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

by Kate Elliott

  Mother Sakhalin looked tired. Her grandson looked nothing like the expressive young man of almost two years ago who had won by his own exploits the right to command a jahar. He looked a little unkempt. He had let his hair grow, tied off in three braids, and his eyes had a hard, cold gleam to them now, echoed by the set of his mouth. There were stories—that he had covered himself in so much glory in the past year, fighting in the worst skirmishes and the fiercest battles, throwing himself always to the front of the engagement, that one could scarcely recount all of the tales in one evening. His jahar took the worst casualties, and every man who fought beside him had either been killed or badly wounded, and yet Anatoly came through every engagement without a scratch. And then, ten days ago, like a horse bolted for home, he had turned up at his grandmother’s camp.

  Now he regarded Tess Soerensen, his expression so masked that Sonia could not read his feelings. “I want to go to Erthe,” he said without preamble.

  Shocked, Sonia looked at Mother Sakhalin, and what she saw there dismayed her further. Mother Sakhalin looked not just tired but frail and old. A month ago she had not looked like this.

  “But that’s impossible, Anatoly,” exclaimed Tess.

  “It can’t be impossible,” said Anatoly stubbornly, “if others have gone before me.”

  “It is impossible,” said Tess so coldly that Anatoly shrank back from her and, abruptly, hung his head to hide his face. “She is gone. She left you by her own choice.”

  “Only because I would not go with her,” he said to the carpet. His hands lay perfectly still on his lap, except for his right forefinger, which twitched as he spoke.

  “Tess,” said Ilya in his most reasonable voice, “perhaps this is not your decision to make.” Tess shot him a look filled with venom. He smiled, unruffled by her anger. “I suggest you allow Anatoly to address a letter to Diana, to ask her.”

  “That could take months!” Tess objected. “A year! More!”

  “If Anatoly is willing to wait,” said Ilya, “then I see no reason a letter should not be sent.”

  Anatoly’s head jerked up. A light sparked in him, and Sonia realized that the coldness stemmed not from lack of feeling but from too much feeling. She had thought it the mark of a new-found cruelty. Now she thought he was just in pain. “I am willing,” he said hoarsely, and Mother Sakhalin aged ten years in that moment.

  Tess stewed. “Very well,” she said finally. “You may tell me what words you wish to write to Diana, Anatoly. I will write them myself and I will send the letter. But if she says she does not want you, then you must agree to consider yourself a widower and abide by my wishes.”

  “Very well,” he echoed meekly. He paused. “What are your wishes?”

  She contemplated him a moment, and Sonia could see that Tess found this changed Anatoly a bit puzzling, as if he was both more, and less, than she expected. “I wish you to marry a Jedan noblewoman and together with her act as regents in Jeds under our suzerainty.”

  At these words, Mother Sakhalin rallied. “It would be a good marriage, Anatoly,” she said firmly. “And a proper position for you. And for the tribe.”

  The light still burned in Anatoly’s face, but it was as if it had been shuttered by glass now. “It would be a good marriage,” he agreed in a soft voice. “And one due my position. But how can I know what to think of Jeds if I have never been there? Perhaps I would rather ride with the army instead.”

  Well! Anatoly had certainly learned something from his grandmother. He had learned how to negotiate. In time, Sonia thought, he might surpass even Yaroslav Sakhalin as a general.

  Tess considered. Ilya settled his chin on a fist and watched her, a trifle bemused by a negotiation going on in which he had no real say.

  “So be it, then,” said Tess finally. “I will send you to Niko in Jeds. You can carry the letter that far and give it to Dr. Hierakis, who will see that it is put on a ship to Erthe. You already speak some Rhuian. Now you can see how the khaja rule there, and you can learn how to live among them and guard our interests.”

  Anatoly inclined his head obediently. “As you command.”

  Mother Sakhalin did not look happy, but she looked satisfied.

  “Come back this evening,” said Tess to the young man, “and I will write the letter for you.”

  He nodded, and he and his grandmother took their leave.

  “You terrify me, my wife,” said Ilya. “I am relieved that you are my ally and not my enemy.”

