by Kate Elliott
A wind had come up. It touched Ilya’s hair, stirring it like a whisper.
“Love, Ilya. That is what we who are mortal have been gifted, a gift never given and never known by the undying. The wind cannot love the plain, but I can love the plain, and I can love much more than that and be loved in return. Fame is something you want. A woman is someone you love.”
“I don’t know,” said Ilya in a low voice, averting his gaze from Niko’s keen one. “I don’t know what the difference is.”
Niko sighed and rested a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t envy you.”
Ilya laughed a little unsteadily, and then grinned at the older man. “Was that meant to comfort me?”
“No, it was meant to keep you honest.”
“Then I will tell you this much.” His voice shook as he went on. “I don’t want her to leave.” He shut his eyes, struggling to keep his expression controlled. “I don’t want her to leave,” he repeated in a whisper, and then, as if the only way to keep his control was to keep talking, he went on. “I remember the first time I saw her, and she told me in that elegant Rhuian she speaks that she wasn’t going to harm me. Harm me! She could barely stand. Gods, how I wanted to laugh. But when the gods exacted that life, when it was done, I went after her. I don’t know—I was afraid that she would think I was a barbarian, and then I was offended that she did. It was months before I began to wonder why I cared what she thought. And Sonia and my aunt! She walked into camp, alone, starving, with nothing but the clothes on her back, and they took her into the family. Do you know how long Vladi has been riding with the jahar, and still not accepted?”
“Vladi,” said Niko kindly, “does not have Tess’s ability to make friends.”
“Then my aunt gifted her with her own daughter’s tent! And she rode out with us, and I knew it would be a day, two days, three days at most, before she gave up—and then those damned—they knew I wanted her gone and still Yuri and Mikhal and Kirill and the others helped her.”
“Until she could do it herself. She beat you fairly, Ilya.” Niko chuckled, seeing Ilya’s expression. “What, you aren’t still mad about that, are you?”
“Damn her,” said Ilya with heat. “I hate losing. Gods, though, I was impressed. She barely knew how to ride when we started. Do you suppose you know anyone as stubborn as she is?”
“Yes,” said Niko innocently. “I think I do.”
For an instant, Bakhtiian looked offended, and then he called Niko a very unsavory name that had once started a feud between two tribes that lasted three generations.
Niko laughed heartily. “I like watching your face,” he said. “But I’m curious. When did you decide that you had to marry her?”
“Do you know, I did something I had never done before—something I had never had to do before. I put myself in her way one evening, thinking—hoping—that she would ask me to lie with her. I thought she needed comfort. It was after we found those three butchered riders of Doroskayev’s. That was when I discovered that she and Fedya—” He shrugged.
“It took you that long?”
“Where a woman slept had never before concerned me. But I’m glad she chose Fedya. He began making songs again before he died. For her. And I didn’t have time to learn them all.” He shook his head. “When we were up in the hills on that damned ill-fated scouting expedition…I know the exact moment. We were down, the hunter stalking us, and my fingers touched her neck.”
He raised one hand to touch the single gold necklace at his throat. “I ran. I ran because it was so strong. But it wasn’t until we reached Veselov’s tribe, the night of the dance, that I could see it for what it really was. Tess came to talk to me because I couldn’t dance. When I saw her, I finally understood that I loved her.”
A woman hurried up to the etsana’s tent, spoke with someone inside, and hurried away again. Around them, the camp was waking up. Three children ran by, bound for the river.
Niko coughed. “Excuse me for saying so much, Ilya, but then why did you go off with that—” He glanced toward the other tent, still quiet. “That awful woman.”
Bakhtiian flushed. “Because Tess left me to go dance, just jumped up and left me, went straight to—” He broke off.
“Ah,” said Niko.
“And then in front of everyone she had the audacity to gift Petya with that necklace. And then, do you know what she said to me that day? She said, ‘I wonder who got the beauty and who got the beast.’ She said that. To me.”
“And that,” said Niko with awe, “is why you married her. By the gods.”
