The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  Vasha concentrated on Ilya’s arm across his shoulder, on the shift of Ilya’s ribs, bound by a cloth bandage, under his right hand. The back of his right hand brushed Stefan’s body at intervals, as they paced themselves, balancing Ilya’s weight between them, and Vasha found that comforting. A few bold carrion birds fluttered down and landed, only to be chased away by the khaja who wandered among the dead. Horses lay everywhere.

  “They’re digging pits,” said Mikhail in a low voice.

  “No. Look there. There’s a pyre being built as well. Surely they would not dishonor our dead by burying them. It was their betrayal, not ours. We fought fairly.”

  “It was our betrayal,” Mikhail reminded him.

  “Sakhalin’s betrayal,” Vershinin spat out.

  “I don’t understand,” said Nikita softly, “what Sakhalin thinks to gain by it. Or how he expects to explain how he escaped when Bakhtiian’s force was destroyed.”

  Vasha felt his father move slightly, as if that comment had gotten through to him, but when he turned to look at him, Ilya’s expression was washed out, taut with pain, and his gaze was seemingly fixed on Katerina’s boots, pacing evenly before them.

  They walked on. Vasha lifted his gaze to see a party waiting for them on the rise ahead, where the road forked into the forest. Even at this distance he recognized the prince and—thank the gods—Rusudani. His heart thudded, then jolted again as he realized that she was riding Misri! A gasped exclamation passed his lips at the same time as Stefan murmured, “There is Jaelle!”

  Khaja soldiers lined the road. Behind them mounted khaja men, unarmed, drove together a herd of horses.

  They trudged up the road. Vasha set his sight on Rusudani and Misri and counted in his head, each step, one hundred and three, one hundred and eighty-five, and just as they came up and stopped at the fork, their passage blocked by a troop of soldiers and three wagons bearing wounded men, Ilya fainted. His weight sagged onto Vasha and his head lolled to one side.

  To Vasha’s horror, Prince Janos rode forward toward them. Vladimir took a step back, placing himself between the khaja prince and Ilya. But Janos paused, took the reins of a spare horse, and halted before them. Hope flared: Perhaps he was going to show mercy, perhaps Rusudani had convinced him to offer the horse to the wounded man.

  Janos leaned forward and looked directly at Katya. “Princess Katherine. I have brought you a horse. It is not fitting that you should walk.”

  Vasha could not see Katya’s expression, but her back was stiff. “I will ride only if the other prisoners are allowed to ride as well.”

  Janos raised an eyebrow. “I think not, Princess.” He wore his armor, and his cloak was fastened over his shoulder with a plain bronze brooch. “The jaran are famous for their skills at riding. What if one of them escapes?”

  “Then I will walk with them.”

  “No. You will not.”

  Vasha was frankly amazed that the khaja still allowed Katya to wear her quiver on her back, with arrows and her unstrung bow, and a knife at her belt. Her hands opened and closed, and her shoulders shifted; Vasha could tell by these small movements of her body that she wanted to look behind her and dared not.

  “I will ride if the wounded soldiers may ride as well,” she said, but even by conceding so much Vasha knew she had lost the battle.

  Ilya shifted and Vasha felt him fight back to consciousness, eyes fluttering. His feet moved on the ground. With an immense effort he put some weight on them. Vasha glanced across him at Stefan, but Stefan stared blindly ahead, pretending not to notice.

  “I don’t have time for this,” said Prince Janos impatiently. “Osman, kill the wounded men if they can’t keep up with the infantry. Princess Katherine, you will ride now or you will be tied to the horse. I don’t care which it is.”

  A horse neighed piercingly. So suddenly that the movement made Vasha flinch, Katya leapt forward with her knife in her hand.

  Shouts. Soldiers broke into movement. Janos jerked his horse back, and he actually laughed as Katya’s knife skidded off his mail shirt. A soldier grabbed her from behind and pulled her back, hard, then screamed as she stabbed him.

  “Katya!” Vladimir yelled, but he moved back to stand more squarely in front of Ilya, and none of the other riders interfered either.

