The Novels of the Jaran (10 page)

Elena glanced back, and when she spoke, she measured her words carefully so that Tess could understand most of them. “They say that in some tribes, by the settled lands, the men own the tents. Do you suppose that is true? I would not want to live in such a tribe.”

“But not every woman has a tent,” said Tess.

“No.” said Sonia. “A woman who is marked for marriage is gifted a tent by her mother or her aunt.”

“Marked for marriage?”

Sonia lifted one hand to brush at the diagonal scar that ran from her cheekbone to her jawline. “When a man chooses to marry you, he marks you.”

“He
marks
you—with
what?”

Sonia and Elena looked at each other. Elena had no scar. “With his saber,” said Sonia, as if it ought to be obvious.

Tess was appalled. She could not imagine Sonia allowing a man to mutilate her like that. But she was not about to say so. “And—ah—is that the only way to be married? To be—marked?”

“Yes,” said Elena.

“No.” Sonia shrugged. Grass dragged against the hems of their bright tunics. “There is another. ‘The long road to the setting sun, the binding of the four arches.’ But that is a path held by the gods. Few people wish—or dare—to ride it.”

Elena sniffed. “Better marked than bound.”

“I see,” said Tess, not understanding at all. She hesitated. “Does it hurt?”

Sonia smiled. “Yes. At first. But it is not a very deep cut. Bearing a child hurts far more. The small pain prepares you for the larger one.”

They reached the stream and began to fill the large leather pouches with cold water. “I’m not sure I would choose to marry, if I had to get such a scar,” said Tess carefully.

Elena turned sullen abruptly, hands caught in the rushing water. “What choice does a woman have in marriage?”

“Elena,” said Sonia. “Everyone knows Vladimir prefers you to all the other girls. Mikhal said that Vladi refused Lila’s and Marya’s advances, all because he’s trying to work up enough courage to mark you.”

“A kinless orphan! What woman would want that kind of husband?” Elena leaned forward, her hands in fists, her pale eyes fixed on Sonia. “I won’t let him get close enough to mark me. He’s fine as a lover, but I won’t have him as a husband.” Tears filled her eyes, and she jumped up and ran off.

Sonia deftly extracted from the rushing stream the two half-full pouches that Elena had dropped. “She’s always wished that Ilya would mark her, but it’s a vain hope, I fear.”

“Do you really have no choice in marriage?”

“In the choosing? No. You must see, Tess, that men have no power over us at all when we’re unmarried, but a man who is married can command his wife in certain things, or has at least some power over her that he has over no other woman.”

“Then why do you marry?”

The sun shone full on Sonia’s face and fair hair, casting a glow on her cheeks. “Sometimes a man has that look in his eye that is hard to resist. You have forgotten, Tess, because I think your heart still aches.”

Tess was silent. The wind blew tiny ripples across a shallow backwater.

“It is no shame,” said Sonia softly. “We have all hurt for a man who did not love us.”

“I tried so hard.”

“Perhaps that is why you failed.”

Tess put her hands full into the stream. The cold water dragged at her fingers. “Jacques wanted something he thought I had, that I could give him—power and wealth. Something he was too lazy to earn for himself. When he found out I couldn’t give it to him, he left. He never loved me at all. I was such a fool.” She pulled her hands out of the water. They were already so chilled it was difficult to bend them, but she forced them slowly into fists.

“When you have a full and eager heart in you, you must not go to the man whose heart is empty and weak.”

“I don’t know if I can judge anymore.” Tess sat silent for a long moment, watching the light move from ripple to ripple on the stream. “I’m afraid to try.”

“Fear is a poor teacher. But now you have friends. We will help you. It would be best, I think, if you did not approach any of the married men to begin with. One must be discreet, especially in the camp. It is terribly impolite, especially in front of the wife, to flaunt such a thing. But no matter. We have many fine unmarried men to choose from. Vladimir—no, too vain. Kirill—too forward. Yuri—”

Tess laughed. It seemed very natural to speak of affairs so intensely personal, here, with Sonia, in the warming spring sun, the drums a quiet drone in the distance. “Yuri is my brother.”

