The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  Stefan merely looked smug.

  Vasha wrenched his attention back to Princess Rusudani.

  “I lived for ten winters in the house of God,” she was saying, and Jaelle translated.

  “You were sent there as a child,” Ilya said.

  “I was.”

  “I have seen that you are wise in the ways of your church, because of your education. You can read and write?”

  “These things I was taught at the convent. But God has not yet granted me the glory of being invested as a sister in the faith. My knowledge is insignificant next to God’s glory.”

  “But you have heard of the Gospel of Isia of Byblos.”

  She made a gesture with one hand over her chest and shot an angry glance at Jaelle. “It is a heretical text. The Accursed One seduces men with false words and false prophets.”

  “Yet there are some who believe it is truth?”

  “They have strayed from the True Church.”

  “ ‘They have strayed from the True Church,’ ” Jaelle translated, “So speaks Princess Rusudani, but it is not so, my lord. “The Anointed Church follows the word of God faithfully. The northerners have broken with His covenant by refusing to acknowledge—”

  Rusudani began to speak harshly, drowning out Jaelle’s words.

  “Silence! I do not care to listen to you disparage one another. You will translate my words faithfully.”

  “I will, my lord,” said Jaelle meekly.

  “I wish to hear about the Gospel of Isia of Byblos.”

  Rusudani touched the knife that hung on a chain at her neck. “I have not read it, my lord, only heard of it so that I might not fall into error.”

  “You heard the story of the man who was taken away to Urosh Monastery, Jaelle. Is there such a story, of a great blinding, in Isia’s gospel?”

  “Not as it was read to me, my lord, but I am not educated.”

  “Ask Princess Rusudani.”

  Rusudani hesitated before she spoke. “The heretical gospel speaks only of Hristain’s ascension and his sister’s ministry. But in recent years a new heresy has spread northward from the lands where the apostate church holds sway, speaking of a light that flares in the western oceans and of angels whose glowing wings track across the sky, and how these are signs presaging the second coming of Our Lord, the Son of God.”

  “Those words Princess Rusudani speaks,” added Jaelle. “But I have also heard it said among the caravan women that His sister, the Blessed Pilgrim, has already descended from Heaven and walks the earth even now, preparing us for His coming and the final days.”

  Ilya considered for a long time. He took a sip of komis, and Vasha refilled his cup. “I will go to Urosh Monastery and speak with this prophet.”

  “Let me go as well,” said Rusudani instantly, “so that I may guard you from his lies.”

  The passion of her plea took Vasha aback.

  But Ilya had withdrawn his attention, wrestling with new preoccupations. “Stefan, escort the women back to their tents. Kireyevsky, you will attend me.” He rose and walked away through camp.

  Vasha hurried after him. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to wait? When we reach Jeds, we could ask that the holy women admit us to the great library in Jedina Cloister. Surely they will have books that would answer your question. They might even have this gospel that Jaelle speaks of.”

  “Men aren’t allowed to set foot in the cloister, and I do not intend to force my way into a women’s sanctuary. But I can enter Urosh Monastery.”

  The idea sprang to mind easily and pleasantly. “Princess Rusudani can gain admittance to Jedina Cloister for us, if it is true that she lived for many years in such a cloister in her own land. Or Tess could.”

  Ilya fixed him with such a look, suddenly, that Vasha shrank back. “I will speak with Andrei Sakhalin. Send Konstans to me as well. Then brush down my string. Look Kriye over particularly. He was off on his right foreleg today.”

  Stung, fuming, Vasha walked away, not too fast but not too slow, either. But he went and found Konstans Barshai, and made excuses to himself that he would care for the horses after he escorted the captain over to Andrei Sakhalin’s tent.

  Konstans did not like Ilya’s idea either.

  “I will take five hundred men,” said Ilya.

  “You should take one thousand, the whole guard,” argued Konstans.

  “Why not the whole army, then?” Ilya retorted.