  There were shouts from farther away, a flurry of movement among the loose horses, and a sudden storm blew through the ranks. A horse reared and plunged into their midst and a startled Janos was almost thrown from his own horse, who was nipped and kicked aside.

  Katya was struck hard on the shoulder and, a moment later, overpowered and dragged to one side. Vladimir jumped out of the path of the horse, and Kriye stopped in front of Ilya and dipped his head, blowing, then nudged at Ilya gently.

  Ilya’s head came up. “Kriye,” he said through cracked lips. He let go of Stefan, swung an arm awkwardly over Kriye’s neck, and hung half on the horse and half on Vasha. Kriye stood perfectly still.

  Vladimir swore under his breath.

  Everyone was, of course, looking at Ilya now. “Oh damn,” Vasha whispered, tightening his grip on his father as if that could protect him.

  That any woman, and a prisoner at that, would so defy a prince astonished Jaelle. When the jaran princess leapt forward with her knife, she gasped and looked away, because Princess Katerina had been kind to her, and she could not bear to watch while she was killed.

  But already Rusudani moved forward, toward the others, and then a huge altercation ensued to one side with the horses.

  “He’s gone mad!” one of the grooms shouted, and another man screamed, and a furious stallion drove and kicked through the soldiers like a demon. Smaller than the great war-horses, still, the black horse’s rage prevailed. Until it calmed unaccountably and halted in front of—

  Rusudani’s lips moved in a silent word: “Bakhtiian.”

  Jaelle’s heart gripped in fear. What would happen when Janos discovered not just the deception, but that she had known of it?

  Rusudani urged her horse forward and the soldiers, startled, moved aside to let her through. “It is as I said,” she proclaimed, coming up beside Prince Janos, who had fought his horse to a standstill. “You did not believe me, but it is true. The dark-haired young man is Bakhtiian’s son.”

  Janos shook his head, clearing it. He said nothing as the horses were driven off to one side and the soldiers re-formed around him. One, cursing, had his shoulder bandaged. Swearing and kicking, Princess Katerina fought while four soldiers slipped her weapons from her. Janos examined her for a long while. The intensity of his stare made Jaelle uncomfortable. Seeing him looking at her, Princess Katerina glared back at him, but she looked tired, dirty, and beaten.

  Janos wrenched his gaze away from her and looked toward the horse. “This is the stallion your drover mentioned?” he asked Captain Osman.

  “Yes, your highness. Fought every man who came near him, but too fine a horse to leave behind. I had thought we could at least put him to stud.”

  Janos snorted. But his eyes did not leave the scene: The fine black stallion and the man to whom it had given obeisance. He turned to look at Rusudani.

  “Why should a princess insist that a common soldier be honored with her? She refused to ride unless the wounded men be allowed to ride as well. How can that young man be the son of Bakhtiian? He is too old.”

  “He is not the child of the Jedan princess but a child by an earlier wife, or a concubine. Such a son might not be granted the preference given to the children of Bakhtiian’s chief wife, but he is still valuable.”

  Janos studied Vasil’ii, who stared bleakly at him. “Who is this other one, then? He is dressed as a common soldier, but how would a common soldier be honored with a prince’s horse? Why would a king’s son carry him?”

  Jaelle waited. She felt as if the world held its breath, waiting for Rusudani’s pronouncement. A woman like Rusudani surely would not lie, before God.

  Rusudani’s face was calm, almost
serene. “He is a priest of their people. A holy man, whom they call a Singer. I know of this man because—” She faltered. Janos glared at her, looking skeptical. “Bring me his saddlebags,” she said suddenly.

  Janos gave the order, and two soldiers edged toward the stallion, but the horse seemed content now that he had found his master. Jaelle could not see Bakhtiian’s face from her position, but he did not stir. She was not sure if he was conscious.

  Rusudani hesitated before she opened the saddlebags. She bit down a jubilant smile as she withdrew a copy of The Recitation. “You see, he reads God’s holy word. I saw with my own eyes that he carried a copy of The Recitation, and I received permission from Bakhtiian to discuss the holy Recitation, the word of the Lord, with him. Think—if we can bring the jaran to the truth of God’s word, what greater victory could there be?”

