by Kate Elliott
“No matter,” said Mikhailov. “It’s the cousin I want now. Kill him, Vasil.”
“I won’t,” said Vasil. “He’s never done you any harm. Let him go.”
Far away a voice hailed them, shouting something about another jahar.
Yuri swayed again. His head lolled back, and blood trickled from his mouth. Slowly at first, then tumbling, he fell from his horse.
Wind stirred in her hair. From above, a bird called, a loud, raucous cry.
“Make sure he’s dead,” said Mikhailov, and began to turn his horse away.
Sheer, cold rage obliterated everything else. She drove Myshla forward. She would kill him—
Someone shouted a warning. He turned. She raised her saber and cut. Two things hit her at once. Myshla lurched and plunged beneath her, toppling. She fell hard on her side, breath expelled from her lungs, and scrambled to her feet.
Only she did not get there. A body slammed against her. Pain tore deep into her side. Far away, a man screamed her name.
“Khaja pig, I’ll kill you!” cried Vasil, and the weight was dragged off her. “She’s a woman, curse you to Hell.”
“Veselov! Let him go!”
The flurry of movement confused her. When it cleared, she saw only Vasil, standing over her. His hair shone like spun gold in the sunlight.
Her vision blurred in a haze of light and shadow, and then darkened.
She breathed. Grass tickled her nose, and she sneezed. Pain lanced through her. The day was silent. Everyone was gone. She stared up at the white trail of a cloud far away, and the bright, high, solitary sun. A bird called, once, twice.
She forced herself up onto her hands and knees. Noise pounded in her ears, shouting and horses all mixed until it made no sense. She crawled, dragged herself forward because she knew he was here, somewhere close by.
Then she was there, kneeling, staring down at him.
“Yuri.” Her voice sounded distant, detached. He lay utterly still. There was a transparent cast to his skin, to his pale lips, as if his purity were infusing his mortal form. The tears ran down her face, falling on his lips and on his cheek. His eyes fluttered and his lips moved, moved again.
“Tess.” It was the barest whisper. She bent down close to him. The scent of blood and grass drowned her. He lifted one hand and held it, wavering, searching for her. She caught it before it could fall back, pressed the dry skin to her lips, kissing it again and again as if her kiss could heal him.
Suddenly, his gaze focused on her. He blinked once, slowly. “Don’t cry,” he said, puzzled. “Live.”
“Yuri. Yuri.” Even her tears did not wake him. She put her cheek against his lips but nothing stirred. “Yuri!”
“Tess! Oh, gods, Tess.”
“Where is she?”
“There. There. Gods, look at the blood. Vladi, help her up.”
A hand closed on her shoulder.
“Leave me alone!” she cried, and she swung wildly to dislodge it. Lost everything in the pain that ripped through her side. She slumped forward over Yuri’s body.
“Leave her alone!” That voice she knew. She stirred weakly. “Make Kirill lie down. Gods, he’ll die where he’s standing. Petya says you were ambushed.”
A few gasping breaths, and then Kirill’s voice, weak and strained. “Mikhailov’s jahar. We rode straight into them.”
She felt a hand come to rest on her neck. By the way it felt, gentle and implacable at the same time, she knew it was him. “Come, my wife,” he said in a voice so strangely cool that she wondered why he spoke so oddly to her, “you must move now.” His hands shifted her, and she choked down a moan and was suddenly cradled in his arms, looking up at him.
“Ilya,” she said. And then she knew what was the only important thing in the world. “Mikhailov.”
“Tess, don’t speak.”
“No. Mikhailov. Wanted Yuri. Dead.” His face changed. Looking into his eyes, she felt fiercely that what they shared now would always bind them.
“I’ll kill him,” he said. “I’ll kill him myself.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, and because she felt safe, held by him, she let pain wash her into oblivion.
“You love her,” said Kirill. His voice rasped with pain.
Bakhtiian simply sat, holding Tess against him as if he meant never to let her go. Blood leaked onto his fingers. He stared at her face, and if he had heard Kirill, he gave no sign.
“Vladimir,” said Niko. “We need tents for the wounded. We need fires and hot water. Send Anton Veselov here and send Sergei Veselov with riders to track Mikhailov.”
