THE DELANEYS, THE UNTAMED YEARS

Wild Silver

Iris Johansen

(Delaneys 01)

WILD SILVER A Bantam Book I May 1988

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1988 by Iris Johansen.

Cover art copyright © 1988 by Pino Daeni.

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ISBN 0-553-21.898-0

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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