The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  When they broke out of the woods for the last time, they reined in their horses at the base of a long, broad avenue that led in a direct line to the palace. The great building rose suddenly near. The setting sun streamed light across the pale stone surface of the avenue. It sank toward the low hills directly between the two high towers. Tess stared.

  “There are few things in this land as beautiful as the shrine of Morava at sunset,” said Ilya.

  His voice startled her, and she looked at him. But he was gazing at her, not at the shrine, an odd, incandescent light in his eyes. He was complimenting her not the palace, but in that awkward, restrained, ponderous way that the very shyest or most conservative jaran men used when dealing with women. Rather than answer or acknowledge his gaze, she urged Myshla forward onto the avenue. He followed her.

  Hooves rang muffled on the seamless white stone. Statues bounded the avenue, alien things, twisting, chaotic, but enticing to the eye nevertheless. Stone unlike any stone she knew: black as the void, some of them; others speckled like granite, encased in a glasslike shell; most were translucent. Their angles caught the sun, splintering delicate patterns of light out across the avenue.

  An arch of tangled vines spanned the avenue, trailing striated leaves halfway down to the ground. She put up her hand to push through. Breaking past, she saw that the pavement of the avenue was now broken by chevrons chiseled into the stone.

  “‘Like the very gods in my sight is he who sits where he can look in your eyes,’” said Ilya, “‘who listens close to you, to hear the soft voice, its sweetness murmur in love and laughter, all for him.’” Her cheeks burned with heat. His recitation did not falter. “‘But it breaks my spirit; underneath my breast all the heart is shaken. Let me only glance where you are, the voice dies, I can say nothing.’”

  How could she help it? She turned her head to look at him. Only he was staring ahead at the bright disk of the sun, at the gleaming stone of the palace, so drawn in to himself that she could read nothing from his expression, nothing from his voice, except the evidence of his words.

  “‘But my lips are stricken to silence, underneath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses; nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are muted in thunder. And the sweat breaks running upon me, fever shakes my body, paler I turn than grass.’” Here he faltered. Kriye paced on, eerily placid on the muffling stone. Still Ilya did not look at her, but his face bore the perplexity of a man struck by revelation. “‘I can feel that I have been changed, I feel that—’” He broke off and dropped his gaze to stare at his hands.

  They passed under a second arch, a broad curve of translucent blue stone carved with intricately figured animals. Here the chevrons melded with circles no larger than the circumference of Myshla’s hooves.

  “Can you sing?” he asked in a muted voice, as if the request might somehow break the spell with which the air of this valley had gripped them, a place untouched by time, weighted with the silence of eternity.

  All she could think of was “Greensleeves.” Afraid not to, she sang it, but she refused to look at him as she did so, all that long, slow ride until finally a third arch bridged the avenue, shimmering and silver-toned. She faltered and broke off the song. As soon as they passed under the silver arch, the palace looming huge and intricate before them, Ilya began to sing.

  Her breath caught in her throat. How could he have known? When could he have learned it? He sang the song Fedya had made for her, about the dyan and the daughter of the sun. With whatever uncanny genius Fedya had possessed, he had made that song for Ilya to sing to her, never for any other purpose. How could it be otherwise? Not wanting to look at him, she had to look at him.

  He was completely involved in the song, his expression totally unguarded in a way Tess had never seen before, all the veils that concealed his soul blown up as if a wind had caught them, revealing his true face for an illicit moment: his beautiful eyes, scarred by sorrow, the strong, stubborn line of his mouth and chin, above everything the intensity of the passion that drove him, pervading his entire being.

  I love him.

  His eyes met hers. The song broke off mid-line as he stared, as they stared, and then, with an effort recalling himself, he haltingly picked up the thread of the song once more.

  This was the pyre of immolation. She knew it now for what it was, consuming her. If she had ever thought she was lost before, well then, better she had stayed that way.

  He finished the song and reined Kriye in. She halted Myshla beside him, aware of an arch like ruby vaulting the avenue before them. The last rays of the sun illuminated his face.

