The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  “He rode south over forty days ago.”

  “We captured a man coming down the southern caravan route, bearing a letter and a message for the Prince of Filis. I traced his path back as far as Habakar. There, I lost it.”

  “And?”

  He closed the distance between them and halted in front of her. She smelled the rain on him, and for an instant the remembered scent of the nutblossom trees in Habakar, as if he had brought an echo of them with him.

  He glanced first to the right and then to the left, and when he spoke, he lowered his voice so that she had to lean toward him to hear. “The man who dictated that letter was wise enough not to expose his own identity by using his name. Someone in the tribes has set out to betray Bakhtiian.”

  From behind her, like an antiphony, rose the dawn song for the dead, for the departing man, so that his soul might rise into the winds and be borne back into a woman’s body and so be born again into the world. To the east, light rimmed the horizon, and the sun rose.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Chains of the World

  THE CAPTAIN SHOWED HER into a bedchamber. At first she thought that he meant her to lie with him there, but the bed itself was too richly arrayed for a woman of her background. She heard voices from behind the arras.

  “My soldiers deserve a reward,” said Prince Janos. “Those barbarians fought like madmen. We took heavy losses.”

  The captain deliberately looked Jaelle over, but without malice, simply with appetite. She bowed her head and tried to look meek, and watched his boots as he went out the door.

  “There is a village nearby,” Rusudani replied. “Surely there are women there they can take. But I need an attendant on the ride to White Tower, and I will not take an unlettered filthy peasant woman with me.”

  “You said yourself the whore is a heretic. Better an honest peasant woman than an apostate.”

  “You have shown already how much you care for God’s commandments. Let me speak plainly, then.”

  Oddly enough, the prince sounded amused. “I wish you would.”

  “If she goes to your soldiers, they’ll kill her one way or the other, or at least she will be lost to me. Then it will be only through you that I will be able to speak with—” Rusudani bit off a word. “—the jaran remaining to me.”

  “That problem is easily solved. I’ll kill them all, except the princess, and you’ll be rid of them.”

  “You have already given me your word. Do you go back on your bargain?”

  “No. Why are they so valuable to you, Rusudani?”

  “Because of the power they give me over you.”

  He actually laughed. “Your beauty alone has power over me.”

  “How can you say that when you just told me that it is true that King Barsauma’s last surviving son died unexpectedly four months ago?”

  “There are other claimants to the throne of Mircassia.”

  “None with as clear a claim as mine. Now that my brothers are dead I am his only grandchild, that I have ever heard of.”

  Jaelle heard soft footsteps nearing the arras, and she knelt hastily beside the bed. Nervously, she caught the coverlet in her hands and twisted it around between her fingers.

  “And I am a younger brother with six nephews. You understand why we are now wed.”

  “Yes,” she said bitterly. “But I would rather have been granted the lowliest seat in God’s house than a throne in this world.”

  One corner of the arras twitched and was pushed aside. Prince Janos looked into the room. He wore an elegant overtunic embroidered with gold thread, and in the quiet, whitewashed room she could see his features much more clearly than she had been able to in those terror-stricken moments in the church: Like most highborn men in these lands, he had a mustache, a clean-shaven chin, and hair trimmed at shoulder length, a style that suited him. Without his armor, he looked far less massive but no less daunting. He studied her for a moment, half as a man measures how much he might desire a woman and a half as a captor discerns the worth of his captive.

  “Your slave is here,” he said, and let the arras fall back into place.

  Jaelle let out her breath. Needing something to do, she found a basin and pitcher on a side table, and poured some of the water out into the basin. Turning around, she saw that Rusudani had come into the bedchamber. Rusudani looked at her and then went and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I will help you off with your dress, my lady, and help you wash a bit if…” Jaelle trailed off. Rusudani stared at the arras, seeming not to hear her. Her lips were set and pale, her hands in fists on her lap.

  She was terrified.

  She had spent most of her life in a convent, expecting never to wed a man. Expecting never to face this night.

  Jaelle felt an unexpected stab of pity for her. After all, Rusudani had as good as saved her life. She knelt in front of her, tentatively touching Rusudani’s hands, which were as cold as ice. “Shall I send for someone to lay a fire in the hearth, my lady?”

