by Kate Elliott
So it was with a troubled heart that she and the boy rode into the prince’s camp at dusk the next day. A scout from her jahar greeted her enthusiastically and directed her to a copse of trees around a spring, where the prince and his party had pitched their tents.
She saw David first. His face lit up. He had a charming smile, made more so by the interesting contrast of white teeth against his odd black skin. He lifted a hand and called a greeting to her. Others turned, the other members of the party. David strode over toward her, grinning with undisguised happiness—and then stopped. Pulled up like a horse brought up tight against the end of its rope. His smile vanished.
Feodor appeared from around the screen of trees, mounted. He reined his horse aside and waited for her. Once he would have flushed to see her; he would have turned his gaze away and cast sidelong glances at her in a way she found provocative and enchanting. Now he stared straight at her in a way that annoyed her, knowing that he had a perfect right to look her straight in the eye in so public a place, now that he was her husband.
She dismounted and walked first to greet the prince. Soerensen came to meet her, looking pleased to see her. She gave him the news of Bakhtiian’s recovery, and he took it calmly enough. Nadine found him impossible to read. She would almost have thought that he already knew, though she couldn’t imagine how he would have found out so quickly. Perhaps he’d had the news at the Kireyevsky tribe.
“Oh, and this is Vassily Kireyevsky,” she said. “Vasha, please, you can dismount now. Come to me.” The boy obeyed meekly enough. He stared at David’s skin, recalled his manners, looked away only to glance at David again, and then turned his attention to the khaja prince. “This is the Prince of Jeds, Vasha. Make your greetings.”
The boy made a creditable bow. “Well met,” he said shyly. “I’ve heard of Jeds. It’s a great khaja city, and it has a—” He faltered over the foreign word. “—a uyniversite. And craftsmen who make fine jewelry.” The boy had good manners, Nadine was relieved to see. Ilya did not tolerate bad manners, so perhaps there was hope.
“Well met,” replied the prince, looking amused. Nadine watched, impressed, as he asked the boy a few neutral questions about his age and the horse he’d ridden in on and managed not to ask anything the least controversial—like who his parents were, or why a child his age was riding with Nadine. Then, as neatly, the prince dismissed him into the care of his assistant, Maggie O’Neill. Vasha stared openmouthed at her red hair and followed her away as if mesmerized by her height and strange freckled coloring.
The prince regarded Nadine with interest and said not one more word on the matter. “You came back to us,” he said instead, and mercifully did not glance toward her husband, who had dismounted and given his horse to one of her men to take away.
“Bakhtiian sent me to escort you back to the army,” she said. “Tess is fine. She looked quite healthy when I left her.” She shot a glance at David, who had inched forward next to Marco Burckhardt to listen in. “We’ve been making maps together.”
Marco coughed into a hand. Nadine could tell he was hiding a smile, but she wasn’t sure what he found amusing in the statement. David looked troubled.
“I’m pleased to hear about Tess, of course,” said the prince without a flicker of emotion. “I hope you will let us offer you some tea and some supper.”
Before she could reply, she felt Feodor come up beside her, right up next to her, “That would be most gracious of you,” Feodor replied, “especially since we haven’t had our wedding feast yet.”
Every now and then, Nadine got so mad that she went blind with fury. Usually she had a strong enough rein on her self-control. Not now.
The shock of her anger, the sheer force of it, froze her for an instant. The world had gone dark, though a moment before she could see trees in the twilight and clouds roiling above, covering and uncovering stars. She felt the cool wind pull at her hair. She heard the prince murmur words and she felt more than knew that they had all retreated, leaving her alone with Feodor out beyond the trees. She heard a man ask a question, and a voice answering, but these were distant, distant from her.
Feodor’s hand closed on her elbow.
She jerked away from the touch and swung wildly. Her palm connected with his cheek, the blow so hard across the cheek that he gasped with pain. He grabbed her arms. “Not out here in the open, by the gods,” he hissed under his breath. “You won’t shame our marriage by acting like this in public.”
