by Kate Elliott
Ten paces from him, it stopped. He regarded it. It regarded him. Although he could not by and large tell the difference between individual Chapalii, he knew this was not Duke Naroshi. Nor did he think it was a steward.
“Who are you?” it asked in perfectly intelligible khush.
“I am Anatoly Sakhalin, a prince of the Sakhalin tribe and grandson of Elizaveta Sakhalin, etsana of the Sakhalin tribe and by her wisdom and her years foremost etsana among all the tribes.”
“A prince? Do you truly name yourself a prince?”
“Who are you?” he asked, a little annoyed by this inquisition.
“You are young in your power. You are of the—” Its voice had the resonant tone of a bell, and the shadows seemed to capture and hold the echoes of its words in the dark interstices of the hall while it studied and classified him. “—human race. A male.” The light had an odd quality here, planing the Chapalii’s head into a smooth oval without shadow or highlight. It had a narrow face cut by a lip-less mouth and its head broadened in back—or perhaps that was just a trick of the light. “How did you come here?”
“I came with the Bharentous Repertory Company. My wife is one of the Singers—one of the actors. I accompanied them.”
It lifted one hand—elongated fingers that were, like the plants he had ridden over, bulbous at their tips—in a gesture obviously dismissive, mimicking a human gesture. “Here.”
“Here?” Anatoly glanced back at the trellis arch that framed the doorway. “I climbed up the stairs.”
“It is forbidden for males to walk in the hall of monumental time.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said politely, realizing that she must be a female, and certainly by her bearing a great etsana. “I was not aware that I needed permission to explore here.”
She blinked. The movement was doubled: first a thin lid like hazy glass followed by a thicker, opaque lid. An instant later he realized that it wasn’t a reflex. It was a command.
The hall of monumental time melted around him and reformed into the plaza that anchored the map room.
“My brother will attend you in the Garden of the Thousand Petals of Gold,” her voice said, but she did not appear.
“When?” he asked into the air, amazed and startled.
“When you reach there, he will attend you, as is fitting.”
“But how will I get there? I can’t get through—”
“For a prince of the blood, the doors in a duke’s palace are always open.”
A wall of air hit him like a blow, and he reeled and found himself kneeling, hands clutching spasmodically at the latticework. Stunned, he lifted his head to a thousand echoing gasps, the ringing of his ears, and looked straight into Ilyana Arkhanov’s face.
“Where were you?” she demanded, then looked up over his shoulder. “Valentin! Go get David, you idiot!”
Anatoly put his hands down on the cool tile of the gazebo floor. Its solidity reassured him.
“I don’t know. Gods, and I’ve got a headache. Have you ever heard of the Garden of the Thousand Petals of Gold?”
“Anatoly!”
He turned. The movement sent spears of pain through his eyes.
“Anatoly!” Diana knelt beside him and put her arms around him. “Do you know how long you were in there?”
He knew better than to attempt to shake his head. “No.”
“Hours. Just hours. It’s evening. What happened? Where were you? Goddess, I was so worried.”
That she was worried pleased him, and caused the headache to recede slightly. “I’m not sure,” he said, and then smiled at her, and her beauty worked to soothe away more of the pain. “But I’m to meet with Duke Naroshi.”
“But no one meets with Duke Naroshi,” said David, above him. “No one but Charles.”
“Nevertheless,” said Anatoly, “I am to meet with him. I am a Sakhalin, after all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Under the Protection of the Gods
VASHA HAD NOT RIDDEN in a wagon since he was a small child. With his wrists and ankles bound, he had no way of holding on, so he jolted along and now and again was slammed against the side of the wagon. Katerina sat against the backboard. The fetters on her wrists looked like massive iron bracelets.
“Katya!” he whispered.
The bleak fury in her eyes troubled him. “We must kill him,” she said in a low voice, accompanied by the steady tramp of Janos’s infantry alongside the wagon, “to avenge the insult to our tribe.”
“Sakhalin?”
“The khaja prince. Sakhalin will be brought before the tribes and given the sentence he deserves.”
