Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  “You have no right to order me in this way. Whatever happened between you and Vasil has nothing to do with me.”

  He was furious now. “It has everything to do with you. Why do you suppose he gave you that, knowing you would wear it? Knowing you are my wife? You will obey me in this.”

  “I will not—” she began, enraged. And then she saw that she had plunged into a morass far beyond her knowledge, that her anger was solely for the way in which he so blithely and unthinkingly ordered her to do as he wished, while his—his anger spilled out from some old wound that had never healed. “I will not,” she said again, lowering her voice abruptly, “give anything to Vera. But I will ask his wife if she wants them.”

  “His wife!” His expression changed so swiftly, through so many competing emotions, that she could put a name to no one of them.

  “Yes. Perhaps you did not know. He marked Mikhailov’s daughter some years past. There are two children as well, a little girl and a younger one. A boy, I think.”

  He controlled himself, and now she could not interpret his expression at all. “Why are you walking back here?” he asked again. “Mother Yermolov said you rode some distance in the wagon with her and then got out.”

  “Ilya, you never asked me how I wanted to return to camp. You simply left.”

  “But, of course—”

  “—I would travel with the women? With Vera? With Karolla Arkhanov, whose father I begged you to kill? With children whose fathers and brothers are dead? Killed by your men? And them all knowing me as your wife. You never asked me.”

  He regarded her in silence. His face was still. “Well, Tess,” he said finally, a little awkwardly, “will you ride with me back to camp?”

  “I accept your apology,” said Tess. He swung onto Kriye and offered her his hand gravely. She laughed suddenly, unsteadily.

  “Tess,” he said, immediately concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t you remember? When you found me on the hillside. Gods, it seems long ago.”

  Though she expected him to, he did not smile. “I will never forget it.”

  She took his hand and mounted behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and leaned her head against him. Then, smiling, she kissed him on the neck, once, twice.

  “Stop that.”

  Wind moved in the grass. She laughed into his hair. “Is something wrong, my husband?”

  He urged Kriye forward and did not reply for a long while. She simply rested against him, content for now.

  “There is one mare,” he said at last. “A beautiful creature though rather bad-tempered. But I think you can handle her.”

  “Bad-tempered?”

  “No, I chose the wrong word. She is high-spirited. She has mettle. Rather like—well, she’s a fine horse. She will be yours, if you wish her.”

  “Rather like me, were you going to say? Thank you, Ilya. I thought you were going to stop complimenting me.”

  “I will never stop complimenting you. And if you continue to complain about it, I will simply compliment you twice as often.”

  “That sounds like a threat.”

  “It is. Tess, two days ago you were about to tell me whether Yuri was right. Right about what?”

  Tess shut her eyes, leaning against him, and thought of Yuri. Her sweet Yuri, gone now, but not lost to her as long as she remembered him. Though memory could never be a substitute for his presence. She tightened her arms around, Ilya. “It was the last thing he said to me, almost. He said that if I left for Jeds in the spring, I could still choose to come back, or I could stay a few years here and then go. He said that it didn’t have to be so final.”

  They rode so long in silence that they came into sight of the line of wagons, and farther, the first outlying tents of the great camp ahead and the thin line of trees that marked the river.

  He pulled Kriye up. She dismounted, and he swung down next to her. First he simply looked at her. The gods knew, she understood him well enough by now to know how difficult it was for him to accept that the world did not simply bend to his will, that what he chose might not always come to pass, that some decisions were not his to make.

  Then he sighed. “Does it have to be final, Tess? Will you go and never come back?”

  Tess just shook her head. She rested her hand on his cheek a moment, and then reached up to dishevel his hair. “You are, you know.”

  “I am what?” he asked, suspicious.

  “Diarin. I’m not leaving in the spring, Ilya. Though that doesn’t mean I can stay here forever.”

  Something flashed in his eyes. “Well, then.” He drew his saber. “I’m tired of having to explain how it is you are my wife.”

  Tess raised her chin. His blade came to rest on her cheekbone. With the lightest of movements he pulled it across her cheek. The cut stung. A thin line of blood welled up, and a few drops flowed like tears down her skin.

  She drew Vasil’s saber.

  “Tess.” He took a step backward. Slowly, deliberately, his eyes on her hand, he lowered his saber.

  The brilliance of the sun lit his face. With her eyes fixed on the blade, her wrist unaccountably steady, she marked him swiftly and lightly, leaving a cut scarcely deeper than the one on her own cheek. He touched the mark with his free hand, staring down at the blood on his fingertips. Then he lifted his hand to brush his lips, tasting the blood.

  “Well, my wife,” he said in a voice so calm that she could tell it covered some extreme emotion, “now we are doubly bound.” Then he smiled.

  “You smug bastard, you’re pleased with yourself.”

  “Of course I am. I have what I wanted.”