“How dare you speak for me!”
“I am your husband.”
“Not by my choice.”
“You have no choice in the matter, or did you think your journey to khaja lands made you different?”
Like light poured into a pitch-black room, her vision came back. She staggered, overwhelmed by the sudden shift, and he steadied her. This close, she saw the cleft in his chin, and the scar at the corner of his mouth, and the slight bump in his nose where it had been broken in a battle three years ago. She pulled back from him, but like all jaran men, his slightness disguised his true strength.
“Dina,” he said more softly, “why are you fighting me? I never tried to mark you before, not as long as I thought you meant to stay in the army.”
“I do mean to stay in the army. Bakhtiian promised me that he wouldn’t take my command away from me.” She could not keep the triumph from her voice. “And you know what Bakhtiian’s promises are worth.”
Feodor looked stunned by this information. Nadine rocked back, forward, broke out of his grip and took five swift steps away from him. Then halted. She was panting with anger, and her head pounded. Stars flashed in her eyes and she was afraid that she was going to go blind again.
“But Mother Sakhalin said—” he began.
“Mother Sakhalin does not rule me!”
Gods, he had a mulish streak in him. She recognized it now for what it was, masked under that sweet, modest exterior she had mistaken for his true self. His mouth turned down. His fine eyes glinted with anger. “Perhaps she doesn’t,” he said softly, “but I am now your husband. Keep your command if you will. I’d be a fool twice over to contest Bakhtiian if he’s already given his word. But nevertheless, I remain your husband. You may wish to be rid of me, Dina, but even if I die, you won’t be free. You must have a child. You know it’s true. If not with me, then with another man.”
“Is that what Mother Sakhalin told you?” she asked scathingly.
“You may think as little of me as you wish,” he replied, still speaking in a low voice, “you may think me a fool, as it pleases you. Mother Sakhalin came to my uncle and my aunt and pointed out that Bakhtiian must have an heir, more than one, to be safe, and that you are his sister’s daughter and thus by right the woman who should be mother to his heirs. That much she said, within my hearing. The rest I managed to work out for myself.”
Nadine had never suspected that Feodor Grekov, quiet, mild, shy Feodor Grekov, was capable of sarcasm. The revelation so amazed her that the shadow growing over her sight receded, and she watched him straighten his shirtsleeve self-consciously and wipe a bead of moisture from the corner of his right eye. She shivered in the wind. She wasn’t dressed for the plains, for the night and the chill wind that tore across the endless horizon. In Habakar lands, heat still smothered the day and lingered far into the night.
“I beg pardon for insulting you,” she said, though it pained her to say it.
“That was hard won,” he said, with a toss of his fair hair. “Does your head hurt you?”
The reversal confused her, not least because her head did indeed pound furiously. She pressed fingers against her left eye, wondering if it was possible that an invisible knife was being driven into the flesh there.
“You need to rest.” He did not move any closer to her, but the tone with which he addressed her irritated her. “You know very well,” he added before she could respond, “that I’ve seen this happen to you before. I’ve already set up your tent. You should go lie down.�
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“You set up my tent!”
He shrugged. “Well, you left it with me.”
“I left it with the jahar. That’s not the same.”
“But it’s our tent now, or at least, I have every right to share it with you. Say what you will, Dina, but I know what obligations you have toward me, now that you’re my wife.”
“I had no idea that you were such an officious, stubborn, stiff-necked bastard, Feodor Grekov. I’d never have taken you for a lover if I’d known.” He smiled. He usually had a surprisingly winsome smile; this wasn’t it. This smile was smug and cocksure, and Nadine didn’t like it one bit. “The boy needs a place to sleep tonight. I’ll have to take him into my tent. I’m the only one he knows here.”
“I’ll make sure he has a place to sleep, but it won’t be in your tent. Who is he, anyway?”
“None of your business.”
He shrugged, not deigning to argue with her over so trivial a matter. “Do you want to eat first, or go straight to bed?”