She spoke so calmly that Vasha could not bring himself to say: If his treason is ever discovered. He glanced back, but the other captives were lost to view, fallen back among the infantry. Was his father even strong enough to stay mounted? He could see nothing, no sign of Kriye. Ahead, Princess Rusudani rode beside Prince Janos. He watched her, her blue scarf not quite concealing dark wisps of hair, her cloak fallen in folds over Misri’s sleek back.
How could she have betrayed him like that? Except she hadn’t betrayed him. She had done it to throw suspicion off Bakhtiian. He felt a stab of jealousy, remembering how she had looked at his father.
“Katya,” he began, and stopped, realizing how foolish it was to even want to discuss such a thing, now that they were prisoners and his father, perhaps, dying. But Katya stared at nothing; she had not heard him.
So they jolted on. He dozed, woke, and found a way to brace himself in a corner so he wasn’t jostled so badly. They stopped at midday, were given ale and bread and allowed to relieve themselves. Went on. At dusk the army halted, and Vasha watched from the wagon as four tents were thrown up. He saw Nikita and Mikhail and Stefan, under guard, hauling water in to one of the tents, but he did not see his father. After a while, guards hoisted them out of the wagon. Bound by chains, he hobbled along after Katya. It was by now too dark to see the other prisoners. He and Katya were put in a tent and left there, sitting on a rug.
“The prince will ransom us,” said Katya suddenly.
“No. He must know he will get the blame for Bakhtiian’s death. I think we are surety for his safety.”
“It might be,” she replied, musing, and Vasha was heartened by the life in her voice, “but even if Tess acknowledges you as Ilya’s child, no one else truly does.”
“But to the khaja I am,” he said, and could not help but feel triumphant as he said it. To the khaja he mattered.
“That’s true. Aunt Tess says that to the khaja in these parts, it is not what woman gave birth to a child but which man fathered it that matters. But how could you truly know?”
“Perhaps the women here do not take lovers once they are married.”
“Barbarians!” But she gave a little laugh. “Gods! How could Ilya have been so stupid?” Then her voice dropped. “Listen, we must think about escaping. We must get word out—”
Lantern light illuminated the tent walls from the outside and voices rose as someone arrived. Katya fell silent. She lifted her chin and glared at the entrance just as one of the captains came in, followed by Prince Janos. A soldier stood next to them, holding a lantern.
“You speak Taor,” said Janos to Vasha.
“Yes.”
“Where did you learn it?”
Vasha studied him and wondered whether it was wiser to answer or to act defiantly. Without his armor on, Janos was still a sturdily-built man, strong, and he did not look all that much older man Vasha. Probably it was wiser to remind the prince of the power of the tribes. “I learned it from Terese Soerensen, who is Prince of Jeds.”
“She who was married to Bakhtiian while he lived.”
Vasha glanced at Katya, who lifted her chin infinitesimally. “She was.”
“And she tolerated a rival to her own children to live in Bakhtiian’s tents?”
“She adopted me,” said Vasha proudly.
“She adopted you? What does t
his mean?”
Vasha thought quickly. Wiser to downplay the connection, or magnify it? If Janos thought he was too important, would he kill him outright, or be more likely to treat him well? Think like a Sakhalin, he thought abruptly, and chose to risk the latter course. “She acknowledged me in the eyes of the tribe as Bakhtiian’s son.”
Janos said something in his own language to his captain before turning back to Vasha. “So your mother was a concubine?”
“What is concubine?”
“She was not Bakhtiian’s wife.”
Katya was chewing on her lower lip, and Vasha felt her alliance with him, her concentration, almost the physical act of willing him on, as a great well of strength. “She was not.”
“Then you are a bastard.”
“He is also,” said Katerina, speaking up suddenly, “Bakhtiian’s only adult son.”
Janos’s gaze leapt to her. She stared back, and Vasha could see her grow by degrees more angry as Janos examined her with immodest directness, not bothering to hide his interest. “What of you, Katerina Orzhekov? Are you also a bastard?”
