Whitefire

by Fern Michaels

  “I’ll wait here for your return. I promised your grandfather that I would read to him from a book I brought with me. That is, if you have no objections,” he said quietly.

  Katerina shrugged and left the room. At this point if Zedda wanted the Mongol to read to him, who was she to object? One always acquiesced to the dying.

  The thin, frail body beneath the thick pile of bedding shocked Katerina, as always. He had been a strong, robust man; a man of strength and character. Now all that was alive to her eye were the faded, pale eyes of the man in the great bed. The paper-thin lids fluttered at her approach, and he smiled weakly. She bent over the bed and kissed his dry, wrinkled cheek. “We must talk, Zedda. There is much I want to say to you. Listen to me and don’t try to talk.” The old man fluttered his lashes to show he understood, and Katerina began to speak. “I want you to die with the knowledge that I’ll get the horses back. I won’t just try, I’ll do it—that’s a promise I make to you!” She bent closer to the bed. “I have never given my word to you or Father and gone back on it. I will regain them and bring them here, where they belong.” The sparse lashes fluttered again, and there was a question in the faded eyes that Katerina understood. “All is going well in the arena. The Mongols have come into their own, as I knew they would. The prince is a mighty leader and will one day be victorious, this too I know. I realize that the short time he has been here you have grown fond of him and enjoyed his company, and yet at the same time you have felt guilty because of the way I feel about him. You can’t understand my hatred of him. The day I returned from Volin with the men, I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. I don’t know if you can really understand me now, but I have to talk about it. I have to say the words.”

  The old man’s lashes fluttered madly, and he tried to withdraw his arm from beneath the covers. The faded eyes wavered and settled near the doorway, where a shadow loomed. He had to stop her from what she was going to say. He thrashed about feebly on the bed.

  Katerina’s strong arms lowered him gently back against the thick softness of the bed. She spoke softly, the way a mother would speak to a sick child. “You must not move about like this; it isn’t good for you. Just listen to me, Zedda.”

  Resigned to the inevitable, Katmon Vaschenko closed his eyelids and waited for the words that he didn’t want to hear, the words that he knew in his heart would change the life of the Mongol standing close by.

  “Do you recall the day Stepan took the mare back to Volin?” Not waiting for a reply, she continued, “I set out after him to bring them back. I knew the boy would make it back to Volin safely with the mare, hecause he loved the horses as you and I both do. I could have stayed here, but Father was so angry, and in his own way he blamed me for allowing Stepan to take the horse. I told myself that I had to bring them back or at least make sure they were safe and sound. It’s the only defense I had. On the way, once I got to the steppe and I was so cold and so hungry, I allowed myself to become trapped. I rode into a Mongol camp, and when I tried to ride out, there was this . . . this Mongol that followed me . . . and . . . he followed me and I tried to get away . . . but every time I ran he caught me . . . and he . . . and he . . . raped me like a wild animal! He tore the clothes from my body and left me to die in the snow. No, no, that isn’t quite true—he threw a sable burnoose over me and then he left me. I can’t sleep at night, he stalks me in my dreams the way he stalked me on the plains. I can’t get it out of my mind. When the others came back to Volin, I more or less had myself under control, and I don’t think Father suspected. Who,” she cried brokenly, “would want me after that? You know that all Cossack girls are to be virgins on their wedding night. I was coming to some manner of peace within myself, and by that I mean I managed to get through the days, and while the nights were and still are a horror, I have survived. The Mongol who raped me is Prince Banyen, and he doesn’t even realize that I am the one. He looks at me with blank eyes and with lust, but he doesn’t remember. Tell me, Zedda, how does a man do this to a woman and then not remember who she is? You’re a man, tell me so that I can understand,” she pleaded.

  Katmon lay still, willing her to think he had fallen asleep. She would rest easier if she thought she spoke to an empty silence. He forced his lids to remain still until he felt her move and leave the room.

