The Novels of the Jaran (254 page)

“So you believe,” said Rusudani with sudden fierceness, “but remember that I have been among them, and I believe they will avenge his death.”

Raising one eyebrow, he looked inquiringly at her. “Do you suggest a course of action?”

Jaelle stared at her saddle and tried not to take in a deep breath. The sight and stench of death oppressed her, and it frightened her as well. The battle had gone so swiftly, to leave such appalling remains. It was truly as the Holy Pilgrim said: “It is easier to deal death than to grant life, and so has God sent us, my brother to take death onto himself and I to reveal the promise of eternal life in God.”

“Let us move away from this place,” said Rusudani softly, “and then I will speak to you of what may well save your life: That you have a more valuable hostage than you know among my slaves.”

But her tone and her face gave away nothing. Janos regarded her with an expression so wintry that Jaelle shivered. Then, thank God, they rode on, away from the battleground.

Ilya could drink. Vasha thanked the gods for that. But he would not, or could not, eat any of the hard bread. The others devoured it, if only to keep up their strength.

Soon after Jaelle left, one of the captains came to drive them from the hovel. Vasha and Stefan propped Ilya up between them. Leaning all his weight on them, he managed to hobble along. He said nothing—he had not spoken since Kriye had thrown him—but he seemed to understand that they had to move and that he had at least to give the appearance of being able to walk. Stanislav Vershinin’s leg had stiffened during the night, but he could limp along, bringing up the rear of the pathetic little procession together with Nikita and Mikhail Kolenin. A grim-faced Vladimir walked alongside Katerina, in front, forming a fragile barrier between the khaja soldiers and his precious dyan.

They plodded along the road that led to the gate. Vasha heard Nikita’s voice: At each body they passed, Nikita muttered a name, marking the dead. At the gate, Vasha stared at the pile of bodies and then at his father, who seemed unaware of the corpses thrown to either side, clearing the road. Nikita kept speaking. Although he could not have been able to identify each man by sight, they were thrown on top of each other with such disregard, he seemed to know each individual who had been left to defend the gate. But even his voice failed when they crossed through the gate and set out across the field outside.

Vasha concentrated on Ilya’s arm across his shoulder, on the shift of Ilya’s ribs, bound by a cloth bandage, under his right hand. The back of his right hand brushed Stefan’s body at intervals, as they paced themselves, balancing Ilya’s weight between them, and Vasha found that comforting. A few bold carrion birds fluttered down and landed, only to be chased away by the khaja who wandered among the dead. Horses lay everywhere.

“They’re digging pits,” said Mikhail in a low voice.

“No. Look there. There’s a pyre being built as well. Surely they would not dishonor our dead by burying them. It was their betrayal, not ours. We fought fairly.”

“It was our betrayal,” Mikhail reminded him.

“Sakhalin’s betrayal,” Vershinin spat out.

“I don’t understand,” said Nikita softly, “what Sakhalin thinks to gain by it. Or how he expects to explain how he escaped when Bakhtiian’s force was destroyed.”

Vasha felt his father move slightly, as if that comment had gotten through to him, but when he turned to look at him, Ilya’s expression was washed out, taut with pain, and his gaze was seemingly fixed on Katerina’s boots, pacing evenly before them.

They walked on. Vasha lifted his gaze to see a party waiting for them on the rise ahead, where the road forked into the forest. Even at this distance he recognized the prince and—thank the gods—Rusudani. His heart thudded, then jolted again as he realized that she was riding Misri! A gasped exclamation passed his lips at the same time as Stefan murmured, “There is Jaelle!”

Khaja soldiers lined the road. Behind them mounted khaja men, unarmed, drove together a herd of horses.

They trudged up the road. Vasha set his sight on Rusudani and Misri and counted in his head, each step, one hundred and three, one hundred and eighty-five, and just as they came up and stopped at the fork, their passage blocked by a troop of soldiers and three wagons bearing wounded men, Ilya fainted. His weight sagged onto Vasha and his head lolled to one side.

To Vasha’s horror, Prince Janos rode forward toward them. Vladimir took a step back, placing himself between the khaja prince and Ilya. But Janos paused, took the reins of a spare horse, and halted before them. Hope flared: Perhaps he was going to show mercy, perhaps Rusudani had convinced him to offer the horse to the wounded man.

Janos leaned forward and looked directly at Katya. “Princess Katherine. I have brought you a horse. It is not fitting that you should walk.”