“But, Niko, shouldn’t we carry the wounded back to Veselov’s tribe?” Vladimir asked.
Niko glanced at Kirill, who stared white-faced at Ilya and Tess from where he lay on the ground, and then at Yuri’s slack body, and farther, at the other riders strewn like so much wreckage across the field. “For those who can, yes. But some of these won’t live so long. Now go.” Vladimir nodded and ran off.
Niko knelt beside Kirill. “Let me see, boy,” he said brusquely. “No, don’t argue with me. This is a bad cut here but mostly blood.” Kirill gasped and clutched at Niko’s arm. “Yes, that one’s to the bone but it’s clean. But what happened to this shoulder?” Tears came to Kirill’s eyes as Niko probed the wound, and his breathing grew so ragged that Niko pulled away.
“I can’t feel my right arm,” Kirill whispered hoarsely. “Nothing.”
“Gods,” Niko sighed under his breath. “Well, young fool,” he said roughly, “if you’re still alive so far, I think you’ll live to regret it. Just lie still. I’ll bind those two wounds and then I’ll leave you until I can look to the others.”
“Tess—” Kirill whispered.
“Don’t you mind Tess. Anton!”
Anton Veselov knelt beside Kirill. “Let me bind those,” he said. “I’ve cloth.”
Niko moved to crouch beside Yuri. He laid a hand on Yuri’s throat, searching for a pulse.
Anton worked on Kirill as he spoke. “Ivan Charnov is dead. Matvey Stassov and Mikhal Yakhov will be dead by morning. Three of Mikhailov’s men are dead. Five others of both jahars badly wounded. The rest—” He gestured with his head. “As you see them. They’ll live. Sergei has taken twelve riders after Mikhailov.”
“So few?” Both men started round. It was Bakhtiian who had asked the question.
“Sergei,” said Anton, “does not believe Mikhailov will attack him.”
“She got Mikhailov,” said Kirill in a low voice. “Tess, I mean. Damn.” He shut his eyes. “I don’t know how badly but, by the gods, she got him.” He said it fiercely, with glee. “Aren’t you done yet, Veselov?”
“Let me bind that shoulder up,” said the other man evenly. “Then I’ll let you rest.”
Niko sighed and moved away from Yuri. “Ilya, I must look at Tess. Put her down. Ilyakoria.”
Niko’s voice was sharp enough that it got Bakhtiian’s attention. He hesitated, and then, carefully, expressionlessly, he laid her down on the grass.
“I don’t want you watching me,” said Niko severely.
Ilya stood and walked over to Kirill. For an instant, he stood above him, staring down as Anton Veselov bound Kirill’s shoulder and arm into a sling.
Kirill opened his eyes and, with an effort, focused his gaze on Bakhtiian’s. He grinned weakly. “She may choose you in the end but, by the gods, she chose me first.”
“Yes, you won that fairly. But you were always too damned charming for your own good. I always envied you that, Kirill.”
Kirill’s eyes widened. “Did you! Gods. I never knew.”
“Anton,” said Niko impassively, “can you help me here?”
Anton glanced at Kirill, then at Bakhtiian, and retreated to assist Niko. Ilya so forcefully did not look after him that it was obvious that he wanted nothing more than to know what they were doing. Instead, he knelt beside Kirill.
“So Mikhailov is injured?”
“Yes. I don�
��t know—let me—”
“Don’t get up. That you’ve gone this long with those wounds astonishes me. He left five men for dead, and if he’s wounded, he’ll be forced to run and wait for now. Gods, I’ve got to get those khepellis to the coast before the winds change. Damn them. I’ll deal with Mikhailov when we return.” He hesitated. Beyond, a man began to scream in pain, and then, mercifully, the cries ceased. “You did well, Kirill,” he said softly.
“By the gods,” said Kirill in a faint, mocking voice; it was all that was left him. “Are you praising me, Bakhtiian?”
“Here is some water,” said Ilya, giving him a few swallows from his pouch.
Suddenly, behind them, Tess moaned and shifted away from Niko’s grasp, struggling toward Yuri’s body.
“Don’t burn him,” she whispered. Niko captured her and shook his head roughly at Ilya to go back. “Don’t burn him. Don’t burn him.” As abruptly, she fainted again.