  Banyen stepped into the dark shadows outside Katmon’s door and watched as Katerina left, the tears streaming down her cheeks. He wanted to run after her to tell her he was sorry, that if it took him the rest of his life he would make it right for her. He wanted to tell her all those things, and other things too, things a man only told a woman he . . .

  A low gurgling sound drew him into the room, forcing the thoughts from his mind. He looked down at the elderly man with the tortured eyes and nodded slightly.

  “Tell me how this happened. I want to know before I die, Banyen,” Katmon gasped.

  Banyen’s eyes locked with those of the old man. “A man is bound at one time or another in his life to make a mistake. Raping your granddaughter was mine, and one I will have to live with for the rest of my life. Would it make your death any easier if I told you I love Katerina?”

  “If you speak the truth, then yes,” Katmon whispered.

  Banyen’s hand caressed the scar on his cheek, his eyes still held by those of the dying man. “There is no need for me to lie to you. I knew the moment I saw your granddaughter that somehow, some way, we would meet again.”

  “And yet you took the one thing that was hers to give the man she loved. A Cossack woman is taught to value her virginity from an early age.” The old man gasped, his face deathly pale, as he tried to continue speaking.

  Banyen laid a gentle hand on Katmon’s shoulder, forcing him back against the mound of pillows. “Don’t speak, save your strength,” he said softly.

  “Bah, save my strength—for what? My time is near, we both know it, so there is no need to pretend. I want your promise, Banyen, that you will take care of Katerina and make it right with her. Women don’t understand . . .”

  “You have my word. Listen to me, Katmon. We have spoken many times after the evening meal, and I have come to treasure those talks. Never once in all that time did I lie to you. I understand that those times we spoke of Russia and the Czar are different. I could have made up stories just to please you, but it is not my way. Even now I could try to defend my actions that night, but there is nothing to defend. I was wrong.”

  “Will you tell her that you know she is . . .”

  “Is that what you want? For if it is, then yes, I will tell her. If you will, I would prefer to do it my own way when the time is right, if ever there is such a chance. Trust me, Katmon, I will make it right, but in my own way.”

  Katmon nodded weakly, his eyes closing wearily.

  “She’s like no other woman I ever met. She has spirit and courage, more than some men. I find myself admiring these traits in her, which somehow amazes me. I never thought of a woman in this way. To me a woman was someone . . .” The words stuck in his throat, and Katmon felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth at the Mongol’s discomfort.

  “You’ll do, Banyen. When a man can admit that a woman has a special place in his mind as well as his heart, they belong together. I can go to my grave knowing you will do what is good. When . . . when I am gone . . . you must . . . comfort Katerina.”

  “If I can, I will,” Banyen said quietly.

  Long after the old man’s breathing had stopped Banyen continued to read aloud from his book, his tone soft and full of emotion and regret. Emotion because a life was gone, and regret that he didn’t know the old man in happier times, when he was full of life and living. It was a strange feeling that engulfed him, a feeling that was alien to him. He had to seek out Katerina and tell her and the bandy-legged Cossack, Mikhailo. But first he had to sort out his thoughts. The torment he had heard in Katerina’s voice, the torture in her eyes—how was he going to live with that? She hated him, and yet she had given herself to him—a
nd probably detested every minute of it, he thought bitterly. Still, he hadn’t forced her that day in the barn, and her passion was as fiery as his own. She despised him for his savagery on the steppe and for the fact that he didn’t even remember who she was. Women are like that, he told himself; they would hold hatred and bitterness for as long as they lived. If he was any judge of women, she now believed she had him where she wanted him. That was it, she only gave herself to him so that he could see what . . . A chill washed over him. She would kill him and do it cheerfully. The vision of her crouched low, her teeth bared in a snarl, ready to spring at him with the long knife clutched in her hand, swam before his eyes. How could he make it right with her? Why had he given the dying Cossack his promise? Only Katerina herself could absolve him. And in his gut he knew she would never again come to him—willingly or unwillingly.

