Steve Berry: The Romanov Prophecy

"You are," Lord said.

Akilina reached up and hugged Thorn. He returned the gesture.

"Thank you, my dear. In ancient times, you would now be killed. Touching the tsar like that in public." A smile crept onto his face.

Thorn turned to his wife. "Ready?"

She nodded, but Lord saw the apprehension in the woman's eyes. And who could blame her? A decades-old wrong was about to be righted. Peace made with history. Lord, too, had decided to make peace with his own conscience. When he returned home, he would visit his father's grave. It was time to say good-bye to Grover Lord. Akilina had been right when she told him that his father's legacy was more than he realized. Grover Lord had molded him into the man he'd become. Not by example, but by mistakes. Still, his mother loved the man dearly, and always would. Maybe it was time he stopped hating.

Thorn and his wife climbed three short steps onto the plywood platform.

He and Akilina stepped to one of the merlons.

Beyond the Kremlin wall, as far as the eye could see, people spread. Press reports had earlier put their number at two million. They'd flocked into Moscow over the past few days. In Nicholas's time there would have been pageantry and balls to celebrate a coronation. Thorn wanted none of that. His bankrupt nation could ill afford such luxury. So he'd ordered that the platform be built and it be known that at precisely noon he would appear. Lord noted the new tsar's punctuality as the tower clock banged its chimes.

Out of loudspeakers mounted all around Red Square, a voice proclaimed words that were surely reverberating throughout the nation. Lord, too, was caught in the enthusiasm. Moved by an announcement that for centuries had been a rallying cry for Russians searching for leadership. Four simple words that kept pouring from the speakers. Even he started to mouth them, his eyes misting at their meaning.

Long live the tsar.