The throbbing in her head had subsided to a steady, agonizing pulse. She did not want to go straight to her tent, but she knew she could not manage conversation with so illustrious a personage as the Prince of Jeds, and she did not want to face David and the others in this condition. She was ashamed.
“I’ll take you to the tent,” he said when she did not reply. What choice did she have? He knew what his rights were, and her obligations. But to her surprise, he left her outside the tent. She crawled in and flung herself down on the floor and just lay there in the darkness. After a while, the pounding in her head diminished to a dull, roaring throb. After a while, Feodor returned with hot tea, and Vasha, and a lantern to light them. The boy thanked her and begged leave to spend the night in the tent of the khaja lady with hair the color of fire. The entire speech had a rehearsed sound to it. Nadine didn’t know the child well enough to know whether he was happy with the arrangement or resigned to his fate.
“You’ll ride with me tomorrow,” she insisted. Vasha agreed. Feodor sent him away. After a moment, Feodor crawled into the tent, hooked the lantern along the center pole, and took off his boots.
“Drink your tea,” he said. He turned. He had long, pale eyelashes that never showed unless the light struck him just right, and lantern light usually struck him so as to bring out his most attractive features. “Gods, Dina, don’t refuse it just to spite me. It ought to make you feel better.” He began to pull off his shirt, hesitated, and then shifted to pull off her boots instead. She let him. Then she sipped at her tea and he watched her, just watched her, until she had emptied the cup. She was not used to him watching her so closely, so openly. The sensation made her skin crawl. He moved, and she tensed, but he reached away from her and extinguished the lantern.
Darkness. She sighed and shut her eyes. “You will have children. I order you to.” She could still hear Ilya’s voice. Ilya was all that was left to her of her mother. Nataliia Orzhekov would have had many more children, and gladly, to help her beloved younger brother. Was her daughter going to do any less than she would have? Nadine knew her duty.
Feodor’s hand came to rest on her brow. He stroked her forehead and the circle of bone around her left eye, and the pounding in her head faded to an ache. He was gentle, and patient, and tender. She ought to have guessed long ago, though, about that other side of his personality, the determined, brash side. He was bold enough once he got between her blankets. She would never have kept him for a lover for as long as she had if he hadn’t been.
She sighed and her right hand strayed onto his thigh. He made a noise in his throat and all at once—well, all at once. The change was so sudden that she only realized then how firmly he had clamped down on his feelings before. He shook with emotion, and she could not get him to take his hands off of her for even a moment, so she had a damned hard time getting him out of his clothes and he was a little rough with hers.
She was still angry, afterward, but much calmer. “Feodor,” she began in a low voice, and then: “Oh, here, move over, will you? My back is up against the tent wall.”
He shifted, and she shifted, and he traced her earlobe and the line of her jaw and her lips. “Hmm?”
“Feodor, you can’t speak like that to me, like you did out there, before. It just makes me furious. And it isn’t right.”
“I can speak to you however I wish. I’m your husband.”
“Yes, as you’re forever reminding me.”
There was silence. “No,” he said finally, so low that she had to strain to hear, “perhaps it’s myself I’m reminding. Gods, I dreamed, but I never thought—” He broke off. He turned his face into her cheek and just breathed. She felt like she didn’t know him at all. “Anyway,” he said, his lips moving against her skin, “I’ll bet your head doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Oh, gods,” said Nadine to the air. She settled in against him. He began to hum under his breath: He was happy. Nadine sighed and resigned herself to her fate.
CHAPTER TEN
ARINA HAD DIED ONCE already by the time Diana got to Dr. Hierakis’s tent. A boy from the Veselov tribe brought Diana the news—garbled, she prayed—at the Company encampment, and she ran all the way to the hospital grounds and into the doctor’s tent, pitched in the center. She stopped at the edge of the carpet. Her ribs were in agony; she gulped air.
Tess sat cross-legged on a pillow, mending the torn hem of a tunic. Her eyes lifted once to watch Kirill, pacing in the distance, and then shifted to Diana. Her face lit. “Ah, thank goodness,” she said in Anglais.
