She moved back a step as though she were standing on the brink of an abyss.

She found herself a moment later seated on a chair on the far side of the room, clutching the chair arms with undue force, her eyes trained on the stark white envelope. Why had he written?

She poured herself a glass of water from the carafe on the nearby table and moistened her dry mouth, forcing herself to look away from the object of her terror. Catherine the Great's tall cypresses stood majestically against the blue morning sky, marching down the hill in solemn procession, immune to the years and her puny fears. She wished she could deal as tenaciously with her emotional turmoil and persevere like Catherine's trees.

In the end she rose, walked over to the desk and opened the envelope as perhaps Stefan had intended.

No! she silently screamed as she read. No! No! No! She felt herself trembling when she'd finished, her heart beating in her chest as though she'd run ten miles. Stefan had written this note to his child because he wasn't coming back!

"Masha!" she screamed into the sun-dappled silence of the room, struck with fright, unable to move. "Masha!" she cried. A bird sang its morning song somewhere beyond the window as though it were unaware shadows were beginning to cover the earth. "Masha," she whimpered, helpless against her pain, a great darkness overtaking her, and she crumpled to the floor.

Lisaveta woke in Stefan's bed, Militza holding her hand, the room filled with hushed and reverent servants. She remembered instantly, and her eyes filled with fear.

"You mustn't worry," Militza said, wishing she could soothe that trepidation. "Stefan wouldn't want you to worry."

"I'm frightened, Masha," Lisaveta breathed, her voice so faint it was barely audible.

"He didn't mean to frighten you, Lise. He only wanted to talk to his child before he left." Militza stroked Lisaveta's hand as one would a distrait child.

"He'll be back?" It was a heartrending plea.

"Of course he will," Aunt Militza firmly declared. "Stefan's invincible." But her own confidence was shaken by Stefan's note. His tone was almost prescient, alarming in a man who'd always felt indomitable. "Would you like to see the vineyards or Stefan's special Barb horses? We could take a small picnic with us and make a day of it." She could have been coaxing a small child.

"When do they plan on attacking?" Lisaveta's voice was strained, her mind immune to the distractions Militza offered.

Militza debated a moment the style of her answer and then decided on the truth. "Tomorrow," she said.

Stefan rode into his cavalry corps headquarters at midnight to find his entire staff had been on the ready since word of Hussein Pasha's march had been received. When he walked into the large tent, a cheer went up and he smiled. "We're slightly pressed for time, I hear," he said, stripping off his gloves, his grin remarkably cheerful. "But we're conveniently ahead of Hussein." A collective sigh of relief went round his officers. Prince Bariatinsky was back in time.

A magnum of Cliquot materialized, and while it was being poured, Stefan accepted all the numerous congratulations on his sudden and novel state of matrimony. He took the teasing good-naturedly.

"So you're finally leg-shackled," one of his brigade commanders said, his smile wide. "You're the last one we thought would succumb."

Stefan's brows rose, his eyelids dropped marginally and he observed his grinning officers for a moment with a narrow-eyed smile. "I recommend it," he said.

"In a bit of a hurry, Stash?" Loris Ignatiev sportively inquired, friends with Stefan long enough to press for details.

"I didn't want to give the Countess any opportunity to change her mind." Stefan's reply was mild, amused and unmistakably untrue.

"Was that all?" Loris apparently wasn't going to be satisfied with evasion.

The telegraph line must have been completed, Stefan drolly thought. "You may congratulate me," he pleasantly said. "I'm about to become a father."

"Hip, hip, hooray!" Their cheer brought the dogs in camp into a second-round chorus, and Stefan had to sustain a great number of friendly back-slapping felicitations.

"It'll be the richest brat this side of the Tsar if you're not careful tomorrow," one of the young captains said.

"Don't worry, Karev, I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure my child waits a long time to inherit." Joking about death was common practice, a kind of relief for everyone's tension.

"Speaking of death, how was Michael?" Captain Tamada was a Daghestani Prince and as such found Grand Duke Michael's military incompetence more exasperating than most.

"Polite," Stefan softly said with a quirked smile. He'd stopped first at the tent of the Chiefs of Staff and had been treated with the deference he accepted as his right. Everyone realistically understood that not only was he an extremely competent and successful general for Russia but he also controlled most of the border tribes in the Trans-Caucasus. His name alone could muster a hundred thousand mounted warriors. Not all were presently campaigning for the Tsar, but those not actually committed to Russia at least remained neutral. There wasn't a border tribe that would take arms against their Prince.

"Now, then," Stefan genially said, as though time were not of the essence, "if we've covered all the gossip sufficiently, what say we get down to business?"

Fresh tea was ordered and Stefan unrolled the maps he'd worked on during the train ride to Vladikavkaz. For the next hour he issued orders, explaining in detail what he wanted, what he expected of the cavalry in the attack, what he anticipated as defense from the Turks. His officers took notes, asked questions when they needed clarification, their attention riveted on the tall dark-haired man with the crisp clear voice. Stefan's tanned hands moved gracefully over the maps, detailing the nine forts of Kars, its citadel and numerous batteries and redoubts, pointing out small features of the terrain or indicating areas to approach with caution, stopping occasionally to punctuate his recital with a sharp stabbing finger. He was deferential to his officers, asking for their opinions when he'd fully described the assault plan, listening to those opinions with courtesy and attention. He rubbed his neck from time to time to ease the tension and fatigue from his muscles. Or stood completely still for long periods, concentrating on the details of his officer's recitals, the lantern light modeling his face in dramatic chiaroscuro. When the discussion became repetitive, when mild arguments erupted as to technique, he politely said, "Any more questions, gentlemen?" and after a moment of silence, for they recognized his dismissive tone, he smiled and gently added, "Very good. Wake me in an hour." And lifting the tent flap, he walked out into the cold night air.

