His Conquering Sword: 3 (The Novels of the Jaran)

by Kate Elliott

  Ursula greeted David with a cheerful wave as he passed her on his way to Cara’s tent. She had risen so far in Bakhtiian’s estimation that she now had her own little entourage, including an adolescent boy and girl who helped her arm herself in her lamellar cuirass. David himself had deigned to borrow a heavy felt coat and a khaja helmet for the day’s work. He tossed the helmet on the carpet under the awning of Cara’s tent and went inside. In the inner chamber, he stopped short. Bright lights shone over the counter, and a transparent wall had been rolled down behind Cara and Jo where they bent over the counter, separating them from the rest of the room. He caught a glimpse of something tiny and pale, under their hands, and all at once he felt bile in his throat and he knew he was going to throw up.

  “Out,” said Cara without turning around. He retreated, into the outer chamber and sat down heavily in a chair, panting. “What do you want?” she demanded from the other room, her voice penetrating the distance easily.

  “I thought they burned it.” He barely managed to choke out the words. “Cara, how could you?”

  But even as he said it, he knew how and why she could, why she had to. As an engineer, he understood the necessity for finding out why a structure had failed.

  “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he added and felt nauseated again, seeing the tiny perfect fingernails on a minuscule hand.

  Cara emerged from the back. She examined him but did not, mercifully, attempt to touch him. “I know,” she said softly, “but it was too valuable simply to cast away.”

  “How did you manage the switch—? Never mind. I don’t want to know. Does Tess know?”

  “Of course not! And if you tell her, David, I’ll flay you alive.” Neither spoke for a moment. Cara suddenly wiped roughly at her cheeks with the back of a hand. “Dammit,” she said, her voice thick. “You know how much it hurts, David. I just can’t afford to cry. Not for the baby, not for any of them—all of them, every one I lose and all the ones I can’t save.”

  “Oh, Cara,” he said, and got up and hugged her. “I’ll never tell.”

  Cara wept efficiently. She allowed herself three minutes and then she marshaled her forces, wiped her eyes, and washed her hands. “Where are you off to, in that coat?”

  “I’m going down to the line. Tess wants Rajiv. Do you know where he is?”

  “He went over to the actors last night,” called Jo from the inner chamber, sounding repulsively jovial considering what it was she was doing. “I think he’s having an affair with one of them. Here, Cara, that will do it. I think we’ve got everything that we can do now. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Good,” said Cara. “Go ahead and freeze it and pack it for Jeds.” David shuddered. “What does Tess want Rajiv for?”

  “Rajiv promised to help her; they’re going to work on setting up the information network, the initial matrix. I guess Tess needs something to keep her busy today. Not that I blame her.”

  Cara dried her hands on a towel. She rummaged in her chest and pulled out a tunic, stripped off the one she was wearing, and changed into the other one. “So she is staying on Rhui? Charles was worried that she might change her mind.”

  “After all the trouble he went to, intending to convince her to return to Earth?”

  “She’s more use to him here.”

  David grunted. “No doubt. What’s he waiting for, Cara?”

  “Who, Charles? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What’s he up to? I think he’s plotting something.”

  “Charles is always plotting something.”

  “Yes, but something else is going on, something beyond the saboteur network. Something to do with Rhui.”

  “Ask him, David. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the hospital. Where we’ll doubtless be quite busy very very soon.” But, as if to take the sting from her words, she rested a hand on his shoulder before she left.

  David followed her out. Ursula had already gone, but out beyond the tent waited David’s own little entourage, assigned to him for the duration of the battle: ten archers, ten riders, two of the khaja engineers, and two boys to act as messengers. He sighed. He didn’t want to go down to the city, but he felt obliged to. He had helped create the mines; he had helped design and build the engines and towers; he felt the responsibility not so much to Bakhtiian, but to the conscripted laborers whose sweat had built these siegeworks and who might well pay with their lives today. Maybe, if they performed well, he could argue to Bakhtiian that they deserved some kind of legal position within the army or at least to retain some of their old status as Habakar citizens. If he could couch it in the right terms, perhaps he could persuade Bakhtiian that it was to his advantage to make them feel as if they were part of the jaran army rather than just subject to it.