  Banyen closed his book quietly and laid it on the table next to the high, old-fashioned bedstead. He looked down at the peaceful face and felt saddened. He hated death and dying. In that moment he found out something about himself. If he could have breathed his own life into the old man, he would have done it without hesitation. He would have given anything not to have to see the look in Katerina’s eyes when he would tell her Katmon was dead. And the look she always carried in her eyes when she stared at him, remembering, remembering, always remembering that he was the one, the one who . . . This was no time to think on matters such as these. It was over and done with. All he could do was go on from here and try to do what he promised.

  “Damnation!” he cursed as he lashed out with his booted foot at the wooden frame of the bed. Pain, hot and searing, ripped up his ankle as he thrust his fist into the heavy text, sending it flying across the room. Satisfied with the aching in his foot and in his tightly clenched hand, he gritted his teeth and strode from the room.

  He refused to allow the shooting sensations to slow his progress along the endless corridors and passages that led to the underground arena, where he knew he would find Katerina and Mikhailo. The pain was a scorching reminder of what he had done and what he had to do. “Pain be damned,” Banyen snarled as he forced open the heavy oak doors that opened into the cavernous arena. His eyes sought Katerina’s, and he motioned her to come to him. For a bare moment she hesitated, and then she ran to him, correctly interpreting what she read in his face. Quickly she raced past him down the hall, her feet barely touching the hard, earth-packed ground. On and on she ran till she came to her grandfather’s room.

  Seeing his peaceful face, his arms folded across his chest, she dropped her head to the covers, and great sobs wracked her body.

  Banyen and Mikhailo stood in the open doorway and listened to the heartfelt wailing that shook the girl’s shoulders. Banyen twisted his hands and shifted from one foot to the other while Mikhailo let silent shudders course through his body. Both of them wanted to go to the bereaved girl, but something held them back. This was her own private grief, and nothing either of them could do would help her.

  Katerina lifted her head from the bed and slowly got up. She stood a moment looking down at the face of her grandfather and then she turned and saw the two figures outlined in the doorway. “Leave me with what is mine. He was all I had left. Now there’s nothing. I’ll see to the preparations myself,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Banyen slowly entered the room and stood towering over her, his dark eyes staring into her tear-filled gaze. His heart thundered in his chest as he made a move to reach out for her. Sensing his intention, Katerina moved backward, her full, ripe lips trembling, the gold-flecked eyes sparkling with her tears. “Leave me with what is mine,” she whispered.

  Banyen stared at her another moment, the wicked scar pulsating in his cheek. Then he turned and, with a motion to Mikhailo to follow him, made his way back to the arena.

  Katerina removed her ermine and set to work. Tenderly she removed the old man’s nightdress and set about washing his body in preparation for his simple funeral. The tears were now dry on her tawny cheeks as she cleaned and dried his thin body. At least she had this; with her father and the others she had just . . . dumped their bodies into a pit. Surely God would forgive her for what she did that day. Every man, no matter what, deserved a decent burial. Slowly she dressed the limp body in his Cossack uniform and buttoned the rows of shiny gold buttons with shaking hands. She set the pointed fur cap on his head and felt tears prick at her eyelids. It was an effort, but she managed to pull the shiny, soft leather boots up his legs and tucked the black trousers into them with no wasted motion. Every Cossack went to his Maker with his boots and cap. Frantically she searched the room till she found his saber, and with a quick swipe of a cloth from the chest she laid the weapon next to him. His cap, his boots, and his saber. All she had left to do was light the candle and kneel down to say her prayer. Her hand was steady now as she lit the long, tapered candle in its ruby container. She dropped to her knees, and in a hushed voice she said her prayer and asked God to help her. How peaceful her Zedda looked. His spirit was probably riding through the heavens at this moment, his and those of a thousand other Cossacks just like him. She knew in his first charge through the skies he would meet her father and they would be happy.

  Katerina sat quietly, her mind blank, as she waited for the others to come and make their pilgrimage past the bed. At dawn the body would be taken to the vault under the fortress, where her grandfather would rest till the snows had gone. Then he would be interred in the great stone building that rested under the fir trees, where her mother and hundreds of other Vaschenkos rested.

