The Law of Becoming: 4 (The Novels of the Jaran) (39 page)

“But surely you have an opinion?”

“God has great powers, my lord, which lie beyond the understanding of men. It is our duty to be faithful to His word.” And because the princess was not there to hear, she added, “And to Our Lady’s example of endurance and fidelity.”

He grunted. “Ask Princess Rusudani when it might be convenient for me to visit her, to ask her of these things.”

“Yes, my lord.”

God and Our Lady were merciful. He took himself off. The jaran girl at the fire swung into step with him and began flirting so outrageously with him that Jaelle was amazed by her audacity. But it was true he was a handsome man, and not nearly as old as she had expected him to be. And so strange, too, to speak to her so casually, to ask her
opinion
!

“Would you like to go to the church? I could escort you there.”

She had been so intent on Bakhtiian that she had forgotten about Stefan. An odd impulse struck her, and she tried out a smile on him, and promptly regretted it. He practically stammered, he looked so taken aback.

“I… I… perhaps you… I thought that…” Words failed him.

“
Are
you a slave?” she asked suddenly, wondering why he had not left with Bakhtiian.

“Am I a
what
?” he yelped. Bakhtiian’s escort had moved on, after Bakhtiian, and the young woman who had helped her now chatted with a guardsman at the tail end of the procession, having evidently given up on her flirting with the prince. He tried the word out, as if he thought he had misunderstood her. “
Slave.
A slave? Certainly not! I am the grandson of Nikolai Sibirin and Juli Danov, who are both great healers, and elders of the Orzhekov tribe, as well.” For an instant he looked her full in the face, and whatever he saw there made him clench his hands. “I beg your pardon!” he said in a tight voice, turning to leave.

Jaelle’s mouth dropped open, she was so surprised. “Wait! I…I beg your pardon.”

He stopped but kept his back to her.

“I only thought…” She cursed herself. Suddenly she didn’t know what to think. How could he not be a slave? What other man would help a whore, unless he had hoped to sleep with her? Except he had never once asked…. She didn’t want him to leave, not thinking badly of her. “I thought you must be a slave. I beg your pardon for offending you.”

His stiff shoulders relaxed, and he turned. “Why did you think I was a slave? I suppose you can’t know—only prisoners or people who have in some way betrayed the tribe are made servants in the jaran. And a
slave
—doesn’t that mean another person owns you? Tess said that a master can do anything he wants with a slave, even kill him.” He grimaced. “Only the gods can hold a person’s life in their hands. It isn’t granted to men.”

“God grants us our fate, and we must suffer it gladly, and with faith.”

“It is true that the gods gave Bakhtiian a vision. That is why all the khaja kingdoms are falling before our armies.”

Jaelle made the sign of the Lady in front of her chest. “Your gods are false gods. If God chooses to punish His own people, it must only be because we have sinned and deserve to suffer his wrath. You are merely the instrument of God’s will.” Then she wondered why she had said such a thing to a man who could probably kill her on the spot, if she offended him.

But his lips quirked. He had a rather sweet smile. She hadn’t noticed it before. “That is true. The gods have given us their blessing.”

How could she have ever thought him a slave? she wondered now. He had the same unseemly arrogance as the rest of them.

The clatter of horses interrupted them: Princess Rusudani had returned. Jaelle told her at once of Bakhtiian’s request.

“We will go to him,” said the princess.

“My lady, he asked when it would be convenient for him to visit you.”

“A jailer visits those he has imprisoned. We will attend his court.”

They came to Bakhtiian’s court just as the lanterns were being lit around the awning that sheltered him. He sat on a pillow, and the young man who claimed to be his son, Vasil’ii, lit those lanterns and brought cups and a leather flask filled with the drink they called
komis.
He acted, in truth, more like a servant than like a prince’s son. Two of the women archers came forward and checked the princess and Jaelle for knives before letting them go forward.

Rusudani knelt on the edge of the carpet. Bakhtiian gestured for Vasil’ii to bring forward a pillow for her to sit on. Jaelle knelt at a respectful distance to one side. The holy book lay open on a pillow beside him.

