The Novels of the Jaran (43 page)

“No, you’re the only one who understands. Not even Niko—but I won’t say a word against Sibirin. When you decided to come with us, Tess, I waited. I knew Ilya would run you into the ground and send you back to the tribe, but, by the gods, you kept riding. It had been years since I last saw him bested like that.” He stood very still. The last light caught red streaks in his hair, like tiny fires in gold. “And I’ve been waiting ever since.”

“Waiting for what?”

“He doesn’t like to lose. And if there’s anything I hate, it’s a person who can’t concede even one race, even if the other rider took the course fairly and rode the better race that one time. What does it matter anyway? One race?”

She stared at him as if his whole character had been illuminated for her in that instant. “Bakhtiian couldn’t be who he is if it didn’t matter to him,” she replied, realizing it herself as she spoke.

“I suppose I feel sorry for him in a way. He’ll always miss the best part of life for trying to grab hold of what’s out of his reach.”

Tess felt a sudden flood of warmth for Kirill, who trusted her enough now to reveal so much of his soul to her. “What is the best part of life, Kirill?” she asked softly.

He shrugged and looked suddenly and incongruously diffident.

She almost laughed, because without knowing it, he had chosen in that instant the surest way of winning her over. Instead, she placed her hands, palms open, on his chest, looking up into his face. His eyes were a deep, rich blue, like the late afternoon sky reflected in water. Solemn, his face had a kind of repose that suited his features unexpectedly better than the quicksilver smiles that usually characterized him. “I think it’s going to be cold tonight.” She kissed him on the mouth.

Quite abruptly, he flushed pink, and he lowered his gaze from hers. “Tess,” he murmured. He glanced at her, and she saw to her great satisfaction that he was both surprised and elated.

“Well,” she said, stepping back from him, “I’m hungry. Aren’t we going to eat?”

He laughed. “How like a woman. Yes, Tasha made stew.”

They walked back together. She felt disgustingly pleased with herself and would not have cared for the world if everyone knew—but Kirill acted with the greatest discretion, not sitting with her, not treating her any differently than he ever did, so that when she parted with Yuri to go to her tent, Yuri did not even suspect.

Sitting on her blankets, listening to the mellow howl of the wind while she took off her boots, shivering a little, she began to wonder if he had changed his mind. But there was a sudden, quiet scuff outside and then he tumbled in, laughing under his breath. She was so surprised she grabbed him, and he, quick to take advantage, embraced her and buried his face in her neck.

“Ah, gods,” he murmured into her hair, “that damned Bakhtiian is still awake. What a canny piece of tracking it took to get in here unseen.”

She began to laugh, because his excitement was infectious, and because he was very warm and very close.

“Shh, Tess.” He laid a finger on her lips. “This is a small camp. Do you want everyone to know?”

“Won’t they know soon enough anyway?” she asked, feeling a surge of recklessness, now that she had made her choice.

She felt him grin against her cheek. “I’ll wager you, my heart. How many days—no, nights—do you think we can keep this a secret?”

“What will the stakes be?”

“Why, kisses, of course.”

“Just kisses? Surely we can risk higher stakes than that.”

“Then name your stakes. By the way, here, I brought an extra blanket for you to borrow. It is a cold night, after all.”

“You’re smug tonight, Kirill.”

“Don’t I have every reason to be?”

She did not bother to reply, at least not in words.

Chapter Twenty

“Many fires burn below the surface.”

—
EMPEDOCLES OF AGRAGAS

L
ATER IN THE NIGHT
, it began to drizzle. Kirill stirred and sat up, waking her.

“Where are you going?” she whispered.

In the darkness, he had to struggle a bit to find and put on his clothing. “I’m leaving.”

“But it’s raining.”

She felt him shrug. “What’s a bit of rain? Tess, I am not so ill-bred as to flaunt my good fortune to the others by being found here in the morning.”

“My, Kirill. Nobility suits you.”

He leaned to kiss her. “Certainly it does. I also have to relieve Konstans on watch, my heart.”

She laughed and let him leave.

In the morning, it continued to drizzle, but they rolled up their tents despite the damp and went on their way. Because Bakhtiian could not scout, Tess rode with Yuri at the fore of the main group, enjoying this novelty although not the rain.

