The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  Bakhtiian looked up. He jumped to his feet.

  As if in slow motion, Riasonovsky dismounted and walked forward to speak to Bakhtiian. All the while he talked, and it went on and on and on until Vasha thought probably the whole day had passed and another one taken its place, Bakhtiian stared straight at Vasha.

  In one more instant his father’s stare was going to obliterate him. Misri stood with perfect stillness, his only ally, even as Vasha’s hands convulsed on the reins. And all the while Bakhtiian’s expression grew colder and more furious.

  Riasonovsky finished speaking and, as if in precaution, took one step back.

  There was silence. Vasha hoped it would last forever.

  “Katya!” That was Aunt Sonia’s voice, full of joy. “My dear girl—” But her voice faltered, swallowed by the stillness that radiated out from Bakhtiian.

  When he spoke finally, his voice was not loud but so clear and cutting, so steeped in rage, that it resounded through the assembly.

  “I turn my face away from him. I will not see him.” He turned and walked into the tent.

  At once, a ring of guards closed in around the tent. Vasha just sat there, numb. His ears filled with a roaring, like a river rushing past. He stared at the awning. A few shapes moved around underneath the awning, men, guards, but it was empty of what mattered. His father had repudiated him. His worst dream had come true.

  Fingers touched his arm. He jerked so hard that Misri sidestepped until Stefan caught her bridle and stopped her.

  “Vasha! Dismount, you idiot. You’ll just look worse if you sit up there and gape. Come to Grandmother’s tent.”

  After a moment he realized that it was Katerina who was talking to him. He swung down reflexively from the saddle and let her lead him away, but he could not help but look back over his shoulder toward the tent. Perhaps in another moment his father would emerge and agree to talk to him, to let him explain what had happened, to just see—

  “Vasha!” Katerina hissed. “Don’t look back. Look dignified.”

  “I have to talk to him,” he blurted out, and wrenched away from her and half-ran back to the tent. His father’s guards crossed their spears before him. “Just let me talk to him!” Vasha cried. “Konstans!” he pleaded, fixing his gaze on Konstans Barshai, who had taught him saber. “Just let me in, just—” He faltered.

  Konstans, stone-faced, made no reply, only blocked Vasha’s path. This time, when Katerina took hold of Vasha’s arm, she got a good strong grip and tugged him along so hard that he stumbled backward, trying to turn himself.

  “I said come with me, you fool!” she said in a low voice. She dragged him all the way to Mother Orzhekov’s great tent and shoved him over the threshold and inside, where he found his Aunts Stassia and Sonia and a mob of young, curious cousins.

  “Go to the back, Vassily,” said Aunt Sonia curtly. “We are making a bath for you. I want you clean. Katya, you will tell us what has happened.”

  He waited at the back while a big metal tub was filled with steaming water. No one spoke to him, not even the littlest ones. But he was glad of it, since his throat was thick with grief. He could hear a discussion going on at the front, but it passed in a haze. Someone, he wasn’t sure who, drew a curtain closed, screening off the bath, and he undressed mechanically and sank down into the water. Just sat there, staring at the tent wall. It was an old panel, fading: Wolves chased a stag.

  “Vasha?” The merest whisper. The curtain stirred. Yuri slipped through. “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone I’m here.” Yuri put two fingers to his lips and grinned. “I missed you. I’m glad you came back.” He set his hands on the edge of the tub and leaned forward and kissed Vasha on the cheek. “Why is Papa angry with you?” It was said so innocently by him, who could not imagine his adored older brother doing anything wrong.

  Vasha began to cry. The more he dug his nails into his palms, the more he bit his lower lip, to try and stop himself, the more the tears ran from his eyes.

  Troubled, Yuri watched him. “Well,” said Yuri matter-of-factly, “everything will be all right when Mama gets back.”

  Only it wasn’t. Stassia and Sonia treated him courteously, even perhaps with some sympathy, but coolly. He slept in one of the side chambers of Mother Orzhekov’s tent. Only three people visited him: Stefan and Niko Sibirin, and, once, Katerina, who frowned at him for the longest time and then got up and went way without saying anything. Niko made him sit outside under the awning and play khot, and Vasha’s humiliation was complete, to be put on show like that. The only way to ignore the stares he knew were being directed at him was to focus on the game so completely that he didn’t notice anything else.

