The Novels of the Jaran (161 page)

Anger blazed up. How dare anyone disturb her with such rumors? But he did not let his anger show. “Who has said this?”

She shrugged again. “Sometimes I hear things. Once, someone teased Valentin with it, and Valentin just got angry and cried, so I had to protect him.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him—the boy, not Valentin—that his mother was as ugly as an old cow, that his father was as stupid as a khaja soldier, and then I gave him a bloody lip.”

Amused, Vasil allowed himself a brief smile. “Well, I suppose that served the purpose, but really, Yana, outright insult is never as effective as more subtle methods. Who was the boy?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to tell you that! I can take care of myself. I always have, you know.”

The words stung him. “Of course you can take care of yourself, but I’m here now, little one.”

“Yes. But you might leave again.”

He flinched. It hurt, the matter-of-fact way she spoke. He stopped her. “I won’t leave you or your mother or Valentin. Ever again. I promise.” He gripped her by the shoulders to make sure she understood. He could not bear for her not to believe in him. She had to.

For an instant he thought she looked skeptical, but it wasn’t so. Like her mother, she must love him more than anyone else. She smiled her loyal little smile and stretched up to kiss him. “Yes, Father,” she said.

At Arina’s tent, he had to wait outside for a time, cooling his heels, before Arina’s young sister admitted him. Karolla sat beside Arina, as she had for ten days now; Karolla had practically lived in Arina’s great tent ever since Arina had been carried back to camp on a litter, after being wounded in that skirmish. These days she paid more attention to Arina than she did to her own husband, and every now and then, when he thought about it, he resented it.

Vasil knelt beside the etsana. Arina gestured with her right hand. Ilyana and Karolla left the tent, leaving Vasil alone with his cousin. She was as pale as the moon and scarcely more substantial than the high clouds that streak the sky on a summer’s day. But he recognized the set of her mouth and settled down for a good scolding.

“Vasil, I am minded as etsana of this tribe to ask the Elders to reconsider your election as dyan. I have never heard any complaint about your actions as dyan, but in truth, these days, Anton is dyan in everything but name, and I refuse to allow you to continue to hold the honor if you don’t also accept the responsibility.”

He bowed his head. Gods, how he hated these discussions.

“Have you nothing to say?”

He stared at his hands, which lay clasped on his thighs. Then he wondered if, by turning his right hand palm up, underneath the shield of his left hand, the arrangement might express a different emotion. Except the fingers of his right hand stuck out then, from under the left. Perhaps if he curled the right hand into a fist, hidden under the looser curl of his left hand—

“You seem distracted, Vasil.” Though soft, her voice was sharp.

“I beg your pardon.” He lifted his gaze. She lay propped on pillows with her braided hair snaking down along the curve of her tunic almost to her waist. His dear cousin. She had always supported him. He was glad she had not died.

“I’ll permit you a few days to consider,” Arina added. “Come speak to me once you’ve made up your mind.”

This was the time to insinuate himself into her good graces again; he knew it with every fiber of his being. But he wanted to go back and watch the acting. He nodded, allowed himself to be dismissed, and left the tent.

Karolla waited for him outside. “Well?” she demanded. Then she took hold of his arm and led him aside. “Vasil! You’ve been infected by some madness. She’s going to make Anton dyan again.”

“What of it? I never wanted to be dyan.”

“You did once. When you came back to the army.”

“Oh, that—” He broke off. When he came back to the army, he had been sure that Ilya would give in to him eventually, just as he always had before.

“Oh, that!” echoed Karolla scathingly. “She’ll install her own brother as dyan instead of you. That’s how far you’ve fallen. What will you do then? Become a common rider again?”

“A common rider? I think not.”

“If not ride, then what? Why should Arina keep you in camp if you do nothing? Where will you go? Where will we go? You have no place here, Vasil, if you’re not dyan. Or perhaps she’ll take pity on you and allow you to ride in Kirill’s new jahar, the one Bakhtiian is granting him. They say he’s to ride south past the mountains and the great river, or east on the Golden Road, to discover which lands offer their submission freely to Bakhtiian and which must face his wrath.”

He recoiled. “Ride under Kirill’s command? Never.”

“Then what? What, Vasil? Gods, you’re of no use to anyone but yourself. You never think of anyone but yourself!”