“‘What’s a bit of rain,’” she groused when they halted at midday. “How anyone can shrug off this miserable weather is beyond me.”

“Why?” asked Yuri casually. “Did someone say that?”

She turned her head away to hide her expression from him. Behind them, Kirill was talking with Mikhal and seemed unaware of her. Composing her face, she said, “Yes, Kirill did.”

Yuri wiped a bead of rain away from his right eye. “I’ve never heard Kirill complain about any hardship Bakhtiian has put us through.”

“Just about Bakhtiian?” Tess glanced back to where Bakhtiian rode next to Niko. Ilya was looking at her. She jerked her gaze away and fixed it self-consciously on Yuri. “But he follows him.”

“I remember when I was a boy, and Kirill was just old enough to ride in jahar, and Bakhtiian had started this great ride of his—and Kirill clung as close to Bakhtiian as Vladimir does now. He admired him. But Ilya changed, and Kirill grew up and became his own man. Somehow, I think they never forgave each other.”

“Forgave each other for what?”

“Kirill never forgave Ilya for casting aside all his old ties of friendship, for giving up everything for the path he chose to ride. Ilya never forgave Kirill for beginning to question him.”

“You’re being very wise today, Yuri.”

He grinned. “Am I? Was there something you wanted to tell me, Tess? You have that look about you.”

“No, I just hate this rain.”

That he did not suspect was obvious. Yuri, of all people, would not hesitate to either congratulate her for finally behaving as a jaran woman ought, or, she supposed, censure her for heedlessly antagonizing Bakhtiian—not that it was any business of Bakhtiian’s who she slept with, by God. And she had grown to know the riders in the jahar well enough by now to recognize the little signs that would show that they knew, and were amused, and teased Kirill. The signs that, had she known them those months before, would have shown her that the entire jahar knew about Fedya. Kirill, especially, would be teased relentlessly, in that subtle, merciless, but discreet way the riders used when there were women present. And Kirill, she realized with a sudden flash of insight, was well enough liked and well enough respected that no man in the jahar would begrudge him what he had fairly gained: her regard. Or at least, no man possibly but one.

Three days passed, riding. Three nights, she pitched her tent so that its entrance faced away from the others, out at the edge of the little camp, and Kirill crept in. Always in the best of humor, despite the damned rain. As well he might be. No one commented. It was beginning to look likely that he would win their wager.

“Gods,” said Yuri to her as he helped her set up her tent that night, where they had camped at the edge of a range of hills. “If Bakhtiian has said ten words these past four days it’s been out of my hearing.”

“He’s in pain. That he can ride all day amazes me.”

“Does it? It shouldn’t. He is Bakhtiian, after all. What he really needs is a woman to take pity on him and find a way to take his mind off that injured knee.”

“Yuri. No, no, no, no, no.”

“If you insist, but I still think—”

“Must we have this conversation every night? How did these damned blankets get damp?” She threw them inside and then thought of Kirill and smiled.

“What’s wrong with you?” Yuri demanded. “You look awfully pleased with yourself.”

“Oh, it’s just the stars. I’d forgotten how I miss them at night, now that the clouds have cleared off and it’s stopped raining.” She stood up and stretched, relishing the delicate touch of the twilight air on her skin. “Niko says we’ve only a day’s ride through these hills tomorrow and then we’ll be back on the plains again.”

“Yes.” Yuri stood as well. “Gods, I’ll be glad to be on the plains again.” He hesitated and sighed. “Well, I’m off to set up Ilya’s tent. Wish me luck.”

“Can’t Vladimir do it?”

“I’m
Ilya’s cousin, Tess. Mother would be furious if I let Vladimir interfere while Ilya can’t do it himself.”

“Well, then, Yuri, if you’re so afraid of Ilya’s bad temper, I’ll go with you and help you.”

“Oh, he won’t say a word to me. That’s why it’s so bad. He just sits there. How he hates being beholden to others. Actually—” Yuri grinned—“I rather enjoy it in a way because he knows I know how he feels.”

She laughed. “Why is it that the ones who look the sweetest hide the most malicious hearts?”

“Why, Sister, how should I know?”