  That was why he never noticed Tess’s arrival until she stood not four paces from him, regarding him with pity. Even with Niko’s remonstrations echoing in his ears, he jumped up and retreated inside the tent, into the tiny closed-off chamber, because he could not bear to face her. She had given him everything. At that moment, sitting in darkness on a pillow, wringing his hands, he wasn’t sure which was worse: his father’s anger or her compassion. He sat there for a long, long time, alone. Finally he lay down. He had been strung too tight last night to sleep. Now, in the stuffy tent, he dozed.

  Someone lay down next to him, embraced him, pressed against him. He rolled over. “Mmm? Katya!” That woke him up.

  “Shhh.”

  “What are you—?” But it was obvious what she was doing. Her body was agreeably familiar to him, and his to her, as if his hands remembered their old paths better than his mind did. Gods, he was angry at her for treating him so badly for the past months, but all that suddenly didn’t seem quite so important. For a brief while, he forgot the rest of the world.

  Until Katerina collapsed on top of him afterward, promptly reminded him of them. “Oh, Vasha,” she said, a little out of breath still, “I didn’t know this would happen. I’m sorry.”

  He ran a hand down her back, confused, and only then realized what she was talking about. He pushed her off him and she toppled back onto the carpet. “Do you mean you just came in here by way of apology?”

  “I—”

  “I’ll thank you to leave me alone!” He sat up, humiliated, and began to put his clothes back on.

  “Vasha.” She hesitated, heard voices nearby, and hastily began getting her clothes back on. “That isn’t fair.”

  He grunted, turning his back on her.

  “Well, you can scarcely blame me for disliking the way you rode into Sakhalin’s army, expecting everyone to treat you like a prince when you’d never even proven yourself yet. It just annoyed me so knowing that you’d ride all the way back here in disgrace only to have Cousin Ilya forgive you and pretend nothing had happened.”

  “Forgive me! Of course he wouldn’t forgive me. Any fool can see that. He’s furious.”

  Katerina shrugged on her blouse and belted it over her skirts. “It’s what he always did before. Why should it be different this time?”

  “What he always did before?” Vasha was so stunned by this comment that he sat and stared at Katerina, shirt hanging loose in one hand.

  She pulled on a boot, not looking at him. “He’s always coddled you, Vasha. I was just wrong in thinking he would do the same thing this time.”

  “He’s never coddled me!” But the exclamation trailed off into silence, and he only watched as Katya stood up, straightened her clothes, and listened intently.

  “Tess is coming inside,” she said. “I am sorry. I wouldn’t have been so angry with you if I’d thought Cousin Ilya would be. I just thought it would be bad for you if someone didn’t make you realize that you have to—”

  There was a discreet cough from outside. Blushing, Vasha tugged on his shirt, got an arm in the neck, cursed, and finally pulled it on just as Tess pushed aside the curtain and stepped inside the tiny chamber. Katya flashed her a shamefaced smile and retreated at once. Vasha buckled on his belt and hoped furiously that Tess would not notice what he was doing. Then he fixe
d his gaze on his knuckles. There was yet a slight sheen of the hunt on her, and it disturbed him. And he was horribly embarrassed. And terrified of what she was going to say.

  “I have heard several reports,” she said finally. “But I would like to hear your report.”

  “I made a fool of myself,” he mumbled.

  “I beg your pardon. I couldn’t hear that.”

  “I don’t like Yaroslav Sakhalin,” he burst out, flinging his head up. “He treated me like—” He broke off, clamping down on his tongue. Like Mother Kireyevsky treated me.

  “I hear that he expected you to do what every boy who joins the army does: care for the horses, help with the herds, do duties here and around for the soldiers.”

  “I was older than the other boys. Why couldn’t he have let me go to the army earlier?” He hated himself even as he said it, for the whining tone.

  “A good question.”