  Tess still looked angry, but she laughed curtly. “How like Charles I am,” she murmured, “to push him toward an end which I have already devised.”

  “Anatoly is no fool,” said Sonia. “He will do what is best for the Sakhalin tribe.”

  “No doubt,” said Ilya dryly, “he will do what his grandmother wishes. But what will you do, Tess, if Diana asks him to come to her?”

  But already Tess’s anger had subsided into an odd ruefulness. “She won’t,” said Tess with such certainty that even Sonia was taken aback. Ah, well. Tess’s heart might belong to the jaran, but her soul would always remain khaja.

  Sonia rose and shook out her skirts. “Come, Tess. If you can manage to leave your husband for a moment, I thought we might just walk through camp for a little while, so you can see everyone again. They all want to greet you.”

  “I will languish here until your return,” said Ilya with a smile. He looked more at ease than he had for—well, for years, really—but there was still an edge on him beyond the pure, stark vision that drove him on.

  “I brought him six books,” said Tess to Sonia as they walked away.

  “Six!” But Tess was prince now. No wonder she possessed such riches.

  “And four books for you. And three colloquies for the children.”

  This bounty struck Sonia to silence. They walked together through the sprawl of the camp, greeting children, women, and men, all the members of the Orzhekov camp.

  “Aleksi says that a zayinu holy woman came from across the seas to Jeds,” said Sonia at last. “That she wears heavy veils, since it is a grave offense to her gods if folk like us look upon her. Is that true? Why would a zayinu holy woman come to you, Tess? Especially if your brother wars against her kind?”

  “Her own people sent her into exile. I wanted to bring her with me here, because there is much much more she can teach me, but—” She faltered. A fire lived in Tess as well, Sonia knew, a fire kindled out of a desire to seek and to know, a kind of discontent that wore away at her constantly as if she feared that too much contentment might kill her own seeking spirit. “But that will have to wait. I thought it better to leave her with Cara in Jeds. For now.”

  “You and Ilya are very like, you know,” mused Sonia. “I saw that long ago, when you first came to us.”

  “You have a wise soul, Sonia, just as your brother did.”

  Sonia pressed a hand over her heart. She smiled sadly. “I am sure the gods will send him back to us, Tess.” They walked a little while in silence. But Sonia had a restless, inquisitive spirit as well. “Ilya plans to call a great meeting of tribes,” she said after a while. “Do you know what he is about?”

  “Yes.” Tess shaded a hand to stare up at the sky, toward the sun, and her mouth turned down. She was troubled.

  “And you won’t tell me!

  “You must ask Ilya.”

  “I have asked Ilya. He is certainly no more maddening than you are!”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Tess with a laugh.

  Sonia stopped suddenly, overwhelmed by a feeling of great contentment. Knowing, too, that because she was not afraid of contentment, she could embrace it. “I’m so glad you came back to us.”

  “Where else would I go?” Tess asked quietly.

  Where else, indeed? Arm in arm, they walked on together.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “WINTER ISN’T REALLY THAT cold here, is it?” asked Yana on a January morning as she and Diana walked back from the greengrocer with their pr
ize of Brussels sprouts, potatoes, and two dozen pathetic apples.

  “Well, no,” Diana admitted, “not compared to what you were used to, I suppose.” Ilyana was the kind of girl who turned heads, her features were so perfect. She was not yet ten years old, innocent in many ways and yet a confirmed skeptic. “Will you come upstairs to have early tea with Hal and me? We have to leave for the theater in an hour.”

  “Can’t,” said Yana reluctantly. “Dr. Kinzer is coming for tea.”

  “But I thought you liked Dr. Kinzer.”

  “I do. I like her lots. But—” Then she clammed up.

  Diana knew what she was going to say, anyway. It was her father’s behavior that embarrassed her.

  They arrived at the door to their building—an old nineteenth-century townhouse now split into five flats—at the same time as the doctor did. She had a boy of about Valentin’s age with her. Yana lightened immediately. “Evan!” Yana cried, delighted. “I didn’t know you were coming, too.” She grabbed Evan’s hand and tugged him after her though the door. Together, they pounded up the stairs, pushing past her father.