In his own tent, his batman had his cot turned down, a new uniform laid out, hot water at the ready and food set out on clean white linen.

"Ivan," Stefan said with grinning affection, "we have the amenities again, I see." Everything was immaculate. "You've been busy during the hiatus. What would I do without you?"

Ivan beamed with pride. "Your father trained me well, Excellency." Fifty years ago Ivan had been a young serf saved from hanging over the theft of a chicken he'd taken to feed his starving family. Stefan's father had interceded, paid the villainous landowner for the chicken and Ivan's family and offered Ivan a position. His devotion was unconditional.

"Are we going to win this tomorrow, Ivan?" Stefan asked with a smile as he began washing his hands in the copper basin set on a table near his cot.

"The Bariatinskys are always victorious in battle, Excellency."

Stefan looked at the small elderly man beside him holding a crisp white towel out for him. "I like your confidence," he softly replied, Ivan's peasant certainty in some measure more reassuring than his officers' confidence, as though the very earth and spirit of Mother Russia had affirmed his victory.

Stefan found he couldn't sleep, though. Until tonight he'd always been able to doze off immediately, a habit honed to perfection after years of campaigning, a necessity when sleep was often limited. But now when he should, he couldn't, and he lay on his cot with his eyes closed so Ivan wouldn't fuss.

The battle was going to be desperate, he knew, and its outcome decisive to the war. And, irrelevant to the assault on Kars but oppressively relevant to his sleepless mind, he missed Lisaveta with a wretched miserable despair. There had never been a woman he cared about on the eve of battle so he'd been able to sleep on horseback, on the hard ground, in rainstorms and blinding sun. He'd never loved a woman before and now it colored every thought he entertained as well as those he tried to avoid. It made him hopelessly sad and wildly happy, it caused him to lose much-needed sleep and it impinged dramatically on the assault on Kars.

He might never see Lisaveta again, or ever see his child, he realized. The reflection struck him like a blow and he held his breath for a moment, frantically rationalizing away that possibility. He was never hurt, he reminded himself, never wounded. He was charmed. The familiar phrases should have been more comforting. Two weeks ago they would have been enough, even a week ago they would have been acceptable, but in that time his life had irrevocably changed.

Ivan swiveled around when Stefan abruptly sat up.

"I can't sleep," Stefan brusquely said. "Could I have a glass of tea?"

He dressed while Ivan made fresh tea, putting on his boots and clean tunic, strapping on his revolver belt and his sword scabbard decorated with his Saint George ribbon. At the last he added an extra cartridge bandolier and placed the long-bladed knife within easy reach in his belt.

Standing, he drank his tea and then the small glass of arrack Ivan always handed him before an attack. It warmed his throat and he smiled at Ivan and thanked him. The familiar activities eased the disturbing turmoil in his mind and brought the focus of his thoughts back to the assault.

"We'll dine at Kars tomorrow, Ivan," Stefan said, sliding his hands into his pigskin gloves. "Wish me luck."

"May God ride with you, batioushka," Ivan quietly replied, kneeling to kiss Stefan's hand, and as he rose he sketched the sign of the cross in the air between them, the orthodox religion a politic adjunct to his peasant superstition. For added assistance he murmured a cossack maxim having to do with a good horse and strong sword arm, surreptitiously gesturing to ward off the evil eye.

Stefan was smiling broadly when he stepped out into the chill night air. How could he lose, he thought, with God and the peasant spirits on his side?

The troops had been moved into position in the past hour under cover of the moonlit darkness. As was customary for him, Stefan went among his men, talking to them, telling them just what they were to do, offering encouraging words and good-natured chaffing, promising the musicians they would play a waltz in the streets of Kars tomorrow, answering the question asked a hundred times, his smile white against the darkness of his face. Yes, he would be leading the assault in person.

Stefan would be leading the Eleventh Cavalry Division, twelve battalions strong, on the right wing, directing their columns against the Karadagh and Tabias forts, guardians to the citadel. The cavalry had the most serious task to perform-the initial charge, clearing the way for the infantry-and everyone knew, although the orders hadn't yet been given, that they were to carry the forts at any cost. For twenty minutes or more Stefan conversed with his men, taking special care to talk to his noncommissioned officers, who bore the brunt of the decision making once the attack began. When he was satisfied each understood his directives and goals, he stood at the head of his troops for a final prayer. As he always did before battle, he asked for courage and God's grace to see them through. His dark hair whipped by the wind, Stefan stood, head bowed, and spoke the words so they carried across the moonlit army, his men murmuring the prayers with him, row upon shadowed row, calling on God's succor in the coming hours.

This final prayer was a ritual learned at his father's knee, comforting more for the litany than the content. As a cultivated man, Stefan realized Mukhtar Pasha prayed to his God for the same victory. In the end it would be men and not gods who determined the outcome, but the rhythm of the phrases soothed him and the priests' chanting was a calming, familiar musical undertone to the restless agitation gripping him before an attack.