  Janos’s gaze shifted first to Vasil’ii, then to Princess Katerina, and then back to Vasil’ii. Jaelle realized that he had already dismissed Bakhtiian, that he was measuring his captives with a new eye. “What is his name?”

  Jaelle gulped. Rusudani did not answer. Her lips tightened.

  Janos rode forward and looked down on Vasil’ii. “What is your name?” he asked him in Taor.

  “Vassily Kireyevsky,” he said. His voice did not even shake. Rusudani leaned forward, her fingers tightening on her reins, eyes fixed on the young man.

  “Princess Rusudani tells me that you are the son, illegitimate or otherwise, of the Bakhtiian. Is this true?”

  “I would be a fool to tell you if it was true,” retorted Vasil’ii.

  “That would depend on if I thought you could serve my cause better dead or alive. Is it you these men are protecting?”

  Vasil’ii hesitated only a moment. He lifted his chin bravely. “It is.”

  Of the jaran soldiers, not one moved or made a sound at this pronouncement.

  “Put him in chains,” said Janos to Osman, “together with the princess, and let them ride in a wagon as honored prisoners.”

  “Do not forget,” Rusudani said quickly, “that they are my slaves. You granted them to me already.”

  “As your husband, I am guardian of your inheritance. But it was only the men I gave you, Rusudani. The princess is mine.”

  A wagon was brought forward, Katerina and Vasil’ii bound and lifted in to its bed. Jaelle shuddered, watching Katerina, whose eyes were now cast down. She looked utterly defeated.

  “What do you mean to do with him?” Rusudani asked, without looking at Bakhtiian.

  Jaelle did risk a glance there. Stefan had an arm around Bakhtiian, holding him up, and she saw a glance pass between Stefan and one of the jaran soldiers. Together, they helped Bakhtiian to mount. He slumped over the black’s neck, looking half dead, and Stefan remained standing beside him, steadying him.

  Janos glanced at them and then, dismissively, away. “You are right. The young prince is a valuable hostage, bastard or not. After all, I cannot entirely trust Andrei Sakhalin, a man who would betray his own king, can I? I must thank you, Rusudani, for giving me this prize to hold in reserve.” His mouth quirked with a glint of a smile. “But I have gained no greater prize this day than you.”

  Rusudani’s cheeks reddened, and she bowed her head submissively. But Jaelle, this close to her, saw her eyes light in triumph. Osman called to them to march. As the column moved forward, no one stopped Bakhtiian from riding.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Forbidden Hall

  IT WAS PLANETNOON, AND rings striped the sky above the courtyard where Ilyana sat with her back against a stone bench and her gaze fixed on her hands. The latticework shadow plaited her fingers and arms in strands of light and dark. David was lecturing, sitting cross-legged on the white tile floor of the gazebo, but she was furious with him for letting Anatoly Sakhalin sit in on her tutorials. Only she couldn’t tell David that. Not without telling him why. And if he knew, then Anatoly would know David knew by that advanced form of communication adults possessed, comprehending whole spheres of existence with glances and a few choice words.

  It was so humiliating. Valentin lay stretched out on the bench behind her. He shifted, and she felt his shoulder brush her back. Right now she hated him, too, for the smirk she knew he had on his face. Anatoly sat to her right, but by keeping her gaze on her hands she could avoid looking at him. Her face burned.

  “The original acronym for nesh was neural-enhanced simulate holo,” David was saying in answer to a question Anatoly had asked, “but oddly enough, it corresponded to Jewish eschatology….”

  “Eschatology? I don’t know this word.”

  Every time Anatoly spoke Ilyana winced, because his voice triggered the memory of him standing in the twilight of the ruined caravansary with flowers in his hands.

  “The coming of the last days, of the end of the world.”

  “Why should the world end?”

  “Some people believe in a time of judgment, that the world will have a death just as each individual has a death.”

