His Conquering Sword: 3 (The Novels of the Jaran)

by Kate Elliott

  “What of it? I never wanted to be dyan.”

  “You did once. When you came back to the army.”

  “Oh, that—” He broke off. When he came back to the army, he had been sure that Ilya would give in to him eventually, just as he always had before.

  “Oh, that!” echoed Karolla scathingly. “She’ll install her own brother as dyan instead of you. That’s how far you’ve fallen. What will you do then? Become a common rider again?”

  “A common rider? I think not.”

  “If not ride, then what? Why should Arina keep you in camp if you do nothing? Where will you go? Where will we go? You have no place here, Vasil, if you’re not dyan. Or perhaps she’ll take pity on you and allow you to ride in Kirill’s new jahar, the one Bakhtiian is granting him. They say he’s to ride south past the mountains and the great river, or east on the Golden Road, to discover which lands offer their submission freely to Bakhtiian and which must face his wrath.”

  He recoiled. “Ride under Kirill’s command? Never.”

  “Then what? What, Vasil? Gods, you’re of no use to anyone but yourself. You never think of anyone but yourself!”

  “Karolla!” This was too much. Karolla could not doubt him. He grasped her hands and drew them up to his lips. “Never say so, my heart. You are—”

  She wrenched herself away. “Don’t embarrass me further by acting this way in public. What do you intend to do?” Quite suddenly, her eyes filled with tears, but she smothered them by wiping at her skin ruthlessly, so hard that it surely must hurt her. “Or do you still think Bakhtiian will take you in?”

  Tess, pregnant, had a glow about her that made her look almost beautiful, and Vasil admired the way she moved, with a rotund grace unimpaired by her swelling belly. Karolla, pregnant, simply developed blotchy skin, and she waddled already, often with one hand on her back.

  Vasil folded his hands together and regarded his wife with what he hoped was a measured expression. “I won’t do anything rash, Karolla. I promise you that. If I must speak with Bakhtiian, then I’ll do so.”

  Immediately he saw that he had said the wrong thing. Her mouth puckered up. She bit at her knuckles. Then she spun and walked away from him. She rolled more, a rocking, ungainly gait. Valentin darted out from behind the screen of a tent and, throwing a single hostile glance back at his father, grabbed a handful of her skirt into a hand and clung to his mother, walking along beside her. Vasil knew he should go after them. Karolla always gave in to his coaxing. But right now he felt—empty more than anything.

  He turned and walked back out to the edge of camp. A jahar riding in blocked his path. He stopped to let them by, and there, riding at her ease at the front of the line, sat his newly-widowed sister. She caught sight of him and as quickly, dismissively, her gaze flicked away again. Her fine, handsome face was disfigured forever by the mark of a marriage that no longer fettered her. Petya had died twelve days ago, of wounds suffered in the battle to halt the Karkand governor’s flight. Vasil himself had supervised the burning of Petya’s body, two days ride out from the besieged city, in marshland, his spirit sent back to the gods along with those of twenty other riders from the Veselov jahar. His saber and his clothes—those not ruined by blood—Vasil returned to the one of Petya’s three sisters who traveled with the Orzhekov camp; she had wept copiously. Vera had not mourned with one single tear, not even beside the pyre. Without the least sign of grief, she had watched her husband’s body burn. The next day, it was her arrow shot that had brought Karkand’s governor down at last, mired as he was by that time in boggy ground, his horse blown, his last loyal followers dead or straggling behind him. But even then, she had shown no emotion except perhaps disappointment that the chase was over.

  The jahar passed him, and he hurried away back across camp. But by the time he came to the Company’s camp, they had finished for the day. Already the sun sank below the far rim of hills. A sudden, restless discontent seized Vasil. Its grip, like a strong hand, clutched hard at his chest. He did not want to go back to his tribe. Nothing held him here. He had, indeed, no place, no place to go, no place where he truly belonged.

  In time, his wandering led him on a spiraling path in to the heart of the camp, to the Orzhekov encampment. Guards challenged him. He used Tess’s name like a talisman, and none barred his way.