She flung her head back. “Of course not! I am the daughter of Sonia Orzhekov and the granddaughter of Irena Orzhekov, who is chief etsana among all the tribes.”
“I have been told that the Sakhalin are chief among all the tribes.”
“They are First among the Tribes, it is true, but the Orzhekovs rule the tribes now.”
“Ha!” Janos turned and addressed a long comment to his captain, in which they heard the words “Sakhalin” and “Orzhekov” several times. He turned back to them. “I beg your pardon for putting you in chains, but you understand that you are too valuable to me to risk losing.”
“Among our people,” retorted Katya, “a woman would never be treated in this way.”
“I assure you that you will be better treated once we reach the safety of my court. Now. Is there anything you need? I will see that food and drink are brought.”
“I wish the rest of our companions to be brought here to us, and to travel with us,” said Katya.
“No. They are slaves now. They have a separate place.”
“We need to pray, in the manner of our people,” said Vasha quickly, because he could see that Katya was angry and likely to say something intemperate. “For this, I would request the presence of our priest.”
“If he is still alive, I will have him escorted here by Captain Maros.” Janos offered Katya a little bow—Vasha could not tell if it was meant to be ironic or respectful—and left.
Katerina took in a big breath and let it out. “That was clever of you,” she said into the darkness. “Of course you aren’t important, but how is he to know that? That is why the khaja are weak, that they pass everything through the male line. But if he thinks you are valuable, then you can negotiate with him.”
“The Kireyevsky tribe is important!”
“It’s a granddaughter tribe, you know that as well as I do. But this is something Andrei Sakhalin could not have expected: Prince Janos has an alliance with him, but Sakhalin won’t imagine that Janos thinks you are also a prince.”
“No doubt Sakhalin thinks I am dead along with all the rest of them, if he thinks of me at all, which I doubt. But Katya.” His voice dropped. “Do you suppose that Yaroslav Sakhalin is part of the plot?”
“No. Yaroslav Sakhalin never had to throw his support behind Ilya, but he did. Why should he withdraw it now? And in such a dishonorable way? He would never do such a thing, as you would know if you ever bothered to listen to him instead of just rebelling against him.”
“Let’s not start that again! I think I have learned my lesson. But what does Andrei Sakhalin have to gain?”
She hitched up against him and rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair, for comfort, and because with his wrists bound he could not embrace her. “I have thought about nothing else all day.”
“Nothing else except the revenge you intend to exact on the khaja prince.”
“It’s true,” she mused, “that he does not seem quite so horrible now, although he’s terribly immodest. But it must be Galina.”
“Galina? Oh. Of course. Sakhalin has the two sons by her, and because Nadine has no sons, Galina’s boys are as likely to inherit the dyanship as any other Orzhekov child.”
“Perhaps, more likely, because their father is a Sakhalin. Surely Yaroslav Sakhalin and Mother Sakhalin will not hesitate to suggest such a course, if Bakhtiian dies.”
“I don’t know,” said Vasha. “It seems so rash, to do what he did.”
“Andrei Sakhalin is not a thoughtful man.”
“Huh. I suppose you would know. You’re the one who took him for a lover, which is pretty disgusting if you ask me—”
She butted him with her head, knocking him over. “I may take any man I want as my lover. He’s no worse than any other.”
“In your blankets, you mean? I didn’t know one man was the same as another, but perhaps we all feel the same in the dark. Oof. Don’t kick me when I’m down.” He struggled up to sit, almost laughing. “Katya, I—” Leaning forward, his mouth brushed her cheek and he realized with a start that her skin was wet with tears. “Katya! What is it?”
“Oh, Vasha.” She said nothing more, just cried silently, and the tears ran down her face and slid into his mouth.
Voices sounded from outside. She pushed away from him just as the entrance flap was thrown aside and Ilya staggered in and promptly collapsed. Impassive soldiers, stepping over him, set a flask of wine, a loaf of bread, and a hank of freshly-cooked meat in front of Vasha and put a chamber pot down against the tent wall. They skirted Ilya and went out.