“Yes,” said Ilya sardonically, “how fortunate for me that the Avenue presented itself so conveniently. The gods have a strange humor, Niko. In trying to bind her, I bound only myself.”
“Oh, you bound her as well.”
“Perhaps. But in Jeds, our laws mean nothing.”
“Bitterness does not enhance you, Ilyakoria.”
“Here are Anton and Vladi,” said Ilya. At the same moment, Vera emerged from her tent, dressed in a bright blue tunic with a chain of silver bells around each ankle. She arrived beside Niko and Ilya a few steps before the two men, but her attention was all for Bakhtiian.
“You did not come to my tent last night,” she said in an undertone but not quietly enough that Niko could not overhear. “Three nights you have refused me, Bakhtiian.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said politely, and turned to greet Anton Veselov.
“There’s news,” said Veselov.
“Your mother?”
“No, she is the same. Arina will stay with her. But ten riders just came in. Mikhailov’s jahar slipped away last night, and it looks as if they’ve ridden hard south. Sergei sent word that you may have the ten riders for your journey to the coast. That way,” he added, looking thoughtful, “you can leave today, since you ought to gain enough of a head start that Mikhailov cannot catch you now. With the ten riders, you’ll have double his men, counting the pilgrims, that is.”
But Bakhtiian was frowning. “What about the rest of Veselov’s jahar?”
“They’ll stay between Mikhailov and our camp. I don’t think you need worry that Mikhailov will attack us, even if his riders outnumber ours.” Anton grinned. “He’ll save his fighting for you, Bakhtiian.”
“But if Mikhailov has swung south, then my men, and yours, from the shrine, will ride straight into him because they’re riding here.”
There was a moment of coiled silence.
“Petya is with them,” said Vera, an odd, unsettling note in her voice. She looked sidewise at Ilya, but he was staring south.
The three men watched him, waiting.
“Niko! Tell Tasha to stay here. Choose ten of our riders to stay with him, to guard—to remain as escort for the khepellis. On no account are they to allow any of the pilgrims to wander out by themselves—just as we’ve set our guard these past nights. Anton, we’re riding south. All the riders here and the rest of my men.”
“Very well, Bakhtiian. What will you tell Sergei, when we meet up with him?”
“What will I tell him?” asked Bakhtiian. He shrugged off the question, energy taut through every line of his body. “Vladi, come. They’ve already too many hours on us.” He strode off, and even with his limp, Vladimir had to hurry to keep up with him.
“Does he think Sergei will simply hand command of his jahar over to him?” Anton asked, more curious than anything else.
“Yes,” said Niko. “If you will excuse me.” He inclined his head toward Vera and left, leaving the two cousins side by side at the fire.
“You may hope Petya is killed,” said Anton suddenly, “but you will never get him, Vera. Never.” He smiled.
“I hope your mother dies,” said Vera.
“So do I,” replied Anton amiably. “Then Arina won’t have to be polite to you anymore just for Mother’s sake. If you will excuse me.” He inclined his head with exact courtesy and left her standing alone while the fire flamed and roared and the water bl
ed steam into the chill morning air. Vera did not move for some minutes. Then, seeing several women approaching the etsana’s tent, she tossed her golden hair back over her shoulder with a flourish and went to greet them.
They left the shrine at midmorning, delayed by a protracted argument with Yeliana, who wanted to come with them. There were extra horses, so the case was not utterly unthinkable, but Mother Avdotya remained firm: Yeliana could not be released that easily from her service to the gods.
“I don’t know how well she’ll serve the gods,” said Yuri as they finally rode away, “if she’s forced to do it.”
Tess had waved once but Yeliana had only turned and run back into the shrine, weeping. “I think Mother Avdotya is only trying to protect her. She’s very young. How would she fare, Yuri, riding out with us? Who would take her in? She’d be alone.”
“You were alone.”
“Yes, and I would have been dead very soon if Ilya hadn’t found me. Yuri, why was your tribe so hospitable to me and not to Vladimir?”
