Golden Paradise Part 27

"Yes," she sweetly replied.

They traveled southwest for a week, climbing steadily out of the more temperate climate of Tiflis into the chill mountainous regions approaching Kars. Four days before they'd changed into their fur coats, and they were stopped more often now so Lisaveta could warm up occasionally at a camp fire and walk a bit to maintain the circulation in her feet. But they also halted often to question the native populace about Stefan.

The Kurdish nomads inhabiting the high plateaus around Kars were well acquainted with the Orbelianis, their liege lords until a scant two decades ago when Russia had nominally replaced the old feudal systems of authority. The individual tribes were still faithful to the Orbeliani interests over and above their employment as irregular cavalry to a variety of paymasters. If Stefan had appeared among them, even had their employer been the devil himself, they would have protected him.

But none of the tribes had seen him, neither as pilgrim nor wounded soldier, although all had heard the stories; not a single new sc.r.a.p of information was gleaned from the natives on their journey upland. Last week the Turkish army had retreated yet again, they were told, and was moving now toward a last stand at the walled and fortified city of Erzurum, for with the fall of Kars the war had turned decidedly in favor of Russia.

They soon overtook Russian troops bound for the offense on Erzurum and often stood aside to let the ambulance trains pa.s.s on their trek back to Aleksandropol. Each time, Nikki spoke to the officer in charge: Had they heard any more rumors? Had anyone of Stefan's description been seen? In the case of the ambulance trains, he'd asked to see any unidentified wounded. He wouldn't allow Lisaveta to view those unknown soldiers for most were a heartrending sight.

But the answers were always no. Everyone was aware of the rumors, but not a single person had any more information than the hearsay they already knew. And each day took them deeper into the unpopulated highland, brought them nearer Kars, left them with an intensifying sense of isolation. With winter almost upon them and the snow increasing, the nomadic tribes had disappeared, moving southward to better grazing land. As the miles pa.s.sed, the movements of troops and wounded became more infrequent, as though the desolate landscape had swallowed up the tiny specks of humanity traveling across its snow-covered vastness.

Their search for Stefan or some trivial clue to his whereabouts that some soldier or officer or local native might recall seemed at times overwhelmingly impossible, a Herculean task sure to defeat their puny human efforts. Even if Stefan had survived the crematorium blazing across the field of Kars, the land was too large, too harsh and inclement to sustain an injured man, too isolated and bereft of habitation.

The morning of their last day of travel before reaching Kars was bitterly cold. Although their tents had been pitched out of the wind in one of the deep ravines slashing through the snow-drifted plateau, and Lisaveta had slept under fur robes, she was freezing when she woke.

"You shouldn't be here, Lise," Nikki said, wrapping his coat around her and helping her settle near the fire. His dark beard, which had grown out during the pa.s.sage south, was rimmed with frost, his face reddened by the cold.

"I have to, Nikki," she answered, her eyes burning golden bright. "I'm fine." But her face was without color and he could see the effort it took her to keep from shivering.

"Here, this will take off the chill." He handed her a steaming cup of tea from a small trivet placed near the fire. One more day, he decided; they'd talk to the commander left at Kars, and if he couldn't substantiate the rumors, they'd return to Tiflis. He couldn't further jeopardize Lisaveta's health. "Perhaps today," he said with an encouraging smile, "we may hear something."

Lisaveta smiled over the steaming cup she held to her lips, grateful for Nikki's kindness, forever indebted to him for his determined search for Stefan's remains. She wasn't insensitive to the odds they were facing, and while she dreamed of finding Stefan alive, she knew in her heart the possibility was almost negligible. But this journey was her own private pilgrimage- of hope and need and mourning. Tomorrow she'd grieve her husband's death at the site of his last victory.

The stories of Stefan's rallying charge, the monumental importance of his storming of the western fortifications, his cavalry's heroic stand against the counterattack, which allowed the infantry time to scale the heights, had been related to them every day of their pa.s.sage south. The recitals had come from officers and enlisted men, from the wounded soldiers returning home and from native warriors who pa.s.sed them on their travels back to their home villages. All had regarded Lisaveta with the deference due Stefan's widow, calling her "little mother" and kissing her hand, wishing her health and happiness, offering blessings on their child. She'd never realized completely until that journey into the mountains how Stefan had been worshiped and universally loved by all segments of society, by people who had had the good fortune to know him as well as those who only knew of him for his heroic deeds. And each time another person spoke of Stefan with reverence and admiration, she thought how lucky she had been: he had loved her.

