Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  She smiled through her tears. “My sweet Kirill,” she said, and then they came to camp and she relinquished her grip on him. Arina Veselov came to greet them, looking sober but not unhappy, and led Tess back to her tent, repeating the news Kirill had told her. Kirill followed them, but he walked next to Arina now not next to Tess.

  The evening dragged on. That night she could not sleep. Morning came too soon, and then, dragging on toward midday, lasted far, far too long.

  “Look!” said Yeliana, standing up. “Look there. Wagons.”

  Tess scrambled to her feet. She could not help it, she ran—as well as she could run—out to the edge of camp and into the grass as the wagons and riders and the bleating flocks crested the rise and trundled down toward them in a cacophonous, chaotic mass. She halted, searching, staring, until—

  “Sonia!” Oh, God, she looked the same; pale, maybe; and then they embraced. Tess burst into tears. Sonia burst into tears. They both cried, hanging on each other. Finally, as wagons lurched past them and children squealed with excitement and a horse brushed by so close its tail flicked Sonia’s tunic, they separated.

  “How did you know?” Tess asked.

  “Niko rode out to us last night.” Sonia had changed not at all. Her voice, her face, everything—like Yuri in so many ways, and yet utterly and only like herself. Except for the new lines of grief etched under her blue eyes. “He told Mama about—” she faltered—“about Yuri, and Mikhal, and Fedya.”

  Fedya. Fedya had died so long ago that to Tess it seemed almost a distant memory. Gods, would Yuri fade like that?

  “Tess, what’s wrong? You’ve gotten so thin and so pale. Niko says you almost died. Well, we’ll take you to our tent and Mama will fatten you up.”

  And so, when the Orzhekov tribe set up its camp alongside the Veselov camp, Tess was taken politely but firmly back into Mother Orzhekov’s domain. Her tent was set up next to Sonia’s. Sonia’s children—the baby, Kolia, grown quite tall, and walking—made free with her space and her blankets and her gear, and she ate every night under the awning of Mother Orzhekov’s great tent, and took her daily walks to the training ground with Sonia.

  “Why does that awful woman come here every day?” Sonia asked three days after their arrival. “Poor Petya. She can’t love him.”

  “Oh, look, here she comes.” They giggled a little and then controlled themselves.

  “I do not think the khaja will be able to resist this army,” said Vera, settling herself gracefully beside them. Her gaze took in the field but did not seem to dwell for longer than an instant on her own husband where he stood to one side with Konstans and a few other young men, watching Kirill talk with an old man.

  “That is Kerchaniia Bakhalo, isn’t it?” Tess asked.

  “Yes,” said Vera. “He arrived yesterday, and I’m sure he has sixty young men with him. I hear ten of them are orphans, and one is not only said to have killed his entire tribe with a plague but stolen a horse from the Mirsky tribe as well.”

  Sonia laughed. “What, and none of the Mirskys caught him and killed him for it? And they always bragging about what fine riders they are? He must be very terrible or else very clever. Which of them is he?”

  “How am I to know?” Vera asked. “He is only an orphan, after all. I suppose if any riders from the Mirsky tribe come here, then they’ll kill him.” Her gaze drifted out to Bakhalo and Kirill, who were consulting with Tasha and two elderly men no longer dressed in the red and black of jahar riders. “Poor Arina.” Vera smiled sweetly. “I think she thought Kirill Zvertkov would mark her but now I don’t think he will. What do you think, Tess?”

  Tess shrugged. “Oh, I suppose he is waiting for his mother to get to know her first.”

  “I thought he had other interests.” Then, evidently tired of this game, Vera rose and excused herself.

  “Does Kirill have other interests?” asked Sonia. “Tess, don’t look away from me. You’re blushing. We haven’t talked much about your journey, you know. Only about Yuri and Mikhal—” A pause here, and she went on. “—and Fedya, and I am very glad you and Fedya—but, Tess, I know very well there are things you aren’t telling me.”

  She could not talk about Ilya to Sonia. Not now, not when the only way she had to cope with her fear of his return was to not think of him as hard as she could. But her feelings for Kirill were true enough and still raw enough that they could serve as a smoke screen.

