The Novels of the Jaran (269 page)

“By the laws of the jaran it is true that you cannot be my son, but I was the man who was lying in the blankets of your mother when the winds breathed your spirit into her body.”

Vasha shivered. Cold leaked in through the windows and rose up from the stone under his feet. There was a small hearth in the room, laid into the wall, but it had not been lit. “Would you have married her? My mother, I mean?”

“No.” Ilya stood up abruptly and hurried over to the window loop that looked out onto the tower where he had said Katerina was being held. “I see torches there. Someone is coming out, but I can’t see… only the light. Damn it. I don’t trust him.”

“Trust who?”

“Trust a khaja prince with Katya in a locked tower.”

“Father! Lady Jadranka granted women’s sanctuary to Katya. I know khaja sometimes treat women badly, but—”

“Gods! You spent time in Jeds. Don’t be so naive, Vassily.”

“They aren’t
all
enemies, as you should know!”

Behind them, the door banged open and Stefan came in loaded down with firewood, which he dropped with a splintering thud next to the hearth, blowing grit out of his face and brushing chips off his clothing. Seeing Ilya, his face lit, but he glanced back at the guards and said nothing. A man Vasha recognized as the khaja priest assigned to the women stepped into the room and beckoned to Ilya, barking a command that included Princess Rusudani’s name. Perhaps Ilya had relaxed a little, even engaged in a conversation as perilous as the one he and Vasha had embarked on; now he stiffened and Vasha saw it all crack away from him to show the brittle fury underneath. As he passed Vasha, Vasha reached out and brushed his hand; the gesture startled him. Then he was gone.

“Do you see my father often? Outside?” Vasha asked Stefan as soon as the door slammed shut. “How does he seem to you? Does he seem well?”

Stefan shrugged. “He’s still a little weak from his wounds, but he healed well. Otherwise…he’s quiet. He doesn’t say much. Now that you mention it, he rarely talks at all. Mostly what we say between us comes from Vladimir, if I see him.”

“I think he’s going mad. Gods, I hope Stanislav Vershinin escaped those khaja he was sold to. If the army doesn’t get word of this soon….”

“And manage to track us down here,” Stefan added helpfully.

“What does he do all day? My father, I mean.”

“What does a slave do? Hauls water. Hauls wood. I’ve gotten to work in the stables a bit, which is a blessing, although these khaja horses stink from being shut up. They don’t let me ride. I saw Nikita, too. He’s been sent to dig ditches outside the walls, and he was filthy. They never let him wash. What Bakhtiian does I don’t precisely know beyond that. Vladimir says they often stand in attendance on Princess Rusudani. Unarmed, of course. That’s why they’ve been allowed to clean themselves up a bit.” Stefan was rather disheveled, in fact, but spoiled the effect by whistling as he piled the wood into the hearth.

“Why are you so damned cheerful?”

Stefan smiled, looking rather foolish. “I saw Jaelle. She embraced me, Vasha! I kissed her!”

“Did she have news of Katerina?” Vasha demanded, annoyed at Stefan’s good fortune and by Ilya’s insinuations. He tried to imagine Rusudani embracing him, but he could really only picture her leaning over her
Recitation
, reading from it, her lips moving and sometimes the tip of her tongue licking out to moisten her soft upper lip…. “You could have told me about Katya first!”

Stunned, Stefan turned round and gaped at him. “She didn’t say anything about Katya except that they’re fed enough and left alone. They’re in the tower—” He paced over to the window! “Well, you can’t see it from here.”

“You can see it through that window. She said they’d been left alone?”

“Yes.” Stefan did not go look at the tower. He seemed distracted. “I told her I loved her, Vasha.”

Relieved and irritated, Vasha went and kicked a log. It hurt his toes. “This is all very well, Stefan, but we’ve got to escape before my father goes mad.” Stefan’s face fell, and suddenly Vasha felt guilty for ruining his friend’s pleasure. He had never before heard Stefan talk this way about a woman. “Do you think she loves you?”

“I don’t know. How can you tell with these khaja?”

“You must find a way to meet her again. This time we’ll have a message ready to send to Katya through her.”

“Oh, yes,” said Stefan dreamily. Abruptly he laid his hands on the paned glass and stared down into the dark ward. “Gods, how I hate being a prisoner.”

“Can you get me stones for khot? It would give me something to do.”