Their final day before Kars was silent, conversation difficult when everyone realized their quest had been fruitless, their destination very near and no additional clues unearthed.

"We'll stay the night," Nikki said when the citadel came into sight, an enormous stone fortress spreading across the jagged escarpment, protected on two sides by the hundred-foot drop to the Kars River below. "In the morning we'll talk to the commander, and then if you feel strong enough, we'll start back to Tiflis by midday."

Lisaveta's first impulse was to refuse, but she was aware that Nikki's tolerance had been pressed beyond his or anyone's limit. His voice, both weary and resolved, indicated that any refusal would be useless. "I'd like to see...where Stefan... died," she softly replied, "and then I'll be ready to return." She understood this was the end of her pilgrimage.

Nikki's sigh condensed in the brittle cold air, only to be swept away in the next moment by the strong northwesterly wind. "We'll talk to the commander," he said, "but you know the fires destroyed almost everything."

"I understand- It would help, though, to see the location. I want to know," she said very softly, "where he was last alive." She had come this great distance for confusing and myriad reasons. She longed for hope that Stefan might have survived, but mostly she simply wished to stand in the spot where Stefan last stood and feel him around her; she wanted to breathe the air he last breathed and look out on the scene he saw before he died.

And the next day, after an evening with the commander and a warm bed and the comforts of a well-prepared meal, she and Nikki were taken to the location where Stefan and his bodyguard had stood back-to-back against the Turkish a.s.sault. The area had been restored to order, the charred remains removed and buried, the paved square hung with black crepe, a memorial of captured Turkish regimental banners erected in the center of the square. At its base were the farewell offerings of the soldiers Stefan had led to victory. In place of flowers, which were un.o.btainable in the autumn cold of Kars, his soldiers had left him personal mementos: pictures of their mothers and sweethearts, ribboned medals, small painted icons of patron saints, a favored good-luck charm, a warm jacket or boots, as if Stefan might have need of them, oat straw for Cleo, whom everyone recognized as his favorite charger, jeweled rings of great value. All were offerings from the hearts of the men who would have followed him through the fires of h.e.l.l itself, and nearly had in the a.s.sault on Kars. And nothing had been touched although no guard was posted.

Lisaveta had carried no extraneous baggage with her, so when she wished to leave something for Stefan's memorial, she had nothing of value. Even her wedding ring she'd left behind against the threat of brigands. So her offering was as humble as that of his lowliest soldiers: Slipping off her fur jacket, she pulled Stefan's wool sweater over her head and placed it beneath the Turkish pennants.

"So you'll stay warm," she whispered, kneeling on the frozen ground, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I miss you...so much..." Her breath swirled in wisps on the icy air; her shoulders shook gently with her quiet grief. If only I could hold you and keep you warm, she thought tearfully.

Nikki dared not let her cry, for it was so cold her tears would freeze on her cheeks. Reaching down, he helped Lisaveta up, his gloved hands gentle on her arms. "He'll never be forgotten," he murmured in condolence, slipping her fur jacket back on her shoulders. "The whole nation loved him..." His voice was husky, his own feelings overcome by the poignant evidence of how much Stefan's men adored him.

His death was real, Lisaveta thought sadly, gazing at the benevolent festooned monument of affection. Stefan was truly dead... it was over. Letting Nikki lead her away from the regimental flags and mementos, she faced the stark and merciless truth: the man she loved-the man all Russia idolized and admired-was dead because his courage wasn't shield enough against disastrous odds, and his bravery, ultimately, had only allowed him to die a more gallant death. There was no point in staying any longer, she knew. Nikki was right. Politely declining the commandant's invitation for lunch, she said she wished to return as soon as possible to Tiflis. Stefan's aunt had been left alone and was worried for their safety.

