by Kate Elliott
Ilya was speaking with someone—two people now, she could tell by the voices. Each time he spoke, she turned toward the sound without at first realizing what she was doing. She shook her head, chuckling, and wrapped a blanket around herself and waited. Soon enough she heard him move across the outer chamber, heard him pause, and when he pushed aside the curtain it was with both sabers in one hand. He looked preoccupied. Then he saw her, and his entire expression changed. He sighed, set the sabers down, and embraced her. They fell back onto the pillows.
“Tess.” He shifted. “That was Niko. He tells me that—”
“Ilyakoria. I don’t care what Niko told you.”
He laughed, his lips cool on her skin. His hair, so lush and so dark, brushed her mouth. It smelled as if it had been freshened in rain, touched with the scent of almonds. “It’s true. I don’t either.” She kissed him, pressed her face against his neck, breathing him in.
Suddenly he drew back, cupping her face in his hands. “Tess. I know who you must be.” His eyes were brilliant with longing as he gazed at her, his expression so vulnerable that her heart ached with love for him. “You are the Sun’s Child.” She shook her head, not understanding him. “The Sun’s daughter, come from the heavens to visit the earth.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she hugged him fiercely. “No, my love, no,” she whispered. “I’m just Tess. Oh, Ilya, I love you.”
He kissed the tears away, each one, carefully, thoroughly. “No more of those. I will stop complimenting you.”
“Oh?”
He smiled. “We don’t need words, Tess.” He kissed her.
And again.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“Now let life proceed, and let him desire marriage and a wife.”
—ANTIPHON THE SOPHIST
ILYA KISSED HER AWAKE. She put her hands up to embrace him, and realized that he had dressed. She sat up. Outside, a man sang in a rich tenor about a fair sweet girl who had kissed him by the river.
Ilya had pulled the curtain back just enough to let in the light that illuminated the outer chamber. She looked down at herself, naked, and then at him. “Somehow, I feel that you have me at a profound disadvantage.”
“Not at all.” He slid one hand smoothly and searchingly from her hip to her shoulder, letting it come to rest at last on the curve of her neck alongside the black necklace. He kissed her. “Who is more distracting?”
“You are. I was asleep.”
He laughed and stood up. “Come, my wife, it is late, and time to strike camp so we can leave.” He pulled her up to her feet. She kept hold of one of the blankets and let it drape around her, feeling a little shy, here in the morning. “If you don’t mind his help, Vladimir will assist you in striking the tent.”
“I don’t mind his help, but Ilya, who does it belong to now that Mikhailov is dead? Or is it his daughter’s?”
Ilya picked up the weaving and shook it out. “This is a Mikhailov pattern, and Mikhailov’s mother was a famous weaver. He had no other kin, and his daughter is an Arkhanov, I believe.” He shrugged. “It is mine now.”
“Yours!”
He folded the weaving with reverence and lifted his gaze to her with perfect serenity. “Fairly won. In any case, Bakhtiian’s wife must have as great a tent as every etsana.”
“Perhaps you ought to consult with Bakhtiian’s wife first to see what she wants.”
“No, Tess. In this matter I will not compromise. I will no longer be compelled to take my meals at my aunt’s tent. And you, my wife, must be given the consequence you deserve.”
“What? As the only woman in the tribes whose consequence derives from her husband? What will your aunt say?”
“My aunt will say nothing. The jaran are mine now. Don’t you understand? Mikhailov was the last one who rode against me.” He crossed swiftly to her and embraced her, holding her. He sighed against her hair. “Forgive me, but I must ride out now. Vladimir will stay with you.”
“Stay with me?” But he kissed her and left, leaving her to stare as the curtain swayed from his passing and then stilled. She dressed in the jahar clothes Vasil had given her, belted on his saber, and went out. Vladimir sat with his back to the tent. She walked past him and ran to look down into the hollow, but even as she searched, she saw a group of about thirty riders start away, Ilya in their midst. Even though she might have shouted and gotten his attention, she refused to do anything so undignified. Below, women loaded the few wagons left to Mikhailov’s people. Children sat quietly on bundled pillows. Wounded men lay on the ground. Farther, beyond the hollow, lay a circle of wood and other fuel within which lay the bodies of the slain. Mercifully, it was too far away for her to recognize any of them.
