The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  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.

  Acknowledgments

  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.

  And last, but never least, to Jane Austen.

  An Earthly Crown

  A Novel of the Jaran

  Kate Elliott

  This book is dedicated to my brother, Karsten, because he keeps bothering me to dedicate a book to him, and because it was meant to be dedicated to him all along, for reasons he knows best.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  ACT ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  ACT TWO

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  ACT THREE

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Acknowledgments

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

&
nbsp; THE SWORD OF HEAVEN is a single novel being published in two parts. The author sometimes refers to it as a novel in five acts with one intermission.

  “Barbarus hic ego sum,

  qui non intelligor illis.”

  —OVID

  (Here I am a barbarian,

  because men understand me not.)

  “I can take any empty space

  and call it a bare stage.

  A man walks across this empty space

  whilst someone else is watching him,

  and this is all that is needed

  for an act of theatre to be engaged.”

  —PETER BROOK,

  The Empty Space

  Atheneum (New York, 1968)

  PROLOGUE

  “Nature that framed us of four elements, Warring within our breasts for regiment,

  Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds:

  Our souls whose faculties can comprehend The wondrous architecture of the world: And measure every wandering planet’s course,

  Still climbing after knowledge infinite,

  And always moving as the restless spheres, Wills us to wear ourselves and never rest, Until we reach the ripest fruit of all,

  That perfect bliss and sole felicity,

  The sweet fruition of an earthly crown.”

  —MARLOWE

  Tamburlaine The Great

  THE RIDER LEFT THE great sprawl of tents that marked the main camp of the nomad army just as the sun set. Dusk washed his scarlet shirt gray, and with only the gibbous moon to light him, he soon faded into the dark of night, the susurration of his horse’s passage through the high grass marking his progress. Near midnight, he came to another, smaller camp, and here he changed horses and went on. By dawn, he was within sight of the low range of hills where lay the farthest outposts of the khaja, the settled people.

  One hand’s span after sunrise, he rode through a village. Fields spread out around the huts. Green shoots wet with dew sparkled in the soft light of morning. The khaja stopped in their tasks and stared at him, a lone jaran warrior armed with a saber and a lance, passing through their midst as if their presence was beneath his notice. None spoke, or moved against him.

  A cluster of jaran tents stood in neat lines outside the leveled sod walls that had once protected the village. A single rider emerged from the encampment and rode out to meet him.

  The traveler reined in his mount and waited, leaning forward over the horse’s neck to whisper in its ear as it fretted at the tight rein. Then, sitting back, he lifted a hand. “Well met,” he said as the young rider from the encampment pulled up beside him. “I am Aleksi Soerensen. I’ve come from the main camp, with a message for the Gathering of Elders. You’re one of Grekov’s riders, aren’t you?”

  “I’m Feodor Grekov. His sister’s son. Soerensen?” Grekov hesitated, raising a hand to brush a lock of blond hair off of his forehead. He pronounced the name awkwardly.

  “Yes,” Aleksi agreed, politely but without a smile.

  “You’re the orphan that Bakhtiian’s wife adopted,” said Feodor. He examined Aleksi with what appeared to be common curiosity. “It’s said you have a fine hand for the saber.”

  Aleksi was disconcerted. He had not grown used to the respect, and the protection, his adopted sister’s name granted him. “I had a fine teacher.”

  Feodor did not press the matter. “If you’ve come from the main camp, then your news must be important. I’ll get you a new mount, and ride with you myself, if you need a guide.”

  “It’s safe enough for the two of us from here on into the hills?”

  “We have patrols running through all these hills. There are a few khaja bandits left, but nothing more. These khaja aren’t real fighters. Soon they’ll all be subject to us, as they should be.” Feodor grinned. “And I’d like to go, anyway. It will be something to tell my children.”

  “Ah. You’ve a little one?”

  Grekov flushed. “Not yet.”

  “But you’ve a woman in mind for a wife, I take it.”

  “I—” Feodor hesitated. “A man can’t help looking,” he said at last. Aleksi heard the bitterness in his voice clearly.

  “I’d like to marry,” Aleksi agreed, feeling suddenly and surprisingly sorry for Grekov, who ought to have had an easy life, being nephew of a tribal warleader and nephew to its headwoman. And since the unnamed young woman in question had no choice in marriage, Aleksi could only guess that the obstacles arose from Grekov’s elders. “But I suppose I never will.”

  “Of course, as an orphan—but surely you’ve standing enough now, since Bakhtiian’s wife has adopted you into her tent.”

  “Adopted me by her customs, not by ours. Or a bit by both, I suppose. Still, you may be right. I hope so.”

