Jaran

by Kate Elliott

“No, she is the same. Arina will stay with her. But ten riders just came in. Mikhailov’s jahar slipped away last night, and it looks as if they’ve ridden hard south. Sergei sent word that you may have the ten riders for your journey to the coast. That way,” he added, looking thoughtful, “you can leave today, since you ought to gain enough of a head start that Mikhailov cannot catch you now. With the ten riders, you’ll have double his men, counting the pilgrims, that is.”

  But Bakhtiian was frowning. “What about the rest of Veselov’s jahar?”

  “They’ll stay between Mikhailov and our camp. I don’t think you need worry that Mikhailov will attack us, even if his riders outnumber ours.” Anton grinned. “He’ll save his fighting for you, Bakhtiian.”

  “But if Mikhailov has swung south, then my men, and yours, from the shrine, will ride straight into him because they’re riding here.”

  There was a moment of coiled silence.

  “Petya is with them,” said Vera, an odd, unsettling note in her voice. She looked sidewise at Ilya, but he was staring south.

  The three men watched him, waiting.

  “Niko! Tell Tasha to stay here. Choose ten of our riders to stay with him, to guard—to remain as escort for the khepellis. On no account are they to allow any of the pilgrims to wander out by themselves—just as we’ve set our guard these past nights. Anton, we’re riding south. All the riders here and the rest of my men.”

  “Very well, Bakhtiian. What will you tell Sergei, when we meet up with him?”

  “What will I tell him?” asked Bakhtiian. He shrugged off the question, energy taut through every line of his body. “Vladi, come. They’ve already too many hours on us.” He strode off, and even with his limp, Vladimir had to hurry to keep up with him.

  “Does he think Sergei will simply hand command of his jahar over to him?” Anton asked, more curious than anything else.

  “Yes,” said Niko. “If you will excuse me.” He inclined his head toward Vera and left, leaving the two cousins side by side at the fire.

  “You may hope Petya is killed,” said Anton suddenly, “but you will never get him, Vera. Never.” He smiled.

  “I hope your mother dies,” said Vera.

  “So do I,” replied Anton amiably. “Then Arina won’t have to be polite to you anymore just for Mother’s sake. If you will excuse me.” He inclined his head with exact courtesy and left her standing alone while the fire flamed and roared and the water bled steam into the chill morning air. Vera did not move for some minutes. Then, seeing several women approaching the etsana’s tent, she tossed her golden hair back over her shoulder with a flourish and went to greet them.

  They left the shrine at midmorning, delayed by a protracted argument with Yeliana, who wanted to come with them. There were extra horses, so the case was not utterly unthinkable, but Mother Avdotya remained firm: Yeliana could not be released that easily from her service to the gods.

  “I don’t know how well she’ll serve the gods,” said Yuri as they finally rode away, “if she’s forced to do it.”

  Tess had waved once but Yeliana had only turned and run back into the shrine, weeping. “I think Mother Avdotya is only trying to protect her. She’s very young. How would she fare, Yuri, riding out with us? Who would take her in? She’d be alone.”

  “You were alone.”

  “Yes, and I would have been dead very soon if Ilya hadn’t found me. Yuri, why was your tribe so hospitable to me and not to Vladimir?”

  Yuri frowned and rubbed his chin. “I meant to say because he’s an orphan but now I think it was because you weren’t jaran. You were different. Perhaps it is better that Yeliana stay at the shrine. And yet there must be a woman somewhere who has no daughters and would take her in.” He shook his head. His fine hair shone in the sun. “But who is to know if the bond would hold, if times grew hard or the woman got sick, and they shared nothing between them but words.”

  “But you and I, Yuri, are not related by anything but the gifting of a tent.”

  “You and I, Tess,” he said somberly, “have been related by something much stronger than words or a tent since the moment we met, and you know that is true. We shared a mother once, and died, and now we have found each other again.”

  “Yuri. I never thought of it like that. As if we were looking for each other. It was a strange enough path that led me to you.”

  “Poor thing,” he said with a grin. “Now I feel responsible. If you hadn’t come looking for me, you wouldn’t have ridden into Ilya.”

  “Yuri,” she said suddenly, “Yuri, have you ever thought—would you ever think—of coming back with me to Jeds?”