“Damn you, Niko,” said Ilya. “I’ll wait no longer. Will she live?”
“It’s a deep knife wound. We’ve staunched the bleeding as well as we can. She has other wounds but it’s this one—I can’t say, Ilya. It’s low in the abdomen. We can only wait. I’m sorry.”
Vladimir ran up. “Tents, blankets. Petya has gone back to the tribe to bring their healer. There’ll be enough fuel for a small fire soon but the great fire will have to wait until nightfall.”
“Vladi,” said Ilya, “bring me Kriye.”
Vladimir blinked and obeyed.
Ilya walked past the unconscious Tess and knelt beside Yuri. For a moment he simply rested his hand on Yuri’s pale brow. He gazed at Yuri’s face, so quiet in repose. A few tears slipped down his face to dissolve in his dark beard. Then he gathered his cousin into his arms and stood, and walked to his horse.
“Ilya,” said Niko, glancing up. “What are you doing? The fire hasn’t been built yet—”
Ilya winced as he put his weight full on his injured knee to swing Yuri’s body over the horse and mount up behind him. Yuri’s hair hung down, stirred into a semblance of life.
Anton and Vladimir stared at him, shocked. Kirill had his eyes shut.
“Ilyakoria,” began Niko. “He has earned his release—”
“Only to be separated from her?” Ilya replied harshly. “Didn’t you hear what she said?” Without waiting for Niko to reply, he reined Kriye away. “I’ll be back.” And rode out onto the plains, alone.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Of night, lonely, blind-eyed.”
—EMPEDOCLES OF AGRAGAS
TESS LIVED FOR A TIME in gray oblivion. Pain throbbed through her, as constant as the pulse of her blood. She lay on her back, aware only of darkness, a thick dry coarseness against her hands and lips, a heavy, hot, sharp ache in her side. She thought someone was with her but perhaps it was just a dream. She wanted to scream and thrash about, anything, if only it would dispel the pain.
“Tess.” His voice, soft, uncertain.
Because she thought he was a hallucination, she lifted her hand to test his reality. Yes, he had a knee, a thigh, a hip, a chest—his hands caught hers, raising it to his face. His cheeks were damp. She moved her fingers on the soft coolness of his skin. He lowered her hand to his lips and kissed it repeatedly.
“You’re taking advantage of me,” she whispered.
“Tess! How do you feel?”
“Am I going to die?” she asked with a kind of vague hope.
“No, Tess. No. You must not die.”
“Oh, well,” she said, disappointed. She coughed, weakly, starting a spasm through her side so acute that gray surrounded her again.
“Tess. Don’t leave me!” It was as much a command as a plea. One of his hands moved to rest on her cheek. His fingers, cool and light, traced the line of her jaw.
“Where are the khepelli?” she asked, when she could talk again.
“We’re leaving this morning. I’m taking them to the coast. You won’t see your brother this winter, I fear.”
“But—” Memory came in fits and starts. “The letter I wrote—”
“It went with Josef. I have the relic. I’ll write another letter, by my own hand, explaining—” He broke off. “I will find someone trustworthy to carry it to Jeds. I promise you, Tess.”
“I believe you.”
A man moved at the entrance. “Bakhtiian? Your horse is ready.”
“A moment.” He smoothed back her hair from her temple. “Tess. Promise me you will live.”
“Why?” Bitter, this memory that overwhelmed her; more bitter than her pain. “Why should I live when Yuri died?” She began to cry, an agony, leaking from her like blood. She choked on a sob, and it hurt all through her, and she jerked, writhing, anything to free herself of it.
His hands pressed her shoulders down, and he held her there until she stopped fighting. “Because, my wife, you have other responsibilities,” he said coldly.
She stared up at him. How close he was. She could smell the faint salt odor of his sweat. Her hands followed the smooth cloth up his arms to his back and settled on the curve of his neck, pulling down. His hands slipped off her shoulders to the bedding on either side so that, as they kissed, none of his weight rested on her. It was a light kiss but lingering.
“Gods, woman,” he said unsteadily, breaking himself free gently and reluctantly, “if you use that kind of argument, you can persuade me to anything.”