  By now it was dark. He hesitated, past the innermost ring of guards, and instead traced a route that led by discreet shadows and hidden lines of sight around to the back of Tess’s tent. Out beyond, at Sonia Orzhekov’s tent, laughter and talking and singing swelled out on the night air. Back here, silence reigned. He took his chance, and snuck in, ducking down, crawling, by the little back entrance that Tess had not sewn shut, despite her threat, past the tent wall, sliding out beyond the inner wall of heavy tapestries into the inner chamber of Tess’s tent.

  A lantern burned. By its light, Vasil saw Ilya seated beside his bed. Ilya twisted around to stare. Vasil settled into a crouch, waiting, waiting for the reaction, for the burning anger, for the sharp sweetness of Ilya’s glance, on him.

  Instead, Ilya rose gracefully to his feet and touched two fingers to his lips: silence. There, at his feet, lay Tess, deep asleep on her side, her hair spilled out on the pillows, her shoulders bare above the blankets. Ilya walked quietly around her and paused by the entrance flap that led to the outer chamber, then vanished behind it. Vasil had no choice but to follow him.

  “What do you want?” asked Ilya in a reasonable tone when Vasil emerged into the outer chamber. He stood at his ease with one hand brushing the khaja table that crowded the far end of the space.

  Vasil prowled the chamber, and Ilya let him, watching him as he touched each item: the carved chest, the cabinet, the table and chair, the nested bronze cauldrons and the bronze stove, a knife, the lush tapestries lining the walls, the two ceramic cups and bronze beaker set on the table. All of it, an odd intermingling of jaran and khaja; not one piece of it out of place by a fingerbreadth.

  “You’ve nothing rich here.” Vasil lifted one of the ceramic cups. In the dim light, he traced the simple floral pattern that twined around the cup.

  “I don’t need riches. Heaven has granted me its favor. The gold I leave for the tribes under my command.”

  Vasil pressed the cup against his own cheek, as if its ribboned surface, held so often by Ilya or by Tess, could whisper secrets to him. “I don’t understand you.” He said it softly, provocatively.

  Standing mostly in shadow, still Ilya burned. Unlike the actors, who channeled light through them and shone with its reflected glow, Ilya was the light.

  He regarded Vasil gravely, by no sign betraying the least dismay at Vasil’s presence. “No. Years ago I thought you did, but now I wonder.”

  Vasil set down the cup. It made a hollow tap as it met the surface of the table. “You never doubted me before.”

  “I loved you once, Vasil, and never doubted you then because I never saw you clearly. I love you still, in that memory. But it is ended.”

  “Ended! For you, perhaps, or so you say now, when it’s convenient for you to do so.”

  “We’ve had this discussion a hundred times. I see no point in continuing it now. It is ended.”

  “Then what was it you gave me, that night in this tent? That wasn’t love?”

  Ilya moved, coming around the table. He stopped not even a full arm’s length from Vasil, and his closeness was like balm. He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers down Vasil’s cheek. His touch was painfully sweet. Then, on an exhalation of breath, he leaned forward and kissed Vasil once, briefly, on the mouth. And pulled away, and stepped back.

  “That is all it was, the memory of love. Eleven years ago, I gave you up because I thought I had to. I—” He broke off. “You don’t understand what I did. If you knew—No, never mind that now. The gods have their own way of punishing our arrogance. Only you must understand, that I deliberately sacrificed you, Vasil, in the Year of the Hawk. That year.”

  The
ceremony of exile. Ilya had spared him one thing alone, that day those many years ago, and that was the audience of the entire tribe. He and his aunt had performed the ceremony of exile in front of the men of the jahar. Vasil had always thought it the mark of Ilya’s love, that Ilya had shielded him from the greater humiliation. Now he did not know what to think. He could not bear that Ilya could stand here and speak to him so evenly, so calmly. Gods, was it true? Did Ilya no longer love him? He discovered that his hands shook, and he closed them over the back of the chair to steady himself.

  “I’m not sure you ever truly loved me, anyway,” Ilya added, grinding dirt into the fresh wound. “Not as love is true, caring more for the other person, for who she is, in and of herself, than for what she brings you.”

  “By what right do you stand there and judge me? How can you know? Or is this by way of convincing yourself that you never truly loved me either?”

  “No, I loved you. That memory at least is true.”