  He flushed and then looked away from her for a moment before he met her gaze again. “I will miss you, Tess. I will miss you bitterly. But this is my home.”

  He went ahead, riding in front of her up the narrow trail that switchbacked up the hillside to lead them out of the valley of the shrine of Morava. Somewhere behind them lay Hon Garii’s corpse—if Ishii had not already fed it to the recyclers. Tess shuddered.

  “Are you cold?” Yuri asked when the trail spilled out onto the plain and they could ride side by side again.

  “No, just thinking.”

  “I’m sorry, my sister, but I can’t.”

  “No, you are true to yourself, Yuri. That’s what I love you for.”

  He glanced ahead up to the front of the group, where Kirill rode with Mikhal. “Kirill asked you.”

  “I can’t take him, Yuri.”

  “No. I suppose not. He would hate Jeds, and you would grow to hate him for hating it. And Ilya will never go back, unless, of course,” he grinned, “we ride so far south that our army comes at last to the very gates of the city. If I may beg your pardon for suggesting it.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing. I am the heir to Jeds, so by marrying me—”

  “No, I won’t believe that he married you for that—or at least, if he did, he didn’t know he was—I mean, that part of him might have known, but not that he thought about it. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yes, I think I’m beginning to understand Bakhtiian tolerably well.”

  Yuri laughed. “By which you mean that you think that Bakhtiian wants you for yourself alone, and yet, that your brother is Prince in Jeds is inseparable from who you are.”

  “What?”

  “I’m being wise, Tess.”

  “Gods,” she said, and laughed. “You’re being completely incoherent. But perhaps there’s some relation between being wise and being unintelligible.”

  “Only to those,” said Yuri with dignity, “who have not yet achieved wisdom.” He paused, and then said in an altered tone: “Tess. I will only say this once. Stay with us. I know I ought not to ask it of you, that I have no right, but I have this—this feeling that you will outlive Ilya.” He was speaking quickly, in an undertone, as if he had very little time to say what he thought. “Not that that would be any surprise; he’s ten years older than you, and with us going to war against the khaja—but still, there would be time for you to go back to Jeds later, wouldn’t there? Or if you must return now, couldn’t you come back here after? Or better yet, stay here for a few years and then go. Does it have to be one or the other? Why must it all be so final, Tess?”

  Because you can’t understand the distance I have to travel. She did not say it. Instead, she smiled sadly at Yuri and glanced away without answering.

  “Look,” she said, “why is Petya riding in? Isn’t he on scout—Yuri, what’s wrong?”

  Petya reined his horse aside by Kirill. A few words sufficed.

  “Turn around, everyone!” Kirill shouted. “Back to the shrine. Mikhailov’s jahar is ahead of us.”

  They had all pulled up their horses. Yuri suddenly grabbed Tess’s reins and jerked Myshla’s head around, kicking his horse.

  “Yuri, what—?”

  “He means it. Ride!”

  Myshla broke into a canter. Tess glanced back. What she saw almost stopped her hear
t. First two, then four, then ten riders cleared the far swell of grass, pausing to survey the group below.

  As one, the eleven riders turned to follow Tess and Yuri. Tess kicked and Myshla galloped. Gods, there could be nothing worse than this. If they could gain the shrine—

  Then Konstans appeared from the south. His pace as he cleared the rise in front of her and galloped down toward them was fueled by fear. “Kirill!” he cried. “Mikhailov is behind us. He’s blocked the trail down to the shrine—” Then he caught sight of the riders beyond. He jerked his horse to a mincing halt and stared, horrified.

  “Cut loose the remounts,” shouted Kirill. They turned in their saddles, sabers out, and sliced through the leads that held their extra horses.

  A second group of riders, too many to count in one glance, appeared from the direction of the shrine. Myshla fought against the tight rein. Beside her, Yuri cursed under his breath.

  “Petya and Mikhal at point. Tess and Yuri right behind them, and the rest behind them, with me.” Kirill’s glance touched her for an instant, searing, before he looked past her to Mikhailov’s jahar. Up beyond their scarlet-shirted figures, a lone bird circled. Kirill studied the movements and positions of the jahar with astonishing swiftness. “We’ll break east. Wait.”