They were back on the road north within the hour, the sun shining brightly as if it approved their decision and were offering the comfort of its warmth for their journey home. But inside Lisaveta felt only a cold emptiness, merciless as the terrain they traveled through. She had wanted so much for the rumors to be true, just as a child wishes for a cherished fantasy to be real, but the harsh reality of Kars had shattered that dream. Tomorrow, perhaps she could begin to think of her future; tomorrow, perhaps she wouldn't feel such wrenching despair. But today she felt drained and heartbroken and so bleak each breath seemed an enormous effort, every mile endless. And as though the universe at last took notice of her sadness, the sun began to dim, the sky turned milky gray and snow began to fall.

In a very short time the wind picked up. Familiar with the storms of that country, Nikki decided they should make for the caravansary at Meskoi. "We should hurry," he said across the small distance between their ponies, the flakes like a fragile veil before their eyes. "We'll wait this out at Meskoi. Are you able-"

"I'm fine," Lisaveta interjected, hiding the misery she was feeling. "Really..." she added in calming response to Nikki's frowning anxiety. "We can pick up the pace."

A moment later the small troop was cantering down the frost-hardened road, evidence of their pa.s.sage wiped away behind them by the blowing wind and drifting snow, even the sound of tack and bit and bridle m.u.f.fled by the squall.

A short distance down the road, some miles yet from the shelter they sought, Lisaveta suddenly reined in and said, "Look." She pointed at what looked like two distant figures, small dark shapes across the great expanse of open plain, lost to sight from second to second by the gusting snow.

Nikki had seen the shape or shapes or objects sometime before but hadn't mentioned them, for his primary concern was for Lisaveta. If the storm intensified-a common occurrence in this country-they might not reach the refuge of the caravansary; he couldn't take that chance. "We can't wait for them. We've too far yet to go and visibility is decreasing."

"But they might need help." Even as Lisaveta scanned the area where she'd last seen what might have been two figures, their presence was erased by the blowing snow.

"I'm sure they'll manage. The natives are experienced with the climate." Every minute counted with the developing storm. Nikki had heard too many stories of lost travelers freezing to death in these blizzards.

"How long will it take to stop and pick them up?" Lisaveta inquired, reluctant to leave another human being out in this storm. "There!" She glimpsed them again, her eyes straining in the diminishing gray light. "It is two people, Nikki!" And she pulled her horse to a halt, obliging Nikki to follow suit.

Taking out his binoculars, he focused on the figures. Two native men in black burkahs and fur hats, one apparently helping the other to walk, were making for the military road. Their progress was achingly slow. "They're two native men.

They know this terrain. They're dressed for winter. They'll be fine." His voice was dismissive. "We should help."

Nikki looked at her, his black brows drawn together in a frown. How determined was she?

"The snow's so deep off the road." Lisaveta's statement was in the form of an entreaty, but her voice held an undertone of firmness. "Even if they know the country a storm like this can be dangerous."

Nikki surveyed her for a moment more, saw he wasn't going to win this discussion and sighed. "Are you warm enough? This will take fifteen minutes or so."

Lisaveta was wrapped in Stefan's black marten coat, a white fox hat Nikki had purchased in Kars covering her hair. "After days of being cold, another fifteen minutes can't hurt, and we can all rest in the comfort of the caravansary soon,"

Nikki snapped the case shut on his binoculars and then smiled. "A pleasant thought... if we can find the place in this storm." He was doing this against his better judgment, but the time lost arguing with Lisaveta would probably be comparable to that needed to get these man back on the road. Signaling one of his men to follow, he turned his horse, and pulling his wolfskin hat down over his forehead, he plunged off the road.

Even the horses' progress was slow as they struggled through the drifts, and Lisaveta watched Nikki and his partner laboriously close the distance between themselves and the burkah-wrapped figures on foot. Requesting the use of binoculars from one of Nikki's men, she raised them to her eyes and focused on the hors.e.m.e.n, then moving the gla.s.ses upward, she caught the native men in the small perimeters of the lenses.

The man helping his companion to walk was unusually tall, she thought, and felt her stomach tighten reflexively... an unconscious reaction she immediately suppressed. The Kurdish tribesmen were often tall, she reminded herself with quelling logic. But still she continued to peer through the binoculars, her heart rate noticeably heightened. The tall man's hands were- No! She vehemently denied her sentence's conclusion. She wouldn't allow herself to become irrational. The certainty of disappointment would be brutal. Stefan had burned along with thousands of other bodies at Kars. The rumors were simply that-an indication of his soldiers' desperate wish he were still alive. Like hers.