  “And by such scraps I must feed myself now? That is generous of you, Ilyakoria.”

  “Keep your voice down. I don’t want to wake up Tess.”

  “Because you don’t want her to find us here together?”

  “No, because she’s tired. Gods, Vasil, Tess would be the last person to condemn us for being here together. As you must know.” Outside, a bell rang three times, softly. Ilya wrenched his gaze away from Vasil and listened for a moment, head cocked to one side. “Send them in,” he said in a clear, cool voice.

  Vasil knew an instant of such utter despair that he thought his legs would give out beneath him. Only his grip on the chair held him upright. It could be anyone, coming in to speak to Bakhtiian. Had Vasil been just another visitor—a dyan, a rider, any man from the tribes—Ilya would feel no embarrassment in being found with him in the privacy of his wife’s tent. Another man might sit in conversation with Bakhtiian to all hours of the night, without it being the least bit improper. And if Ilya was now as willing to be found here alone with Vasil as he would be if his companion was Yaroslav Sakhalin or Kirill Zvertkov or Niko Sibirin or Anton Veselov—gods, what if it was true? What if Ilya no longer loved him?

  The entrance flap swept aside and two figures came in.

  “Dina!” Ilya started forward, amazed, and embraced his niece. “Have you just ridden in? Where is the prince?”

  “About two days behind us, with the pack train. I rode ahead. Uncle.” She hesitated. She broke away from him and turned to look directly at Vasil. Her eyebrows lifted.

  Under her scathing, skeptical gaze, Vasil flushed.

  “Who is this?” demanded Bakhtiian.

  “I see I’ve come at just the right time. Where is Tess?”

  “Sleeping. Come here. What’s your name?”

  Out from behind Nadine emerged a boy. He looked to be a few years older than Ilyana. With his black hair and dark eyes and narrow chin, he bore a striking resemblance to Nadine Orzhekov. Except that Nadine was not old enough to have a child that age. And her mother and younger brother had both been killed the same year Ilya had exiled Vasil.

  “Vasha, this is Bakhtiian. Pay your respects.”

  The boy’s chin trembled, but he drew himself up bravely enough. “I’m Vassily Kireyevsky. My mother was Inessa Kireyevsky.”

  “Inessa Kireyevsky! Gods.” For a moment, Ilya simply stared at the boy.

  As well he might. It was hardly an auspicious introduction. Vasil remembered Inessa as a nasty, selfish little beast who had foolishly believed she could make Ilya love her more than he loved Vasil. For an instant, Ilya’s gaze met Vasil’s. Oh, yes, they both recalled those days well enough.

  Ilya turned a piercing gaze on his niece. “Perhaps you can explain, Dina. Why are you traveling with Inessa Kireyevsky’s son?”

  “His mother is dead. Mother Kireyevsky gave the boy into my hands, and I promised—I promised to bring him to you, and to see that he was safe.”

  “Why?”

  Vasil watched the boy, who watched Bakhtiian. More than watched. The boy stared greedily at Ilya from under lowered lashes, just as a man weak with thirst stares at a cup of water being borne up to him.

  Nadine smiled, looking wickedly pleased with herself. She reminded Vasil much more of her grandmother than of her mother; her mother Nataliia had taken after Petre Sokolov, who was a mild-tempered, even-going man, rather than Alyona Orzhekov. Vasil had never liked Ilya’s mother, and he didn’t much like the look in Nadine’s eyes now.

  “They didn’t want him. His mother never married.”

  “But how could she have a child, then?” asked Vasil, surprised. A moment later, he felt the movement behind him.

  “Isn’t Inessa Kireyevsky the one you lay with out on the grass, under the stars?”

  Without turning, Ilya replied. “You’ve a good memory, my wife.”

  “For some things.” Tess came forward. Her calves and feet were bare, but a silken robe of gold covered the rest of her. The fine sheen of the fabric caught the light, shimmering as she moved forward through the chamber. With her unbound brown hair falling over her shoulders and the high curve of her belly under the glistening silk, she looked doubly exotic and nothing at all like a jaran woman.

  “You’re the khaja princess,” said the boy abruptly, jerking his gaze from Bakhtiian to her.

  “Yes. What’s your name again? Vasha?”