  Two men conferred on the forward rise, gesturing, staring down at them. Above, three feather-light clouds, high and white with a hint of blue, edged the sky.

  “They’ve got men east already,” said Mikhal. Tess was amazed at how calm his voice was.

  “Damn them,” said Kirill. Briefly, a cloud covered the sun. “West. Now!”

  They broke.

  It was a mad race. Immediately riders from the south and north galloped to cut them off. Tess gauged her speed and theirs, and guessed where they would converge.

  “We’ll make it,” she gasped.

  And then, from behind, Kirill shouted: “Let Yuri and Tess through! Petya, home!” Petya and Mikhal split off, and Myshla stretched out into a full gallop, Yuri’s Khani easily keeping up. Tess threw a glance back over her shoulder. Gods, how could she not have known: Veselov’s riders had no better horses than Mikhailov’s men. Already two men were fighting, sabers flashing in the sun. All along, Kirill had meant to get her free if he could not save the others.

  “Damn it, Tess!” Yuri shouted. “Ride! There’s ten men headed straight for us.”

  Behind, the race had disintegrated into a ragged line of skirmishes, trailing after Tess and Yuri like so much flotsam. She was just leaving them behind.

  “Tess!” Yuri cried.

  She hunched down over Myshla’s back and rode after him.

  Except that Mikhailov had long since encircled them. She had a moment to reflect on that before Yuri whipped Myshla’s rump with the end of his reins, causing her to shy left, while he veered right, straight into the oncoming clump of riders.

  “Yuri!” she screamed. The others—oh, God, the others she could leave behind but not him. She jerked Myshla hard around and rode after him.

  The ten riders scattered from his charge, but a few sliced at him as he plunged through. She saw him sway, and then she was on the first one.

  He cut at her, and she parried. His eyes went wide with shock as he realized she was a woman, and she threw a wild sweeping backstroke that cut across his chest. Then he fell from his saddle, and she could see Yuri again. Yuri, parrying desperately against three men. Something struck her from behind, a stinging flash, but she kicked Myshla toward Yuri, drove up behind him, hard against one of the riders, jarring him off his stroke. She thrust her saber at him almost blindly. Another man closed beside her, shouting.

  “Move off!” a man yelled.

  Suddenly she and Yuri sat alone, side by side. His face was white. Silence had descended on the field. She had an instant’s comprehension of every position within her sight: that was Mikhailov, not five meters from her, Vasil and Leotich on either side of him. Other riders she did not know flanked them, poised to advance. Farther on, she saw Kirill and Konstans and a few of Veselov’s riders. Kirill was holding his saber in the wrong hand. His face was streaked with blood. Halfway between the two groups, a fair-haired man lay still upon the grass.

  Yuri swayed in his saddle. His face looked as if all the blood had drained from it. “Damn you, Tess,” he whispered. “What good is it if you don’t get free?”

  “By the gods,” said Dmitri Mikhailov, “it is the same woman.”

  “Damned fools,” snarled Leotich. “Doroskayev said Bakhtiian had a woman with him, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “No matter,” said Mikhailov. “It’s the cousin I want now. Kill him, Vasil.”

  “I won’t,” said Vasil. “He’s never done you any harm. Let him go.”

  Far away a voice hailed them, shouting something about another jahar.

  Yuri swayed again. His head lolled back, and blood trickled from his mouth. Slowly at first, then tumbling, he fell from his horse.

  Wind stirred in her hair. From above, a bird called, a loud, raucous cry.

  “Make sure he’s dead,” said Mikhailov, and began to turn his horse away.

  Sheer, cold rage obliterated everything else. She drove Myshla forward. She would kill him—

  Someone shouted a warning. He turned. She raised her saber and cut. Two things hit her at once. Myshla lurched and plunged beneath her, toppling. She fell hard on her side, breath expelled from her lungs, and scrambled to her feet.

  Only she did not get there. A body slammed against her. Pain tore deep into her side. Far away, a man screamed her name.

  “Khaja pig, I’ll kill you!” cried Vasil, and the weight was dragged off her. “She’s a woman, curse you to Hell.”

  “Veselov! Let him go!”