Putting the gla.s.ses down, she folded her gloved hands over the leather-covered metal. Cautioning herself to prudent thought, she inhaled slowly to still her agitation and thought with a forced calmness how glad she was Nikki was going to the men's aid. The smaller one appeared seriously incapacitated, the larger man supporting his weight as they struggled through the snow.

No more than a minute pa.s.sed before prudent caution was cast aside, the gla.s.ses were back at her eyes, and she was dreaming impossible dreams even while her rational sensibilities were chastising her insanity. She was hopelessly mad, absurd, unreasonable; she was a dizzy fool. Tears freeze on your face out here, she reminded herself, so be sensible enough not to knowingly seek misery.

But the binoculars were still at her eyes and the tall man's shoulders were a certain span and his dark face even in the shadow of his fur cap and burkah hood was aquiline. Like all the Kurdish natives, she coolly prompted her memory.

But then he brushed one hand over his face in a gesture of fatigue, or perhaps a simple wiping away of the flurry of windswept snow swirling around him, and Lisaveta caught a transient glimpse of luminous green and gold on one finger.

And she knew the Kurds didn't wear jewelry.

And Stefan had always worn a gold-and-emerald signet ring. Which hand, which hand? she wondered frantically, but the gesture was past, the jeweled glimmer disappearing into the burkah folds of his companion's robe. She almost cried then of frustration. She was expecting too much, wanting too much She was totally irrational for want of Stefan. But irrational or not, she kept the gla.s.ses to her eyes, monitoring through a film of unshed tears the two men's progress. Each step was laborious and halting; with sheer physical power the taller man half lifted the smaller man so he could navigate through the deep snow.

Nikki and his trooper were moving toward the men at a pace far exceeding the walking men's advance, the horses plowing through the snow with all the power and strength mountain-bred ponies possessed. They had covered almost two-thirds of the distance to the native men when the tall man lifted his arm, pushed aside his hood and hat and waved his arm in a sweeping arc against the dove-gray sky.

"Stefan!" Lisaveta screamed, and dropped the binoculars. Hauling on her reins, she dug in her heels and whipped her pony off the road, lashing him into a struggling gallop.

Stefan hadn't seen her until then; he'd only just distinguished Nikki, but even faint and faraway and buffeted by the wind, he recognized Lisaveta's voice. Gently lowering the man he'd been helping through the snow, he broke into a stumbling run.

Nikki, too, had forced his mount into a gallop when he saw Stefan, and they reached each other after what seemed endless minutes. Stefan was breathing in great gasping pants but he managed a smile, said, "Get Haci-he has to be carried," and motioned them past with a wave of his arm. Stefan was so winded the last words were too faint to hear, but Nikki understood his message and with a wide smile of acknowledgment swept past him to aid his friend.

Stefan took two steps more and fell to his knees.

No, G.o.d, no, Lisaveta pleaded, and she bargained her soul in the following seconds as she urged her pony to more speed. Don't let him die... I'll do anything. She offered up every sacrifice and overture and resolution for the future if the G.o.ds would only heed her cry.

And then Stefan slowly came to his feet.

"Thank you," she whispered, her throat thick with tears.

Stefan stood absolutely still and waited, his breathing ragged, drawing in great gulps of air to his gasping lungs, not capable at the moment of taking another step. His saber wound on his shoulder had opened again with the effort required to transport Haci through the snow, and he could feel the warm blood seeping through his shirt. But he was smiling. He was gaunt and bone-weary and bearded and weak but smiling, because a miracle had occurred and Lisaveta was here.

It took nearly five full minutes for Lisaveta to reach him- five motionless minutes, five windswept, snow-gusting minutes of thankfulness and joy.

She threw herself off her horse at the end as though she had wings, and crashed through the last short distance of drifted snow in great swooping leaps, despite the weight of Stefan's heavy fur coat.