  “Gods,” said Feodor, “there’s enough trouble in the world without worrying about women.” And that sealed their comradeship. Aleksi felt a bit overwhelmed by how easy it was, when you had a respectable name, a sister, a place in a tribe. “Come on,” Feodor added, “we’ll get you a new mount and something to eat, and then be on our way.” He led Aleksi into camp and introduced him round as if he was just another young soldier like himself and the rest of the riders. A short time later, the two young men rode out in charity with each other.

  By midday they reached the butte known to the jaran as khayan-sarmiia, Her Crown Fallen from Heaven to Earth. Once, the stories said, this range of hills was known only to the jaran tribes, but in recent generations a few khaja settlements had crept out across the plains from settled lands in the south and west to pollute the holy ground where the Sun’s Crown had come to rest on the earth.

  At the base of the hill, an army waited. Countless soldiers, in their tens and hundreds and thousands, gathered to acclaim the man who would lead them against their ancient enemies. Aleksi and Feodor left their horses with the army and hiked up the trail that ascended the steep hillside. The wind began to buffet them. Soon both were breathing hard, despite their youth, because they were not used to so much hard walking.

  At last, the path leveled and gave out onto a plateau from whose height they could see the shifting mass of the army below, the rolling spread of hills, and a few distant wisps of smoke that marked khaja villages. Far to the south, past the flat haze of plain, a suggestion of bluer haze marked the southern mountains. To the north and east lay only the vast golden plains that blended at the horizon into the equally monotonous blue of the sky. West, though they could not see it from here, lay the sea.

  They admired the view for as long as it took to get their breath back. But of far greater interest was the gathering now taking place on the plateau itself.

  A single tent had been set up at the southern end of the plateau, a great tent whose sides shook in the wind that scoured the summit. Between the northern end, where the two young men stood on an escarpment of rock, and the tent lay a broad stretch of ground smoothed by generations of wind and storm. On this ground, on the earth itself, some on blankets, some on pillows, sat the assembled commanders and elders of the thousand tribes of the jaran.

  At the very back sat the younger men, commanders of a hundred riders each; many now wore the scarlet shirts, brilliant with embroidery on the sleeves and collar, that had come to be the symbol of the jaran army, though a few still wore the colors of their own tribe. In front of them sat a sea of elders, some ancient and frail, some elderly but robust, female and male both.

  At the very front sat the etsanas of the thousand tribes, each headwoman flanked by the dyan, the warleader, of her tribe. Most of the women were elderly, though a few were young. They wore their finest clothing, bright silk blouses beaded with gold and silver under calf-length tunics. Striped, belled trousers swelled out underneath. Jeweled headdresses and necklaces and torques and bracelets adorned them, and their hand mirrors hung free of their cases, face out in the glare so that they reflected the light of the sun. So many wore tiny bells that a faint tinkling chime could be heard, underscoring the rush of wind a
nd the solemn proceedings.

  The dyans, too, wore their finest shirts, twined animals or interlaced flora embroidered with lavish detail on the sleeves and capped with epaulets fastened on their shoulders. Each man wore sheathed at his belt a saber and most held a lance, so that the gathering resembled a sea of bright colors tipped with metal.

  In a semicircle before the awning that stretched out from the tent sat ten women and eight men, the women on fine silken pillows and the men beside them on woven blankets: the etsanas and dyans of the Ten Eldest Tribes, the first tribes of the jaran. The men held their sabers, unsheathed, across their knees. Each woman gripped a staff from whose tip hung a horsetail woven with ribbons and golden harness, the symbol of their authority.

  “Two dyans missing,” said Feodor Grekov in a low voice to Aleksi. Aleksi glanced at him, and Grekov cocked his head toward the assembly. “Of course, Bakhtiian himself is the dyan of the Orzhekov tribe. But Sergei Veselov never arrived. I heard that he’s ill.”

  “That’s the news I brought,” said Aleksi. “Sergei Veselov is dead. He died two days past.”

  “Who will become dyan, then? Arina Veselov’s brother sits beside Bakhtiian, but everyone knows it isn’t fitting for a brother and sister to act as etsana and dyan together.”

  “Sergei Veselov has a son, still, who could claim the position,” said Aleksi slowly, not much interested in the Veselov tribe’s troubles. He stared at the tent and at the small figures clustered underneath the awning.

  “I don’t think I’ve heard of him. Is he here?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t know his father is dead. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be dyan.”

  Aleksi shrugged. “I met him once, a long time ago. I don’t know if he’d want the position.” He added, under his breath: “Or if he did, if they would let him take it.” Then he caught in his breath, because he had seen, under the awning, a woman dressed in man’s clothing, the red shirt and black trousers and boots, armed with a saber.