His Conquering Sword (23 page)

“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.

Vasil 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.”

“That may be, but by the laws of Jeds, and by the laws of Erthe, I acknowledge him as your son, and by that connection, as my son as well. And by the law of the jaran, by my stating it in front of witnesses, it becomes true.”

As though felled by a bolt from heaven, the boy dropped to his knees in front of Tess and began to cry. Ilya took a halting step toward them, stopped, took another step, and froze.

“You think it’s true, don’t you?” Vasil murmured, absorbing this knowledge from Ilya’s face, which, the gods knew, he could read well enough. Yet how could it be true? And how could they take in a shamed child and yet reject
him?
A hand touched his elbow. He jumped, startled.

“I think we should go, don’t you?” asked Nadine with a falsely sweet smile on her face. She took him with a firm grip on the elbow and gave him no choice but to go with her.

Outside, the two guards looked amazed to see him emerge with her, as well they might, since they hadn’t seen him go in. She led Vasil past them without a word, on into the night.

“How can it be true?” he demanded of her.

“Veselov, just because the jaran have one set of laws doesn’t mean that the khaja hold to the same set of laws. Gods, though, I didn’t know what Tess would do. For all I knew, she’d want Vasha strangled.”

“Then you believe it, that the boy is Ilya’s son? Ilya never had any intention of marrying Inessa Kireyevsky.”

“I suppose you’d know. What were you doing in there tonight, anyway?”

“That’s none of your concern!”

Nadine snorted. “I could make it my concern, if I wanted to, but I don’t. Well, go on, Veselov. Get. Go home. I don’t think you need my escort.”

Yes, definitely, Nadine Orzhekov reminded him of Ilya’s mother, except that Nadine didn’t seem to have the same ruthless ambition. Vasil hadn’t been sorry when Alyona Orzhekov had been murdered; neither had he been surprised. Only, of course, the result of that awful massacre had been his own exile. Sometimes, when you wished too hard for something, you paid a bitter price.

Nadine left him standing there, just strode away, leaving him in the darkness. Stars blazed above, the lanterns of heaven. The moon hung low, as sharp as a saber’s curve against the night sky. Far in the distance a scattering of lights marked the twin hills of the khaja city, torches raised on the battlements. For a long time, Vasil simply waited.

After a long while, the stars wheeling on their blind path above him, he realized that he might wait out here all night and through the day and on into night again, and the one person he most wished for would make no rendezvous with him, here or anywhere. Like a weight, the knowledge dragged at him. Like a sundering force, it severed forever the dream from the truth. Ilya would not ever again meet him as anything or anyone, except as Bakhtiian. Vasil thought that he might just as well die as live without hope.

O
UT ON THE PLAINS,
the jaran army had not seemed so threatening to David. But now he had ridden along its wake; he had seen the Habakar countryside devastated by its passing. Here on a ridge looking far down at the broad fertile valley that harbored the city of Karkand, the tents of the jaran camp covered the lands surrounding the city like some ominous stain. Like an amoeba engulfing its prey. Like a gloved hand crushing a delicate flower within its fist.