  “No need for that,” Andrei Sakhalin said, smoothing over the tension. “I have already sent word ahead to my garrison that I am riding through this territory. I travel with only a jahar of one hundred. My men control this area. There will be no trouble.”

  “Five hundred men, then,” said Ilya. “We will travel swiftly. It would be best if Princess Rusudani rode with us as well. She can speak to them, and to us through her interpreter and because of her rank and her position in the church the khaja priests will be more likely to accede quickly to our request.”

  “She is a valuable prize,” said Andrei Sakhalin. “Is it wise to remove her from the protection of the army?”

  “If you do not control these lands, Sakhalin, then it is not wise for me to make this journey.”

  The two men looked at each other, and they seemed without moving or speaking to contest. Vasha had watched Ilya do this to lesser men—proving his right of place—but he had never seen him do it to a Sakhalin prince.

  “Of course I control this region,” said Sakhalin stiffly, looking angry. But he had spoken first, and defensively, and thus given right of command to Ilya.

  “She will ride with us. How are the khaja to know she rides with us now? They must still believe she resides in Sarai. Kireyevsky, go tell Katerina Orzhekov that she will attend us as well, to show the khaja priests that the princess has been granted the protection of our women.” He looked at Konstans, allowing his captain the final word. “Is there anything else?”

  Konstans’ expression could have been carved in stone, it was so still and so disapproving. But he made no further objections.

  So it was decided.

  At dawn, leaving the banner with the main army, Ilya split off from the main road south with an escort of five hundred of his personal jahar and headed west with Andrei Sakhalin and his one hundred riders. Vasha went with him, and Stefan managed to attach himself to Vasha at the last moment.

  Autumn covered the land in browns and faded greens. It was a rough, dreary landscape, tracts of dense forest interspersed with lonely fields and an occasional village. No one bothered them. When they stopped at night, Andrei Sakhalin commandeered food and forage at the nearest village or isolated manor house, and the Dushanites gave it over without protest, seeing the staff that represented his authority to oversee this region in the name of the great jaran conqueror, the Bakhtiian.

  The troop of riders made good time. Vasha half expected that they would overtake the wagon carrying the accused friar, but they did not. They reached the vale that sheltered the monastery in the late afternoon on the fifth day after leaving the army.

  The size and grandeur of Urosh Monastery surprised Vasha. Surrounded by a low wall, the complex of buildings was laid out neatly, centered on a long building anchored by two towers: Vasha recognized its type from Jeds: It was the church, built of stone. The rest of the buildings were timber. Cattle lowed, and shorn fields striped the land around the wall.

  He and Katerina had called a truce.

  “These khaja priests hoard their gold in their churches,” she said to him now. “I’m surprised no one robs them.”

  “Would you rob a Singer?”

  “Of course not! Anyway, Cousin Ilya has already made a decree exempting khaja priests from taxes.” She urged her horse forward down the slope that led to the field on which Sakhalin had halted his men. Some had begun pitching tents. “I suppose it speaks well for the khaja, then, that they honor their priests enough to grant them both respect and wealth.”

  “And immunity from thieves?”


  Katya grinned at him suddenly, and he felt the spark of her laughter catch on him. She had been so quiet the last five days, riding in silence alongside the other two women, attending to herself and assisting Princess Rusudani, who had clearly never learned how to take care of herself. He smiled, and as if she knew what he was thinking, she gestured toward Rusudani and Jaelle, who rode some ways in front of them.

  “I think all khaja noblewomen must be poorly educated. That’s what Mama says. She says Tess was the same way when she came to the jaran, not knowing how to care for a horse or to prepare food or weave or shoot, although I do admit that the princess can use a knife.”

  “Khaja have slaves to do all their work for them.” Her words stung a little, though. He didn’t like to hear her criticize Rusudani. “Perhaps they think it isn’t fitting that noblewomen wait on themselves.”

  Katya snorted. “No wonder they’re so weak. Do you suppose any soldier in this army would respect Bakhtiian if he could not care for his own horse, repair his tack, and know whether or not his saber was balanced and sharp? Jaelle is much more like a proper woman. She can take care of herself.”