  All through the night she sat as the few remaining elderly Cossacks filed past the body, their eyes deep and sad. Each patted her shoulder in passing, their only show of grief. This was the last of the Vaschenkos. Only Katerina remained, and she was a woman. No son would bear the name of Vaschenko ever again. It was over, their eyes said, the old leader was dead and the horses were gone. There was nothing left save the fortress, the four stallions, and Katerina. It was the end for all of them. What good were the magnificent horses without the mares, and what could Katerina possibly do? Still, they stayed drinking their vodka, as was the custom when a Cossack died. Time and again they toasted his death and his ascent into the heavens.

  The moment the taper gave out its last sputter the men stood, carefully lifted the body from the bed, hoisted it high above their shoulders, and carried the former hetman to his resting place in the fortress.

  The procession was solemn, and Katerina made it with dry eyes. Once she closed them to ward off fresh tears, when they placed the body on the high marble table and then covered it with a sable blanket. Here he would rest till spring, when he would be lowered to his final resting place near his wife and Katerina’s mother. Is it the end, can it be possible? she thought wildly. No, never—she had given her word to succeed, and she would. Now more than ever, she couldn’t fail! She wouldn’t allow herself to, not while there was a breath left in her body. She prayed to God and thanked Him as she made her way back to her room for the impulse that had led her to tell her grandfather what she wanted to do before he died. If nothing else, she was thankful for that one small favor.

  Back in her bedchamber, she built up the dwindling fire till the logs snapped and crackled, their flames dancing and licking at the sides of the great oven. She sat huddled near it, the plush fur securely wrapped about her. She stared into the fire for hours, until her eyes began to smart from the smoke and the flying minuscule embers.

  Now she was alone, more alone than she had ever been in her entire life. She was the last of the Vaschenkos. There would be no one to carry on except her; even if she should marry someday, the children she bore would not carry the name of Vaschenko. In one way it was the end, she told herself, but in another it was a new beginning for all of them. She had to do it for herself now that she was the only one left. And she would survive. The Kat always survived.

  Chapter 16

  As the days passed, Katerina’s gr
ief lessened a little. She kept herself busy with her training program. The men performed with skill she never thought imaginable in so short a time. It was almost as if they were trying to prove something. But to whom? she questioned. To her or to themselves? Whatever, the strict, structured routine she had laid out for them was finally paying off. There wasn’t one among them whom she would be afraid to have at her side. Even Banyen’s men were now on par with the prisoners. Each time they met for a practice battle, the match was a draw.

  Katerina felt unnerved as she watched the men go through the paces Mikhailo laid out for them. Something was bothering her, and she didn’t know what it was. Banyen seemed to be respecting her period of mourning, and not by look or action had he done anything to unnerve her. Kostya was intent only on perfecting his skill. While he looked at her longingly, he made no overt moves in her direction. Were they all biding their time? Were they waiting for something to happen . . . to her? What was it? Her stomach churned as she let her eyes sweep the arena and finally come to rest on the boy named Valerian. No, he was no longer a youth, but a man. A man with cold, hate-filled eyes. If eyes could kill, I would drop on the spot, she told herself as she stared at him. He hated her almost as much as she hated Banyen. He was acting like a wounded wild animal, as her grandfather used to say, which meant he was up to something. She continued to watch him as he, in turn, tracked the men, his eyes circling the room and always coming to rest on the door frame. Surely he wouldn’t be so foolish as to try to escape. He could go nowhere in the freezing cold. Her glance strayed to Banyen, who was leaning nonchalantly against the wall, his eyes on the center of the arena, finally flicking to Valerian. He, too, sensed the young man’s intent. The lynxlike eyes narrowed as she watched him. A vision of a trapped animal in a snare came to her mind when she watched his movements, jerky and uncoordinated. She was jarred from her thoughts as a shout went up from the center of the arena. One of the Mongols’ spears had found its mark in the shoulder of the prisoner named Chedvor. Katerina raced to the man’s side and sucked in her breath at the sight of the spurting blood. Mikhailo was on his knees, trying to stop the flow.