Yuri frowned and rubbed his chin. “I meant to say because he’s an orphan but now I think it was because you weren’t jaran. You were different. Perhaps it is better that Yeliana stay at the shrine. And yet there must be a woman somewhere who has no daughters and would take her in.” He shook his head. His fine hair shone in the sun. “But who is to know if the bond would hold, if times grew hard or the woman got sick, and they shared nothing between them but words.”
“But you and I, Yuri, are not related by anything but the gifting of a tent.”
“You and I, Tess,” he said somberly, “have been related by something much stronger than words or a tent since the moment we met, and you know that is true. We shared a mother once, and died, and now we have found each other again.”
“Yuri. I never thought of it like that. As if we were looking for each other. It was a strange enough path that led me to you.”
“Poor thing,” he said with a grin. “Now I feel responsible. If you hadn’t come looking for me, you wouldn’t have ridden into Ilya.”
“Yuri,” she said suddenly, “Yuri, have you ever thought—would you ever think—of coming back with me to Jeds?”
He flushed and then looked away from her for a moment before he met her gaze again. “I will miss you, Tess. I will miss you bitterly. But this is my home.”
He went ahead, riding in front of her up the narrow trail that switchbacked up the hillside to lead them out of the valley of the shrine of Morava. Somewhere behind them lay Hon Garii’s corpse—if Ishii had not already fed it to the recyclers. Tess shuddered.
“Are you cold?” Yuri asked when the trail spilled out onto the plain and they could ride side by side again.
“No, just thinking.”
“I’m sorry, my sister, but I can’t.”
“No, you are true to yourself, Yuri. That’s what I love you for.”
He glanced ahead up to the front of the group, where Kirill rode with Mikhal. “Kirill asked you.”
“I can’t take him, Yuri.”
“No. I suppose not. He would hate Jeds, and you would grow to hate him for hating it. And Ilya will never go back, unless, of course,” he grinned, “we ride so far south that our army comes at last to the very gates of the city. If I may beg your pardon for suggesting it.”
“You’re forgetting one thing. I am the heir to Jeds, so by marrying me—”
“No, I won’t believe that he married you for that—or at least, if he did, he didn’t know he was—I mean, that part of him might have known, but not that he thought about it. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, I think I’m beginning to understand Bakhtiian tolerably well.”
Yuri laughed. “By which you mean that you think that Bakhtiian wants you for yourself alone, and yet, that your brother is Prince in Jeds is inseparable from who you are.”
“What?”
“I’m being wise, Tess.”
“Gods,” she said, and laughed. “You’re being completely incoherent. But perhaps there’s some relation between being wise and being unintelligible.”
“Only to those,” said Yuri with dignity, “who have not yet achieved wisdom.” He paused, and then said in an altered tone: “Tess. I will only say this once. Stay with us. I know I ought not to ask it of you, that I have no right, but I have this—this feeling that you will outlive Ilya.” He was speaking quickly, in an undertone, as if he had very little time to say what he thought. “Not that that would be any surprise; he’s ten years older than you, and with us going to war against the khaja—but still, there would be time for you to go back to Jeds later, wouldn’t there? Or if you must return now, couldn’t you come back here after? Or better yet, stay here for a few years and then go. Does it have to be one or the other? Why must it all be so final, Tess?”
Because you can’t understand the distance I have to travel. She did not say it. Instead, she smiled sadly at Yuri and glanced away without answering.
“Look,” she said, “why is Petya riding in? Isn’t he on scout—Yuri, what’s wrong?”
Petya reined his horse aside by Kirill. A few words sufficed.
“Turn around, everyone!” Kirill shouted. “Back to the shrine. Mikhailov’s jahar is ahead of us.”
They had all pulled up their horses. Yuri suddenly grabbed Tess’s reins and jerked Myshla’s head around, kicking his horse.
“Yuri, what—?”
“He means it. Ride!”
Myshla broke into a canter. Tess glanced back. What she saw almost stopped her heart. First two, then four, then ten riders cleared the far swell of grass, pausing to survey the group below.