  He mounted his horse and rode with his escort in the faint light heralding dawn out through camp, through the distant outer walls that ringed the suburbs of Karkand, down along colonnaded avenues toward the besieged inner city.

  “Ummm,” said Nadine low in her throat, rolling her husband over in the blankets.

  “Dina!” Feodor murmured. “Stop that!” All the while doing nothing whatsoever to halt her actions, and a few things that encouraged them.

  There was silence for some time, broken only by the sound of their breathing and the occasional muttered comment, and the increasing noise of activity outside as the camp woke and prepared for battle.

  Nadine sighed and sat back finally, running a hand through his tangled hair and combing it through her fingers. “I like you much better like this,” she said.

  He cast a sudden, angry glance at her and sat up to let her braid his hair back. She bound the braids with blue ribbons embroidered with gold thread and brought him three gold necklaces and a polished and embossed belt of god plates to wear over his red shirt. She even tied the gold tassels onto his boots.

  “That’s better.” She regarded him with a sardonic lift to her mouth. “Now you look fit to be my husband.”

  He flushed. “Like a prize you won looting some city?” he demanded. “You don’t need to throw it in my face every day, Dina. I know you didn’t want to marry me.”

  She shrugged on her own shirt, belted it with a plain leather belt, and tugged on her boots. “I have to go. I’m to meet my uncle at the main gates. Aren’t you riding out with your uncle today?”

  When he did not reply, she looked up at him in surprise. He was staring at the carpet, cheeks stained red.

  “What’s wrong, Feodor?”

  He flung his head back, glaring at her defiantly. “You’ll find out anyway. Someone will tell you. My uncle is leaving me behind with the contingent that’s left to guard camp.”

  “Ah,” said Nadine. “He doesn’t want to risk losing his new status in the army.”

  “I had nothing to do with it! I didn’t ask to be left behind!”

  “Gods, Feodor, I know you’re not afraid of battle. You have scars enough to prove you’re not. But your uncle is still being cautious. You’re not a prize for me; you’re a prize for the Grekov tribe, and they’ll do everything in their power to keep you intact.”

  “You have no right to insult me or my family, Dina.” He was so angry that his voice shook.

  She smiled. “I can do what I like. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  But when she brushed past him to go outside, he grabbed her arm. “No. You’ll apologize. My uncle has proved his worth to Bakhtiian.”

  “What? Are you going to tell me that your uncle and aunt didn’t encourage you to mark me? That they didn’t goad you into it? How else could they have achieved such advantage in the tribes?” His hand clenched so hard on her arm that it hurt, but she refused to submit herself to the indignity of trying to break free from his grasp.

  “Maybe no other man wanted you.”

  “I’ve had as many lovers as any other woman,” she retorted, stung by his words.

  “Wanting a woman as a lover is not the same as wanting her as a w
ife. Even with everything a man would gain from marrying you, I don’t think any man but me wanted to marry you.”

  Now she did twist out of his grasp, wrenching herself away. “Have you finished insulting me? May I go now, Husband?”

  “Go and get yourself killed! It makes no difference to me!”

  “Why should it? In a few more years Galina will be ready to marry, and if you’re quick enough, you can replace me with her!”

  She stormed out of the tent and found herself faced with a little audience: Vasha Kireyevsky and Katya and Galina Orzhekov, busy helping Bakhtiian into his armor. All four of them glanced her way and then away, pretending that they hadn’t heard a thing. She set her mouth and ignored them, calling over two of the Danov grandchildren to help her into her armor. Soon enough, Feodor emerged from the tent. He was pale now, and he flushed immediately, knowing as well as Nadine had that their argument must have carried well outside her tent.

  With his eyes lowered, he came up to her. “I brought your saber,” he murmured. He dropped his voice even further, and motioned with one hand, and the two boys helping her sidled away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Let me tie on your saber for you.”