  “But unless we are released by fire into the heavens to dwell with the gods, then we return to the earth again… I beg your pardon. You were speaking of nesh.”

  She could hear David move his head because of the quiet snap of beads braided into his hair. “In ancient Jewish mystical traditions the soul was thought to have three parts. The highest part of the soul, called the neshamah, was believed to be not liable to sin and therefore immortal, that after death the neshamoah would preserve its individual existence. It’s more complicated than that, but in part because of the similarity of name, and in part because in the Jewish texts the scholars discuss the ‘treasury beneath the throne of glory’ and the existence of abodes that are beyond or on the borders of this world, a mystical movement developed based around the word ‘nesh.’ It flourished for about one hundred years after nesh first came into use and spread widely through what they then called cyberspace. The belief took root that somehow your nesh, your soul, was isolated and set free in that other place. There’s still debate over whether your soul, or your guise, or the part of you that travels in nesh, can live on in nesh after you die, and so on and so forth. That’s how the name stuck, or at least, that’s how some people trace the name.”

  “It does,” muttered Valentin into his hands. “The soul returns to its original home.”

  “What?” David asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you have something to say?” Anatoly asked quietly.

  To Ilyana’s surprise, Valentin heaved himself up and said sullenly but clearly, “The soul returns to its original home.”

  “That is a common belief,” said David.

  “Do you believe that?” Anatoly asked.

  David chuckled, and Ilyana glanced up in time to see him smile and lift a hand as if he was warding something off. “I just collect information, I don’t debate it. I have no opinions. But I will say this: Whether because of what we created or what we tapped into, there are a lot more levels in nesh than any one person can explore in a lifetime. Who am I to say?”

  “Then are you one of those people, as Valentin is, who claims that this world, the solid world, is only the surface?”

  David smiled at Ilyana, trying to draw her in, and Ilyana smiled wanly back at him, not wanting to disappoint him. “That old canard. I think it’s founded on a misunderstanding of what reality is. The world system itself is made up of layers upon layers of complexity, grown out of billions of years of existence. Where I think that the view of ‘the surface world’ stumbles is forgetting that anything that is artificially constructed must have a maker.”

  “Like the worlds? Or the stars?”

  “More like Duke Naroshi’s palace. I have faith, Anatoly. The rest is quibbling. Obviously the world of nesh was artificially constructed, but that doesn’t mean that it couldn’t have existed on some level before we knew of it, or could access it, or that it might not exist on levels we’re not yet aware of. But let’s get back to the pa
lace. We’re going to go as a group to the map room. Anatoly, you can just look around. Ilyana and Valentin and I are going to be identifying arches. We established the chain of entry and exit yesterday, so let’s all set up and meet there.” He gave Ilyana another searching look, but she ignored him and moved to kneel in front of the latticework.

  From behind her, David spoke again. “And as they say in old fairy stories, when you go into the haunted forest, ‘stay on the path.’ ”

  As she placed her hands on the lattice, she felt Anatoly kneel beside her, damn him anyway; even though he was an arm’s length away she felt surrounded, entangled, in the field of energy that emanated from him. She closed her fingers over the lattice—

  The web of light spread out beneath her, spanning oblivion. She took three steps, a half turn, and descended into a gateway which David had constructed, through which the others entered. No one else had seen the web, but she always entered through it. She did not know why.

  She waited in the gateway, a street bordered by arches, most of them facades. One led into a facsimile of the Memory Palace (Ilyana wasn’t sure if David had somehow installed his copy of it in here or if it already existed here); a second, padlocked, into Valentin’s desert, and a third into the jungle which David had unwittingly created. After a while she got nervous. What if the others had already come through and were waiting for her on the other side? She stepped through the fourth open gate… and stopped on a circle of black marble that lay in the center of a round plaza that marked, as far as Ilyana could tell, the dome under which the company lived. A man paused at the edge of the plaza and looked back at her. It was Anatoly. He moved, and she stiffened, but he halted abruptly, raised a hand to acknowledge her presence, and walked down one of the avenues that led out of the plaza, disappearing as it curved out of view.