  Even after a year, Diana had not gotten used to seeing Vasil whole and walking again, as lithe and charming as ever. He paused at the bottom of the stairs at the mirror set into the wall between the coat racks and lifted a hand to brush the flawless beauty of his face. Then he turned to Dr. Kinzer.

  He bowed, took her hand, and kissed it. “Dokhtor, I am struck to the heart once again by the beauty of your eyes. Were they a gift to you from the gods, perhaps?”

  The doctor held up pretty well under this onslaught. She smiled. “No, I got them from my grandfather.” Then she winked at Diana and let Vasil escort her up the stairs to the flat in which he and his family lived. Diana did not pause to look in the mirror. She followed them up, waved to Evan through the open door of the flat, and kept going up the next flight of stairs to the flat she and Hal shared.

  “Poor Karolla,” she said to Hal as she dumped her bag on the tiny kitchen table. Hal was on his hands and knees in the sitting room, putting the finishing touches on a miniature stage set. “But at least it’s a respectable visitor this time. Do you remember that fiasco when that producer and his friend—” She shuddered. “The kind of people who make you want to go wash after you’ve shaken hands with them.”

  Hal replied without looking up. “Valentin said it was Missy Kinzer and Evan coming over. And you know she comes more for Karolla’s sake than Vasil’s. What do you think?” He rocked back on his heels.

  Diana studied the mockup. She sighed. Nana always said to be truthful even when you couldn’t be honest. “Well, it’s an improvement. I’m taking Yana and Valentin out to the farm on Monday. Do you want to come?” But he had already gone back to studying his model, and ignored her.

  Two hours later, Diana propped her elbows on the counter and stared at herself in the Green Room mirror. A handsome enough face, if a little pale. She pulled her hair back tight to cover it with the wig cap, and then sighed and let it fall down around her face again. Out in the hallway, Hal was arguing with his father.

  “I don’t care! This is it! This is the last time I play this part, or any part, for that matter. I quit!”

  “How dare you speak to me in this fashion!”

  “Oh, Dad, don’t start your ‘ungrateful child’ lecture, please. If you could see past your own nose you’d have known for years that I don’t want to be an actor.”

  “But you are an actor. We made you so.”

  “Yes, you and Mother never did give me any choice in the matter—”

  The door opened and Hyacinth slipped inside. “Goddess forgive me,” he muttered, “and I beg your pardon for coming in here, but I can’t get past them and I’m damned if I’m going to stand there and listen to them scream.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, Prince Hal told Ginny that he wanted to go into scene design. You know what I think, Di?” He stared at himself in the mirror, smoothed the coarse hair of his black wig, and rubbed at the foundation in the hollows of his cheeks. “I hate that woman who designed the makeup. This always makes me look too thin.”

  Diana could not help but smile.

  “And why shouldn’t I go into scene design—!” from outside.

  “What do you think, Hyacinth?” she asked.

  Hyacinth glanced at her and then back at himself in the mirror. “I think Hal would make a damn good actor if he’d only stop thinking he can’t be one because he has to rebel against his parents.”

  “I keep telling him he should quit the Company, but he won’t.”

  “Well.” Hyacinth sighed. “The costumes are gorgeous though, aren’t they?” He straightened and admired his robes as they swayed around him. “Joseph did a wonderful job, blending styles. Look how he used the jaran embroidered patterns and the cut of their armor for Tamburlaine, and Habakar patterns for the robes. Did you go to his exhibit at the Globe Annex, where he’s showing the models?”

  “Hyacinth, did you have something you wanted to tell me?” She dipped her fingers in cold cream and smoothed it onto her face.

  He sighed and sat down on the other stool. The Green Room was small but pleasant, with a carpet, the counter and mirror, a writing table and chair, and the two stools, and a modeler and theater readout built into the other wall. “Full house, my dear. And a real live Chapalii duke in attendance. Can His Royal Highness pull it off? Even with all of us covering for him?”