Vasha could not see Katya’s expression, but her back was stiff. “I will ride only if the other prisoners are allowed to ride as well.”

Janos raised an eyebrow. “I think not, Princess.” He wore his armor, and his cloak was fastened over his shoulder with a plain bronze brooch. “The jaran are famous for their skills at riding. What if one of them escapes?”

“Then I will walk with them.”

“No. You will not.”

Vasha was frankly amazed that the khaja still allowed Katya to wear her quiver on her back, with arrows and her unstrung bow, and a knife at her belt. Her hands opened and closed, and her shoulders shifted; Vasha could tell by these small movements of her body that she wanted to look behind her and dared not.

“I will ride if the wounded soldiers may ride as well,” she said, but even by conceding so much Vasha knew she had lost the battle.

Ilya shifted and Vasha felt him fight back to consciousness, eyes fluttering. His feet moved on the ground. With an immense effort he put some weight on them. Vasha glanced across him at Stefan, but Stefan stared blindly ahead, pretending not to notice.

“I don’t have time for this,” said Prince Janos impatiently. “Osman, kill the wounded men if they can’t keep up with the infantry. Princess Katherine, you will ride now or you will be tied to the horse. I don’t care which it is.”

A horse neighed piercingly. So suddenly that the movement made Vasha flinch, Katya leapt forward with her knife in her hand.

Shouts. Soldiers broke into movement. Janos jerked his horse back, and he actually laughed as Katya’s knife skidded off his mail shirt. A soldier grabbed her from behind and pulled her back, hard, then screamed as she stabbed him.

“Katya!” Vladimir yelled, but he moved back to stand more squarely in front of Ilya, and none of the other riders interfered either.

There were shouts from farther away, a flurry of movement among the loose horses, and a sudden storm blew through the ranks. A horse reared and plunged into their midst and a startled Janos was almost thrown from his own horse, who was nipped and kicked aside.

Katya was struck hard on the shoulder and, a moment later, overpowered and dragged to one side. Vladimir jumped out of the path of the horse, and Kriye stopped in front of Ilya and dipped his head, blowing, then nudged at Ilya gently.

Ilya’s head came up. “Kriye,” he said through cracked lips. He let go of Stefan, swung an arm awkwardly over Kriye’s neck, and hung half on the horse and half on Vasha. Kriye stood perfectly still.

Vladimir swore under his breath.

Everyone was, of course, looking at Ilya now. “Oh damn,” Vasha whispered, tightening his grip on his father as if that could protect him.

That any woman, and a prisoner at that, would so defy a prince astonished Jaelle. When the jaran princess leapt forward with her knife, she gasped and looked away, because Princess Katerina had been kind to her, and she could not bear to watch while she was killed.

But already Rusudani moved forward, toward the others, and then a huge altercation ensued to one side with the horses.

“He’s gone mad!” one of the grooms shouted, and another man screamed, and a furious stallion drove and kicked through the soldiers like a demon. Smaller than the great war-horses, still, the black horse’s rage prevailed. Until it calmed unaccountably and halted in front of—

Rusudani’s lips moved in a silent word: “Bakhtiian.”

Jaelle’s heart gripped in fear. What would happen when Janos discovered not just the deception, but that she had known of it?

Rusudani urged her horse forward and the soldiers, startled, moved aside to let her through. “It is as I said,” she proclaimed, coming up beside Prince Janos, who had fought his horse to a standstill. “You did not believe me, but it is true. The dark-haired young man is Bakhtiian’s son.”

Janos shook his head, clearing it. He said nothing as the horses were driven off to one side and the soldiers re-formed around him. One, cursing, had his shoulder bandaged. Swearing and kicking, Princess Katerina fought while four soldiers slipped her weapons from her. Janos examined her for a long while. The intensity of his stare made Jaelle uncomfortable. Seeing him looking at her, Princess Katerina glared back at him, but she looked tired, dirty, and beaten.

Janos wrenched his gaze away from her and looked toward the horse. “This is the stallion your drover mentioned?” he asked Captain Osman.

“Yes, your highness. Fought every man who came near him, but too fine a horse to leave behind. I had thought we could at least put him to stud.”

Janos snorted. But his eyes did not leave the scene: The fine black stallion and the man to whom it had given obeisance. He turned to look at Rusudani.

“Why should a princess insist that a common soldier be honored with her? She refused to ride unless the wounded men be allowed to ride as well. How can that young man be the son of Bakhtiian? He is too old.”