“I give you greetings, Bakhtiian,” said the princess, and Jaelle translated, “and I render thanks to God Who has brought me from my father’s house across great distances to the tents of the jaran. I pray to Hristain, under Whose dominion we all live and die, that He grant you a long life.”

“I have a question.” He quoted from the gospel of the witness of the light that took Hristain to Heaven. “How is this explained, that a person might travel up into the heavens on light alone?”

“God’s power is great,” said Rusudani, “and by God’s will alone any man can ascend to heaven, should he only hold to the laws which God passed down through his holy book to us.”

Bakhtiian tapped his fingers on the open pages of the book, looking thoughtful. It was strange to sit so near him. He had a stern face, bearded and dark. His gaze was piercing. “I have ascended to the heavens,” he said softly, “when the gods took my spirit from my body and lifted me up to their lands. That is how the Singers of our people make their journey. Do you mean that this man you call both Hristain and the Son of God traveled himself up to the heavens, body and spirit together?”

“God lifted him, Bakhtiian. He ascended on the light. That is the account given us in the holy book.”

He made some comment in his own language to his son, who stood like a slave behind him. Vasil’ii shook his head. Bakhtiian turned back to the princess. “Did the bright light on which Hristain ascended to heaven leave a mark of its burning on the ground? After he had gone?”

“The gospels do not speak of any burning. But God’s hand is so powerful that he might blind us with the brightest light without leaving behind the least trace of its passing. In our pride we seek to imitate God’s power, but all power granted us on earth is granted to us by God.”

Bakhtiian ignored these protestations of God’s power. “In this book—” He tapped the pages again. “—there is no mention of burning, it is true, except that three of the accounts of Hristain’s ascent into the heavens mention the light. But might there be other stories, other accounts of the same events?”

“
The Recitation
is God’s holiest book. In it God speaks to us through his chosen witnesses.”

One of the lanterns flared and sputtered out. Jaelle took it as a sign. She felt her heart pound in her chest, drowning the world for an instant, and then it steadied and faded. She translated Rusudani’s words, but she went on, speaking her own words. “There is an account of Our Lady’s travels, my lord, as spoken by The Pilgrim herself and written down by a foreign scribe who came to the knowledge of God through her ministry. In it she speaks of the light that took Hristain into Heaven, and of the fire of God’s eye that scorched the earth beneath.”

His gaze fastened on her. She felt acutely uncomfortable. “What is this account? Why is it not in this book?”

Jaelle clasped her hands hard in her lap. Rusudani already was looking at her, looking puzzled, looking… suspicious. “It is called the
Gospel of Isia of Byblos
, my lord.”

Rusudani leapt to her feet and raised a hand as if to ward off Jaelle. “How dare you mention that heretical work!” Jaelle shrank back, murmuring a prayer to the Pilgrim. She had not realized how much Rusudani could understand. “Isia’s false words brought about the breach between the north and the south. She is anathema.” Jaelle had never seen Rusudani look so angry. “Granting divinity to Peregrina Pilgrim, when all know she was, like the Accursed One, daughter of the shepherd Ammion.”

Jaelle drew herself up. Her covenant was, first of all, to God. “How could she have been the daughter of Ammion when she was twined in the womb with the Holy Son, born with him wrapped in the same caul? How else could she have sought and found his sundered remains? How bathed him in the life-giving milk, if she did not partake of God’s holiness as well?”

“Heretic! Apostate! I have endured your company thus far, hoping to bring you into the True Faith, but I will endure it no longer! You are henceforth cast out from my service. If God has mercy on you, you will learn humility.”

Stunned, Jaelle clutched the cloth of her skirts in her hands and prayed.

“What does Princess Rusudani say?” asked Bakhtiian mildly. His arrogance was so complete that no disturbance troubled him.

But at his words, Rusudani’s enraged expression changed. She stilled. She drew her hand back to her side and after a long pause, her lips moving in a prayer, she sank back down on to the pillow.

Jaelle felt the fierce pain of victory. God had made His judgment. For Princess Rusudani could not speak to them except through her. Here, with the jaran, she was not expendable.

“K
IREYEVSKY! FIX MY BRIDLE.”

After six hands of days riding south with Bakhtiian and his army of twenty thousands, Vasha no longer flinched when his father spoke to him.