  Seeing him thus, looking so mild, Nadine felt a sudden rash of affection for him. “I’m sorry, Feodor. I’m sorry that your uncle is being so stupid. I can talk to Ilya—”

  His gaze lifted at once to her face. “No! Don’t you humiliate me, too.”

  “I didn’t mean to humiliate you! I just—”

  “Oh, Grekov,” said Bakhtiian casually from ten strides away. He shrugged his shoulders up and down twice to settle his armor into place, then leaned down and whispered something into Katerina’s ear. She nodded and ran off. Vasha circled Bakhtiian, eyeing the overlaid strips of the armor for any that might have caught or stuck together. Galina brought him his helmet. “Mitya will be riding out with me today, and I need a trusted captain to carry the Habakar prince’s banner behind him, to remind our army and the khaja army in Karkand that Mitya is now the heir to this country. I have sent Katya to tell your uncle that I need you for this honor.”

  Nadine flushed. She felt humiliated by her uncle’s gesture, but when she looked at Feodor, she was appalled to find him smiling, appeased by Bakhtiian’s attention.

  “Of course,” he said brightly and turned away from her to get his armor.

  “Dina,” said her uncle gently, “your jahar is waiting for you.”

  She glared at him but had no choice but to go. What right had he to interfere with her and her husband? Every right, of course, since he needed an heir. She mounted and received her staff of command and surveyed her troops, all of them ready to ride. Smoke curled up in the western sky as the sun breached the horizon. All around, horses shifted and harness creaked and bells jingled, and riders spoke to each other in low tones, waiting for the call to battle.

  Tess felt wrung into nothing, that morning when she woke. Yesterday she had sobbed for what seemed like hours, and all that while Ilya had held her against him; soon enough she had realized that she was holding him up as much as he was holding her. In him, she had felt that same helpless, furious grief; he was the only other person who understood, who could ever understand, the terrible sick emptiness left in her by the death of their son. After a while she had felt, not better, but resigned to the long bitter agony of mourning.

  He had left her for a time, to go visit the wounded. She had returned to her own tent, to find her healing there, because she knew she was better quit of Cara’s tent now. And when he returned from his tour of the hospital that night, he had come to her and sat before her, and he had said, “Tess, there is something I must tell you. I must tell you of my bargain with Grandmother Night.”

  Now, lying awake at dawn, listening as he moved about in the outer chamber, she thought of the lantern light on him as he spoke softly but clearly, telling her the tale. It had the ring of an ancient tale told by a Singer, and the cadences of his voice lent it a rarified quality so that at the end she felt freed of an old weight rather than burdened by a new one. Like any confession, it had cleansed him, and, thank God, he had slept soundly afterward.

  She heard him go outside. She stretched, feeling stiff, and then got to her feet and dressed slowly, aching all over but otherwise feeling strong. Her wrists looked suddenly small to her. She ran her hands down her ankles and found them back to their normal size as well. Her abdomen still hung in folds, and her breasts hurt, heavy with milk that no child needed, but that would pass, in time.

  She sighed, heartfelt, wiped a tear from her cheek, and went outside. Ilya stood there, glorious in his armor. Tess paused outside the entrance flap just to gaze on him. He was looking toward Nadine’s tent, where Feodor Grekov was being helped into his armor by two of the Danov grandchildren. Behind Ilya, in the distance, his jahar waited, pennants flapping in the dawn breeze, armor gleaming; his golden banner shifted and curled in the wind.

  “Hello,” said Vasha shyly and came to kiss her on either cheek, still formal with her as he was with everyone except perhaps Katya.

  Ilya turned and smiled, seeing her, and Tess felt tears come to her eyes, because she loved him so much.

  “Tess,” he said, and came to her and took her hands and bent to kiss her. “My heart.” He never needed to say more than that. That he loved her was written everywhere on him, in his expression, in the line of his body as he leaned toward her, in his voice.

  “I brought you your saber,” she said. She belted it on him. It seemed to her a moment’s insanity, that scene with Charles when she had told him she wanted to leave Rhui; but then, perhaps it had been. Grief seen clearly can be overcome, though never forgotten; it was only when denying it that it distorted your vision.