  Rusudani gave a slight shake of her head. “God enjoins us to seek only that warmth which the sun, His servant, grants us. To desire more warmth than that is to care more for the things of this world than for the heavenly city which God will reveal to the faithful in the next life.”

  “Yes, my lady. Shall I help you with your gown?”

  Rusudani neither moved nor spoke.

  Jaelle swallowed past a lump in her throat and, daring much, spoke again in a low voice. “It is not so bad, my lady. Many women find pleasure in the marriage bed.”

  “But you do not?” asked Rusudani suddenly, and Jaelle glanced up to see the princess looking directly at her.

  “I am a whore, my lady. Men seek their own pleasure in me. They do not care if I find any from them.”

  “Never?”

  Jaelle shook her head, unwilling to say more. It was not a safe subject, and she felt more than heard Prince Janos’ presence on the other side of the arras. Was he listening in on them, as she had listened in on him and the princess?

  “How did you come to be a prostitute?”

  The question amazed Jaelle. And frightened her. “My life can be of no interest to someone like you, my lady.”

  “I want to know.”

  Beyond the arras, she heard the sound of a door, and male voices. “I am the daughter of a slave, and your slave now, my lady.”

  “But you were not a slave when I hired you. You were a freewoman then, were you not?”

  “Yes,” whispered Jaelle with fierce pride. “I was then a freewoman.”

  “As was I,” echoed Rusudani, “but no longer. I was free to live in the holiness of God’s word, but now I am bound by the chains of this world. So be it.” She stood up abruptly. “Help me with my dress.”

  When Jaelle had helped her off with her dress and laid it neatly to one side, and washed her hands and her face and seen her, in her undershift, put into the bed, under the coverlet, Jaelle stepped back to the foot of the bed. “What do you wish of me now, my lady?”

  Rusudani had a grim look in her eye. “Send my husband in to me. You may attend me in the morning.”

  Jaelle nodded and, hesitating only slightly, slipped past the arras to the other side. There, in a richly furnished chamber, Prince Janos sat on a chair discussing something with one of his captains. Seeing her, he broke off and stood up. Mercifully, he spoke before she could.

  “I will go in,” he said. “Maros, you and Osman may dispose of the woman between you, but no more than that, and see that she is restored to my wife by morning, without harm coming to her.”

  “Your highness,” said the captain. He was a different man than the one who had brought her here. He took her by the arm and led her out. “Prince Janos is merciful,” he said to her in the hallway outside, and then he took her to the rooms allotted to the two captains.

  It was true, Prince Janos was merciful, or at least mindful of his wife’s value. As Jaelle undressed in front of Maros, she spok
e a prayer to God and Our Lady, for granting her their protection, even through the offices of a heretic like Princess Rusudani. Neither Maros nor Osman were particularly rough men. They didn’t even argue over who was to have her first; evidently that had been arranged beforehand. When Maros left, Osman stamped in a few minutes later, and even washed his face and hands first. He gave her wine and food afterward, and to her surprise allowed her, at dawn, to take bread and water back with her to the hovel where they had confined the others. Already Janos’s army stirred, preparing to march.

  The door opened onto the dimness inside the hovel. Faces turned toward the door. Four of the men scrambled to their feet. Princess Katerina came forward, and at once Jaelle offered her the bread and water. Behind, at the door, Captain Osman watched the transaction.

  “Thank you,” said Katerina.

  “The army is leaving,” said Jaelle quickly. She glanced toward Bakhtiian, who lay in the shadows. She could not tell if he was awake, asleep, or dead.

  Stefan rose from his side and came over to Katerina. “Are there wagons?” he asked in a low voice. “He is too weak to walk. And you.” His fingers brushed her arm. “Are you—were you—?” He took in a deep breath and let it out. “You have not been harmed?”

  “No, I have not been harmed. I will ask Princess Rusudani about a wagon.”

