The Novels of the Jaran (108 page)

When Vasil woke the next morning, he could hear Karolla singing softly to herself outside as she went about her work. Occasionally she broke off her song to speak to one of the children, or to someone passing by, and Vasil marveled at how sweet and pleasant her voice was, as if all the beauty had been poured into it instead of into her face.

“Mama, can I go in and wake him up?”

“Yes. Tell him that Arina said that the scouts for the main army have already ridden by.”

Vasil was half-dressed in the clothes Karolla had laid out for him by the time Yana got all the way back to the sleeping alcove. “Oh,” she said, almost disappointed, “you’re already awake.”

He kissed her on each cheek. “Not truly awake until I’d seen your sweet face, little one.” She beamed. “Here, hand me my saber, will you?” She shyly held it out to him. “Come, take my hand and we’ll go outside.”

Outside, he greeted Karolla by kissing both of her palms and then by offering to go fetch water. “No, no.” She shook her head. “Yana will go with the other girls. You’d better go see Anton and Kirill. The vanguard of the army will be coming by soon. I don’t know—Vasil.” She hesitated.

Vasil kissed Yana on the forehead and sent her off to her chores. “Karolla, you must never hesitate to tell me what you think. I would be a poor husband if I did not listen to my wife’s wisdom.”

She blushed with pleasure. “Vasil, if it is your dearest wish to become dyan, then I will support you. Although I have little standing in this tribe—Arina was very generous to take me in at all, and everything I have here I owe to her. I can’t go back to my mother’s tribe. Not now.”

“All the more reason, then, that I become dyan. I don’t intend that my wife and children live beholden to others. Once I am dyan, then you are by right a member of this tribe, and you will not be here only on Arina’s sufferance.”

“Arina has been kind. You must not think she has ever treated us badly.”

“What about my sister? I haven’t even seen her.”

Karolla returned her attention to the copper pot she was scouring clean. “Vera disgraced herself. You must know that.”

“Since she did what she did at my bidding, I can hardly consider her fairly treated.”

Karolla looked up, angry. “She betrayed her own tribe. She violated the sanctity of the camp. It is true that I left my mother and my aunts, but I never betrayed them. What you did—trying to kill Bakhtiian—well, you did that at Mikhailov’s bidding.”

“Is that what people say?”

Karolla shrugged. “I have long since given up listening to what people say. But if you go to see Anton, you’ll see Vera. She serves the Telyegin family now.” She glanced away, looking shamed. “Valentin is there.”

“Yes, I had noticed that he wasn’t here.”

“Don’t be angry with him, Vasil. It was a shock, to have you come back so suddenly. He was so young when you left.”

Vasil kissed her on her hair and straightened his saber. “How could I be angry with him, Karolla? He will come to love me.”

“Of course he will,” agreed Karolla, but Vasil could see that she only half believed it.

“There is one other thing, my love,” he said, and he ran a hand down the sleeve of the shirt he had put on this morning. “These are my old clothes. Where did you get them?”

She paled, looking distressed. “Tess Soerensen gave them to me. And your old saber, it is here, too.”

“Is it now?” he said thoughtfully. He left, pausing first to see if Arina was at her tent, which was sited to one side of his wife’s tent, but Arina was out and a young woman he did not recognize told him that she was out with Uncle Marenko looking at the herds. So he strolled across camp, taking his time, greeting any person who greeted him, pausing to ask them questions about how they had been and what they were doing now and exclaiming over how very tall their children or grandchildren had grown. He discovered a few things along the way: that the Veselov tribe was inordinately proud of the fact that of all the tribes, it alone had been chosen by Bakhtiian to shelter those young men who for whatever reason were not part of any official jahar and who were training to find a place in the army. As they told it, Bakhtiian had insisted that one of his most trusted lieutenants marry their beloved etsana in order to cement the closeness between the two tribes. And they believed utterly and passionately that the jaran tribes were meant by the gods to conquer the khaja lands, and would do so, led by Bakhtiian.