Stefan's arms opened in welcome, his black burkah flaring out in dark winged folds, and she fell into his embrace, her hat toppling into the snow, her tears freezing on her cheeks, laughing and crying and wordless against the splendor of her feelings. They held each other in flushed and trembling silence for long moments, afraid to speak lest they break the spell and the fantasy disappear, wanting only to preserve the spell if it were an illusion.

They were sweetly warm, engulfed in a heated enchantment as if they alone with their utter joy could melt the snows of Kurdistan. But at last, Stefan tentatively touched Lisaveta's face, felt the corporeal reality of its silky texture, brushed his roughened fingertips across the soft curve of her mouth and dared to say, "You're real."

Her face was lifted to his, flushed and rosy-cheeked, snow-flakes clinging to her lashes, her golden eyes as sunshine beautiful as he'd remembered, her smile more perfect than memory. "I was afraid, too." And her arms tightened around his waist.

Concealing his wince of pain he smiled back. "I'd dreamed so often the past weeks of precisely this, I thought I'd hallucinated."

"Kiss me, please," Lisaveta whispered, her simple plea underscored with fear and uncertainty. Could she be imagining all this in the desperation of her longing? If he kissed her, if she felt the coolness of his lips on hers, could she in safety know he was real?

"I'll kiss you for a lifetime," Stefan murmured, and touched her lips gently, a sweet aching tenderness filling his heart and soul. The snow blew past them and around them, sparkling crystals falling and melting on their faces, the darkening twilight of the storm surrounding them, and they were complete and whole.

"In all the world..." Lisaveta whispered, the reality of their kiss lingering breath-warm on each other's mouth.

"I was coming home," Stefan answered, his voice husky. He understood her cryptic phrase, knowing that while they both lived, they would have found each other through distance and time and adversity. "But, thank you," he murmured, a small smile creasing his wind-chapped cheek, "for shortening the journey."

"Nikki let me come," Lisaveta replied, her voice still tremulous with emotion.

"Let?" Stefan teased in familiar mocking irony.

And she thought how relentlessly strong he was and seemingly indomitable, holding her against the buffeting wind, chaffing her with his habitual impudence as though they weren't standing knee-deep in the desolate snow-swept landscape of Kurdistan, as if he hadn't been lost to the world for weeks, as though he weren't so debilitated he'd only raised himself from his knees moments ago.

"You're wounded," she exclaimed, guilt-ridden she'd only considered her own happiness.

"Not too badly," he casually replied, the blood from his saber cut running down his chest in a sluggish trickle.

"And I've been thinking only of myself," she apologized. "Let me do something, help you somehow...am I hurting you?" Her arms fell away in self-reproach.

Stefan grinned. "I'm fine, darling, more than fine now. I could recuperate from sheer joy alone. But Haci, though-" His tone abruptly changed, concern drawing his brows together, his voice deepening. "He needs a doctor. I love you," he went on in another mutation of resonance, "you know that, but-" His arms, too, released their hold and he half turned to gauge the progress in bringing Haci forward. Turning back, he softly said, "He's like a brother to me. He's the only one of my bodyguard to survive." His voice broke briefly as he finished. "He saved my life... and now... I must save his."

At the road Haci was transferred from Nikki's arms into Stefan's, and they slowly traveled the last few miles to the caravansary. On the way, Stefan related in a neutral voice how he and his bodyguard had stood together in those last desperate minutes before they'd been overrun and how one by one they'd fallen. He'd been the last standing and his final memory was the rushing charge of Turks coming in for the kill as he screamed his defiance, his sword raised high. He'd been struck from behind a moment later by a saber blow and blackness engulfed him.

"Haci tells me," Stefan quietly said to Nikki and Lisaveta, who flanked his mount as they rode side by side, "he regained consciousness, found I was still breathing and dragged me away into the cellar of a nearby house until the fighting pa.s.sed us by. We'd been saved, he said, by two Turkish soldiers falling dead on top of us and protecting us from the next counter-attack."

Nikki noticed Stefan didn't mention how important that concealment was. It had been a close thing apparently. The Turks routinely bayonetted all enemy wounded. They didn't take prisoners. Their inhumanity extended to their own troops, as well. They brought no ambulances to war, and the handful of surgeons and hospital staff were primarily volunteers from Europe.

