too slender? Her hands perhaps too cool? Did the cranberry shade of her gown accent the whiteness of her skin? She wasn't wearing black, he noted, but knowing her own strength of character and Stefan's superstitious dislike of mourning attire, he wasn't surprised.

"Well, I'll contrive to get out more," she replied politely, aware his concern was motivated by affection and not inclined to argue with him. But in truth, she rarely went out anymore. "You look fit," she declared, intent on transferring the subject away from herself.

Nikki was tanned and lean, dressed in chamois hunting clothes. "Thank you. Come, sit. Militza must see you go out more," he added with a significant look at Stefan's aunt. "She tells me you're strong enough to hear what I have to say." He was abrupt but pressed by an internal urgency, his thoughts absorbed by his quest. He found he didn't have patience for socializing.

Lisaveta didn't answer immediately, her gaze having swiftly shifted over to Militza, who was seated on an embroidered settee near the sunny windows.

Nikki in turn surveyed Lisaveta for a troubled moment, wondering if he'd be mistaken offering her such slender hope. She was far from robust, her appearance causing him some concern.

Nikki hadn't traveled this distance without some purpose, Lisaveta realized, and for a wishful moment she overlooked the ominous quality of the term "strong enough" and dared to hope. As swiftly, more prudent reflection intervened and she calmed herself, knowing nothing he could say could hurt her beyond the pain she'd already endured. "Don't look so dreadfully worried, Nikki," she declared placidly, "I'm quite healthy."

As she seated herself in a graceful flow of cranberry wool, Nikki pulled up a chair opposite and, sitting down, debated briefly how best to begin. "You've heard the rumors," he decided would be suitable preface. His identical golden eyes held hers in a steady gaze. "About Stefan," he added, because her expression was so emotionless he wasn't sure she understood.

"Only recently," she answered after a short silence.

As Nikki's brows drew together slightly in puzzlement, Militza, seated off to one side, beyond Lisaveta's direct line of vision, indicated to Nikki with a finger to her lips that she'd withheld the information.

"Yesterday, in fact," Lisaveta went on, noting the direction of Nikki's glance, aware suddenly why she hadn't heard sooner. Her face seemed to light with an instant excitement. "Is it possible-"

"The stories are most likely the apocryphal kind that followed, the death of Alexander I fifty years ago," Nikki interrupted, not wishing to raise false hopes. "In fact, I'm sure they're equally fanciful, but-"

This time Lisaveta interrupted. "Take me with you." Her statement was unequivocal, touched with an intensity that seemed to vibrate across the small distance separating them. She didn't ask for further clarification or detail. She'd understood immediately why Nikki was in Tiflis and intended including herself in his search.

Nikki shook his head. "It's too dangerous. The fighting is still sporadic around Kars and Erzurum. Although treaty negotiations have begun, no truce has been called yet. I can't expose you to that danger."

Lisaveta looked toward Militza for support. "We could bring some of the grooms… for added safety."

"I'm sorry, my dear, Nikki's right," Militza replied, regret and apology in her tone. "Stefan wouldn't want you to risk your life."

"I'll keep you informed of my progress," Nikki offered, "and send back reports."

"When will you leave?" Lisaveta inquired politely, as though she weren't determined to accompany him, as though her mind weren't already organizing the provisions she'd require for travel in a war zone, as though her bland expression weren't hiding a tumultuous excitement. If there was the slenderest chance Stefan were alive somewhere between here and Istanbul, between here and hell itself, she intended to find him. In fact, when she'd first heard the startling rumor yesterday of the sightings, she'd smiled, as though the words alone had brought him back to life. Once her initial rush of joy had been mitigated by more logical realities and a flurry of questions to Militza, she'd cautioned herself against treacherous dreams, had reminded herself of the magnitude of the fire sweeping Kars. But her spirit had steadfastly ignored practicality and reason; her spirit had begun to hope. And now Nikki was here like a gift from God. Her guide, as it were, in her search.

"I'm leaving in the morning," Nikki replied in answer to Lisaveta's casual inquiry. "Militza's kindly offered the use of Stefan's stables."

"Cleo's back, you know." Her voice was mild but inside she was giddy with elation. Had Cleo's escape been a sign?

"Yes, I'd heard." Militza had taken him to see Stefan's horse directly after he'd arrived at the palace. Eyewitness accounts reported Cleo had been taken as a trophy when the Turks had overrun Stefan's forward position. She'd been hauled rearing and squealing from the scene only to return to camp three days later. And Nikki had thought on hearing the story, had Cleo known Stefan still lived that day? Animals had an affinity, a closeness to their masters beyond the understanding of man. Had she fought to stay with him and returned to his tent to wait for him? Even now she seemed restless and unquiet; she'd tried to break out of her stall twice, Militza had said. It wasn't the normal despondent behavior of a pet mourning its master's death.

"Stefan's been seen with a companion, I understand." Lisaveta's face was no longer pale but infused with vitality and the flush of health. Not only her wishful dreams were involved now. Nikki's presence here indicated a serious plausibility; he wouldn't have taken on this journey without some credible evidence. "Are the same stories circulating in Saint Petersburg?"

"I only heard of a companion once." Nikki didn't mention that the single fact of Haci's name had brought him south for fear of kindling impossible expectations. "The accounts have generally described him alone, in native dress. No mention's been made of wounds or illness, but surely he had to have been seriously hurt. If" Nikki carefully added, "the rumors have any substance at all."

"Thank you for taking on this… mission of verification," Lisaveta calmly said, sure her heartbeat could be heard pounding clear across the room. She studied Nikki for a cautious moment, fearful he'd noticed her agitation.

But her cousin seemed to accept her statement at face value. "If nothing else," he said quietly, wanting to make his own expectations clear, "the myth of resurrection will be nullified."

"Yes, of course," Lisaveta agreed, congratulating herself on her novice acting abilities, simultaneously deciding her fur coat was a necessity for the highlands' autumn climate. "Militza," she said by way of disassociation, "one of Stefan's coats will fit Nikki, don't you think? Perhaps the black marten." Did that sound suitably acceptant and passive?

"Why, yes, I'm sure it will," Militza said, concealing her relief at Lisaveta's apparent concurrence.

And the day progressed in preparations for Nikki's journey.

Lisaveta and Militza were up early the following morning to wish Nikki and his escort Godspeed. Provisioned for a month, they carried additional warm clothing, for snow had been falling sporadically in the mountainous heights near Kars since September, and November weather could be extremely cold at those altitudes. Nikki promised to telegraph each day so they could follow the direction of his search, and with his clearance from the Tsar, travel in the war zone should not present problems.

Lisaveta pleaded a headache after Nikki's departure, a complaint Militza viewed as reasonable after their busy schedule yesterday. She then retired to her room and swiftly changed into a serviceable leather split skirt and matching jacket made for fall riding. Into a knapsack she'd pulled from Stefan's closet she crammed an astrakhan jacket, one of Stefan's wool sweaters, a scarf, riding gloves, a knit cap, a change of underclothing and an extra blouse. Snapping the clasps shut, Lisaveta tossed the bag on her shoulder, and creeping silently down one of the servants' staircases, she exited the palace through a side door near the kitchen.

The grooms were startled by her request but obeyed without question, and in twenty minutes Lisaveta and two of Stefan's young grooms, hurriedly equipped for travel, were on Nikki's trail.