The Novels of the Jaran (71 page)
Read The Novels of the Jaran Online
Authors: Kate Elliott
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Epic, #Science Fiction, #Adventure
“Yes, Ilya,” she agreed.
He glanced at her. “I don’t trust you when you’re in this mood.”
“Which mood?”
“You’re being very agreeable.”
“Oh, I’m sure it won’t last.”
He sighed, content, and gathered her closer to him.
The two lanterns cast a warm glow across them, the blending of two shifting, impatient fires that, never still, were yet constant. Their light burned on through the night, long since forgotten. Outside, the wind stirred the grass, and the river ran on, and a fire smoldered between tents, ready to take flame again in the morning.
Acknowledgments
This is a very long list, and I am sure I have forgotten some names. It took me long enough from first draft to finished draft that it would be amazing if I
hadn’t
forgotten someone. All of them contributed in some way to making this book.
Sandy Campbell, wherever she may be; Dawn Hilton; Dr. Charles Sullivan III; Dr. Edward Milowicki and Dr. Elizabeth Pope; Steve Henderson, Hilary Powers, Bill Jouris, and the rest of the Orcs; Masae Kubota; Lorna Brown; Frank Berry; Greg Armbruster (for first suggesting we see more of Charles, even though I didn’t listen to him at the time); Neile Whitney (for reminding me that women are not girls), Melissa Forbes-Nicoll, and my other Wales buddies; Jane Butler, my agent; Dr. Judith Tarr (who, among many many many other things, valiantly corrected my horse mistakes—any bits that strike you right are hers, the faults are incontestably mine); my writers’ group, who shall go nameless because they know who they are; Jay Silverstein and his wonderful family; Brandon Chamberlain (for tactical advice); Kit Brahtin (for not letting me give up); Tad Williams (for much the same reason); Alis Rasmussen (for generously letting me borrow a corner of her universe); Raven Gildea; Ingrid Baber; Amy Conner (for the warp and weft); Dianne Boatwright; my dear cousin Eric Elliott; Todd and Barbara Craig (because it was always their favorite); Dr. John W. Bernhardt (for reading the penultimate draft); to Sibling Units One, Two, and Three, who have always been so supportive; and, of course, to my editor Sheila Gilbert, who made me make one damned last revision, and believe me I hated every minute of it, but she was right.
And last, but never least, to Jane Austen.
An Earthly Crown
A Novel of the Jaran
Kate Elliott
This book is dedicated to my brother, Karsten, because he keeps bothering me to dedicate a book to him, and because it was meant to be dedicated to him all along, for reasons he knows best.
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
T
HE SWORD OF HEAVEN
is a single novel being published in two parts. The author sometimes refers to it as a novel in five acts with one intermission.
“Barbarus hic ego sum,
qui non intelligor illis.”
—OVID
(Here I am a barbarian,
because men understand me not.)
“I can take any empty space
and call it a bare stage.
A man walks across this empty space
whilst someone else is watching him,
and this is all that is needed
for an act of theatre to be engaged.”
—PETER BROOK,
The Empty Space
Atheneum (New York, 1968)
PROLOGUE
“Nature that framed us of four elements, Warring within our breasts for regiment,
Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds:
Our souls whose faculties can comprehend The wondrous architecture of the world: And measure every wandering planet’s course,
Still climbing after knowledge infinite,
And always moving as the restless spheres, Wills us to wear ourselves and never rest, Until we reach the ripest fruit of all,
That perfect bliss and sole felicity,
The sweet fruition of an earthly crown.”
—
MARLOWE
Tamburlaine The Great
T
HE RIDER LEFT THE
great sprawl of tents that marked the main camp of the nomad army just as the sun set. Dusk washed his scarlet shirt gray, and with only the gibbous moon to light him, he soon faded into the dark of night, the susurration of his horse’s passage through the high grass marking his progress. Near midnight, he came to another, smaller camp, and here he changed horses and went on. By dawn, he was within sight of the low range of hills where lay the farthest outposts of the
khaja,
the settled people.
One hand’s span after sunrise, he rode through a village. Fields spread out around the huts. Green shoots wet with dew sparkled in the soft light of morning. The khaja stopped in their tasks and stared at him, a lone
jaran
warrior armed with a saber and a lance, passing through their midst as if their presence was beneath his notice. None spoke, or moved against him.
A cluster of jaran tents stood in neat lines outside the leveled sod walls that had once protected the village. A single rider emerged from the encampment and rode out to meet him.
The traveler reined in his mount and waited, leaning forward over the horse’s neck to whisper in its ear as it fretted at the tight rein. Then, sitting back, he lifted a hand. “Well met,” he said as the young rider from the encampment pulled up beside him. “I am Aleksi Soerensen. I’ve come from the main camp, with a message for the Gathering of Elders. You’re one of Grekov’s riders, aren’t you?”
“I’m Feodor Grekov. His sister’s son.
Soerensen?”
Grekov hesitated, raising a hand to brush a lock of blond hair off of his forehead. He pronounced the name awkwardly.
“Yes,” Aleksi agreed, politely but without a smile.
“You’re the orphan that Bakhtiian’s wife adopted,” said Feodor. He examined Aleksi with what appeared to be common curiosity. “It’s said you have a fine hand for the saber.”
Aleksi was disconcerted. He had not grown used to the respect, and the protection, his adopted sister’s name granted him. “I had a fine teacher.”
Feodor did not press the matter. “If you’ve come from the main camp, then your news must be important. I’ll get you a new mount, and ride with you myself, if you need a guide.”
“It’s safe enough for the two of us from here on into the hills?”
“We have patrols running through all these hills. There are a few khaja bandits left, but nothing more. These khaja aren’t real fighters. Soon they’ll all be subject to us, as they should be.” Feodor grinned. “And I’d like to go, anyway. It will be something to tell my children.”
“Ah. You’ve a little one?”
Grekov flushed. “Not yet.”
“But you’ve a woman in mind for a wife, I take it.”
“I—” Feodor hesitated. “A man can’t help looking,” he said at last. Aleksi heard the bitterness in his voice clearly.
“I’d like to marry,” Aleksi agreed, feeling suddenly and surprisingly sorry for Grekov, who ought to have had an easy life, being nephew of a tribal warleader and nephew to its headwoman. And since the unnamed young woman in question had no choice in marriage, Aleksi could only guess that the obstacles arose from Grekov’s elders. “But I suppose I never will.”
“Of course, as an orphan—but surely you’ve standing enough now, since Bakhtiian’s wife has adopted you into her tent.”
“Adopted me by her customs, not by ours. Or a bit by both, I suppose. Still, you may be right. I hope so.”
“Gods,” said Feodor, “there’s enough trouble in the world without worrying about women.” And that sealed their comradeship. Aleksi felt a bit overwhelmed by how easy it was, when you had a respectable name, a sister, a place in a tribe. “Come on,” Feodor added, “we’ll get you a new mount and something to eat, and then be on our way.” He led Aleksi into camp and introduced him round as if he was just another young soldier like himself and the rest of the riders. A short time later, the two young men rode out in charity with each other.
By midday they reached the butte known to the jaran as
khayan-sarmiia,
Her Crown Fallen from Heaven to Earth. Once, the stories said, this range of hills was known only to the jaran tribes, but in recent generations a few khaja settlements had crept out across the plains from settled lands in the south and west to pollute the holy ground where the Sun’s Crown had come to rest on the earth.