As one, the eleven riders turned to follow Tess and Yuri. Tess kicked and Myshla galloped. Gods, there could be nothing worse than this. If they could gain the shrine—
Then Konstans appeared from the south. His pace as he cleared the rise in front of her and galloped down toward them was fueled by fear. “Kirill!” he cried. “Mikhailov is behind us. He’s blocked the trail down to the shrine—” Then he caught sight of the riders beyond. He jerked his horse to a mincing halt and stared, horrified.
“Cut loose the remounts,” shouted Kirill. They turned in their saddles, sabers out, and sliced through the leads that held their extra horses.
A second group of riders, too many to count in one glance, appeared from the direction of the shrine. Myshla fought against the tight rein. Beside her, Yuri cursed under his breath.
“Petya and Mikhal at point. Tess and Yuri right behind them, and the rest behind them, with me.” Kirill’s glance touched her for an instant, searing, before he looked past her to Mikhailov’s jahar. Up beyond their scarlet-shirted figures, a lone bird circled. Kirill studied the movements and positions of the jahar with astonishing swiftness. “We’ll break east. Wait.”
Two men conferred on the forward rise, gesturing, staring down at them. Above, three feather-light clouds, high and white with a hint of blue, edged the sky.
“They’ve got men east already,” said Mikhal. Tess was amazed at how calm his voice was.
“Damn them,” said Kirill. Briefly, a cloud covered the sun. “West. Now!”
They broke.
It was a mad race. Immediately riders from the south and north galloped to cut them off. Tess gauged her speed and theirs, and guessed where they would converge.
“We’ll make it,” she gasped.
And then, from behind, Kirill shouted: “Let Yuri and Tess through! Petya, home!” Petya and Mikhal split off, and Myshla stretched out into a full gallop, Yuri’s Khani easily keeping up. Tess threw a glance back over her shoulder. Gods, how could she not have known: Veselov’s riders had no better horses than Mikhailov’s men. Already two men were fighting, sabers flashing in the sun. All along, Kirill had meant to get her free if he could not save the others.
“Damn it, Tess!” Yuri shouted. “Ride! There’s ten men headed straight for us.”
Behind, the race had disintegrated into a ragged line
of skirmishes, trailing after Tess and Yuri like so much flotsam. She was just leaving them behind.
“Tess!” Yuri cried.
She hunched down over Myshla’s back and rode after him.
Except that Mikhailov had long since encircled them. She had a moment to reflect on that before Yuri whipped Myshla’s rump with the end of his reins, causing her to shy left, while he veered right, straight into the oncoming clump of riders.
“Yuri!” she screamed. The others—oh, God, the others she could leave behind but not him. She jerked Myshla hard around and rode after him.
The ten riders scattered from his charge, but a few sliced at him as he plunged through. She saw him sway, and then she was on the first one.
He cut at her, and she parried. His eyes went wide with shock as he realized she was a woman, and she threw a wild sweeping backstroke that cut across his chest. Then he fell from his saddle, and she could see Yuri again. Yuri, parrying desperately against three men. Something struck her from behind, a stinging flash, but she kicked Myshla toward Yuri, drove up behind him, hard against one of the riders, jarring him off his stroke. She thrust her saber at him almost blindly. Another man closed beside her, shouting.
“Move off!” a man yelled.
Suddenly she and Yuri sat alone, side by side. His face was white. Silence had descended on the field. She had an instant’s comprehension of every position within her sight: that was Mikhailov, not five meters from her, Vasil and Leotich on either side of him. Other riders she did not know flanked them, poised to advance. Farther on, she saw Kirill and Konstans and a few of Veselov’s riders. Kirill was holding his saber in the wrong hand. His face was streaked with blood. Halfway between the two groups, a fair-haired man lay still upon the grass.
Yuri swayed in his saddle. His face looked as if all the blood had drained from it. “Damn you, Tess,” he whispered. “What good is it if you don’t get free?”
“By the gods,” said Dmitri Mikhailov, “it is the same woman.”
“Damned fools,” snarled Leotich. “Doroskayev said Bakhtiian had a woman with him, but you wouldn’t listen.”