Susan Downs - Ekaterina

Vadeem, please hurry.

She swallowed a rush of panic and tried to think on her feet. “Why is this crest so important? What is it exactly?”

Grazovich smiled, his eyes dark as obsidian stone, glittering with amusement. “You Americans really don’t pay attention to world history, do you?”

Kat forced a casual shrug. “If you’re going to kill me for it, I’d like to know…”

Grazovich let go of her hair, and clasped his hands on the seatback, enacting the pose of professor he claimed himself to be. “The Crest of St. Basil’s is much more than even Russia realizes. That’s the beauty of this little adventure. Legend has it that the Crest was forged here, in Pskov, by a master monk, and presented to Czar Ivan IV—you call him Ivan the Terrible—when the architects from Pskov were asked to build the great church of St. Basil’s the Blessed. But the rest of the story makes it one of the most valuable religious artifacts in history.”

Kat enacted a smile while she worked at the twine that bound her wrists. Her skin burned, but she had begun to make progress. She leaned forward, as if mesmerized, and even allowed him to touch her hair again without flinching.

“The history of the crest dates back to the start of Christianity in Russia, with the conversion of St. Vladimir, Emperor of Kiev around 990 A.D. The Crest was a wedding gift from Basil II, emperor of Byzantium, where Turkey now sits, to his sister Anne, on the occasion of her marriage to Vladimir.”

“So it’s over a thousand years old?” The surprise in Kat’s voice was real, and even more so as she worked the twine halfway down her hand.

“No, it’s even older.” Grazovich’s voice heightened, aroused as he was by his own tale. “The Crest of St. Basil was presented to Leo, the son of Basil I, emperor of Byzantium, as a gift of good faith from Rome, around AD 890 when the union with Rome was reestablished. The Roman church hoped to bring about peace and draw under their wing the country of Byzantium, the ‘New Rome’, as they called it. Perhaps you ignoramuses in America have heard of the capital of Byzantium—Constantinople?”

Kat jerked her hand free, but kept it tight behind her back. Her eyes narrowed appropriately at Grazovich’s sneer. “Yes, of course. But I thought Byzantism, the religion that started in Byzantium, was the foundation of the Russian Orthodox Church. And they claim to be separate from the Roman Catholic Church.”

Grazovich smiled, as if happy with her knowledge. “Constantinople had a love/hate relationship with Rome. Eventually, after years of crusades, she broke away from Rome’s control. Vladmir, the Emperor of Kiev, decreed that all Kievans were to become Christians and Russian orthodoxy, through Byzantium, started to spread across Russia. When Constantinople re-established a relationship with the Roman Church around 1450 AD, the Russians rebelled and established Russia’s own order. The Russian Orthodox Church.”

“So what happened to the crest?” Kat slid the twine off her other hand, and closed her fist around it. She would find a way to slam it into his smug face if he kept on playing with her hair. Her stomach knotted.

“After Vladimir, it worked its way up from Kiev, surfaced in Pskov, and passed to the Czars until it finally disappeared at the hands of Anton Klassen in 1918.”

He ran a long, sweaty finger down her cheekbone. “And will be recovered with the help of his great-granddaughter eighty years later.” His voice held a dangerous lilt that cut right to Kat’s soul.

Kat stiffened, and pulled away, her courage dissolving through her chest. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I don’t know where it is.”

He cupped her chin with his hand. “The Vatican has been waiting for over one thousand years to reclaim their lost treasure. Let’s see if you can help them.”

Kat closed her eyes and prayed.

Vadeem found Ryslan laying on the grave like some sort of sacrificial offering. Blood darkened his neck and matted the hair on his wide chest. Vadeem swallowed a wave of revulsion as he approached the body, his Makarov pistol drawn. “I’m watching you.” Grazovich’s words stabbed at him, and he squinted at the clutch of forest, dark and foreboding, on the far side of the monastery. The moon bathed the ground in luminescence, a surreal and pale landscape to his nightmare.

Kat was going to die. Because he had no idea how to find the crest. None. Zip.

And that made him nearly rabid with frustration.

He crept up to the corpse and noticed a glint of light against the mass of darkness. He nearly cried when he saw the key, hung like a cross around Ryslan’s neck. Grazovich, smuggler, warlord, and murderer had a shred of decency. That, or the man really believed Vadeem could find this mythical icon, instead of simply playing an agonizing game of finders-keepers.

He had the key. And the book. Vadeem’s breath chafed his lungs as he fought to keep calm. Oh yes, he needed a friend, and for the first time, he was considering seriously the words Pyotr had spoken to him only two nights ago. “There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother…”

The urge to pray, to scream out for help, filled his chest and made him gasp with its ferocity. Scraping up control, Vadeem opened Anton’s journal. Answers. Obviously, Grazovich believed there were answers in this ancient text, and Vadeem had no choice but to scour the pages in desperation, with the faint hope he might discover the treasure they were all searching for.

It was too dark to make out the words, and the deadly odor of his recently deceased partner soured Vadeem’s stomach. He scrambled to his feet, gave another look around, and dashed toward the chapel that had held so many terrors during his last visit. Maybe tonight it would revive answers instead of heartache.

The musty cave chapel chilled him to the bone. He found matches and lit a candle, then two, three, and more until the tiny church glowed with flickering light. Standing before the cross of Jesus, he stared up at the artist’s portrayal of the Divine on earth and his heart felt huge in his chest. Jesus hung there, his fingers curled in pain, his eyes downcast, thorns on his head, an unusual expression of peace on his face. Mesmerized, he saw for the first time something beyond the pain. I am the Resurrection and the Life . Eternity beyond the grave.

Joy despite earthly suffering. Vadeem’s throat tightened and he was transported back, through time and grief and stood beside his father.

Father, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Vadeem’s knees were wet in the snow. “It’s my fault papa… I’m sorry!”

Papa reached up, his big hand on his cheek, his breath coming in gasps. “This is not forever, Son. Lift your eyes to heaven and God will show you the light. Trust Jesus and you will see God’s glory.”

Vadeem hadn’t looked up. Not once. He couldn’t, not after they buried his father, not after they scattered his family. Light didn’t inhabit a communist orphanage… and despair had taken its place in his dark soul. A soul so accustomed to the darkness that, when light arrived, in the face of Kat, it hurt. Vadeem rubbed his chest, feeling the knot of anguish tighten.

“We have a choice, Brothers and Sisters. When we walk in the darkness, we will stumble. But we can lift our faces to the light and trust in He who will never forsake. He who weeps.” Vadeem closed his eyes, hearing Pyotr’s sermon, trying to breathe past the wad of pain in his throat.

Faith destroys.

No, Faith is a gift. Faith starts with gratitude. Vadeem forced his gaze up, to the cross. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies, and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. The verse filled his chest, and found fertile soul. Hope could be found in the Savior’s face… not only hope, but joy. Eternal joy.