Golden Paradise (46 page)

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 passage 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 passage south. The recitals had come from officers and enlisted men, from the wounded soldiers returning home and from native warriors who passed 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 assault. 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 unobtainable 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 hell itself, and nearly had in the assault 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 passage wiped away behind them by the blowing wind and drifting snow,
even
the sound of tack and bit and bridle muffled 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 horsemen, then moving the glasses 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 glasses 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 passed before prudent caution was cast aside, the glasses 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.