“What happened?” Diana fairly shrieked the words. Beyond the tent, Kirill opened and closed his good hand to the rhythm of his pacing. His face was white. Once a man paused to speak to him, but the exchange was brief and the man shook his head sadly and walked away.
“We got caught in a skirmish. Arina was wounded.”
“But—she’s dead—?”
Tess pinned the needle into the fabric, bound up the loose thread, and set down the torn tunic. “Her heart stopped. At that point, Cara threw every jaran out of the surgery and began—well, she’s operating now.”
“Operating!”
Kirill halted stock-still and looked their way, caught by the sound of Diana’s voice. He strode over to them and flung himself down on the carpet, next to Tess. Tess embraced him. He accepted it. More than that—he buried himself against her as if he sought his comfort from her. Diana knew body language. When acquaintances embrace, one can read the gap between them. When friends, when siblings embrace, no matter how close, there is still an infinitesimal distance, like a layer of molecules, separating them. When a mother hugs her child, they meet. But when lovers embrace, they don’t just meet but join. Tess held Kirill against her as if he was her lover.
At this inopportune moment, Bakhtiian appeared. A bandage swathed his left arm. Tess’s gaze lifted and met his. Diana watched an entire conversation pass between them, wordless and within seconds. A lifted eyebrow. A grimace. Eyes slanting toward the tent. The movement of a chin, signifying a nod. To Diana’s astonishment, Bakhtiian grabbed a pillow, threw it down on the other side of Kirill, and settled down beside the other man. At once, Kirill broke away from Tess and sat up. He flushed.
“Here is something to drink.” Bakhtiian offered the other man a cup of komis. Trapped between Tess and Bakhtiian, Kirill had to accept. He sipped once, twice, and then gulped the rest down like a man who has only just discovered that he is desperately thirsty. Then he sat, breathing hard, gaze fixed on his withered hand. He closed it into a fist, and opened it again. Closed it. Opened it.
“Do you want a command?” asked Bakhtiian, refilling Kirill’s cup.
“Ilya—” began Tess.
Kirill flung his head back. “A command!”
“A general doesn’t have to fight in every engagement. He only has to lead. I know your worth, Kirill. And I know the worth of your loyalty to me. You and Josef and Niko are the three men I trust most in the whole world. Y
ou’ll never be the fighter you were, but you’ve some use in that arm now. Enough to lead your own command, I think.”
Diana was appalled. Was this how Bakhtiian consoled him for the death of his wife?
Kirill’s expression underwent so many swift changes from one emotion to another that Diana could not read them all: anguish, exhilaration, hope, fear, ambition—Goddess! He was going to accept.
“You honor me, Bakhtiian,” he said softly.
Bakhtiian snorted. “It’s only to keep you away from my wife.”
Kirill grinned. Yes, he was a distinctly attractive man, and he knew it. “I suppose it’s unlikely that she won’t succumb to my greater charms sooner or later.”
“Perhaps,” said Bakhtiian. His lips quirked.
“I find this conversation offensive, considering the circumstances.” said Tess in a voice thick with emotion. “If you can’t talk about something decent, then stop talking.”
Immediately both men looked chastened. Into their silence, bells sang softly and Ursula emerged from the doctor’s tent. Kirill jumped to his feet.
“Arina?”
“She’ll live,” said Ursula curtly. “Tess, Cara needs you—Ah, Diana. You’d be much better. Can you come in?”
“Can I—?” Kirill faltered. “May I see her?”
“No. Diana?”
“Yes,” said Diana hurriedly. “I’ll come.” She nodded at the others and escaped inside.
In the inner chamber, Dr. Hierakis leaned over the foot of the scan-bed and stared at a pulsing graph configured on a flat screen. “Tess,” she said without looking up, “I want to look over the other wounded. Can you sit by—?” She glanced up. “Oh, hello, Diana. If you can spare the time, I’d be pleased to have you sit here and monitor her.”