by Kate Elliott
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 pa
in, 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?”
“Yes.”
He came up beside her. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you through matchmaking now? Maybe you’ve learned your lesson.”
“I feel scorched,” he replied. “Gods. Don’t you start on me, too.”
“Listen. Let’s settle this right now. Of course I’m attracted to him. He’s that kind of man. But he’s a hard, cold, ambitious bastard—you said it yourself, so don’t try to disagree with me now—and he’ll never be able to care for anyone as much as he cares for himself and, well, to be fair, for this thing that drives him. He may well desire me. I have the honor, after all, of being the female in closest proximity to him.”
“Tess…”
“Let me finish. And, of course, I didn’t succumb instantly to his charm, which doubtless gives me a little originality.”
“You can spare me the sarcasm.”
“What did you mean, anyway, about a female not—”
“Never mind. Forget I said it. Please. I thought you were going to finish.”
She shrugged. “I’m done. Do you understand, Yuri? I would think you of all people would.”
But Yuri’s silence was mulish, not conciliatory in the least. “I know him better than you do,” he said in a soft, troubled voice. “You think he isn’t capable of really loving someone but he is. He’s slow to trust because he’s been hurt so badly before, because he’s been responsible for people he loved dying—for his own sister and nephew and parents—and he can’t forgive himself for it. Yet he can’t stop what he has to do either. But if he ever gives his heart to a woman, he will give it absolutely.”
“Then I wish her all my sympathy. He’ll burn her alive.”
“Not if she’s strong. Tess—”
“You’re damned stubborn, Yuri, and I’m not in a very good mood, or at least, I was, but I’m not anymore.”
But Yuri plunged onward with remarkable obstinacy. “There are times a brother’s advice is of uncounted value, my dear sister, however much their sisters dislike to hear it. Just ride carefully and, gods, don’t antagonize him now. If he decides he wants you—”
“You mean if I antagonize him he’ll decide he wants me in revenge? I don’t call that giving one’s heart absolutely.”
“You’re just not listening to me! It’s all the same thing with him. Oh, never mind. Next time you’re riding straight into an ambush don’t bother to expect a warning from me.” He whirled away from her and stalked down toward camp.
“Yuri!” She started after him. “Yuri.” He halted. “I don’t want to be angry with you.”
“Oh, were you angry with me? I thought I was angry with you.”
She put out her hand. “Truce?”
With reserve, he shook it. “Truce. Is it true about Kirill?”
“None of your business.” She grinned. “What do you think?”
“I was wondering why he was so polite to Kirill these past three days.” He laughed. “Kirill! Well, he did come in second in the—” He broke off.
“In the wagering?”
“How did you know?”
“Oh, I know a great many things. Actually, Kirill told me.”
“He’s subtle, is our Kirill. You’d never think it to watch him.”
“Subtle? What does that mean?” That old, creeping, cluttering fear that she had somehow done something stupid, that she had allowed herself to be taken advantage of, reared its ugly form again, and then, laughing, she neatly squelched it. “Well, Yuri,” she said smugly, “subtle or not, I have no reason to complain.”
“How like a woman,” said Yuri with disgust, but they walked down to camp together quite companionably, and discussed whether Josef ought to be prevailed upon to tell a story or Mikhal to play his lute.
They rode through the hills the next day without incident. The next morning they came out onto the plain. Tess felt unburdened of a weight that she had not been aware she was carrying. She smiled at Bakhtiian, inquired politely about his injury, and was rewarded with a perfectly normal conversation about the recent debate in Jeds over the form of poetry most conducive to philosophy. Yuri was driven by this display of good fellowship to beg to be allowed to scout, if they meant to continue in this fashion. But once his reassuring presence vanished, they both grew self-conscious, and the dialogue trailed off into awkward sentences that even Niko’s late arrival could not repair.
That night she sat and sat and sat in her tent, but Kirill did not arrive. At last she bundled up in her cold, empty blankets and forced herself to sleep. To be awakened very late by Kirill.
“Forgive me, Tess,” he repeated at least three times as he stripped and snuggled in next to her. “Bakhtiian switched my and Mikhal’s watch just as Mikhal was about to go out. Do you suppose he suspects?”
“Who, Mikhal?”
“You’re teasing me.”
“My sweet Kirill, would I tease you?” He only laughed and hugged her a little more tightly. “He’s known all along.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Yuri knows, too.”
“Yuri! Begging your pardon, my heart, but Yuri is not my caliber at this business. I can’t imagine how he would have known unless you told him.”
“No, Bakhtiian told him. There’s nothing for it, Kirill. I have won the wager.”
“Well,” he said, resigned, “so you have. I was hoping you might.”
That morning it was a near thing that Kirill got out of her tent before the camp woke to dawn. And to unexpected news, as well. Yuri greeted her with it as she saddled Myshla.
“Tess! Tess! Have you heard? We’ve come across Veselov’s tribe! Josef just rode in.” His face shone with excitement.
“Veselov. Why is that name familiar?”
>
“The best of my friends from growing up is with Veselov now,” he rattled on, ignoring her comment. His voice rang clear in the still morning. “I haven’t seen Petya for two years.”
“For what possible reason would your Petya give up the opportunity to ride in Bakhtiian’s jahar?”
“Oh, they’ll all be Bakhtiian’s jahars soon enough. But Petya left us to marry—” He stopped abruptly and glanced uncertainly toward his cousin. Bakhtiian, who had evidently been looking at them, looked away. “Well,” Yuri continued in a lower voice, “you’ll meet her.”
They rode into the tribe itself at midday. It felt familiar, somehow, tents scattered haphazardly along the course of a shallow river. A goodly number of people had gathered just beyond the farthest rank of tents, and they waited, watching, as the jahar rode up. Bakhtiian halted them a hundred paces away, and they all dismounted.
“We wintered by them two years ago,” Yuri whispered to Tess as the two groups appraised each other in a silence broken only by isolated comments passed murmuring from a handful of individuals. “Tasha’s sister’s husband came from this tribe, and…and…” His color had gone high again as his eyes searched the gathered people. Their mood was, Tess thought, still one of measuring rather than welcome.
“Petya!” Yuri shouted, forgetting all protocol and modesty in sheer excitement. “Petya!”
He started forward suddenly. Like an echo, movement shifted as the tribe parted to let someone through. A young man burst out of the assembly and strode—half running—to meet Yuri right in the middle of the ground that separated the two groups. They hugged, two fair heads together, but where Yuri’s had a pale, dull cast like winter grass, Petya’s shone as brightly as if it had been gilded by the sun.
Some barrier dissolved between the groups. An older man stepped forward and hailed Bakhtiian. Ilya gave Kriye’s reins to Vladimir and left the jahar, limping across the open space, Niko and Josef and Tadheus a few steps behind. His careful progress lent him dignity, though, Tess considered wryly, it was probably not entirely unconscious. Others filtered forward, men to greet acquaintances and friends amongst the riders, women to observe and draw whatever conclusions they wished.