  Tess could not help but laugh because he said it without the slightest conceit but rather as a simple statement of fact. “But I feel it only fair to warn you, Bakhtiian, that I am going to continue to practice saber.”

  “If Bakhalo and Zvertkov agree to take you on, then I will not interfere. Tess, you’re laughing at me.”

  “Only because you do not like it.”

  “Don’t like you training for jahar?”

  “No, don’t like it when people laugh at you. Shall we go into camp?”

  “As you wish,” he replied, a little reserved, but then, Tess reflected, he would probably never truly grow used to people laughing at him, and he would certainly never like it.

  As they approached the camp, Sonia came running to meet them. “Tess! Tess!” she called, bridging the distance by shouting. “You’ll never believe what happened! Vladimir just rode in and straight up to Elena’s mother’s tent, and marked her.”

  “Marked Elena’s mother?”

  “No, no, you fool, marked—” Sonia stopped short some ten strides from them. “Tess!” She stared. Her gaze shifted to Ilya and her entire expression underwent such an unmistakable change, she looked so utterly dumbfounded, that Tess laughed and Ilya actually smiled. Sonia found her voice. “Ilya!” Then lost it again.

  “Come, Tess,” said Ilya coolly. “We have our tent to set up.”

  They walked some ten paces before Sonia came to life. “Yes, you will need to set up your tent,” she said in the exact same tone her cousin had used, “because you’ll have to go into seclusion now. Elena will be furious, having to share her celebration with you.”

  “Well,” said Tess apologetically, “I hope Elena won’t be too disappointed.”

  “Then we can delay ours for a day,” said Ilya, “so she and Vladi can have a celebration for themselves. After all, we are already married.”

  “Yes, but it isn’t the same as being marked.” Sonia blinked innocently. “Is it, Ilya?”

  “Certainly not,” he agreed, but the glance he flashed Sonia bore a warning.

  She grinned at him, unrepentant. “Don’t worry, Cousin. It won’t hurt your looks. I’m sure women will think you’re twice as handsome with a scar.”

  He carried it off coolly enough, though, walking through the sprawl of the camp to his aunt’s tent, where Mother Yermolov had
driven the wagon containing his tent. A number of people clustered here: the two etsanas, seated on their pillows beneath the awning of Mother Orzhekov’s tent, and some part of their families as well as a few of the refugees from Mikhailov’s camp.

  There was a long moment of silence as everyone turned to stare. Mother Orzhekov raised one eyebrow eloquently. Arina hid her mouth behind her hand, trying not to look as young as she was. But Kirill, standing behind his wife, spoke first, of course. “Well, Tess,” he said, “are you trying to start a new fashion?” Most of the crowd laughed.

  “Aunt,” said Ilya, “perhaps you will grant permission for my wife to pitch her tent next to yours.”

  Irena nodded. “Of course, Nephew. Sonia, Stassi, Pavel, you may assist them.” Then she went back to her consultation with Arina, which clearly involved Mother Yermolov, Karolla Arkhanov and her children, and Vera, who stood beside her cousin, staring at nothing. Petya hovered nervously in the background.

  Stassia’s husband Pavel led Kriye away. Ilya allowed Sonia and Stassia to help pitch the tent, and he even permitted them to help Tess strike her tent and carry her belongings to the rugs under their awning. No farther would he let them, and he and Tess spent what little time remained until supper arranging the interior of the great tent. It took rather longer than it might have, interrupted frequently by kisses.

  Supper proved rather lively. He sat through it without speaking unless he was spoken to. Tess enjoyed herself thoroughly, and she could not help but laugh with Sonia when an unusually large number of men, including his entire jahar and others who had enough standing to invite themselves, came to watch him bid the ritual farewell to his newly-marked wife and then be escorted away.

  “Sonia. Stassia. Kira. I charge you with Tess’s retreat.”

  Tess’s seclusion was restrictive only in that she could not leave the tent. Lanterns were lit. Children ran in and out, jumping on the pillows and throwing the blankets around. Women filtered in, bringing gifts of food and drink for the coming days, and then left again. Arina arrived, kissed her, and left. Karolla Arkhanov came in, looking wary.

  “I wish you blessings,” she said.

  “I have something for you,” said Tess, and gave her Vasil’s clothing.

  Karolla flushed and clutched these gifts against her chest. Then she looked down at her children. “Here, little one,” she said to the girl. “Here is your Papa’s shirt for you to keep until he comes back.”

  Tess hesitated. “The baby, is that a boy?”

  “Yes.” She flushed and hugged the little boy to her side.

  “I think this will go to him, then, when he is old enough.” And she offered Karolla the saber. Karolla looked stunned, and she quickly took herself off.

  “Well,” said Sonia, offering Tess some little sweet cakes that Arina had brought. “But I won’t ask.”

  “Children.” Irena Orzhekov appeared at the entrance. “Tess and I will speak alone for a moment.”