“Yes. A brother is of far greater value than a husband or a lover. They are much easier to order around. Come, we ought to go back.” She rose and, grasping Tess’s hand, helped her to her feet. They distributed the extra pouches around their shoulders and walked back to camp. Kolia slept on. A striped tent flap, untied, fluttered in the breeze, one bright end snapping up and down. Pots dangled from side ropes, striking a high tinny accompaniment to the resonant pulse of the women’s voices beyond. When they passed Bakhtiian this time, he did not even look up. He had one hand tucked inside the boot, the needle pulling in and out in an even stitch. Sonia’s daughter Katerina crouched beside him, intently watching him work.

“Why did he go to Jeds?” Tess asked. “Why would he even have thought of it? Had you ever heard of Jeds before? Had any other jaran ever gone?”

“No, Ilya was the first. I suppose he heard of it when he was a boy. Jaran often trade at ports along the coast. Even so far east as we are now, Jeds is known at every port. I don’t know why he went. He was only sixteen. Mama once said there was something to do with his sister, that when she married, he was very angry, but Ilya has always looked farther than others do. I remember when he came back. He told us that if the jaran were one people, and not many tribes, then we would never have to fear the
khaja,
the settled people, who build their stone tents farther out each year on the plains that the gods meant for our home.”

“Are there many tribes?”

“There are a thousand tribes, and a thousand thousand families. We are as plentiful as the birds, and as swift as our horses, and as strong—as strong as a woman avenging her child. So Ilya began to weave a great tapestry, and the Elders of many tribes offered to be the warp in his loom, and the dyans of many jahars offered themselves and their riders as the weft. So the pattern grew. He made enemies. And—oh, it was seven years ago, now—those enemies rode into camp one night when he was away and killed his sister and his mother and father and his sister’s five-year-old son.”

They had reached the far end of camp and just as they handed the water over to Sonia’s mother, the chanting stopped abruptly, pierced by the high wail of a baby. Immediately, singing broke out. A girl ran off to find the father. Kolia snuffled and yawned and opened his eyes.

Sonia set him on the rug under the eye of his grandmother and tugged Tess away. “We’ll go start supper. The men will be hungry.”

“But then what happened?” Tess glanced back at the tent where the birth had taken place. The infant cried in bursts. Suddenly there was silence, and the midwife stuck her head outside the tent and called: “He’s already suckling.” Women crowded in to greet the mother.

“What happened? Oh, with Ilya? He went on. What else could he do? But he has never loved anyone since, except—” Her lips tugged in an involuntary grimace. “Well, he cannot care too deeply now, for fear he may lose more. But he listens to no one. He’s made all the jaran his, almost, and when he gets the rest of these khuhaylan horses from across the sea, he’ll breed them and then lead the jaran against the khaja, and the name of our people will be on the lips of every person in every land there is, because those lands will be ours. Oh, good. Stassia found
dhal
roots. Katerina, you little imp, what have you done to your shift?” She gathered her daughter into her arms and gave her a kiss, apparently oblivious to the incongruity of Bakhtiian’s great plan for conquest set hard against her sister’s plans for supper.

The next morning, Yuri met her for the riding lesson. He was flushed as he jogged up to her. He did not wait to catch his breath before addressing her.

“Tess. We leave day after tomorrow. Ilya would have liked to leave tomorrow, I think, but he could not deny Konstans the celebration for his first child.”

Tess’s breathing constricted with excitement and apprehension. “But is it too soon? Can I ride well enough?”

He shrugged. “You could travel with the tribe this year. They’ll be riding southwest, behind us. Perhaps you could find another tribe going east or north, who could take you to a port this spring. Or wait for us. We won’t be gone over a year.”

“A
year?
How far are you going?”

“To the shrine of Morava. And then on to the western sea where the khepelli will sail back to their own lands.”

The western sea? Tess dug in her memory, seeing the huge inland sea whose northeastern reaches bordered the southern edge of the vast bulk of the northern continent—these plains. And southward, far south on a bay protected by a minor archipelago, lay Jeds. “No, Yuri, I have to go with you. If the khepelli can sail out from the western ports, then I can as easily sail south to Jeds from there. I’ll go speak with Ishii now, and then talk to Bakhtiian. There’s no point in waiting.”