“He is not the child of the Jedan princess but a child by an earlier wife, or a concubine. Such a son might not be granted the preference given to the children of Bakhtiian’s chief wife, but he is still valuable.”

Janos studied Vasil’ii, who stared bleakly at him. “Who is this other one, then? He is dressed as a common soldier, but how would a common soldier be honored with a prince’s horse? Why would a king’s son carry him?”

Jaelle waited. She felt as if the world held its breath, waiting for Rusudani’s pronouncement. A woman like Rusudani surely would not lie, before God.

Rusudani’s face was calm, almost serene. “He is a priest of their people. A holy man, whom they call a Singer. I know of this man because—” She faltered. Janos glared at her, looking skeptical. “Bring me his saddlebags,” she said suddenly.

Janos gave the order, and two soldiers edged toward the stallion, but the horse seemed content now that he had found his master. Jaelle could not see Bakhtiian’s face from her position, but he did not stir. She was not sure if he was conscious.

Rusudani hesitated before she opened the saddlebags. She bit down a jubilant smile as she withdrew a copy of
The Recitation.
“You see, he reads God’s holy word. I saw with my own eyes that he carried a copy of
The Recitation
, and I received permission from Bakhtiian to discuss the holy
Recitation
, the word of the Lord, with him. Think—if we can bring the jaran to the truth of God’s word, what greater victory could there be?”

Janos’s gaze shifted first to Vasil’ii, then to Princess Katerina, and then back to Vasil’ii. Jaelle realized that he had already dismissed Bakhtiian, that he was measuring his captives with a new eye. “What is his name?”

Jaelle gulped. Rusudani did not answer. Her lips tightened.

Janos rode forward and looked down on Vasil’ii. “What is your name?” he asked him in Taor.

“Vassily Kireyevsky,” he said. His voice did not even shake. Rusudani leaned forward, her fingers tightening on her reins, eyes fixed on the young man.

“Princess Rusudani tells me that you are the son, illegitimate or otherwise, of the Bakhtiian. Is this true?”

“I would be a fool to tell you if it was true,” retorted Vasil’ii.

“That would depend on if I thought you could serve my cause better dead or alive. Is it you these men are protecting?”

Vasil’ii hesitated only a moment. He lifted his chin bravely. “It is.”

Of the jaran soldiers, not one moved or made a sound at this pronouncement.

“Put him in chains,” said Janos to Osman, “together with the princess, and let them ride in a wagon as honored prisoners.”

“Do not forget,” Rusudani said quickly, “that they are my slaves. You granted them to me already.”

“As your husband, I am guardian of your inheritance. But it was only the men I gave you, Rusudani. The princess is mine.”

A wagon was brought forward, Katerina and Vasil’ii bound and lifted in to its bed. Jaelle shuddered, watching Katerina, whose eyes were now cast down. She looked utterly defeated.

“What do you mean to do with him?” Rusudani asked, without looking at Bakhtiian.

Jaelle did risk a glance there. Stefan had an arm around Bakhtiian, holding him up, and she saw a glance pass between Stefan and one of the jaran soldiers. Together, they helped Bakhtiian to mount. He slumped over the black’s neck, looking half dead, and Stefan remained standing beside him, steadying him.

Janos glanced at them and then, dismissively, away. “You are right. The young prince is a valuable hostage, bastard or not. After all, I cannot entirely trust Andrei Sakhalin, a man who would betray his own king, can I? I must thank you, Rusudani, for giving me this prize to hold in reserve.” His mouth quirked with a glint of a smile. “But I have gained no greater prize this day than you.”

Rusudani’s cheeks reddened, and she bowed her head submissively. But Jaelle, this close to her, saw her eyes light in triumph. Osman called to them to march. As the column moved forward, no one stopped Bakhtiian from riding.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Forbidden Hall

I
T WAS PLANETNOON, AND
rings striped the sky above the courtyard where Ilyana sat with her back against a stone bench and her gaze fixed on her hands. The latticework shadow plaited her fingers and arms in strands of light and dark. David was lecturing, sitting cross-legged on the white tile floor of the gazebo, but she was furious with him for letting Anatoly Sakhalin sit in on her tutorials. Only she couldn’t tell David that. Not without telling him why. And if he knew, then Anatoly would know David knew by that advanced form of communication adults possessed, comprehending whole spheres of existence with glances and a few choice words.