  Words rose unbidden, a scrap of a line from an ancient saga. She opened her mouth, had to touch her tongue to her lips to remind herself how to speak. Even so, her voice came out soft and a little hoarse from emotion. “‘They say that your eyes contain fire, that your face fills with light.’”

  Expression flooded his face. She had seen that look before, after battle.

  “Now,” he said triumphantly, “now you are mine.”

  “Advance, travelers. I await you.”

  Tess stared at Ilya, frozen in shock, but already that betraying expression had vanished and he wrenched his attention away from her and stared past the ruby arch, up the height of the stairs to the landing and the great doors beyond.

  Following his gaze, she got an impression of a solitary figure ridiculously small, robed in white, before her glance caught on the last four signs carved into the stone archway. She felt as though she could not breathe. Right to left she traced the carvings, and they read:

  To the Sun’s Child do all who enter here give Obeisance, for these are His halls.

  The Sun’s Child she knew to be the Emperor because this writing was Chapalii. These gardens, these woods, these statues, this avenue, this palace—it was impossible.

  It was true.

  “Ilya, we can’t bring them here.”

  He still gazed upward. “Bring whom here?” he asked, intent on the figure above.

  “The khepelli. Ilya! The writing, do you know what it says?”

  That got his attention. His gaze leapt to her. “No one knows what it says.”

  “I can read it. I know.”

  He stared at her, so devoid of expression that she thought for a moment that he was confused.

  Above, the figure spoke again, not impatient but firm, an old woman’s strong voice. “Advance, travelers. I await you.”

  “We must finish the ceremony.” He started Kriye forward under the arch. But his gaze searched the carvings for the instant he could see them, and when he dismounted and began to lead Kriye up the stairs, he said in an undertone, “What do they say?”

  She had fallen behind, but she had no trouble catching up because Ilya was limping badly. Black pillars rose on either side of them, like spears upraised to contain those who thought to stray from right conduct. The sun slid beneath the high dome. Shadows bathed their path.

  “‘To the Sun’s Child do all who enter here give Obeisance,’” she translated, “‘for these are His halls.’”

  “But the Sun’s Child is a girl,” he objected.

  “According to the jaran.”

  “According to whom was it a boy?” She looked away from him. “What does this have to do with the khepelli?”

  They came to the top of the stairs and halted. An old woman waited there. She held a clay bowl in her hands. Its interior gave off light by some agent Tess could not detect, illuminating the woman’s lined face but shadowing her eyes.

  “I am the guardian of the shrine.” She examined each of them in turn. “You have ridden together at sunset up the sacred avenue.” The quiet resonance of her voice made it seem almost threatening. “Do you know the penalty for sacrilege?”

  “I know it,” said Ilya.

  Tess shut her eyes briefly. Opening them, she saw that the priestess’s gaze was directed at her. “Ah, I know it,” she answered hastily, sure some ritual was going on here that she did not u
nderstand.

  “Do you know the Laws of the Avenue?” she asked Ilya.

  “I know them.”

  “She is not your kin.”

  “No.”

  She inclined her head and looked at Tess. “Do you know the Laws of the Avenue?”

  Tess hesitated. Ilya was looking at the priestess, not at her. He had a slight, satisfied smile on his face. “No,” she said abruptly, suspicious, “no, I don’t.”

  “You do not know the Laws of the Avenue?” she repeated, with a sharp glance at Bakhtiian.

  “No.”

  “Is he your kin?”

  “Yes,” said Tess, on firmer ground here. “By his aunt’s gifting, he is my cousin.”

  Ilya glanced at her and swiftly away, looking startled.

  “This grows interesting,” said the priestess, but she did not look amused. “By gift but not by birth?”

  “No, not by birth.”

  “By two questions, young man,” said the priestess sternly, “you have gambled with the Laws.”

  “Ah, but my name is known here.” To Tess he sounded infuriatingly smug.