  “Tess, I will make no secret now that I had hoped, when you left us, that you and Ilya—well, never mind that. What is it you want to tell me?”

  “Kirill and I were lovers. But I can’t—I can’t marry him, and Arina Veselov has made it known that she wants him as her husband. I like Arina Veselov—”

  “But you loved Kirill. Ah, well, he is charming in his own way. I’ve always preferred quieter men. If it is true that he can never use that arm again, then he’s done very well to become an etsana’s husband. But if he loves you, Tess, then what is to stop him marking you?”

  “He won’t mark me. No, we’ve resolved this between us, Sonia. He’ll mark Arina. He’s waiting—I don’t know. I don’t understand, sometimes, how Arina can like me.”

  “Do you think she ought to hate you for loving Kirill and for Kirill’s loving you? Why should she? He’ll make her a good husband. And he’ll have other lovers. Now Vera, Vera doesn’t like you one bit, my sister, and that makes me think—” She halted. On the field, Kirill had turned, and he looked up at them and lifted his good hand to wave.

  “Do you think I could?” asked Tess suddenly.

  “What, marry him? But women have no choice in marriage, Tess, don’t you know that?”

  Tess flushed. “Practice saber a little. I’m much better, really.”

  “Dressed in those clothes?”

  “I’ll ask him.” Tess rose. Sonia chuckled and walked down with her. Kirill came to meet them, followed by Kerchaniia Bakhalo.

  “Why shouldn’t I fight?” Tess asked. “I’ve already learned a great deal.”

  “You’ve learned a little, Tess,” said Kirill mildly, though he grinned at Bakhalo. “But you’ve been very well taught. Why not? That is, Sonia, if you think Mother Orzhekov will approve.”

  “No,” said Tess. “This is my choice. I’m going to fight. And I promise to stop when I get too tired.”

  “I’ll walk you back to your tent,” said Sonia.

  As they left, Tess turned to her. “You aren’t going to try to talk me out of this, are you?”

  “No, ought I to? Tess, however much you are jaran, you aren’t jaran and you never will be. Why shouldn’t you fight if you wish to? But I’d better tell Mama now because I’m sure malicious tongues will see the news gets to her in other ways.”

  So every morning Tess wore her jahar clothes and her saber and went to the practice field. She had to rest frequently, but other than that, Kirill and Bakhalo made no concessions to her at all. Bakhalo was a dry old stick of a man who was unfailingly unkind to all his students, though scrupulously fair, and Kirill possessed the unlikely ability to treat her with the same cheerful ruthlessness as he did the others: they had been lovers, they had loved, but here on the field he could separate those feelings from his teaching even while Tess struggled to separate them from her learning.

  As they paused one day, she to rest, he to survey two of Bakhalo’s students fencing, she stood beside him casually and watched as well.

  “He’s very good,” she said of one of the fencers. “He’s one of the orphans.”

  “He’s better than Vladimir,” said Kirill. “But I won’t put them together yet because while this fellow won’t take it personally, Vladi will. You get along very well with all these orphans. Or have you taken them under your wing?”

  “Kirill, I haven’t any wings.”

  “Tess, you are Bakhtiian’s wife. That gives you rather more—very well, I won’t say anything further.”

  “The truth is, that except for Konstans and you and Tadheus,
when he comes by, the ones who are orphans are the only ones who don’t treat me strangely. The others aren’t sure what to make of me, a woman wearing jahar clothes.”

  “Fairly earned.”

  “You know that, and those in Bakhtiian’s jahar know it, but the rest don’t. Aleksi there, and the other orphans, don’t care because they’re set apart, too.”

  “Well, it’s true most of them treat you stiffly, but for all that, you’re doing well. But you mustn’t push yourself.”

  “Kirill, I want to tell you how much I respect that you’ve been able to teach me—that—” She hesitated. “Everything there’s been between us—”

  “There is between us,” he said quietly.

  “There is between us, and you never favor me or bully me.”

  “Bully you?” He laughed. “My heart, if ever Ilya tries to teach you fighting, he will bully you for fear he’d otherwise favor you.”

  “Ilya,” said Tess, “will never teach me saber.”