  The flurry of movement confused her. When it cleared, she saw only Vasil, standing over her. His hair shone like spun gold in the sunlight.

  Her vision blurred in a haze of light and shadow, and then darkened.

  She breathed. Grass tickled her nose, and she sneezed. Pain lanced through her. The day was silent. Everyone was gone. She stared up at the white trail of a cloud far away, and the bright, high, solitary sun. A bird called, once, twice.

  She forced herself up onto her hands and knees. Noise pounded in her ears, shouting and horses all mixed until it made no sense. She crawled, dragged herself forward because she knew he was here, somewhere close by.

  Then she was there, kneeling, staring down at him.

  “Yuri.” Her voice sounded distant, detached. He lay utterly still. There was a transparent cast to his skin, to his pale lips, as if his purity were infusing his mortal form. The tears ran down her face, falling on his lips and on his cheek. His eyes fluttered and his lips moved, moved again.

  “Tess.” It was the barest whisper. She bent down close to him. The scent of blood and grass drowned her. He lifted one hand and held it, wavering, searching for her. She caught it before it could fall back, pressed the dry skin to her lips, kissing it again and again as if her kiss could heal him.

  Suddenly, his gaze focused on her. He blinked once, slowly. “Don’t cry,” he said, puzzled. “Live.”

  “Yuri. Yuri.” Even her tears did not wake him. She put her cheek against his lips but nothing stirred. “Yuri!”

  “Tess! Oh, gods, Tess.”

  “Where is she?”

  “There. There. Gods, look at the blood. Vladi, help her up.”

  A hand closed on her shoulder.

  “Leave me alone!” she cried, and she swung wildly to dislodge it. Lost everything in the pain that ripped through her side. She slumped forward over Yuri’s body.

  “Leave her alone!” That voice she knew. She stirred weakly. “Make Kirill lie down. Gods, he’ll die where he’s standing. Petya says you were ambushed.”

  A few gasping breaths, and then Kirill’s voice, weak and strained. “Mikhailov’s jahar. We rode straight into them.”

  She felt a hand come to rest on her neck. By the way it felt, gentl
e and implacable at the same time, she knew it was him. “Come, my wife,” he said in a voice so strangely cool that she wondered why he spoke so oddly to her, “you must move now.” His hands shifted her, and she choked down a moan and was suddenly cradled in his arms, looking up at him.

  “Ilya,” she said. And then she knew what was the only important thing in the world. “Mikhailov.”

  “Tess, don’t speak.”

  “No. Mikhailov. Wanted Yuri. Dead.” His face changed. Looking into his eyes, she felt fiercely that what they shared now would always bind them.

  “I’ll kill him,” he said. “I’ll kill him myself.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and because she felt safe, held by him, she let pain wash her into oblivion.

  “You love her,” said Kirill. His voice rasped with pain.

  Bakhtiian simply sat, holding Tess against him as if he meant never to let her go. Blood leaked onto his fingers. He stared at her face, and if he had heard Kirill, he gave no sign.

  “Vladimir,” said Niko. “We need tents for the wounded. We need fires and hot water. Send Anton Veselov here and send Sergei Veselov with riders to track Mikhailov.”

  “But, Niko, shouldn’t we carry the wounded back to Veselov’s tribe?” Vladimir asked.

  Niko glanced at Kirill, who stared white-faced at Ilya and Tess from where he lay on the ground, and then at Yuri’s slack body, and farther, at the other riders strewn like so much wreckage across the field. “For those who can, yes. But some of these won’t live so long. Now go.” Vladimir nodded and ran off.

  Niko knelt beside Kirill. “Let me see, boy,” he said brusquely. “No, don’t argue with me. This is a bad cut here but mostly blood.” Kirill gasped and clutched at Niko’s arm. “Yes, that one’s to the bone but it’s clean. But what happened to this shoulder?” Tears came to Kirill’s eyes as Niko probed the wound, and his breathing grew so ragged that Niko pulled away.

  “I can’t feel my right arm,” Kirill whispered hoarsely. “Nothing.”

  “Gods,” Niko sighed under his breath. “Well, young fool,” he said roughly, “if you’re still alive so far, I think you’ll live to regret it. Just lie still. I’ll bind those two wounds and then I’ll leave you until I can look to the others.”