Stefan pushed away from the window and came back to help lay the fire. “Poor Vasha. At least I get outside. You must hate this tower.”

“I don’t see any use hating it. We’re here, and we’ll stay here unless we find a way to escape or the army finds us. Or… or if I can convince Prince Janos that it would be in his interest to release us. All of us.”

“He’d be a fool to do it. Bakhtiian will gather an army and ride right back here and kill him. He has to.”

“But what if we can make him an ally?”

Stefan just shook his head. “Sometimes I think you’re half khaja yourself, but I suppose that must be because of Tess. Such an insult can never be forgiven.”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way!” Vasha insisted, and then gave up. The door opened. Vasha turned toward it eagerly, hoping it was the guardsmen to take him to the solar, but it was Mikhail, come to take the tray away.

To his great disappointment, Vasha was not summoned that evening, nor the next. Nor did Stefan manage to meet Jaelle at the well. But Stefan did gather up pebbles from outside and they used charcoal sticks to draw a grid onto the floor near the fireplace, and there they sat and played, Vasha against Stefan and then against Mikhail, and then Stefan against Mikhail while Vasha watched impatiently and whispered suggestions to Stefan until Mikhail, laughing, objected that it gave Stefan too great an advantage to have Vasha’s advice.

It was here, the third evening after Ilya’s visit, that Prince Janos found them. Vasha judged it better to allow Janos to approach to observe the game rather than to attempt an undignified scramble to his feet. In any case, he was simply so much better a khot player than Stefan that it didn’t take him long to finish engulfing Stefan’s stones.

“I have seen the other slaves playing this as well,” said Janos, “but I still don’t understand the point of the game.”

Now that Janos had addressed him, Vasha stood. “The purpose of the game is to take control of as much of the board as possible.”

“Ah.”

“We must play again, you and I.”

“I had hoped for a game of castles this evening.”

“I would be honored.”

In this way, Vasha played to the other game, the game that Janos himself had introduced: That Vasha was, not a prisoner, but an honored guest. Together they went to the solar, and here, where the lighting was better, Vasha noticed that the prince’s face looked rather battered. His lower lip bore a fresh scab, still healing over and somewhat swollen, and a greenish-yellow bruise peeped out from under his hair up against his left ear. They sat down at the table and a steward set out the game.

They began to play.

“Back when I still lived at my father’s court, I was noted as a man who could defeat men twice and even three times my own age at this game,” said Janos. Vasha glanced up at him. It seemed unlike Janos to feel obliged to brag about himself, and in any case, the women had not yet entered the room. Besides his stewards and Mikhail, who had come along as Vasha’s attendant, there was certainly no one to impress. “You are also a shrewd player, Prince Vasil’ii.”

They played for a while in concentrated silence. Then Vasha moved a knight to threaten Janos’s castle, and said, “Andrei Sakhalin may not have as much backing as you think, Prince Janos, whatever he’s told you.”

Janos grinned without looking up. “Which game are we playing, Prince Vasil’ii?”

“The game of princes, Prince Janos. Is it not said of castles that a king’s son should learn it who wishes to learn the art of ruling?”

“The philosopher said, ‘Any game played by princes must teach strategy.’ Who is this Sakhalin you speak of?”

“Only Andrei Sakhalin could have given you the information that Bakhtiian rode to Urosh Monastery. Sakhalin also administers the territory of Dushan for the tribes, and often resides near your father’s court. You are indeed a shrewd player, Prince Janos, among the best I have played, but I hope you have not been misled by the Sakhalin prince into thinking he can deliver on promises he may have made to you.”

“What brings on this sudden solicitude, Prince Vasil’ii? My abbot takes your knight.”

“My lion shield takes your abbot.”

“ ‘Act not in haste what you may later repent,’ as my mother has often advised me,” said Janos, with an odd catch in his voice that Vassily could not interpret. He moved his gryphon shield forward.

Vasha realized immediately that he had been rash to drive his knight so far over to the other side. He chuckled. “I would hate to lose a good opponent, Prince Janos. Shrewd players are not so easy to find.”

Janos glanced up at him, and again Vasha glimpsed an unfathomable emotion in his expression that he concealed quickly. “Do you know other shrewd players, Prince Vasil’ii?”

“The Prince of Jeds is a shrewd player, Prince Janos, and she supports me.”