  “Does it matter if he can’t? Gwyn takes over the part next month. The audience didn’t come to see how well Vasil can act. They came to see if he can act at all. You must admit his lack of accent is amazing.” Then she recalled his greeting to Dr. Kinzer. Vasil put his accent on and off depending on where he thought the advantage lay.

  “It’s true that Veselov has a better memory even than you.”

  She laughed. “His memory is a hundred times better than mine.”

  “It’s nice to see you smile, Di,” said Hyacinth softly. “You’ve been so gloomy since the holidays.” He rested a hand on her shoulder companionably.

  She drew away from him, knowing what was coming next. “I’ve got to get ready,” she said stiffly.

  “Di, don’t you think it’s time to give it up—?”

  Then he had the audacity to reach out and with one beringed finger brush her cheek where the scar ran diagonally from cheekbone to jawline, faint and white.

  She rose. “I’m busy, Hyacinth.”

  A knock came on the door. It opened, and Yomi stuck her head in. “Sorry to bother you, Di, but—well, he says he has to leave London in two hours, and since we’re doing the marathon today I said he could come see you now. I’ll give him ten minutes. Hyacinth, go!”

  “Your word is my command, oh bountiful Yomi,” said Hyacinth, bowing extravagantly.

  Yomi slapped him on the rear. “Out!” They left together.

  Diana felt a sudden foreboding. She watched the doorway in the mirror. Soon enough a man appeared there. He hesitated, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

  She gasped and whirled around. “Marco!” And took a step back, running up against the counter.

  “Hello, Diana.” He wore a simple thigh-length jacket over loose trousers, but even in the latest fashionable style he bore with him that air of suppressed wildness and incipient adventure that made him so attractive. “You’re looking—well.” His gaze darted to her cheek. He got pale all at once and then recovered. He was lying in any case. She wasn’t looking particularly well and everyone knew it. When she didn’t reply, he went on. “I saw the preview last night. It didn’t go badly at all. I keep wondering how you actors manage to memorize all those lines …” He lifted his hands up, wrung them together, and let them drop back to his side. “Goddess, that was a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  “Why didn’t you come backstage last night?” she asked. “This isn’t a very good time for me.”

  “Oh. I thought I’
d come tonight after the show, but I got called away unexpectedly …” He trailed off and paced over to the table and laid a hand flat on it, and stared at the hand. “No. The truth is I didn’t have the nerve.”

  The thought of Marco Burckhardt not having the nerve to do something astounded her. “How long have you been in London?” she said instead of the words she should have said, the apology she needed to make to him.

  “Two days.”

  “A short trip.”

  “Yes.”

  Together, they lapsed into silence.

  He broke it. “Charles sent me to deliver a crystal wand—that’s a summons wand—to Duke Naroshi. Did you know he’s in your audience tonight?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t much care about Duke Naroshi. He had attended performances before.

  There was silence again.

  “I’ve got to get my makeup on,” she said finally. She sat down and dabbed on foundation with her fingers.

  “It’s amazing,” said Marco. She watched him watch her in the mirror. “You’d never know to see Veselov now what terrible injuries he suffered. Even that awful facial scar is gone.”

  With a sponge, she blended the foundation on over her cheeks. Over her scar. “Yes,” she replied.

  The silence was worse than the talking, and there wasn’t even Hal’s argument with his father to cover it.

  “Diana—”

  She set down the damp sponge. “Marco. I’m sorry. I treated you horribly. I’m sorry. It wasn’t deliberate, but still, that doesn’t excuse it.”

  He lifted his hand from the table and closed it into a fist and, slowly, opened, it again. Then he walked over and put his hands on her shoulders and met her eyes in the mirror. “Diana. I love you. I thought—I’m asking … we could handfast, just a trial, one year….” He faltered.

  She stared at him, only she wasn’t staring at him, she was staring at his reflection, as if that was all she had ever seen of him, of Marco Burckhardt, the reflection she had made of him in her own mind. Not the real Marco. She had never known the real Marco. Maybe she had never really tried to know him, preferring the legend to the man.