Vasha flipped over to his knees and hopped over to Bakhtiian. “Father! Father!” He put his hands on Ilya’s neck, careful to keep the chains from scraping his skin, and found a pulse. It raced, but Ilya’s eyes were shut. Katya managed to capture the flask of wine with her fingers and she struggled over as well, her skirts getting tangled in her manacled legs.
“Here. Give him this.”
They put a few drops of wine on his lips and after a moment he licked them off. They gave him a few drops more, and then he actually drank some. Katya laboriously hitched back over to the other food and pushed it back along the carpet. She tore off a hunk of bread and moistened it with wine. Without opening his eyes, Ilya ate it.
“Father,” said Vasha in a low voice. “Can you hear me? Did Stefan tend your wounds?”
Ilya’s lips were bled pale by the effort of eating. “Cold.” His voice was so faint that the rustling of the guards outside practically smothered it. He was so weak that the guards had not even bothered to bind him in any way.
“Here,” said Katya briskly, “eat some more bread.” She gave him more of the wine-soaked bread and he swallowed it. “Vasha, we’ll have to lie on either side of him. We don’t have any blankets, and I don’t think it would be wise to call attention to him.”
They ate the rest of the food, saving the last of the bread and wine for Ilya, for the morning, and lay down on either side of him. Bakhtiian shivered once, twice, and took in a sharp, hissed breath, then stilled. He was cool, but slowly Vasha felt him warm, felt his body against his back like comfort, although surely it was Vasha giving comfort to his father, not the other way around.
But he remembered long ago nights, when Natalia and Yurinya were still quite small, and how the babies, as he called them, would crawl in to share their parents’ blankets on stormy nights and cold nights. During the day the illusion might be maintained, that Vasha was truly part of the family, but on those nights, lying alone, knowing that Talia and Yuri could snuggle in to the safety and security of their father and their mother (Tess sometimes threw them back out; Ilya never did) and knowing that, somehow, he could not, he had cried sometimes. But now he pressed his back up against his father, giving him warmth, and Vasha felt, oddly enough, safe.
Across Ilya’s body, Katerina murmured to herself. The rise and fall of her vo
ice reminded him of Rusudani praying, but Katya seemed to be talking reverentially to someone who wasn’t there; he couldn’t hear the words, but he caught a name once, and again: Mariya. Her voice soothed him. His father’s breathing slowed and gentled. Vasha slept.
Katya woke him before dawn. Together, fumbling in the darkness, they woke Ilya and got the last of the wine and the bread down him. When the guards came for them, Vasha drew himself up.
“This man will ride in the wagon with us,” he said imperiously, and refused to budge.
Captain Osman was summoned.
Vasha broke in before the captain could even ask what was going on. “It would be a grave insult to our gods to let a priest of our people fall behind in the dust. He will ride in the wagon with us until he is fit to ride himself.”
One of the guards objected.
“We don’t have time,” said Osman in Taor, cutting him off. “Throw him in the wagon.”
So Ilya rode with them, lying on the carpet with part of it thrown over him. Kriye allowed himself to be tied to the wagon on a long lead-line.
“They’re in a hurry,” said Vasha, watching as the tents were thrown down and piled into wagons.
“They fear pursuit.” Katya stroked Ilya’s hair, and he opened his eyes, focusing on her, and shut them again. “They know that jaran riders can easily catch up to infantry.”
“How soon will they come looking for us?”
Katya shrugged. “In a few days they’ll wonder why we haven’t returned yet and they’ll send a scouting force. After that, they’ll send a whole ten thousand to burn Urosh Monastery to the ground.”
“And find Prince Janos’s trail.”
“We have only to keep Ilya alive, and to survive ourselves, Vasha. The army will come for us.”
“And for the others, too.”
She squinted out down the line of wagons, which had begun to lurch along the road. “Yes. But we can protect Ilya best. The others must fend for themselves, for now.”
“Unless by protecting Ilya we bring him to the prince’s attention.”