He left, and she had a sudden urge to just walk, alone, and smell the air and gaze up at the sharp brilliance of stars above. She hiked up the nearby hill and settled herself on a rock that lay beneath three leafless trees grown up on the lee side of the hill. Rain, after all, wasn’t such a bad thing as long as one’s feet stayed dry, and hers had. And it was not so very rainy in this part of the world, or at least the jaran knew where to ride so as to stay out of it.

Below her, a few fires lay strewn like a cache of untidy jewels across a strip of land. She breathed in. Air like this no longer existed on Earth. All of her life on that distant planet seemed at that moment inconsequential. She had so utterly lacked confidence that her slightest movement caused her fear—that she was doing the wrong thing, that someone was watching, that she only mattered because of who her brother was; worst, that she would fail Charles somehow. To be honest, about her feelings, about any action she took—that was dangerous in the extreme. While here…

Sonia’s family, for no reward whatsoever, had taken her in, had given her the initial mark of respectability that had allowed her to build a place for herself within the jaran. For she had built such a place. She knew the men of this jahar respected her. She knew that she could expect the same open friendship she had received from the women of both the Orzhekov and the Sakhalin families at any tribe they might meet, simply and purely because she was a woman. She had a family. She had a lover—one, by God, she had chosen herself, with confidence, with fondness, with a fair measure of real, artless love.

Certainly their technology was primitive, but their spirit was passionate and free. Bakhtiian claimed to be jaran to the core; if that were so, then the jaran, like the wind, could fill any form no matter its size and shape. They could adapt and hold firm. They could revere the quiet heart of the gods’ mysteries on earth and still remain unquenchably curious. Like Kirill, they could be brash and diffident together. She smiled, then frowned, hearing familiar voices approaching her sanctuary.

Like Bakhtiian, they could be enthralling and utterly perilous. She shrank back into the protection of shadow and held still.

“Damn it, Ilya,” Yuri was saying, “you’ll just ruin your knee, walking around like this. You ought to be lying down.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“I’m sure Josef is in the mood to tell a good tale. He always is. He knows a thousand we haven’t heard yet.”

“Yuri, leave me alone.”

“I won’t! Mother will have my head if I don’t try to stop you hurting yourself for no good reason. What’s wrong with you?”

Bakhtiian did not dignify this plea with a reply, but Tess heard his breathing, husky from pain, as he halted not ten paces from her on the other side of the trees.

“Very well, then, I’ll tell you.” Yuri’s voice had a reckless tone to it that surprised her. “You won’t admit to yourself that you’re attracted to her. You certainly won’t act on it.”

“It is not a man’s place to act.”

“Yes, you’ll hide behind that excuse, won’t you, knowing very well that any man can find a hundred ways to let a woman know how he feels and win her over.”

“As Kirill did?”

“Gods. Kirill is always flirting. You know it doesn’t mean anything.”

“How odd that I should then see him coming out of Soerensen’s tent these four nights past.”

Dead silence. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care whether you believe me or not.”

“By the gods. Maybe I do believe you. I think you’re jealous.”

This silence was deeper and colder and lasted longer. “Yuri, leave me right now.”

“No. You
are
attracted to her.”

“Very well. It may be that I am suffering from certain desires that could, after all, be aroused by the close proximity of any woman. And satisfied by the same female, or another, whichever was closer.”

Yuri gasped, a sound caught somewhere between horror and disbelief. His voice, when he finally spoke, had such a sarcastic edge to it that Tess flinched. “You bastard. But could a female satisfy them?”

“Yurinya.” Bakhtiian’s tone could have been chiseled, it was so hard. “I will thrash you to within a hand of your life if you ever say anything to me on that subject again.”

Tess got an itch on her nose, stubborn and flaming, but she dared not move.

“Well, I say good for Kirill and be damned to you.” Yuri strode away uphill, boots stamping through the grass. After a long pause, Bakhtiian began his slow, limping pace back down toward camp.

Tess lifted her hand slowly, rubbed her nose, and stood up. A breeze pushed through the trees and a few final drops of water scattered down from the branches onto her uncovered head. She ducked away, wiping at her hair with disgust. Heard footsteps. But it was only Yuri, returning.

“Yuri?”

“Tess! Where did you come from? Did you hear that?”