  Sonia and Stassia shepherded the children out. Mother Orzhekov sat on a pillow next to Tess, and Tess suddenly felt self-conscious, sitting here in a tent as large as the etsana’s, placed on a pillow beside her as an equal.

  “I hope,” she said tentatively, “that you don’t think it presumptuous of me to have this tent, Mother Orzhekov.”

  “My child,” said Irena, “that Bakhtiian has gifted you with this tent is his right, given what he has become. And in any case, I believe from what Sonia has told me that you come from an important family in your own right, in khaja lands.”

  “That’s true,” Tess admitted. “But I feel a little overwhelmed here.”

  “With my nephew?”

  Tess smiled. “That wasn’t actually what I meant. I mean, having this tent, and everything that means. I don’t have any idea how to—except that I’ve worked beside your daughters, but to have my own tent—well, I’ve lived in a city all my life. I don’t know what to do.”

  “You are still my daughter. I have daughters enough and grandchildren enough and other kin to share with you the work and the responsibility that this tent gives you. But you understand, Tess, that this is his tent, truly.”

  “Oh, yes. I understand that.”

  “Yet it must be yours as well. I trust that you have the strength to make it so.”

  Tess thought about this a while. Irena allowed her the silence to do so. “Yes,” she said finally. “I do. Will you have some cakes?”

  Irena smiled and took one. “You and I will deal very well together, Tess.”

  They sampled the sweets for a little while, commenting on their flavor.

  “What will happen to Vera?” Tess asked at last. “And to Karolla Arkhanov?”

  “Arina is willing to take Vera back but that is a question that must go before the assembled Elders of both tribes. There will have to be some punishment.” She frowned. “Arina is also willing to take in Karolla Arkhanov and her two children. I don’t like it. I suspect Arina of harboring a fondness for her cousin Vasil which is impairing her judgment.”

  “Oh.” Tess examined Irena Orzhekov thoughtfully. “Didn’t you like Vasil?”

  “Yes, I liked him. He was utterly charming, as of course he knew he was. But I would never trust him. And should it come to that, Tess,” she said severely, “neither should you.”

  Tess wisely did not respond to this bait.

  “Well, Karolla was no different than the rest of us, to fall in love with a handsome face, and she has obviously been loyal to him, so perhaps their children will inherit her heart to make up for having his looks.”

  “Ilya is handsome,” Tess pointed out.

  “My nephew,” said his aunt, “is arrogant, ambitious, impulsive, and even vain, but he is not, I think, conceited. Tess. If you have a duty to your kin in this far-off city, you must not let Ilya bully you into staying here. I love my nephew but I am not blind to his faults.”

  “It is true, Mother Orzhekov, that I have a duty to my brother. But I also—” She hesitated, twining her fingers together. But you also have a duty to yourself. And sometimes you cannot understand how to serve a greater cause until you understand yourself.

  “I also have time—” time enough, that the jaran could not comprehend—“to fulfill my duty to him in years to come. But I will write him a letter.” Tess paused and smiled, remembering the letter she had left him on the Oshaki that he had never received. “I will write Charles a letter that explains honestly what has happened and the choice I have made.” Because, she thought, I am no longer afraid to be honest with him or to make choices that he might not approve of.

  Irena nodded, as if Tess’s unspoken thought had spoken to her as clearly as her words. “You must be tired, my daughter. I’ll leave you now.” She gave Tess a brief but warm kiss on the cheek and left.

  As soon as Irena had gone, Tess took Marco’s letter out, unrolled it, and began to write a letter to Charles on the blank side. The words came swiftly and with confidence. Just as she finished, Katerina and Ivan tore into the tent and leapt on the pillow vacated by their grandmother. Kolia toddled in after them and immediately grabbed a cake in each hand.

  “Vania!” Sonia called from outside. “I told you not to bother Tess. Katerina!”

  “Out.”

  Tess started around. “Ilya!”

  He stood in the curtained entrance that partitioned off the inner chamber. “Ivan. Katerina. Out. Your mother is calling. Yes, here’s a kiss.” They accepted their kisses and then ran out, giggling. Kolia lifted his arms, and Ilya sighed, but he picked him up. “You’re a nuisance, kriye,” he said, and kissed him on each fat cheek. “Now.” He took him over to the entrance and with a firm shove propelled him outside.

  “There you are, Kolia,” they heard Sonia say. “Tess?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied. In a lower voice, “Ilya, are you mad? I’m not supposed to see you for nine days.”

  “Why did I mark you, damn it?” He sat down beside her and absently ate the last cake. “I
forgot all about those damned restrictions.”

  “You’d better leave.”

  “Oh, no, my wife. It is from dawn tomorrow that I may not see you, and I’ll, by the gods, stay in this tent until dawn.”

  “Yes, my husband,” she said mildly.

  He put his arm around her and they sat for a time in silence.

  “I want children, Tess,” he said suddenly.

  “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.

  Acknowledgements

  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.