  He smiled at her gratefully, and she was surprised by how much she cherished that smile. But they all of them regarded her with intensity. She knew the deception that had been practiced on Prince Janos, and surely they could not be sure, could not understand why, either she or Rusudani should protect Bakhtiian. She dropped her voice even lower. “I will not betray you.”

  Katerina’s eyes widened, but her only reply was to briefly clasp Jaelle’s hands in hers. “We will not forget,” she said before turning away to distribute water and bread to the others.

  As Jaelle crossed back over the threshold she glanced back in time to see Vasil’ii lift up his father and help him drink.

  “They may as well kill the wounded one now,” said Osman as he led Jaelle back toward the guest apartments. “He won’t get far.”

  Jaelle found Rusudani alone, sitting in the bed with her hands clasped over the coverlet. The shutters had been thrown wide, admitting light, and Rusudani held her Recitation in her lap and read to herself, her lips moving silently. She looked up, hearing Jaelle enter. At once her cheeks stained red.

  “I am here to help you dress and ready for travel, my lady,” said Jaelle swiftly, and set about helping the princess up. She caught a glimpse of blood on the sheets, not much, but enough to prove that Rusudani had indeed been a virgin. Of Prince Janos’s presence in the room there was no sign.

  Rusudani readied herself quickly, finally throwing a cloak over her shoulders and pinning it with a jewel-laden brooch. Jaelle recognized that brooch: She had seen it on Prince Janos yesterday, in the church. Rusudani was clearly in a mood, but it was an odd mood, combined as much, Jaelle thought, of embarrassment as of her clear impatience to reach some goal.

  “I hope you were treated well, my lady,” said Jaelle finally as they paused at the door.

  Rusudani flushed an even deeper red. “He was not—” She broke off. “He was not unkind to me.”

  “My lady.” Jaelle hesitated. “The one—he is badly wounded. The others have asked if you could obtain a wagon for him.”

  Rusudani met her gaze, and in her eyes Jaelle could read that in this one thing, at least, they were united. “I will see what I can do.”

  Osman and four soldiers waited for them in the hallway.

  “My slaves will attend me, of course,” Rusudani said to Osman.

  “You will ride with Prince Janos, your highness. We do not have horses to spare for the prisoners.”

  “I will see them now!”

  “I beg your pardon, your highness, but my orders are to take you at once to Prince Janos.”

  They found Prince Janos on the steps of the church, quarreling with Presbyter Matyas.

  “I will leave twenty men, then, your holiness,” said the prince, sounding annoyed, “to help dig graves and to tend those of my men who are too wounded to leave immediately, but I can leave no more than that. My forces were badly hurt. Your own people will have to do the rest. Burn the heathens, if that will make your task easier—”

  “But, your highness,” gasped Presbyter Matyas, “would that not be impious even for savages?”

  “It would be expedient, your holiness. My own soldiers will be buried and given a mass, as is appropriate. Ah, Princess Rusudani, you have come in good time. We leave now.” He turned away from the presbyter, who looked aghast at the task left to him. As well he should be. Looking up through the church doors, Jaelle could see bodies, and more bodies in a heap at the base of the stairs, and a few more trailing out along the road that led to the gate. Luckily it was a cool day, and still early in the morning, so the bodies had not yet begun to stink. Janos, mounting, held under one arm a jaran helmet, decorated with a white plume. His trophy. He tossed it to Captain Osman, and with an escort of about twenty soldiers, he started down the road toward the gate.

  Rusudani and Jaelle mounted horses brought for them. By their saddles, Jaelle saw that these were jaran horses, salvaged from the battlefield, and she was certain that Rusudani’s horse was the one that had belonged to Prince Vasil’ii.

  “Prince Janos!” Rusudani’s voice rang clearly, even above the jingle of harness and the noise of the soldiers moving off. Janos halted and waited for her. “I will need a wagon for my slaves. Princess Katherine should not walk like a common woman, and one of the men is sorely wounded.”

  In the harsh light of morning, he looked much sterner than he had appeared last night. “We are leaving the monastery now. I cannot afford to have my soldiers exposed to any unexpected attacks. If the wounded man is too weak, then he will die. But you are right about the princess. I will send Osman with a horse for her. She may ride with us.”

