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.
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 glasses 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.