Vasil had just come within sight of the cluster of tents that marked the Telyegin family when he saw Vera. She was still remarkably handsome, though she wore only a plain blue tunic with neither beading nor embroidery, over striped trousers, and she wore her golden hair in a simple braid with no ornamentation in it at all. She bent over a fire, stirring cloth in a kettle filled with green dye. Her face had flushed red from the heat. She wore only one earring, and that in her left ear, signifying that she was bonded to a family as a servant. One of the Telyegin sisters came out and called something to her, cheerfully and without any sense of nasty glee at Vera’s misfortune, and a moment later spotted Vasil. The woman’s eyes widened. Vera looked up. She went white.

Vasil strolled over toward her. “Hello, sister—” he began.

She spat at his feet. Then she turned back to her work.

Vasil prided himself on his self-control. He never let anger show unless it was in his interest to do so. Instead, he shrugged and turned toward the other woman—Lydia Telyegin, second daughter of Varia Telyegin and elder sister of Anton’s wife Tatyana.

“My apologies,” began Lydia.

“No, I should have prepared her. It was a shock to see me, I’m sure.” This much he said loud enough for Vera to hear, and then he followed Lydia farther into the family encampment, toward the main tent. “But her husband—is it true that he didn’t repudiate her?”

“True enough. But then—” She glanced sidelong at Vasil, and he knew immediately that she was gauging how soon she might decently approach him for a more intimate encounter. “—Petya always had more looks than wit.”

“You are looking handsomer than ever, Lydia. But I perceive that your wit has not suffered for it.” He watched a hint of red tinge her cheeks and then fade. “Is your mother here? I must pay my respects.”

“She is with the army. Bakhtiian called the finest healers to him when he started this campaign.”

“So of course she would have been the first called.”

Lydia laughed. “Of course. Are you trying to flatter your way back into favor, Vasil?”

“Certainly. But in this case you know as well as I that it is true, so how can it be flattery?”

“Neatly said. Well, a healer has come from the khaja lands, with skills surpassing our own, and they say she is gifting our healers with much of her knowledge. They also say that she is Tess Soerensen’s foster mother—”

“Foster mother?”

“Ah.” Lydia smiled abruptly, looking horribly pleased with herself. “You have not heard, then? Soerensen’s brother has come. The prince of Jeds.”

The rush of hope Vasil felt was so powerful that he had to stop walking for a moment. “To take her back to their own lands?”

“No one is sure. But here is Anton. And that is my youngest, Grigory, playing with Valentin.”

Vasil greeted everyone, from the frail eldest aunt to the infant great-granddaughter of Varia Telyegin. Valentin slunk away and hid behind one of the tents with several of the children his age. But Vasil was not worried. The only person he had ever failed to charm was Karolla’s father, Dmitri Mikhailov, and Vasil had always attributed that to Mikhailov’s distrust of his motives. After all, Vasil had once been Bakhtiian’s closest companion. Why should he then turn against Bakhtiian and ride with Mikhailov?

“Vasil.” Anton rose and greeted him. “You’ve heard that the main army will ride by shortly. We’ll go out to greet them. I’m waiting here for Arina—ah, there she is. Shall we go?”

Graciously, Vasil acquiesced. Arina rode a handsome gray mare, and her husband, a chestnut mare of equally fine breeding. Yevgeni brought Vasil’s horse, and instantly, comparing his stolid beast to the elegant creatures the other two rode, Vasil desired one of these other horses—
khuhaylan arabians,
Kirill called them, a breed from over the seas, given in payment to Bakhtiian for his services by a company of foreign priests. Bakhtiian himself had given the two mares to Arina and Kirill on the occasion of his wedding.

“Although,” said Arina with a smile, “I still think it was only as an apology for spoiling our wedding celebration.”

Kirill cast a sidewise glance at Vasil, but said nothing.

Vasil shrugged, unsure of why they thought he would be in on the joke. “They are beautiful horses. Have you any foals of them?”

“Yes,” said Arina smugly. “Little Mira was born the same day as the first colt.” She smiled at the sturdy toddler who sat up in front of Kirill on his horse, already at ease in the saddle.

Vasil, who rode beside Kirill, tickled little Mira under the chin and got her to laugh, and then turned back to Yevgeni. “Have they treated you well here? Did you find any news of your sister?”

Yevgeni’s expression was difficult to read, it being so full of contradictions. “I found her, Vasil,” he said in an undertone. “She’s here. But she’s…she’s training. She wants to be a rider. To be in the army.”