“I thought they would have lit that already,” she said, turning back to Vladimir.
He shrugged, that peculiarly immature copy of Ilya. “It took them this long to gather it. They had to break up a few of the wagons, too.” He blinked. “That isn’t the shirt Ilya gave you.”
“No,” she said absently, watching.
The jahar had paused by the pyre. A single woman stood alone there, and it was she who threw on the torch. Flames caught, smoldered, and then licked and grew. Smoke rose. The riders reined their horses away and disappeared out onto the plains. The woman turned and trudged back into camp. The other women ignored the pyre, except perhaps to pause and glance its way. As if, Tess thought, their pain was already too much to bear.
She recognized now who the woman was, walking back through the hollow and still walking, up toward Tess and her father’s tent: It was Karolla.
“Vladi,” said Tess, wanting support, and Vladimir came and stood beside her.
Karolla stopped before her. For an instant she stared at Tess as if the sight of a woman in jahar clothing shocked her. She put a hand to her eyes, caught back a sob, then lowered her hand.
“I beg your pardon,” she said in her soft voice. “Do you need help with the tent?”
“Thank you,” Tess stammered. “But surely it is your tent.”
“I would not want it even if it was mine,” said Karolla fiercely. “It is Bakhtiian’s now.” She hesitated. “Perhaps you do not understand. This was my father’s mother’s tent, not my mother’s. In any case, I left the Arkhanov tribe and my mother when my father left them to ride against Ilya, so even if it were her tent, I would have no right to it. Those of us who left are no longer welcome there.”
There was a kind of bitter but practical fatalism about Karolla Arkhanov that made Tess very sad. “You must have loved your father very much,” she said softly. She found she could not look at Karolla, knowing she had made Ilya promise her that he would kill Mikhailov.
“I loved him,” said Karolla simply, “but I left because Vasil Veselov marked me.”
“Vasil marked you!”
Karolla’s smile was bittersweet. “Oh, I know I’m not a handsome woman. He only marked me to force my father to take him into his jahar. I knew he never loved me, but he has always been kind to me.” She flushed, and Tess could see very well that she loved her husband. She paused, and the color rose even higher in her cheeks, as if she was struggling. “Do you—do you know what happened to him?”
My God, she doesn’t even know, and she’s almost too proud to ask. “Yes. I saw him. He was wounded but alive. He got away safely, Karolla.”
“Thank you,” said Karolla. “There is one wagon left, for this tent. Shall we take it down?”
Tess could only obey. Vladimir remained silent, standing at her side, and then helping them strike the tent. He seemed less sullen, if not more thoughtful. After her own small tent, this one seemed huge and unwieldy, but she soon discovered how cunningly it was constructed, so that three people could strike it without difficulty.
As she was rolling up the last rug, Vladimir paused beside her. “Tess,” he said in a low, warning voice. She stood up.
Vera came up the rise toward them, holding a child in her arms and another by the hand. Golden
-haired, gorgeous children: as soon as they came close enough, Tess knew whose they must be. The girl detached herself from Vera and ran to Karolla.
“Mama,” she said, and her face was streaked with tears, “when is Papa coming back?”
“Hush, child. Help me with these pillows, if you please. Can you throw them in the wagon?” The little girl did so, and Vera deposited the other child, younger and not obviously boy or girl, into the back of the wagon.
“Karolla,” said Vera, ignoring Tess and Vladimir completely, “Mother Yermolov says she will drive this wagon. I am going with the wounded.”
“As you wish, Vera,” said Karolla. Vera descended back to the line of wagons forming with its escort of riders. The familiar, acrid scent of ulyan wafted over them, borne by the breeze. “Well,” said Karolla, “if you do not mind, Terese Soerensen, may my children ride in this wagon?” The little girl had climbed in and sat huddled next to her sibling.