  Stefan had been silent until now. “Do you think jaran women respect her?”

  “I know nothing of her parents or her tribe. She has never spoken of them to me. But you must know, Stefan, that she was a whore—” She used the Taor word, “—before she became an interpreter.”

  He got a little red. “I know that Tess says that among the khaja a whore is a dishonored woman who lies with men for gold, but Tess also says that such women are merely surviving in the only way they can and it is not the women who ought to be condemned.”

  “She has always done her share of the work,” said Katya, as if that settled the matter of Jaelle’s character.

  Stefan looked pleased.

  Here at the edge of the great field that fronted the monastery’s outer wall a second road intersected with the one they had traveled on. The second road led away to the southwest, back into the forest. Ten of Sakhalin’s riders vanished into the gloom of the trees. Vasha looked back to see the telltale white plume of Konstans’ helm at the rear of their party. Konstans pulled up his horse and gazed after the riders who had gone into the forest. After a moment, he came along after the main group.

  It was difficult to pass through the mob of horses that crowded the field as the jahar arrived and settled down. Since every man had two and perhaps three mounts, and some of the fields beyond still wore a coat of unharvested grain, there wasn’t as much room to spread out as was proper. Flanked by Vasha and Stefan, Katerina pushed her way through and came out to a relatively clear space where Ilya, still mounted on Kriye, was having an uncomfortably polite disagreement with Andrei Sakhalin.

  Ilya had taken off his helmet and held it tucked under one arm. “I will go in now with you. There is no reason I can’t interview the accused man tonight, allowing us to leave again in the morning.”

  Sakhalin shook his head. “Of course that would be the swiftest way, Bakhtiian, but there are certain traditions which are best followed in Dushan. King Zgoros makes no request himself. He always sends ahead an envoy to make his will known. He does not go to others, they come to him. If you go in yourself, you will be considered no better than a servant. Let me act for you. I will bring the presbyter out to wait on you. Thus will he understand your power.”

  “So be it.”

  “It would be well,” added Sakhalin, “if I took Princess Rusudani with me. No woman wishes to remain with a jahar when she could spend the night in the tents of her own people.”

  Katya’s head snapped up. “I grant her the protection and good name of the Orzhekov tribe. That is sufficient.”

  Sakhalin dropped his gaze away from her at once. He hesitated, shrugged, and rode away with ten of his riders. They passed in through the stone archway that was the only opening in this stretch of wall. Mounted, Vasha could see over the wall, which came up to Misri’s withers. Like any khaja town, the buildings inside appeared crowded together, but they had an orderly look to them. All the paths were straight, and the church itself was impressively tall, with a high, peaked wooden roof.

  “I beg your pardon, Cousin,” Katerina said in a low voice to Ilya.

  Vasha looked at them in time to see a glance flash between them, she and Ilya, and his lips quirked. He seemed amused. “I would never presume to correct Mother Orzhekov’s representative. But perhaps it is true that Princess Rusudani, because of her own customs, would prefer to rest for the night inside the monastery walls.”

  “I will bring her over,” said Katya.

  “I’ll go get them,” said Stefan quickly, and dismounted, tossing his reins to Vasha. Katya did the same, following him.

  Konstans Barshai appeared, white plume bobbing. He took his helm off and surveyed the field with disgust. “These khaja never have enough pastures. I have posted sentries and sent out a few scouts. I would prefer to send more out, but it would be an insult to Sakhalin, since he’s already sent many of his men to reconnoiter.”

  “Find room for the horses, and forage,” said Ilya. “That is my first concern.”

  Konstans nodded and rode away, clapping his helmet back on. Ilya dismounted finally, giving Kriye over to Vladimir.

  “Kireyevsky, give Vladi your horses as well. Put out my carpet.”

  Most of the riders had nothing with them except their horses, the armor they wore and weapons they carried, and a pouch and flask for food and water. Ilya had brought an extra horse to carry a carpet, pillows, and an awning, and Vasha set these out beside the handful of tents pitched by Sakhalin’s men.