  He wrenched his gaze back down to his knuckles. “Whatever Katya told you is probably true. I didn’t like Sakhalin. He didn’t like me. We never got along. But it was stupid of me to steal those horses and to convince the others to go along with the plan. And we didn’t mean to steal Princess Rusudani, too.”

  “I’m curious. If you’d gone as a Kireyevsky rider, do you suppose Sakhalin would have liked you?”

  The question was so odd that it silenced him. Tess waited him out. “If I’d gone as a Kireyevsky rider, Yaroslav Sakhalin would never have noticed me at all, unless I distinguished myself in battle.”

  “Yes. Well, do what Niko says, for now, and what your aunts and grandmother say, of course. How many times did you beat Niko at khot anyway?”

  “I don’t know. We just played.”

  Tess made a little sound, and he glanced up at her and saw that she was holding back a laugh. Anger flared, but he fought it down. How could she laugh?

  “Niko says you’re a fine khot player. I don’t take praise given by Niko lightly.” She kissed him on the forehead and left.

  Vasha stared at the curtain as it swayed to stillness, leaving him alone again. He had known Tess would not be furious with him, not in the way his father had been. She would scold him, take him to task, expect him to think about what he might learn from the situation—and suddenly Katya’s accusation, that his father coddled him, flashed back into his mind. He had a sudden, bothersome idea that she was right. Bakhtiian did not treat him the same way he treated Natalia and Yuri. It was as if there was a line Bakhtiian could never quite bring himself to cross, as if he didn’t think it was his right.

  The thought plunged Vasha into gloom. He shut his eyes and rested his head on his hands. In the end, of course, the dream was just that, a dream. Any fool could see that he was not truly Ilya Bakhtiian’s son.

  Tess swept into her tent, took one look at her husband’s grim expression, and swept out without saying a word to him. Sonia waited for her outside, but Tess kept walking and did not speak until they stood out on the grass between the tents, away from anyone who might overhear.

  “Well?” Sonia asked.

  “If I talk to him now, we’ll have a fight, and he’ll only get more stubborn.”

  “Should I go in?” Sonia cocked her head to one side. “Ah. You are right. When a man feuds with his son, it is not a woman’s matter.”

  “I would not want to be there when Irena goes in.”

  “Mother may take his part in this. What makes you think that anyone in this tribe will support Vasha except for you? Has he proven himself worthy of being an Orzhekov son?”

  “He has not yet been given a chance to prove himself. He should have gone to Yaroslav Sakhalin sooner or not at all.”

  “Why are you trying to convince me, Tess?”

  “Niko says he plays khot much better than his father.”

  “I can assure you that most people in the tribes accept Ilya as his father only through his connection with you. I’m sorry, but I won’t interfere, and I will counsel our mother not to interfere either. If Ilya’s councilors and generals choose to take Vassily’s part, then so be it. If they do not….”

  “What in hell’s name am I going to do with Vasha if they don’t? I can’t just abandon him. Or, God forbid, force him to be a servant like he was in the Kireyevsky tribe. Do I send him to Jeds? Marry him to a khaja princess so he can have some kind, any kind, of position?”

  Their eyes met. With one thought, they both turned and looked toward the distant scatter of tents, pitched beyond the Sakhalin tribe, that housed the khaja hostages, and now housed with them the princess, Rusudani Mirametis, daughter of Prince Zakaria of Tarsina-Kars, granddaughter of King Barsauma of Mircassia, and cousin of Prince Basil of Filis. They had heard the whole story from Katerina, corroborated in a tense interview with a deeply-shamed Stefan.

  “In Erthe, in older times,” said Tess slowly, “a man who captured a woman under such circumstances had the right to marry her.”

  “How barbaric!”

  “Oh, Sonia! Is that really so different from a man riding into a tribe and marking a woman who does not want him?”

  “Of course it is!” said Sonia indignantly. “We are not savages.”

  “Oh, of course not.”

  “It may not be your choice to make. Are you going to try to discuss Vassily with Ilya?”

  “Not now. Ilya won’t mind being angry with me. That would only feed his anger.”