“Karolla!” This was too much.
Karolla
could not doubt him. He grasped her hands and drew them up to his lips. “Never say so, my heart.
You
are—”

She wrenched herself away. “Don’t embarrass me further by acting this way in public. What do you intend to do?” Quite suddenly, her eyes filled with tears, but she smothered them by wiping at her skin ruthlessly, so hard that it surely must hurt her. “Or do you still think Bakhtiian will take you in?”

Tess, pregnant, had a glow about her that made her look almost beautiful, and Vasil admired the way she moved, with a rotund grace unimpaired by her swelling belly. Karolla, pregnant, simply developed blotchy skin, and she waddled already, often with one hand on her back.

Vasil folded his hands together and regarded his wife with what he hoped was a measured expression. “I won’t do anything rash, Karolla. I promise you that. If I must speak with Bakhtiian, then I’ll do so.”

Immediately he saw that he had said the wrong thing. Her mouth puckered up. She bit at her knuckles. Then she spun and walked away from him. She rolled more, a rocking, ungainly gait. Valentin darted out from behind the screen of a tent and, throwing a single hostile glance back at his father, grabbed a handful of her skirt into a hand and clung to his mother, walking along beside her. Vasil knew he should go after them. Karolla always gave in to his coaxing. But right now he felt—empty more than anything.

He turned and walked back out to the edge of camp. A jahar riding in blocked his path. He stopped to let them by, and there, riding at her ease at the front of the line, sat his newly-widowed sister. She caught sight of him and as quickly, dismissively, her gaze flicked away again. Her fine, handsome face was disfigured forever by the mark of a marriage that no longer fettered her. Petya had died twelve days ago, of wounds suffered in the battle to halt the Karkand governor’s flight. Vasil himself had supervised the burning of Petya’s body, two days ride out from the besieged city, in marshland, his spirit sent back to the gods along with those of twenty other riders from the Veselov jahar. His saber and his clothes—those not ruined by blood—Vasil returned to the one of Petya’s three sisters who traveled with the Orzhekov camp; she had wept copiously. Vera had not mourned with one single tear, not even beside the pyre. Without the least sign of grief, she had watched her husband’s body burn. The next day, it was her arrow shot that had brought Karkand’s governor down at last, mired as he was by that time in boggy ground, his horse blown, his last loyal followers dead or straggling behind him. But even then, she had shown no emotion except perhaps disappointment that the chase was over.

The jahar passed him, and he hurried away back across camp. But by the time he came to the Company’s camp, they had finished for the day. Already the sun sank below the far rim of hills. A sudden, restless discontent seized Vasil. Its grip, like a strong hand, clutched hard at his chest. He did not want to go back to his tribe. Nothing held him here. He had, indeed, no place, no place to go, no place where he truly belonged.

In time, his wandering led him on a spiraling path in to the heart of the camp, to the Orzhekov encampment. Guards challenged him. He used Tess’s name like a talisman, and none barred his way.

By now it was dark. He hesitated, past the innermost ring of guards, and instead traced a route that led by discreet shadows and hidden lines of sight around to the back of Tess’s tent. Out beyond, at Sonia Orzhekov’s tent, laughter and talking and singing swelled out on the night air. Back here, silence reigned. He took his chance, and snuck in, ducking down, crawling, by the little back entrance that Tess had not sewn shut, despite her threat, past the tent wall, sliding out beyond the inner wall of heavy tapestries into the inner chamber of Tess’s tent.

A lantern burned. By its light, Vasil saw Ilya seated beside his bed. Ilya twisted around to stare. Vasil settled into a crouch, waiting, waiting for the reaction, for the burning anger, for the sharp sweetness of Ilya’s glance, on him.

Instead, Ilya rose gracefully to his feet and touched two fingers to his lips:
silence.
There, at his feet, lay Tess, deep asleep on her side, her hair spilled out on the pillows, her shoulders bare above the blankets. Ilya walked quietly around her and paused by the entrance flap that led to the outer chamber, then vanished behind it. Vasil had no choice but to follow him.

“What do you want?” asked Ilya in a reasonable tone when Vasil emerged into the outer chamber. He stood at his ease with one hand brushing the khaja table that crowded the far end of the space.