  “Then I will go to Presbyter Matyas myself,” said Rusudani, and reined her horse around. But Janos’s soldiers surrounded them, and there was no way for her to break through. In the end, she had no choice but to ride forward with him. They were his prisoners, no matter how deferentially he might treat his bride.

  Fuming and pale, Rusudani rode on, back along the road they had fled in on yesterday evening. Even Jaelle, inured to death along the caravan routes, was shocked by the remains of the struggle at the gate. Brothers of the church and a handful of soldiers had pulled most of Janos’s soldiers out of the wreckage, but bodies were piled three deep around the gate. Jaelle had to avert her eyes from the heaps of corpses that lined the road and surrounded the gate as they rode through.

  “Whatever else they might be,” said Prince Janos reflectively, “they’re stubborn fighters. I would like soldiers such as these as my allies instead of my enemies.”

  “You will have only their enmity now that you have killed Bakhtiian,” retorted Rusudani. “It was ill done.”

  He smiled, pulling up as they came outside the gate.

  Jaelle made the sign of Sundering with her right hand and clapped her left hand over her nose and mouth. The field of battle was carnage, slaughter; men and horses strewn across the sloping ground, congregated in grotesque heaps. A young man, black hair twined into three braids, lay on his back, eyes gaping open, one hand flung out, his helmet tumbled in the dirt beside him. Another had fallen beneath the body of his horse. Arrows littered the ground everywhere, like fallen stalks of wheat. Peasants from the village worked over the jaran corpses, systematically looting them, although it was clear that they had been given orders to leave the armor and weapons for Janos’s men. On a hill above, men in the brown robes of lay monks dug three great pits. Beyond, the forest lay dense and silent in the still morning air.

  “Now that Bakhtiian is dead, the command of the army will pass to other men, grown men. Bakhtiian has only the one son by the Jedan princess, it is said, and that on
e still a child. The power in the tribes will pass to the Sakhalin lineage, and I have an alliance with a Sakhalin prince. I am safe.”

  “So you believe,” said Rusudani with sudden fierceness, “but remember that I have been among them, and I believe they will avenge his death.”

  Raising one eyebrow, he looked inquiringly at her. “Do you suggest a course of action?”

  Jaelle stared at her saddle and tried not to take in a deep breath. The sight and stench of death oppressed her, and it frightened her as well. The battle had gone so swiftly, to leave such appalling remains. It was truly as the Holy Pilgrim said: “It is easier to deal death than to grant life, and so has God sent us, my brother to take death onto himself and I to reveal the promise of eternal life in God.”

  “Let us move away from this place,” said Rusudani softly, “and then I will speak to you of what may well save your life: That you have a more valuable hostage than you know among my slaves.”

  But her tone and her face gave away nothing. Janos regarded her with an expression so wintry that Jaelle shivered. Then, thank God, they rode on, away from the battleground.

  Ilya could drink. Vasha thanked the gods for that. But he would not, or could not, eat any of the hard bread. The others devoured it, if only to keep up their strength.

  Soon after Jaelle left, one of the captains came to drive them from the hovel. Vasha and Stefan propped Ilya up between them. Leaning all his weight on them, he managed to hobble along. He said nothing—he had not spoken since Kriye had thrown him—but he seemed to understand that they had to move and that he had at least to give the appearance of being able to walk. Stanislav Vershinin’s leg had stiffened during the night, but he could limp along, bringing up the rear of the pathetic little procession together with Nikita and Mikhail Kolenin. A grim-faced Vladimir walked alongside Katerina, in front, forming a fragile barrier between the khaja soldiers and his precious dyan.

  They plodded along the road that led to the gate. Vasha heard Nikita’s voice: At each body they passed, Nikita muttered a name, marking the dead. At the gate, Vasha stared at the pile of bodies and then at his father, who seemed unaware of the corpses thrown to either side, clearing the road. Nikita kept speaking. Although he could not have been able to identify each man by sight, they were thrown on top of each other with such disregard, he seemed to know each individual who had been left to defend the gate. But even his voice failed when they crossed through the gate and set out across the field outside.