  “Vassily Kireyevsky.”

  “Well met, Nadine!” Nadine hurried forward, and the two women kissed.

  “You look as big as a tent,” said Nadine.

  “Thank you. You look sly. If Inessa Kireyevsky never married, then whose child is he? How old are you, Vasha?”

  “I was born in the Year of the Hawk.”

  “And you’ve no father? Did your mother never marry?”

  He hung his head in shame. “My mother never married. That’s why my cousins wished to be rid of me.”

  No wonder, reflected Vasil, a little disgusted. What place was there in a tribe for a child who had no father? The boy watched Ilya from under lowered eyelids, gauging his reaction.

  “Inessa never married?” asked Ilya. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Evidently it’s true,” said Nadine. She laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, a surprisingly protective gesture. “They didn’t want him, Ilya, and they treated him poorly enough. I thought he’d be better off here. Especially since Inessa Kireyevsky claimed up until the day she died that you were the boy’s father.”

  “How can I be his father? I never married her.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Tess, sounding astonished and yet also enlightened. “Vasha, come here.” Like a child used to obeying, the boy slid out from under Nadine’s hand and walked over to Tess. Tess examined him in silence. And it was silent, all of a sudden. Not one of them spoke. They scarcely seemed to breathe. After a bit, she tilted his chin back with one finger and frowned down at his slender face. “It could be. There’s a strong enough resemblance, once you look for it.”

  “But, Tess—”

  “Don’t be stupid, Ilya. How many times must I tell you? If you lie with a woman, there’s a chance you’ll get her pregnant whether you’re her husband or not.” She lifted her hand to touch the boy’s dark hair. “Vasha, do you know why your mother never married?”

  He looked back over his shoulder, at Ilya. “Because she thought that Bakhtiian was coming back to marry her. But he never did. And she never wanted anyone else.” Then he flushed, as if he expected a scolding for his presumption. Ilya wore no expression at all. Nadine smirked.

  Tess sighed. “Well, it’s possible. I’m beginning to think it’s true. And anyway, I’ve been waiting for this.”

  “Waiting for this?” demanded Nadine. “What do you mean?”

  “Surely this was inevitable?” Tess regarded the others, puzzled. “You don’t think so?” Her hand traced a path down the boy’s neck and came to rest on his shoulder. He seemed to melt into the shelter she offered him.

  Vas
il struggled to make sense of what Tess had said. Certainly, a man might get his lover pregnant—it was possible, but it went against every custom of the jaran to consider that man the child’s father; a woman’s husband was the father of her children. So it was; so had it always been; so had the gods decreed at the beginning of the world.

  Ilya made a sudden, choked noise in his throat. “Gods, I didn’t think she meant it when she told me she was pregnant. What woman would want to get pregnant without a husband?”

  “A woman who wanted you very badly. Is it just a coincidence that he’s named Vassily?”

  Ilya flushed. The dim light covered the stain to his skin, but his body, the sudden stiffness in his shoulders, the way his right hand curled around the edge of the table and then let go, transmitted the emotion in the gesture. “I thought she was joking,” he said roughly. “How was I to know she meant it?”

  Vasil let go of the chair, only to find that his hands ached, he had gripped it so hard for so long. “Do you mean to say that you told her to name the child after me?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  The boy flashed an astonished glance toward Vasil and then sidled farther into the shelter of Tess’s arm.

  “Be that as it may,” said Tess, “I think you did the right thing, Dina. Vasha. Is that what you wish? To be our son?”

  The boy gaped at her. Vasil scarcely knew what to think.

  “Tess!” Ilya looked astounded. “We can’t take him in. That’s absurd. I’ll raise no objection if Nadine wishes to foster him, but—”

  “This isn’t your choice to make, Ilya. Or perhaps I should say, you already made the choice. You lay with her. She bore a child.”

  “But, Tess—”

  “Why should she lie? For all those years, why should she lie? Look at him. Gods, Ilya, just look at him. He’s your son.”

  “But—”

  “Not by jaran law, it’s true. But by the laws of Jeds, whether bastard or not, this boy would be recognized as your son.”

  “This isn’t Jeds, and neither are the laws of Jeds my laws.”