  “What’s going on over there? Boys, stop a moment.” Kirill turned. “By the gods, how did he manage to ride in here with no more disturbance than that?”

  Tess turned.

  He stared straight at her. Of course. If there was anyone else on the practice field—and there were a good eighty or so young men out there—they might have been invisible for all he knew. From this distance, she could not tell if he was angry or amused. From this distance, she would know him anywhere. He walked out onto the field toward her, and instantly she saw one change: he was no longer limping. It lent a certain implacable purpose to his stride that had been lacking those weeks when he was injured. Niko walked beside him, and Josef and Tasha, and Anton and Sergei Veselov. But in a moment, Niko veered off to greet Bakhalo, towing Sergei Veselov in his wake, and then Kirill started forward, deserting her, to fall in with Josef and Tasha and Anton Veselov.

  Ilya halted in front of her. If I faint, Tess thought, then I don’t have to say anything. God, he was beautiful. The midday sun shone strong on his face. His black hair curled slightly at the ends but she could tell from its wave and thickness that he had just cut it, and his beard was neat and impeccably trimmed. He wore a second necklace around the curve of his throat, this one of finely polished black stones strung together. Tess glanced to either side. Most of the young men were staring at them. Bakhtiian broke his gaze from her and surveyed the field. Instantly, they retreated, and a moment later Bakhalo called for an assembly down at the other end of the field. Kirill had vanished.

  “Walk with me,” ordered Ilya.

  Yes, definitely, he was angry. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

  “Will you walk with me, I beg you,” he repeated in exactly the same tone of voice. She walked. As soon as they were out of earshot, he began. “Do you suppose I rode all that way only to return to find my wife wearing men’s clothes standing out in the middle of the practice field with every unmarried man in camp?”

  “You gave me this shirt.”

  He took ten steps before he answered. “It was fairly earned.”

  “And some of them are married.”

  “Arina Veselov isn’t married.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “I beg your pardon, Tess. I had no right to say that.”

  She stopped, emboldened by the softening of his voice. “When did you get here? Where is the jahar?”

  “Josef and I, and Sergei and Anton, rode forward scout. The rest will be here late this afternoon.” His face lit suddenly. “And the horses! One hundred and twenty-four. Tess, they are beautiful.” His expression changed, watching her, and he lifted a hand to touch her cheek. She stopped breathing. Then he glanced back toward camp. They still stood in full view of the field and of a fair portion of the tents of Veselov’s camp. He dropped his hand as swiftly as if she had burned him.

  Somewhere she found the ability to start breathing again, but her breaths came uneven and a little ragged.

  “And the khepellis?” she asked, speaking quickly to cover her agitation. “Did they get on a ship? There was no problem? And the letter for my brother, and the relic?”

  He began to walk again, but she did not move. He halted and came back to her. “Tess, do you want to stand here where everyone can see us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Here is the letter.”

  She unrolled it. “But this is from Marco!”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, he’s part of Charles’s—retinue. Ah, he travels a lot. He supervises trade agreements.”

  “Is that so?”

  She flushed and, instead of looking at him, read the letter. Your dear old Uncle Marco, indeed. He had been at Charles’s court in Jeds frequently when she was there as a child but he was not precisely the sort of man who enjoys children. Dr. Hierakis and Suzanne Elia Arevalo had spent more time with her than he ever had. Marco explored, and he had come from Earth to explore Rhui in the oldest way known, on foot, by horse, by sea, for Charles but mostly, she suspected, for the adventure. Make of that what you will. She read back through the letter.

  “He sent something for me.”

  Ilya hesitated, then slipped a dagger from his belt and handed it to her. Tess held it in her palm. Such a tiny thing to be so important.

  “Well,” she said finally, for something to say. “Thank you.”

  “I told him I would kill him if I ever found out that he hadn’t delivered either message or relic.”

  “Ilya!” She wanted to laugh but he looked so grim that she smoothed the letter out instead. “I feel sure it will get there. And the khepellis?”

