Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(78)

“Of course.” And in spite of the dark certainties facing him, Nikolas heaved a great inward sigh of relief.

For three days Nikolas was the resident of the Beklemishevskaya Tower, one of a line of Kremlin strongholds on the bank of the Moskva River. The stone fortification was dank and cold, and Nikolas saw his breath in the biting air of his cell. Strangely, no one came to question him. All he could do was sit and wait in silence. Twice a day he was given water and a bowl of boiled wheat. There was no furniture in the cell, not a pallet or even a pile of straw. He had two cellmates, both of them with empty eyes and blank faces. They didn't exchange names or make conversation, except to reply to Nikolas's comment that they should at least have been supplied with a blanket.

“No comfort of any kind is to be given to us,” one of them said dully. “The crimes of a boyar are much worse than the rebellion of a peasant, because the tsar expects so much more loyalty of his boyars.”

The other man, who remained silent, was clearly ill. The cold, damp air of the tower was making his condition worse, causing him to cough and shiver violently. On the third day the two men were taken out of the cell and never returned. Nikolas heard the distant sounds of someone being tortured, the inhuman cries of pain, and he wondered if it was one of them.

He began to remember what it was like when he had been tortured, and for the first time he began to be afraid, the haze of resignation fading a little. He couldn't go through it again. The damage to his body had scarred over and healed. But the damage to his soul…no, he wouldn't survive a second time. Huddling on the bare floor, Nikolas braced his side against the cold wall. He had never felt so alone.

After another day or two had passed, he knew he had fallen ill. He became cold and feverish, his thoughts no longer seeming to make sense. Wrapping his arms around himself, he shivered, slept, and finally let his tears fall. In some moments of his delirium he saw ghosts visiting his cell…Tasia…his father…Jacob…Misha, his dead brother, who regarded him with a soul-weary face. He shrank from all of them, but sometimes he asked for Emelia…Emma…who did not come. He was going to die, he told the ghosts; he wanted his wife, wanted to lay his head on her lap and fall asleep forever.

During one of the periods when Nikolas was lucid, he received an unexpected visitor, the tsar himself. Huddled in a corner of the cell, Nikolas watched as the gigantic figure ventured into the dark, foul-smelling quarters.

“Nikolai,” Peter said, his deep voice rumbling against the stone walls. “They told me you were ill. I decided to visit you.”

“What for?” Nikolas asked, the words rasping in his dry throat.

Peter regarded him as a parent would an errant son. “I wanted to see if some sense could be talked into you. This isn't like you, Nikolai. You haven't been yourself for months. The love you used to have for me, the deep loyalty…what happened to all of that?”

Nikolas turned his face away, not bothering to reply.

“You've let a woman ruin you,” Peter continued quietly. “A mere peasant woman. She influenced you to turn against me. She wrought some kind of spell on you. Otherwise she never would have taken the place of everything you once loved.”

A fit of trembling took hold of Nikolas, and he gathered himself more tightly in the corner. “I never loved anyone—or anything—until her.”

The tsar sighed and squatted before him. “And now she has led you to ruin. Do such destruction and waste come from something that is good?”

“I haven't betrayed you,” Nikolas said.

“Perhaps not yet, but the seeds are there. And I must be the most important being to you, no one else. Not even God. That is what I need in order to mold Russia into the country it must become.” Peter gazed intently into Nikolas's averted face. “Even now,” he remarked softly, “you are one of the most beautiful creatures, man or woman, whom I've ever seen. You've been given too much, Nikolai. I think you were destined for a tragic end.”

“What do you want from me?” Nikolas muttered, before he was overtaken by a spasm of coughing so violent that he tasted blood on his lips.

Peter's huge, pawlike hand passed over Nikolas's head gently, smoothing his hair as if he were a favorite pet. “I am willing to offer you a second chance, Nikolai. A chance at life, as well as one to regain my favor. I will forgive everything if you will prove your loyalty to me.”

Nikolas stared at him blearily. “How would I do that?”

“Dissolve your marriage by making Emelia take the veil. Send her away, and never see her again. You can choose another wife, one who will serve you much better than she. Come back to the life you once had, and rededicate yourself to my service. Promise me these things, and I will have you taken out of here within the hour. I'll command my personal physician to attend you until you are well again.”

Nikolas smiled faintly. “I couldn't stay away from her,” he said scratchily. “Knowing she was out there…never being able to see her, touch her…” He shook his head. “No,” he said, beginning to cough again until his lungs were on fire.

Peter snatched his hand back and stood up, glaring down at him. “I'm sorry that you value your own life so little. I was mistaken to offer you a second chance. No man who chooses death and treason over life deserves pity.”