Vasil prowled the chamber, and Ilya let him, watching him as he touched each item: the carved chest, the cabinet, the table and chair, the nested bronze cauldrons and the bronze stove, a knife, the lush tapestries lining the walls, the two ceramic cups and bronze beaker set on the table. All of it, an odd intermingling of jaran and khaja; not one piece of it out of place by a fingerbreadth.

“You’ve nothing rich here.” Vasil lifted one of the ceramic cups. In the dim light, he traced the simple floral pattern that twined around the cup.

“I don’t need riches. Heaven has granted me its favor. The gold I leave for the tribes under my command.”

Vasil pressed the cup against his own cheek, as if its ribboned surface, held so often by Ilya or by Tess, could whisper secrets to him. “I don’t understand you.” He said it softly, provocatively.

Standing mostly in shadow, still Ilya burned. Unlike the actors, who channeled light through them and shone with its reflected glow, Ilya
was
the light.

He regarded Vasil gravely, by no sign betraying the least dismay at Vasil’s presence. “No. Years ago I thought you did, but now I wonder.”

Vasil set down the cup. It made a hollow tap as it met the surface of the table. “You never doubted me before.”

“I loved you once, Vasil, and never doubted you then because I never saw you clearly. I love you still, in that memory. But it is ended.”

“Ended! For you, perhaps, or so you say now, when it’s convenient for you to do so.”

“We’ve had this discussion a hundred times. I see no point in continuing it now. It is ended.”

“Then what was it you gave me, that night in this tent? That wasn’t love?”

Ilya moved, coming around the table. He stopped not even a full arm’s length from Vasil, and his closeness was like balm. He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers down Vasil’s cheek. His touch was painfully sweet. Then, on an exhalation of breath, he leaned forward and kissed Vasil once, briefly, on the mouth. And pulled away, and stepped back.

“That is all it was, the memory of love. Eleven years ago, I gave you up because I thought I had to. I—” He broke off. “You don’t understand what I did. If you knew—No, never mind that now. The gods have their own way of punishing our arrogance. Only you must understand, that I deliberately sacrificed you, Vasil, in the Year of the Hawk. That year.”

The ceremony of exile. Ilya had spared him one thing alone, that day those many years ago, and that was the audience of the entire tribe. He and his aunt had performed the ceremony of exile in front of the men of the jahar. Vasil had always thought it the mark of Ilya’s love, that Ilya had shielded him from the greater humiliation. Now he did not know what to think. He could not bear that Ilya could stand here and speak to him so evenly, so calmly. Gods, was it true? Did Ilya no longer love him? He discovered that his hands shook, and he closed them over the back of the chair to steady himself.

“I’m not sure you ever truly loved me, anyway,” Ilya added, grinding dirt into the fresh wound. “Not as love is true, caring more for the other person, for who she is, in and of herself, than for what she brings you.”

“By what right do you stand there and judge me? How can you know? Or is this by way of convincing yourself that you never truly loved me either?”

“No, I loved you. That memory at least is true.”

“And by such scraps I must feed myself now? That is generous of you, Ilyakoria.”

“Keep your voice down. I don’t want to wake up Tess.”

“Because you don’t want her to find us here together?”

“No, because she’s tired. Gods, Vasil, Tess would be the last person to condemn us for being here together. As you must know.” Outside, a bell rang three times, softly. Ilya wrenched his gaze away from Vasil and listened for a moment, head cocked to one side. “Send them in,” he said in a clear, cool voice.

Vasil knew an instant of such utter despair that he thought his legs would give out beneath him. Only his grip on the chair held him upright. It could be anyone, coming in to speak to Bakhtiian. Had Vasil been just another visitor—a dyan, a rider, any man from the tribes—Ilya would feel no embarrassment in being found with him in the privacy of his wife’s tent. Another man might sit in conversation with Bakhtiian to all hours of the night, without it being the least bit improper. And if Ilya was now as willing to be found here alone with Vasil as he would be if his companion was Yaroslav Sakhalin or Kirill Zvertkov or Niko Sibirin or Anton Veselov—gods, what if it was true? What if Ilya no longer loved him?

The entrance flap swept aside and two figures came in.

“Dina!” Ilya started forward, amazed, and embraced his niece. “Have you just ridden in? Where is the prince?”