THE DELANEYS, THE UNTAMED YEARS
Wild Silver
Iris Johansen
(Delaneys 01)
WILD SILVER A Bantam Book I May 1988
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Copyright © 1988 by Iris Johansen.
Cover art copyright © 1988 by Pino Daeni.
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Prologue: The Firebird
The Kuban, Russia November 18, 1863
Nicholas first saw the bird when he crested the hill. The great
bird hovered like a phantom against the sullen red glare of the
winter sunset, seeming to hang between heaven and earth,
belonging to neither, scornful of both.
Nicholas stopped at the summit of the hill, his breath
coming in harsh gasps, his heart beating painfully in his breast.
The wind was sharp, cutting through his ragged tunic and
striking the open wounds on his back as viciously as Igor’s
knout had. He would rest for just a moment before descending
to the steppe.
He eased the rawhide straps of the harness off his shoulders
where they were cutting into his flesh. What difference did it
make anyway? It would be a miracle if they didn’t die before
they reached the other side of the desolate steppe ahead. The
lowering blue-gray clouds on the horizon could mean only
snow and chilling cold within a matter of hours, and they had
not even the protection of boots. It was insanity to keep trying
to ward off the death Igor had decreed for them.
„Leave me.“
Nicholas turned to look at the man on the makeshift
stretcher he had fashioned of pine branches bound together
with strips of rawhide. „No.“
Mikhail slowly shook his head, his wild mop of hair
shining bloodred under the rays of the setting sun. „You will
die. I am too big for you to pull like this. Without me you
might make it to shelter before the snows.“
„I’m to walk away from you?“ Nicholas asked savagely.
„Simply to leave you lying here with two broken legs and a
storm coming?“
Mikhail shrugged his massive shoulders. „The cold death is
not so bad. I will just go to sleep and not wake up. You saved
me from a much worse death. It is enough.“
Suffocating darkness. Nicholas drew a deep breath and
quickly suppressed the memory. He didn’t want to remember
those moments before Igor had granted them mercy. Mercy?
The irony caused his lips to curve in a mirthless smile. Yet
Igor had actually thought he was being merciful to set them
out in the wilderness with no boots, no food or water, and a
storm sweeping toward the steppes. Cossack mercy. Cossack
justice. Survive and triumph or die. It was a lesson Nicholas
had learned well in his years with Igor.
And he would survive. He would not give up the battle. He
smiled down at Mikhail. „We won’t die, my friend. We’ve
gone through too much to let Igor kill us now.“ Again he
tightened the leather straps of the harness across his shoulders.
„We have only a little farther to go.“
„You don’t even know where we are. Our only chance is to
reach the Sea of Azov and take shelter. If we go in any other
direction, we will die in the hills or on the steppes.“ Mikhail
paused, then said once more, softly, „Leave me, Nicholas.“
Nicholas didn’t look at him. „Don’t be foolish. I may need
the heat from that big body of yours to keep me warm if the
storm does come. I’m only being selfish.“
„Nicholas – “
Nicholas shook his head. „No, Mikhail, we go together.“ A
sudden reckless smile appeared on his face. „As for which
direction, suppose we leave it up to the firebird.“ He pointed to
the bird still silhouetted against the horizon. „We’ll let her lead
us to the Sea of Azov.“
„That is not a firebird; it is a hawk.“
„How can you tell from this distance? It could be a firebird
sent to lead us to a land of milk and honey.“
„You are mad, Nicholas,“ Mikhail murmured, his voice full
of affection, „Why?“ For an instant, bitterness, pain, and
sadness turned the boy’s expression bleak. „It’s as reasonable
as anything else in our lives at the moment. We’ll watch our
pretty firebird to see which direction she flies and follow her
benign guidance.“
„It is a hawk, Nicholas.“ Still, Mikhail’s gaze compulsively
followed Nicholas’s to the horizon. „Only a hawk.“
The bird suddenly spread its great dark wings and soared
proudly, gracefully, a wild monarch of the heavens it ruled.
Against the crimson sky the silhouette took on the aura of the
sunset itself, and for a moment its wings looked as though they
were outlined in tongues of flame. The two men watched in
fascination as the bird swooped and tumbled on the air
currents in an ecstasy of flight and then turned and swooped
off toward the east.
Nicholas laughed softly. „You’re wrong, my friend. We go
east.“
He lurched forward, dragging the heavy stretcher behind
him, the lacerated flesh of his back throbbing as the muscles
beneath it strained with his herculean effort to save himself
and Mikhail… and to follow the firebird.
1
New Orleans May 5, 1874
„I’d like to see his highness, Prince Nicholas Savron.“ Simon
Bentsen strode up the gangplank of the Mississippi Rose, his
gaze fixed distastefully on the sandy-haired young man in
rumpled denim trousers and shirt-sleeves who was half sitting,
half leaning on the wooden rail of the boiler deck. A coarse
stubble darkened the riverman’s lean cheeks and the scent of
perfume and brandy emanated from his unkempt clothing. „I
was told at the Hotel Royal that his highness had left there
four days ago and taken up residence here.“
„Four days,“ the young man repeated dazedly. „Lordy, has
it really been four days?“
The fellow was obviously tipsy and Bentsen’s disapproval
deepened. If a man in his employ were in this condition in the
middle of the day, he would reprimand him severely at the
least; more likely, he would dismiss him. „I’m Simon Bentsen
of the Randall Investigative Agency. I have a report for his
highness. If you’ll tell me where to find him, I won’t trouble
you further.“
„No trouble.“ The young man straightened away from the
rail, swaying unsteadily for a moment before giving Bentsen a
half bow. „My name’s Robert Dan-fold, pilot of the
Mississippi Rose. Glad to make your acquaintance. I think
Nicky is in his cabin.“
„Nicky?“ Bentsen inquired. „You’re a friend of his
highness?“
„I guess so,“ Danfold said vaguely as he carefully
negotiated the wide staircase leading to the next deck. „I never