“Kill Mikhailov,” she whispered.
“I have already promised to do that.”
“Yes,” she said, remembering, “you have. Oh, God. Yuri is gone.”
And then he bent until his lips brushed her cheek. “No,” he said, whispering, as if what he meant to impart to her was too important, or too sacrilegious, to say any louder, “he is not gone.” He drew back.
“But he’s dead—Ilya.” For a moment she saw him very clearly, even in the dimness of the tent. “You didn’t let them burn him.”
“He will come back to us, Tess,” he said simply.
She laughed, a weak, faint chuckle, because she did not believe him and yet she did.
“Tess, I must go. You have not yet promised me that you will live.”
She drew a long, shuddering breath and lifted a hand to touch his face again. The flickering lantern light made him seem darker than usual, shadows playing between the occasional glimpse of a tear. “You’ll plague me forever, won’t you?”
“Forever,” he promised.
“Gods, you will, too. I promise.”
“My husband,” he prompted.
“My husband,” she echoed.
“No, the whole thing.”
“I promise you, my husband. There, are you satisfied?”
“For now. Oh, Tess.” He sighed, and leaned down to kiss her once, twice, then her hands, her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead and, last, her lips once again.
From outside: “Ilya!”
He kissed her again, and then, taking the lantern with him, he left her in darkness.
She lay in a stupor for an eternity. Light flashed at the entrance to the tent, and a man knelt next to her.
“Tess, it is Niko. Can you sleep, my child?” His weathered hands stroked her face gently.
“It hurts. It never stops.”
“There, child. Let me tell you a story.” His voice did eventually soothe her, and she slept.
It was only a short respite. Niko washed her, gave her water to drink, after a time fed her a warm gruel. Speaking made her cough, so she did not speak, and she was too weak to attempt anything else. She hurt constantly. For long periods she simply stared into the darkness, and all she could see was Yuri lying dead in the grass.
She woke once from a shallow sleep and lay for what seemed like hours before she recognized the familiar sound serenading her: rain. A man dozed beside her, a steady, rhythmic sound. She reached out, touching him with the tips of her fingers. He woke abruptly and sat up.
“Tess?”
�
�Who is it? Where is Ilya? Why hasn’t Yuri come back?” She shook her head. “No. Don’t answer that.”
“Ilya has been gone three days, my child.”
“It’s raining.”
“Yes.” There was a note in his voice she could not recognize. “Yes, my child, it is. Are you warm enough?”
The rain sounded like pebbles being shaken in a distant tin. “My toes.”
He moved around out of her sight. She fell into a long, dreamless sleep. When she woke, she was thirsty, and he gave her water; after that she was hungry, and he fed her. She slept again.
A cool breeze on her face woke her. Someone had thrown up the tent flap. Light caught the outlines of her feet under blankets. The sides of the tent stirred, brushed by the wind. A dark figure sat outside, engaged in mending a shirt.
“Niko?”
The hands stilled. “Tess.” He crawled in to her. “How do you feel, my child?”
“I hurt. Where are we?”
“We are in your tent, here where—well, we will move you to Veselov’s tribe when you are safe to be moved. You had a very deep wound, young woman.”
“Am I lucky to be alive?”
“Yes, child. I should think you are. Now let me look at your wounds.”
As he reached for the blanket, she felt down along her body. She wore only her shirt.
“Niko.” He paused. “Niko, how long have I been lying here?”
“Five days.”
“Five days,” she said in a small voice. “You’ve had to do everything…Oh God, Niko, I’m so…”
“Embarrassed?” he supplied. “My dear girl, if you’re strong enough to feel embarrassed, then you are certainly going to recover. This is the best sign I could have looked for.”
“Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not. I have tended both men and women in my time for any number of illnesses and injuries, some far more intimate than yours. And I had six children. The human body holds no surprises for me.”
Tess laughed. “Damn, it hurts to laugh.”
“Well, hold this. This will hurt more. Cry if you wish.” He rolled her onto her side.
It did hurt more. She clutched at the belt he had given her, squeezing it until her hand ached. At last, at last, he let her down, but then he pulled up her shirt and examined her abdomen with great care, pushing and probing with excruciating gentleness.