“Tess.” He laid a staying hand on her arm. “At least wait until morning. There’s no point in spoiling the dance. Ilya gets in a foul mood when things don’t go as he wants them to. Men are riding in from another tribe. A scout brought the word. You won’t get a chance to speak with Ilya today in any case.”

Tess acquiesced and went to help the women prepare for the dance. Any celebration was a great occasion. The arrival of a dozen men from another tribe could only add to the excitement. Indeed, most of the tribe had gathered at one end of the camp to greet the visitors. Tess found a spot next to Elena and Sonia and watched as the ten men rode in, dismounted at a prudent distance, and were escorted into the bounds of the camp itself by Niko Sibirin and another older rider. There, they waited for Bakhtiian to arrive.

The men of Bakhtiian’s jahar filtered over in twos and threes to engage in that easy, informal flow of talk carried on between acquaintances who have the same complaint in life. Boys peered at them from behind tents; little girls clustered in packs and stared. The old women ignored them; the married women looked at them from the corners of their eyes; and Marya Kolenin, who wore bracelets around her ankles to show how many lovers she had and who had once kicked a man as hard as she could in the groin to stop him putting the mark of betrothal on her, went right up to them and pulled the eldest’s silver-flecked beard. Everyone laughed, including the visitors.

“There he comes,” breathed Elena, distracted from this interplay.

Bakhtiian was walking down the rise toward them, the sun bright on his face, his scarlet shirt catching points of light. He had a way of walking that drew the eye to him, that made his surroundings seem merely a stage for himself. He had a great deal of grace, but for the first time Tess realized that not all of it was unconscious. He was purposefully making an entrance. She laughed.

He glanced at her and then away.

Elena elbowed her. “Why are you laughing?”

“I remembered a thing said by an ancient poet of my people,” said Tess, “that my brother used to say to me, about the name of vanity being man.”

Elena put her hand on her necklaces. “What made you think of that?”

Sonia saved Tess from having to reply. “Come, Tess. They will go on all day with men’s talk, which is far more boring to listen to than to watch. We’ll go clear a dance circle, and then I think you ought to wear one of my tunics, just for tonight, to please Mama.”

It took most of the day to collect enough fuel for as great a fire as the celebration warranted, and the rest of the day for each woman to dress out her one fine tunic with elaborate braids and headpieces and gold and jade earrings. They polished their hand mirrors and traced their eyes with dark kohl. Even the men brought out their best embroidered shirts and fastened tufted and beaded epaulets to their shoulders. Sonia put on six fine necklaces on each arm, and, a thick copper bracelet incised with a spiral pattern, and she wove green ribbons through the two chains that strung her mirror onto her belt.

Food was shared out at every tent. The entire holiday atmosphere was intensified by the brief appearance of the young mother and infant, escorted by the proud father once through camp. Then the musicians settled down by the dance circle, the fire was lit, and the music began.

Nikolai Sibirin, as the eldest rider in jahar, led out his wife. Other married couples joined in, and the unmarried women solicited the unattached men. Light illuminated bits of body and face, changing as the dancers turned. The first ring of watchers was shadowed. Beyond, all was darkness. Tess watched until Yuri came up to her.

“Really,” he whispered, “the women are supposed to ask, but since we’re kin of a sort perhaps you’ll dance with me.”

“Yuri, I don’t know any of your dances.”

“Well,” he said, much struck by this, “that’s true.”

“You go on. I’m happy just to watch.”

He left. Tess faded back into the farthest ring of light. The drums were heavy, a strong, rhythmic pulse, the lutes a thick texture through the middle with the pipes shrilling a high, exuberant melody harmonized in fifths and octaves over the rest. Though she enjoyed watching, she found herself longing to dance, but she did not have quite enough courage to put herself forward. The steps they danced were not so different from patterns she already knew, and she grew so interested in analyzing them, even in trying a few surreptitiously, that Cha Ishii’s sudden appearance at her side took her entirely by surprise.

“Lady Terese.” He bowed. She started. In the darkness, he had her completely at a disadvantage because she could not see the fine shades of color on his skin. “If I may speak?”

“Cha Ishii.” To regain her composure, she took a moment to give permission. “You may. I am surprised to see you here.”