  “Tess,” he said in a low voice, “do you forgive me?”

  “Forgive you for what?” she asked, bewildered.

  He cast his eyes down, looking incongruously humble. “For the sacrifice. For my arrogance in believing that I could cheat Grandmother Night. For what I did to my family, and our son.”

  What had he done, truly, but try to bring his dreams to life and, against all his expectations, succeed? What had he done that was different than what Charles had done, risking his own family and losing it? Losing the child had been a simple cast of fate, falling on the wrong side, but she could not possibly explain that to him. What could she explain? “Of course, I forgive you, Ilya. But it’s not my forgiveness you need; it’s the etsanas and the Elders who must judge you for that.”

  He frowned and looked directly at her. “That is true enough,” he said softly, “but without your forgiveness, Tess, the rest is worth nothing to me.”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat and laid one hand on his chest, feeling the hard ridges of armor under the silky smoothness of his red surcoat. “Can you forgive me the lie, about Jeds?” she asked in a low voice. Yet even as she said it, she knew she had not done lying to him, and never would be done.

  He looked startled. “Of course, I forgive you. You remained loyal to your brother, where your duty lay. Who am I to judge who ought to rule in khaja lands?”

  Tess had to laugh. “Who are you to judge, Ilya, except perhaps to judge yourself the only fit ruler?”

  “You’re laughing at me. Tess.” He just looked at her for a long while. Then he spun and walked out to his horse. Mitya waited, resplendent in a gold and blue surcoat that reflected half Ilya’s banner and half the blue lion of the dead prince. Feodor rode behind Mitya, the banner pole fixed against his saddle. Vladimir held Ilya’s gold banner, and Konstans Barshai—with his white-plumed helmet—and Kirill Zvertkov—with his bad arm awkward at his side—flanked Bakhtiian.

  Ilya mounted and twisted in the saddle to salute Tess with his horse-tail staff. As one, the jahar started forward. Under a forest of spears they rode out, silk and iron, and leather lacquered until it gleamed, fluttering pennants and rank upon rank of sabers. Nadine rode past with her jahar, proud and confident of victo
ry. A column of archers followed behind them, and then Anatoly Sakhalin’s jahar, riders and archers together, brilliant in the dawn.

  Quiet descended on the camp.

  “Where is Aleksi?” asked Sonia, coming up beside Tess and taking hold of her hand.

  Tess leaned into Sonia, letting Sonia’s warmth and strength be her comfort. “I sent him out to escort Charles along the lines. It’s beautiful to watch them go, isn’t it? Yet what they’ll bring will be terrible.”

  They stood for a time in silence. Their years together had brought them that as much as anything: the ability to find peace in each other, and the contentment of a friend who judged you solely on yourself, and nothing more, and nothing less.

  “Well,” said Sonia at last, “there’s much to do. I brought Svetlana Tagansky to visit, but now Aleksi is gone.”

  “Sonia. I’m sorry I snapped at you yesterday.”

  “Oh, Tess. I understand.”

  Tess smiled and brushed away a tear. “I know you do. Ilya and I started to make our peace with him, the little one—” She thought of him as Yuri, but she never dared say it aloud; a child born dead was never given a name, among the jaran, but it comforted Tess to know he had one, if only in her own heart. It consoled her to give the baby that link to the other Yuri, whom she had also lost. “Well. Let me meet Svetlana. Oh, look, here is Rajiv.” Rajiv came up then, with Maggie and Gwyn Jones in tow. “Sonia, I’ll come to your tent soon.”

  Sonia greeted the others, excused herself, and left.

  Tess turned to the newcomers. “Hello, Rajiv. Maggie.” She paused and regarded Gwyn Jones dubiously.

  “He’s clear,” said Rajiv. “He knows what we’re doing. He had a few clever ideas, too. I thought we’d bring him in at the first iteration.”

  “You have some ideas?” Tess asked. “I don’t mean to be—”