  “I know very well what your name is, Ilyakoria Bakhtiian. Do not trifle with me when the stakes are so high. What is your name, child?”

  “Terese Soerensen.” Tess looked from one to the other, bewildered by this interchange.

  “You see, Bakhtiian, her name is not known here. Thus am I forced to act rather than accede.”

  For a moment, silence reigned. Behind the priestess, the high walls of the palace rose up into the twilight sky. Fading reliefs embellished them, vague shapes that seemed to move in the failing light.

  “No,” said Ilya. “I have accepted responsibility for her under older laws than these.”

  “Do not correct me. Here there are no other laws but those of the Avenue. In this place, she alone accepts that responsibility.” She paused. He stood utterly still, as if only now absorbing and measuring some threat. “That she does not know what this journey has brought her does not, I fear, release her from its consequences.” They both looked at Tess. The priestess examined her with simple appraisal, but Ilya—Ilya looked afraid, and that dismayed her. “Consider what it is that you have done, Bakhtiian. Consider it well. Now, Terese Soerensen, you will come with me.”

  “No!” cried Ilya. His sudden movement up one step alarmed Tess, but the priestess did not move. The light in her hands shone full on his face. He seemed very pale.

  “Do you threaten me?”

  “She is not jaran,” said Ilya hoarsely. “I am responsible. You can’t take her.”

  “Do you presume to tell me what I can and cannot do? Your own aunt gifted her into your tribe. If you regret now whatever rashness led you here, it is too late. The ceremony is completed. But her name is not known here. Thus, she must be tested and then released, one way or the other.”

  “Take me in her place.” He made it an order not a request.

  “You are presumptuous.” Her voice cracked over them with all the harshness of a person used to complete rule and utter obedience. She lifted a hand. A door opened in the wall, and four white-clad men came out. Before Tess could react, the men surrounded Ilya. She put a hand on her saber. Then she realized none of them was armed with so much as a knife.

  “You know the penalty for violence in this shrine,” continued the priestess. Ilya stood stock-still, rooted to the stone, as if he were too stunned to react. The old woman moved her light to shine equally on all of them. Tess saw that the lines on her face were gentle and much marked about the eyes and the mouth. “Give your horse to one of the priests, child. Then come with me.”

  “Oh, gods,” whispered Ilya, shutting his eyes. “I didn’t think—” He broke off. Tess had never seen him with his emotions so uncontrolled. When he opened his eyes, his expression was clearly one of desperation.

  “Clearly you did not think,” responded the priestess caustically. “A man of your reputation. Have you anything whatever to say for yourself?”

  He looked like a wild animal at bay, gauging its trap, as he examined the four men surrounding him, each in turn. But the cage was firm. To break out, he would have to use force, and here, in this shrine…

  “The penalty is death,” said Tess, without thinking. “Wait. I don’t understand. Do you mean to harm him? Is this all because of the Laws of the Avenue?”

  “No. No physical harm will come to you or to him because you rode together down the Avenue at sunset.”

  Tess handed Myshla’s reins to one of the priests. “Well, then,” she said, seeing that Ilya had been pushed to the edge and would in a moment do something—something very final, she feared. “I will go with you. Willingly. Freely.” She looked at Ilya as she said it.

  “Tess.” He turned his head in one smooth movement to look at her. She stared at him, bereft of words.

  “Yes,” said the priestess. “The penance the gods have put upon you, Bakhtiian, will be far harsher than any punishment I could devise.” Up beyond, a single faint light winked into life in one of the high towers, a sentinel to whatever beings dwelt in this valley. “We must go, child.”

  Tess found that she was grateful to the priestess for this command. Too many things happening at one time: the ride, his face, the sudden kindling of fierce love only to face those simple, awful words, the Chapalii writing, the priestess, Laws, penance, his face…

  “But we can’t let the khepelli come here,” she said, grasping at the one thing she did understand.

  The priestess had already turned away, assured of Tess’s obedience. Now she turned back, and her white robe swelled out briefly with the turn. “Khepelli? What is this, Bakhtiian? Are there others in your party?”