"He found horses after the main a.s.sault had moved on and carried me away from what appeared at the time to be a Russian defeat." Stefan's smile was gentle. "Obviously, there was a reversal."

"Thanks to your charge, the story goes," Nikki said.

"Thanks to my soldiers," Stefan replied softly.

"He didn't know the ultimate conclusion of the battle when we left, but there were Turks everywhere, Haci said, so he took me into the mountains. He found a shepherd's hut with enough goat cheese and dried millet stored against next season to sustain us. In nursing me back from the grave he endangered his own health. I think he has lung fever...and I didn't know when we started out yesterday whether we were walking into enemy territory or not, but he wouldn't live without medical care so I took the risk. Perhaps we could get to a village at least... You were a miracle...an answered prayer." He looked suddenly defenseless and vulnerable, as he must have felt knowing Haci needed help or he'd die.

"Haci must live," he said, exposed and powerless against the angel of death, his voice no more than a whisper. "I pledged him my word."

They were traveling down one of the deep-slashed ravines, the red sandstone rising like lofty enclosing walls on either side, the wind silenced, the snow falling gently now in the motionless air.

"We'll be at Meskoi in less than an hour now, Stefan," Nikki gently said, "and Haci will have help."

Stefan wrapped his burkah more tightly around his friend, oblivious to his own pain and wounds. "He was raised with me like a brother, we've fought together since we've been sixteen," he murmured, "and I promised him."

Reaching out, Lisaveta touched Stefan's arm, and when he turned to her, his dark eyes were wet with tears. "Our sons will be friends," he softly whispered. "I promised him."

"They will be, Stepka," Lisaveta quietly replied, wishing she could bear some of his pain and ease his sorrow. "We're almost there now. He won't die."

Chapter Twenty-One.

You are their darling Prince," Lisaveta said on Christmas morning, her golden eyes warm with happiness as she lay beside Stefan. The heat from the porcelain stove was like summer air, the harmony of church bells mellifluous background to their own blissful pleasure.

The bells had been ringing in triumph for three full days, their resounding melody echoing sweet joy at Stefan's return. All of Tiflis had turned out to welcome him home.

The narrow streets of the old quarter had been decorated with garlands of jasmine and laurel, looped from one overhanging balcony to the next. Every house, rich or poor, had hung out its finest carpets in glowing display. The s.p.a.cious boulevards had been lined with troops, saluting in the way of the mountain warriors with volleys shot into the air. And over all had sounded the bells, every church pealing its glad tidings that the White General, Prince Bariatinsky, their favorite son, was home. The chimes floated across the misty river, along the steep banks where the bridge built by Alexander the Great still stood, past the Tartar bazaars, where Persian jewelers weighted turquoises by the pound; they reached the dark booths of the Armenian armorers, where the fine gold and silver damascened weapons were fashioned. The bells swept past the fretted balconies, up the steep hills, through the eucalyptus groves to the palace on the heights and then to the mountains beyond.

Stefan lay sprawled at Lisaveta's side, both his arms thrown over his head in peaceful repose, his dark hair and eyes, his entire bronzed body, in stark contrast to the pristine whiteness of the linen sheets. "I know," he said in tranquil surety. "The Orbelianis are well liked." It was a modest statement, considering the ecstasy with which his return was being received. "And Papa was admired for his justice and courage."

Lisaveta marveled briefly at his calm acceptance of the adulation, done without humility or arrogance but rather with a serene grace, both regnant and oddly informal.

"They're devoted to you," she said, as they would be to a divine ruler, she thought.

His slender hand reached out to touch the gentle curve of her shoulder. "As I am to you."

His simple words warmed her. This man whom all of Russia adored and revered loved her. It was heady stuff. But she said softly in the next breath, "I want forever," because she was in her own way imperious. "Am I selfish?" Her question was touched with that dutiful courtesy one learns should supersede egoism.

Stefan smiled. She always was so much more polite than he. "Don't apologize, dushka. You must always in this world want only the best..." His fingers drifted up her slender throat and traced the perfection of her graceful jaw, sliding upward to end in a silken caress of her gamine brows. "And in all this world I found you," he tenderly said.