  As he threw down the first pillow, he heard Rusudani’s voice and then Jaelle’s translation.

  “—and that is the dormitory and the refectory, those roofs beside the church. They enclose the inner claustrum, which only the monks may enter.”

  “Have you been here before?” Katerina asked, with some amazement.

  “I have not. Many years ago, in the time of Saint Benaris, the blessed founder of the holy Orders, the presbyters held a great council and prepared in court the plan to which all monasteries and convents have since been built. Those that could. Even I have heard of Urosh Monastery, which is famous for its adherence to this holy design.”

  Ilya had already seated himself. Rusudani took her place on a pillow next to him with a kind of exalted grace. Jaelle knelt beside her, and Stefan hovered behind Jaelle. Katya halted beside Vasha and gave him a look, which he could not interpret.

  “Katerina Orzhekov has asked if I wish to enter the protection of the monastery, but you must know that women are not welcome within the walls, except in times of extremity. There is a guest house outside the north wall. But—” She hesitated and glanced toward Katerina. Swallowed. “In Dushan, I would prefer the protection of jaran.”

  “Why is that?” Ilya asked.

  “Many years ago my father had reason to quarrel with King Zgoros. I would not necessarily be welcome here.”

  “Yet you came with us willingly, even asked to.”

  Her lashes shaded her eyes as she fixed her gaze on her clasped hands. “I wish only to save you from error, my lord.”

  “Ha!” said Katya under her breath, and Vasha glanced at her, but her expression gave nothing away.

  “When did your father have this quarrel? What was it over?”

  “I was very young, my lord. It was before I entered the convent.”

  “By whose hand were you sent to a convent at such a tender age?”

  “By God’s Hand. He sent me a vision when I was a child. So my father gave me to the convent.”

  The locus of Bakhtiian’s attention, still focused mostly outward, keeping track of the settling in of his jahar on the field around them, changed abruptly when Jaelle translated these words. “You are a Singer?”

  “I am dedicated to God’s service.”

  “To a woman or a man whom the gods have given a vision we give the name, a Singer.�
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  Rusudani looked up and met Ilya’s gaze. Something passed between them. That moment of intimacy flooded Vasha with wild jealousy. “You were granted a vision,” she said.

  “I was.”

  “Only God grants true visions.”

  “And my vision has come true. Just as Mother Sun spreads her rays in all directions, so my power is spread everywhere, and so my armies march as with the rising sun.”

  “All that comes about, comes about because of God’s will.”

  Ilya smiled. He lifted up his right hand and held it out, open. “The gods gave us different fingers to the hand, and so did they also give different ways to jaran and khaja. Is this not so?”

  She hesitated, looking angry.

  Ilya went on. “Why did you leave the convent?”

  A pause. She looked up at him again. “I did not leave. I was taken. My father promised me to the church, but some men do not respect the sanctity of God’s house.”

  “That is certainly true.”

  “The Lord of Sharvan sent his men to take me out of the convent. He wanted to marry me.”

  “You did not wish to marry him?”

  She caught in a sharp laugh. “Why should I wish to marry any man, when I could be a bride to Hristain himself, and dedicate myself to His service? Nor would my father ever have sanctioned such a match. The Lord of Sharvan is a bandit, nothing more.”

  “Yet you are a valuable woman.”

  Both she and Jaelle looked startled by this comment. Finally, Rusudani nodded. “It is true, my lord,” she said at last, “that you married the Prince of Jeds’ sister, who in her turn became prince when her brother died. But I have never heard that the jaran take more than one wife.”

  Vasha thought he would choke. Was she actually suggesting that his father might want to marry her? Did she want him to? He eyed his father surreptitiously. He was a good-looking man; everyone said so. A woman might desire him for that alone. But he was far more than that. Rusudani had not spared the least glance for Vasha since this journey began. Gods, why should she? For a moment, Vasha hated his father for that.