“No. I mean, you needn’t ask my permission.” The last thing she wanted was to have poor Karolla begging her for favors. “It isn’t as if—” She halted suddenly. “Vladi, how am I getting back to camp?”
Vladimir looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean, Tess?”
“Did Ilya leave a horse for me?”
“Why would Ilya leave you a horse? There are women here, after all.”
“Ah,” said Tess. “Of course. Certainly I would go with the women. Naturally you must ride in the wagon as well, Karolla. I am sure Mother Orzhekov and Mother Veselov will treat you kindly when we reach camp, and make some place for you.”
Karolla glanced behind at her children—at Vasil’s children. “Do you think so?” she asked, suddenly looking far more tired than a woman so young ought to look. “Here is Mother Yermolov.”
Mother Yermolov trudged up the hill with a child and an adolescent girl in tow. She was old and wiry but hale, and she had the look of a woman who has outlived all of her children. She stopped and inclined her head respectfully to Tess, and then inspected the animals in the traces before climbing into the seat. Karolla and the adolescent helped the child into the wagon and got in after her.
“Well, Tess,” said Vladimir, “I’ll ride close by, in case you—well, Ilya said to stay close by you.”
“Thank you, Vladi,” she said, and was left standing, watching him go, while the women waited for her.
“Perhaps you will sit next to me,” said Mother Yermolov. “The rest are ready to go, and we must lead, of course.”
Given no choice, Tess climbed up beside her. “Thank you,” she said, determined to be gracious.
“I don’t envy you, my dear,” said Mother Yermolov, almost gruffly, and they started forward.
By the time they had gone over the second hill, Tess hated the wagon. It was slow and clumsy, and every bump jolted horribly. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was better back among the pillows, but she could not bring herself to look back at Karolla or her beautiful children. She stared enviously at the riders, free as they ranged along the line. True to his word, Vladimir stayed beside her but it was impossible to talk to him, and she had nothing to say to him in any case. Vasil’s saber, stuck awkwardly to one side, rubbed into her thigh. The wagon lurched. Tess grabbed at the side and got a splinter thrust deep in her hand. Cursing, she pulled it out with her teeth.
“You are not accustomed to traveling this way,” said Mother Yermolov mildly. “Put your hands—yes, there, and there. That’s right.”
Behind, the adolescent girl was talking to Karolla.
“But Yevgeni wasn’t found, so he must have gotten away. He’ll find me again!”
Karolla murmured something indistinguishable.
“But is it true that she is Bakhtiian’s wife? That they lay together yesterday?”
“Valye, where are your manners?”
Valye lowered her voice but kept on. “It’s just it seems cruel to love with death all around.”
“Better to be loving than mourning.”
A pause, and then a whisper: “They say she comes from a great khaja city in the south, but she can’t. She’s so clean, and khaja are always filthy. Is it true she rode with Bakhtiian’s jahar? That’s what I’m going to do, Karolla. I’m going to learn how to fight, and then I can ride in jahar with my brother. When he comes back. I won’t go back to my aunt’s tribe. I hate her.”
“Valye,” said Karolla in a weary voice, “what choice do you have? She is your kin, your mother is dead, and though Yevgeni protected you this long, he is gone now. You’ve no one else.”
“I won’t,” said Valye, and subsided into silence.
The wagon lurched on.
“What will all these women do?” Tess asked Mother Yermolov finally.
“As Karolla said. They will go to their kinswomen.”
“They must all of them have lost fathers or brothers or husbands.”
“Or sons.” The old woman shrugged. “The men make war. We can do nothing about that. We have our own lives.”
Tess turned to stare at the column behind. Women and children sat in the wagons, many with wounded men cushioned in their laps or on pillows beside them. Somewhere a woman sang, a pure soprano—as sweet as Fedya’s voice and just as sorrowful. The escort rode alongside, up and down the line.
“And in the spring,” said Tess, “Bakhtiian will lead the jaran against the khaja and the settled lands.”
Mother Yermolov’s eyes had a glint about them, a spark, as if at some old joke only she knew. “Then I pity the khaja women who are mothers and sisters and wives.”
“But you were with Mikhailov. Do you now support Bakhtiian?”