  “I hope you will forgive me, Tess, but I lied to Lord Ishii. I told him—” His voice shook, “—that you were dead.” He stopped. “Tess,” he whispered. “I didn’t even know, all that time, if when I came back, you would still be alive.” The agony in his expression disturbed her so much that she found refuge in staring off toward the camp. Though a number of young men still worked on the practice field, in the camp itself some event had occurred to excite the interest of the tribe. Children ran, screaming and leaping, and adults walked quickly away from the periphery of the camp toward the hidden center.

  “Niko took good care of me,” she said in a voice not her own. “And anyway, Bakhtiian, as I recall, I promised you that I would live.”

  “Yes,” he said in a steadier voice, “you did. Can you forgive me the lie?”

  Startled, she looked up at him. “Of course, I forgive you. You probably saved my life.” She faltered.

  “You will never grant me anything simply because I am your husband, will you? Nothing, except when you were so ill that it was easier to agree than to argue. Nothing of your own will. Well, you told me yourself you did not want me. I ought to have listened.”

  “Ilya…” Once, before everything had been shattered by Yuri’s death, she would have yelled back at him. Now she simply felt faint. “I have to sit down,” she said apologetically.

  “Tess! Gods, you’re pale.” He closed the gap between them and picked her up in his arms. “I’ll take you back to my aunt’s tent.”

  “I can walk.”

  “You will not walk, my wife. You’re exhausted and as pale as the winter grass. I think I may be allowed to carry you so far.”

  It was no use fighting, so she simply lay against him, cradling her head on his shoulder and shutting her eyes. She could not bear to see what kind of stares were surely being directed their way. She heard Niko.

  “Ilya! What is wrong?”

  “She is exhausted. You’ve been working her too hard. Is this how you take care of her?”

  “She was fine until you came back,” said Niko crossly. “But I was coming to get you in any case. You are wanted at your aunt’s tent.”

  Tess kept her eyes clenched shut. He walked with her easily, as if the burden was gratifying to him. She heard a few whispers, a few broken comments, but nothing she could not ignore. For a little stretch, there was silence, as if no one
was about. But when he halted, she felt a roiled hush surrounding them, as of many people whose attention was split among several momentous occurrences.

  “Nephew.” This in Irena Orzhekov’s ringing tones. “I hope you will come forward and explain this immodest display. This woman may be your cousin but she is also unmarried.”

  “Unmarried! She is my wife.”

  The silence rang more loudly than shouts would have. Tess opened her eyes. Most of the members of the tribes of Orzhekov and Veselov had gathered here before the awning of Mother Orzhekov’s tent. Beneath the awning, the two etsanas faced each other, seated respectably on pillows. Blood still wet Arina’s cheek, seeping from the cut scored from her cheekbone diagonally down to the line of her jaw. Kirill stood behind her, looking pale but determined. His mother knelt in front of the two women, and whatever discussion Ilya’s precipitous entrance had interrupted clearly involved her.

  “Your wife?” demanded Mother Orzhekov. “I see no mark, Nephew.”

  Every gaze was fixed on them. Behind Irena Orzhekov sat her three daughters. Sonia stared transfixed, hands on her cheeks, lips parted, fighting back a grin. Behind Arina Veselov, behind Kirill, sat Vera, and behind her, Yeliana. Vera’s face was white, her mouth a thin line.

  “Let me down,” Tess whispered fiercely.

  “Ah, so you have come back to me,” he murmured. “You were acting far too meek.” He lowered her gently and set her on her feet beside him but he did not relinquish his grip around her waist. It would be undignified to struggle in so public a place and with such an audience. Doubtless he counted on it.

  “Niko,” he said, “I thought my aunt had been told.”

  “Bakhtiian, it was not my right to tell.”

  Ilya glanced at Tess. “With your permission?” he asked, but he did not let go of her. She nodded mutely. “Mother Orzhekov,” he said formally. “Terese Soerensen and I rode down the Avenue of the shrine of Morava at sunset. The ceremony was completed. The bond has been sealed. So she is indeed my wife. And I,” he added, with a sardonic edge to his voice, “am her husband.”

  Silence could not contain their audience’s astonishment. Exclamations, comments, every kind of noise broke out, and hushed to stillness when Irena Orzhekov rose. Arina sat with complete composure. Kirill, behind her, now looked strangely serene. Sonia had clapped her hands together, delighted. Vera—Vera was gone.