  “Then wait and see what Niko and Josef do. See what his senior captains, Konstans Barshai and the others, counsel. You cannot make the tribe keep Vassily here simply because you will it to be so. The boy will never be able to live in the Orzhekov tribe now if the tribe itself does not want him here.”

  “I’ll wait a few days. Poor child. He was already thrown out once.”

  “He is not a child anymore. That should be evident.”

  “Umm, yes. Katya has taken up with him again, I think.”

  Sonia did not respond to this feint, and Tess was forced to follow her meekly back to her tent and attend to more domestic chores.

  Vasha endured the Orzhekov camp for another day, but on the evening of the second he could bear their forbearance no longer. He fled to the part of the camp where the khaja hostages and envoys lived. A small group of people had gathered at the end of the line of tents closest to Sarai. He paused to look them over. He was surprised to see the priest, Brother Saghir. When the priest recognized him, he smiled at Vasha, beckoning him over.

  “What are these people doing?” Vasha asked him.

  “They have come to receive the recitation of the Lord’s Word. Some of these people already belong to the faithful, and it has been years since a priest of our Order has come among them. Others seek to learn more of God’s law.”

  “It is good to be reminded of the gods’ laws,” agreed Vasha, “since it is by their favor that the jaran have gained so much.”

  “ ‘Those whom God favors have also a greater responsibility,’ ” replied Brother Saghir instantly. He had an answer for everything, rather like Tess did. But Vasha had never once seen Tess worship any god. “Likewise, in another place, ‘If more is given you, then also ought you to love more.’ If the jaran and their Bakhtiian have been given much, then by Whose hand has this been done? By the idols, by the thousand demons named as gods by the ignorant? No, by the hand of God Almighty, Who made heaven and earth and all kingdoms upon it, and by the grace of His anointed Son, who was sundered and yet lived again so that we might be granted a vision of the power of life over death.”

  “My father was granted a vision by the gods,” said Vasha, and then cringed, cursing himself inwardly. His father was not his father at all; Bakhtiian had already repudiated him.

  Brother Saghir nodded gravely, whether at Vasha’s statement or with a mysterious knowledge of Vasha’s plight. He had a sallow complexion and black hair, and though he was not much older than Vassily himself, he carried himself as a man does, not as a boy. “For every man and woman there is the hope of salvation, if he wi
ll only hear God’s word, if she will only take unto heart the Pilgrim’s journey.”

  “Is that true?” Vasha asked wistfully.

  The appearance of Princess Rusudani distracted him from Brother Saghir’s answer. She arrived in great state: Her servant, Jaelle, walked three paces behind her, and behind them came three soldiers walking and four riding, with Stefan at the tail end of the procession. Brother Saghir left Vasha immediately and hurried forward to bow in front of the princess. The townspeople parted to let them through, and Brother Saghir busied himself setting out a table as an altar, covering it with a cloth sewn of gold fabric and setting on the cloth a large carved box and several cups.

  Rusudani knelt at the front of the gathering, in front of the altar. Jaelle knelt farther back, with the people gathered from Sarai. Vasha sidled over to stand next to Stefan.

  “What are they doing?” Stefan asked.

  “They’ve come to pray,” said the soldier in charge, Gennady Berezin. He was Vasha’s uncle by marriage, having been married to Anna Orzhekov, the sister who had died years before Vasha came to the tribe. “They have all sorts of strange khaja rituals, but they can’t help it, since they know nothing of the true gods.”

  “They read from their book,” said Vasha, desperately wanting to impress Berezin with his knowledge. “And they sing. Then they pour the wine on the ground. But I don’t know why.”

  “Jaelle says they do not worship in the right way,” said Stefan suddenly. “She comes from a different place.”

  Berezin snorted and Stefan looked embarrassed. “If she worships a different God, then why does she worship with her mistress here?”

  “No, it is the same God, but….”

  Several of the soldiers in attendance chuckled, while on the grass near the altar the congregation sang softly and rather off-key in a language Vasha did not recognize.

  “If it is the same God, then how can they worship differently?” demanded Berezin. “My boy, you had better learn that the khaja are all savages. I grant you she has a pleasing enough face, but there is a proper jaran girl waiting for you out on the plains, no doubt.”