“Mikhailov is dead. Bakhtiian killed him fairly. I hold no grudge against him. It is men’s business, after all.”
The wagons halted briefly at midday. Tess climbed down and decided, as soon as she felt earth beneath her boots, that she would walk the rest of the way. But though she had thought the wagons slow-moving, once they started again, she found them passing her. Even knowing who she was, women offered her a seat as their wagons passed her, but she shook her head and plodded grimly forward. The wagons passed her one by one until at last the final wagon rolled alongside and, gaining, moved ahead of her. Four bloodstained, unconscious men lay among pillows. One, young and black-haired, looked dead. Vera sat with them. Her gaze met Tess’s for an unmeasurable instant. Her face was white. Then Vera looked away as if she had not seen her. Tess walked on, letting the gap widen bit by bit in front of her. But then, it was impossible to lose their track in the grass, and in any case, Vladimir still rode over to the side, not too close now but never losing her from his sight.
A shout came from far ahead. Riders crested a distant ridge and poured down toward them. The lead wagon lurched over an intervening rise and was lost to Tess’s view. The others followed, one by one. A single rider cantered down the line.
“Niko!”
He pulled up beside her. “Tess! Why are you walking here?”
“Have you ever tried to ride in one of those things?”
“Ah, no.” He dismounted. “Well, I suppose when I was a child.”
“I can’t ride in those wagons.”
“Look. We’ve fallen behind.” He waved at Vladimir, and Vladi reined his horse forward and cantered away. “I’ll walk with you.” The grass brushed at their boots. Tess plucked a stem, peeling back the brittle leaves that embraced it. “Tess,” he said in an odd voice, “how did you get that shirt? Weren’t you in women’s clothing when you were taken from the camp? Oh, damn.” He led his horse away from her and moved the reins so that he could mount.
The comment was not directed to her. About a dozen riders had crested the near rise and rode down toward them. Ilya was riding Kriye. Tess had to look away from them because together they looked so handsome.
He dismounted. “Tess!” He was so transparently ecstatic that she couldn’t help smiling. “Tess. Why are you walking back here?” He stopped in front of her, so close that if she leaned forw
ard she would touch him. His red shirt had a pungent, fresh scent, and his hair was slightly wild, mussed by the wind. She reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. He seemed about to say something. Instead, he swayed into her, slid his hands up her arms, and kissed her fiercely.
After a bit, Tess opened her eyes. She broke off the kiss. “Ilya, everybody is watching.”
He whirled, separating himself from her so abruptly that she had to take a step back to maintain her balance. Yes, twelve men, with Niko; men from his jahar. They were all grinning. Only a few attempted to look away. Ilya took three steps toward them, halted, and fixed his stare on Niko.
“Sibirin! Don’t these men have anything to do?”
Niko swung up on his horse. “Yes, Bakhtiian. Of course they do.”
“Gods! Then see that they make themselves busy. Do you understand me?”
“Certainly, Ilya. Of course. We were just leaving.” They rode away.
Ilya muttered under his breath.
“Does that mean what I think it does?”
“Forgive me. Oh, Tess, it’s been such a long day.” He took a step back toward her, halted. His mouth thinned, and his voice dropped until it was so low she could barely hear him. “Where did you get those clothes?” He closed the distance between them and reached to touch the embroidery on the sleeve of the shirt. “This is Vasil’s. Where did you get this?”
“Vasil gave them to me. He cut me free when I was tied up in Mikhailov’s tent, and he gave me his saber.”
“What happened to him?” She could not interpret the expression in his voice.
“He—he was badly wounded and had no choice but to retreat.”
“You are lying to me. If I know Vasil, he ran.”
“He was wounded.”
“Are you defending him? What happened to the clothing Nadezhda Martov gifted you?”
“It’s in the wagon. With your tent.”
If he noticed her emphasis, he ignored it. “Is that how you treat things given you in friendship? Cloth of Martov’s dye and weave is precious, and I expect you to remember that. As soon as we get to camp you will take those clothes off. And that saber. Give them to Vera. I don’t care what you do with them but I will not have them in my tent.”