  He turned his head slowly to look at the priestess. “My jahar, and the pilgrims we escorted from the issledova tel shore.” His voice was so even that it betrayed his agony.

  The priestess shrugged. “Do not worry for them, child. They will come by the usual road.”

  Ilya shut his eyes and took in a deep, unsteady breath.

  “This is not the usual road?” Tess gestured toward the Avenue behind them, now faded into the obscurity of dusk.

  “That is a most unusual road. Come.” She turned and with a marked limp made her way toward the great doors.

  “Ilya,” Tess began. He would not look at her. And she remembered what he had said, there at the ruby arch, with her whole heart revealed before him: Now you are mine. “You bastard,” she said, and she strode away after the priestess.

  On the level, Tess was a head taller, but the old woman’s authority diminished the disparity in height between them. “How might I address you?” Tess asked, mindful that on this occasion formality was called for.

  The priestess smiled. “For now, child, you may simply follow me. Later, if the gods say it is fit, you may ask questions.” At the great doors, they halted, and she examined Tess for a moment by the light of her bowl. “You are not jaran, and yet you are. This is a strong wind that blows, your being here.” She touched a gnarled hand to a panel, pressed it, and the door swung open onto a long, high hall.

  A hall distinctly Chapalii in shape and decoration. Stark, abstract patterns lined the walls. They seemed to form pictures, until you looked at them directly; then their form slid away, revealing nothing. Torches lit the hall. Soot and ash shadowed the floor although a wide path lay clear down the center. There was not enough of the black grit to account for long use. How could they keep such a huge place clean without machines?

  “Enter, child.”

  Tess glanced back to see Ilya staring after them as dusk grew at his back. The horses shifted restlessly behind him. The door shut behind them and she was within the shrine.

  They walked down the hall in silence. Nothing disturbed their progress. No doors shut, no feet sounded but their own, no voices pierced the heavy air. Yet beneath her feet, Tess felt that the stone itself was alive, a bewildering sensation after so long in the open. She walked on her toes, c
autious and ready, a hand on the hilt of her saber. It took her almost the entire length of the hall to sort through her thoughts and let her old self emerge above half a year’s journey with the jaran.

  The answer was so simple it was laughable. The palace must still be alive: with machines. Hidden, of course. Silent. Meant, like servants, to do their work unobtrusively, successful only if they went entirely unseen. The jaran priests, having no such conception of technology, had almost certainly never noticed any machines, had probably felt this strange trembling life to be the touch of the gods on their greatest temple.

  Shadows mottled the scalloped ceiling. Reliefs lined the upper walls. It was the epitome of Chapalii architecture: breathtaking, ornate, and utterly useless, built for the sole purpose of having people walk from one end to the other. To be wealthy enough to spend money on things that could only be used once was to be wealthy enough to matter in Chapalii society.

  “If you push there, behind that niche,” said the priestess, “the door will move.” They passed through into an enormous chamber, its decorations too profuse to be distinguishable in the gloom. This chamber gave on to a second, and thence to a third.

  A huge monument, this was, and after unknown years still in incredibly fine condition. But the Chapalii prized efficiency as much as wealth. The machines ought to work for centuries at full capacity. The palace would be cleaned by mobile scrubbers programmed to vanish into the walls before they could offend the fastidious Chapalii eye. Hadn’t she and Dr. Hierakis once tried to catch the scrubbers at it, that time on Odys, and failed? Such a palace, heated by fluid mechanics, buffered from the elements by diamond coating or some more advanced technique, could exist for generations.

  “Here,” said the priestess with humor. “You have forgotten me, Terese Soerensen. We turn here. Those of us who live here live in the back rooms, which are less overwhelming.”

  Tess smiled slightly and followed her into a less ostentatious corridor that led to humbler spaces. Also, doubtless, to the quarters for the stewards and the ke. Apartments for the nobility would be on the second floor, but the main maintenance room would be down here—that was what she had to find.