“I want to sit down.”

Vasha took the bridle, slung it over his shoulders, and rolled out the carpet for his father to sit on, tossing down three pillows, since Ilya would inevitably have visitors now that they had halted for the night. He examined the sky, decided that probably it was going to rain, and set up the awning as well, then his father’s traveling tent. Got him komis, and something to eat. He had grown so efficient that now Bakhtiian rarely spoke to him at all.

When all these things were taken care of, he lit the lanterns and sat down on the farthest back edge of the carpet, got out a new strip of leather, and began to fix the bridle.

Two of the commanders, Nikita Kolenin and Vladimir the Orphan, had come by, and they sat, laughing and talking about men’s concerns. Vasha saw that the komis was running low. He jumped up and refilled the flask, having to search some way through camp to find more. When he returned, Bakhtiian took the flask from him without a word.

But in some ways it was a blessing. At first, each time his father had spoken to him had felt like a stab into his flesh. Now his father’s presence was merely like salt poured continually onto an open wound.

A rider appeared, dismounted, and hurried up to the awning.

“Bakhtiian! Andrei Sakhalin is riding in with a jahar of one hundred, from Sarai.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows, but he did not look overly surprised. “Send him in to me when he arrives.” He glanced back at Vasha.

Vasha ducked away from his gaze. He knew what was expected of a servant. He lived in a kind of numb haze, trying to anticipate every task so that he need never actually be ordered to do anything. But he got up and trotted out to find more komis, and more food. He knew by now which of the soldiers and archers were sympathetic to him, and which ignored him.

Returning to the awning, he was brought up short by the sight of Katerina sitting perfectly at ease between her Cousin Ilya and Andrei Sakhalin. He swore under his breath. But, gods, he didn’t intend to let her defeat him. Taking in a deep breath, he walked forward and without meeting anyone’s eyes got out cups and poured komis all round. Then he sat down in his usual place and went back to the bridle.

“I am surprised to see you here, Sakhalin,” Ilya was saying, “but I am overjoyed to hear that the gods have granted Galina another healthy child.”

“Even if it was only another boy,” added Katya.

“A boy may do his part by riding in the army.” Sakhalin sipped at his komis, unnettled by Katya’s remark. “I rode to Sarai to witness the child’s birth. Now I am returning to my garrison in Dushan. I have received word of a revolt being instigated by the king’s younger son, Prince Janos, and I think I had better get there quickly and execute him. That should discourage any others.”

Vasha risked a glance at his father to see how Ilya would take this remark, but Ilya said nothing. The lantern light cast him into high relief, and Vasha wished fiercely, painfully, that he, too, might be able to sit so still and without comment or action invest his surroundings with the weight of his authority, as his father could.

“What do you intend, Katya?” Bakhtiian asked instead.

“I am returning to my jahar.”

“Your mother says it is time for you to get married.”

“Marry me to Prince Janos of Dushan, who is about to be executed. That would please me.”

“A not unthinkable idea.”

Katya’s features underwent a swift change. She leapt to her feet and stalked away from the gathering without a word.

“Surely you can’t mean it?” asked Sakhalin, sounding almost nervous.

“I know nothing about Prince Janos of Dushan. If he is a troublemaker, then certainly you must execute him. But he may have other motives. A son without prospects who has strong feelings might be amenable to other kinds of alliances.”

“Ah,” replied Andrei Sakhalin in an odd tone. “Well, I will ride with you as far as Parkilnous. After that we will ride west to Dushan.”

“You honor us by your company,” said Ilya so blandly that Vasha could not tell whether he was being polite, sincere, or sarcastic.

Sakhalin made his good-byes and left.

“You don’t mean it, do you?” asked Vasha into the silence. “That you would let a khaja prince marry Katya?”

“Why not?” Ilya did not look at him. He opened up his copy of the holy book Princess Rusudani had given him. He always started at the same place: the account of the ascension of Hristain into the heavens. “It might prove to be a worthwhile alliance.”

“Aunt Sonia would never agree. Mother Orzhekov would be furious. It is one thing to say that women have no choice in marriage, but quite another to force a jaran woman to accept the attentions of a khaja man, prince or not.”