Vasil had to think hard to remember Valye Usova, and found that although he could not recall her face, he remembered that she had been a headstrong, difficult adolescent girl who had run away from her tribe in order to be with her brother. “Is that so surprising? She left everything to follow you.”

Yevgeni glanced at the group surrounding them and dropped his voice even lower. “She says there are other women in the army. She says that Bakhtiian’s wife was asked by Yaroslav Sakhalin himself to join Sakhalin’s jahar.”

“And she did not?”

“How should I know? I’m only repeating what Valye told me. She says that Bakhtiian’s niece has her own command.”

Vasil snorted. “That I can believe. You never knew Nadine. Yevgeni, it’s Valye’s choice, not yours.”

“But what if no dyan will have her? Our aunt won’t have her back. Valye hated her anyway, and what is she to do without a tribe?”

Vasil laid a hand on Yevgeni’s shoulder. “Then my wife will take her in. I promise you.”

All at once, the tension drained out of Yevgeni’s face. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Vasil mounted and rode with the others along the base of a long escarpment. At last, Anton greeted a trio of riders coming from the north, and they urged the horses up the slope and came to a halt on a rise that gave them a wide view of the land to the north.

Vasil was not sure what he had expected. Yaroslav Sakhalin’s army had seemed enormous to him, though he would never have admitted that. But Sakhalin’s command was as nothing to the army marching south now. Rank upon rank of horsemen rode at a steady pace southward, covering half the ground that Vasil could see. Farther, only dust rising along the far horizon now, came some unimaginable mass following hard upon the riders: wagons and more horsemen and the gods knew what else.

“Are all the tribes riding south?” Vasil asked, unable to hide his astonishment.

Arina laughed. “Of course not. Many of the women have gone back out on the plains, although some have stayed with the army.”

“There are jahars along the western coast, still,” added Kirill, “and every man is granted leave to go back to his tribe, to see his wife and children when he has been gone from them for two winters. This army is, perhaps, half of what Bakhtiian can call on.”

“I should never have doubted you,” Vasil murmured under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Arina, but Vasil merely shook his head.

A clot of about twenty riders broke away from the vanguard of the army and speared across the open ground, toward the waiting group. The army itself continued on south, like some inexorable predator bent on its prey. Before he could even make out features, Vasil knew which one was Bakhtiian. He realized that he was clenching and unclenching one of his hands convulsively, and he forced himself to stop and glanced quickly around to see if anyone had noticed. But they were all watching Bakhtiian amidst the other riders as the horses climbed up the slope.

Vasil recognized the proud black stallion that Ilya rode. And Bakhtiian himself: but how could he have changed? He had never changed, except to grow older. The arrogant, dreaming adolescent boy whom Vasil had fallen in love with, those many many years ago, was still there, and time had only honed his arrogance and made reality of his dreams, and sharpened his radiant power.

Then Bakhtiian saw him. Their eyes met, and Vasil smiled.

And Bakhtiian, all unprepared, went rigid with fury. Gods, he had fire to him. It was like a raging heat that attracted cold things to it, and the fire burned as fiercely as ever, for all that Vasil could see. He could not stop himself smiling from pure joy.

Greetings, smiles, ten different little exchanges begun and not quite brought to fruition, withered and died in the blazing heat of Bakhtiian’s anger.

Ilya turned to glare at Arina Veselov. “Where did he come from?” he demanded, his voice rasping and hoarse. “Who granted him peace to ride among you?”

“I did,” said Arina with astounding calm. “You forget, Bakhtiian, that I am the etsana of his tribe, and it is my right to give him leave to enter it.”

He stiffened at the cool assurance of her tone. “And if I say that I want him gone?”

“How you direct your army is none of my concern.” She lifted her chin slightly. That so slight a woman, and one still so young, could withstand the force of Bakhtiian’s censure was impressive but not surprising. “How I oversee my tribe is none of yours.”

Like a fire banked with ashes, his anger subsided from its flaring heat and settled into something less blazing but no less dangerous. “I beg your pardon, Mother Veselov,” he replied, formal. Someone coughed. A general sigh passed around the assembly as its members seemed to realize that they might relax without seeing bloodshed. Vasil knew he was still smiling, but he simply could not help himself. He had forgotten the sheer, breathless elation that the sight of Ilyakoria Bakhtiian had always filled him with.