The door opened, bringing the smell of cold air trapped within the stone walls of the stairwell into the warm chamber. Lady Jadranka and Princess Rusudani entered with their entourage. Janos rose to greet them, and Vasha rose as well but did not approach them. The ladies settled down onto their couches and chairs, and various stewards and guardsmen took up stations around the room. Ilya and Vladimir came in toward the end of the procession, and Rusudani beckoned them over to take up a station near her. She seemed, Vasha thought, to be sending some kind of signal—to whom? To her husband, that she would choose her own guards? To the others, that these foreign slaves somehow distinguished her? Or to Vasha himself? He tried to catch her eye, but she had already bent over her reading.

The presence of the women was like an overpowering perfume in the room, they came in so laden with scent, and the soft murmuring of their voices made Vasha long for home.
Home.
For the Orzhekov tribe, for his cousins and aunts, if he could truly call them that; for Yuri curled up asleep in his lap and Natalia chewing on her lower lip as she considered her letters or what move to make next when he taught her khot.

“Even if it is true that you have the backing of the Prince of Jeds, her husband is dead. What power is truly left her?”

The comment surprised a laugh from Vasha. “What power is left her? The power she inherited from her brother when she became prince of Jeds. The power lent her by the support of my grandmother and aunts.
She
is the one who built Sarai. I don’t think—” Vassily was not used to thinking so much so deeply and to having revelations so often. “She wears it lightly, but I don’t think there is anyone in the tribes as powerful as she is. Gods, Andrei Sahkalin has no power except what his marriage to my cousin Galina brings him! But that is true of any man.” He looked up to meet Janos’s gaze only to find Janos gazing at him with a look of complete incomprehension on his face. After a moment, Vasha judged it polite to turn his attention away and study the board. In fact, Janos had not beaten him, but a series of six or seven moves, if not countered, would render Vasha helpless on the left flank. “The priest of cups moves two squares.”

Janos propped his chin on his hands and stared at the board. Without looking up, he said, “Are you married?”

“No.” Vasha tried to but could not stop himself from glancing over at Rusudani. She came to a break in the verse and, to his surprise, beckoned Ilya over to her. Ilya knelt before her.

Janos glanced toward this affecting scene. “Your priest refused to kneel before me, but I see him there, now, kneeling in front of my wife.”

“She is a woman.”

Rusudani handed Ilya her copy of
The Recitation
, the one that had been translated into Taor, and, evidently, bade him read it aloud. Without demur, Ilya settled cross-legged onto the floor in front of her and took the book in his lap. The women murmured and stilled. When he began to read, they hushed completely and leaned forward in unison rather like a stand of grass grazed by a stiff wind. His voice was steady and rich.

“ ‘So it came to pass in those spring days that Ammion the Shepherd took the flocks to the hills, where the streams ran cold from the winter snows, and left his wife and her son alone to care for the garden and the hearth.’ ”

“I have heard that the jaran take more than one wife,” said Janos.

“Certainly not. A man may marry again if his wife dies, but taking more than one wife is a khaja custom.”

“Khaja?”

“A person who is not jaran.”

“Ah. But I am khaja, and we do not take more than one wife. It is enjoined in the holy book that each man must cleave to one woman so that from their union may come children blessed by the covenant of God.”

Vasha smiled wryly.

“But in truth,” added Janos, “it is as easy for a man like my father to shed a wife if she has no one to speak for her as it is for you or me to shed our clothes before we lay down into bed at night.”

“Ha! I knew you were barbarians. Begging your pardon, Prince Janos. The gods have enjoined my people that once the mark is made on a woman’s face by a man, only death can sunder their partnership.”

“What mark?”

“When a man chooses a woman to marry, he puts the mark on her. He cuts her, on the cheek.” Vasha drew a line down his own cheek, to demonstrate.

Janos looked faintly horrified. He coughed. “Begging your pardon, Prince Vasil’ii, but I scarcely think you can call us barbarians if you perform such acts of mutilation on your own women.”

“ ‘Now there came in those days to that country a storm brought forth from the strife of men. Death came to that country as the scythe harvests the wheat, as the wolf strikes down the lamb. Death came to the valley where the garden and hearth of Ammion were tended by his wife and her son. There came to her in those days an angel, and under his wing she sheltered. His wing was as bright as the strike of lightning and where it hung over the garden and the hearth like a pall of incandescent smoke no army dared approach.’ ”