The Novels of the Jaran (51 page)

The priestess led them at a leisurely pace. The palace was huge and bewildering, so that Tess soon lost a sense of where she was and concentrated on details: A panel, her height but tens of meters long, made of a substance as pale as ivory, hollowed and carved into a filigree of plant and animal shapes. A vast hall housing a floor mosaic that spread out in blazing colors from her feet in the unmistakable pattern of a star chart. The huge, empty cavern of the dome, its walls edged by pillars as thin and smooth as her waist but colored a translucent pink that caught and scattered the light in fragmented patterns across the marble floor. Their height was lost in shadow, dispersed into the overlap of the dark stone that circled the last broad ring of the dome before it sloped inward, a spray of colored crystal radiating in to the cool clear lens of the center.

Ishii deferred to the priestess with unnerving respect, made only the most polite of comments, and revealed nothing. The others followed him. Garii did not even look at Tess, not once. It grew dark at last, and Mother Avdotya led them back to the eating hall.

Torches flickered along the walls, throwing shadows everywhere. Candles stood at intervals on the tables, illuminating the close wood grain and the nearby faces. The hall seemed very full, with the priests and the jahar and now the Chapalii, though half the tables were empty. Yuri waved at her. She walked over to sit with him and Mikhal, but as they moved to make room for her, Kirill suddenly appeared and squeezed in between her and Yuri.

“Kirill,” said Yuri.

Kirill grinned, unrepentant. He looked a little flushed, but he was obviously determined to be charming and inoffensive. It was a cheerful meal. The food seemed lavish: two meats, one salty, one spiced, dark, soft slices of bread, two vegetables, all washed down with a watery ale. The priests were animated. The Chapalii sat at another table, but there would be days here in which to spy on them. Right now, she just wanted to enjoy herself. Over the empty platters and bowls Mother Avdotya called for songs, and Tess forgot herself so much as to sing a very improper tune that Yuri had taught her. No one was sure which was funnier: Tess singing the song, or Yuri trying to slide under the table because everyone knew he had taught such a thing to a woman.

While three priests cleared the dishes, Niko called for tales. First the men told witty and amusing tales, but it was as Josef was telling the old story of Mother Sun’s daughter come to earth that Tess noticed the old priestess rise and limp out of the room. She returned as Josef finished, carrying a painted beaker. The priests fell silent, and silence spread out from them until no one was speaking.

The dull light gave the woman the appearance of a shade, tenuous and insubstantial, but her voice was firm. “This is a rare wine, brought out only on such special occasions as this. But do not drink of it unless your heart is undisturbed, lest the disturbance therein take hold of your senses for the night.”

Only the slip of shifting boots and a single, smothered cough sounded. Mother Avdotya went first to the Chapalii; in the half light, Tess could not make out the colors on their faces. Ishii accepted, and thus so did the others. She moved to the next table, offering to each person in turn. Many of the priests drank; some refused.

When she halted beside Yuri, he lifted his cup. The liquid fell in a clear stream from the beaker, sounding in the cup like the suggestion of a waterfall heard from a great distance. Now she stood between Tess and Kirill, leaning forward. Tess saw that the patterns on the vase were a story told in pictures: a woman leading a pale horse and a man with wings and black hands crouched on a rock before her. She leaned farther forward to see the next panel, saw, instead, Kirill’s eyes as he, too, looked around the container, but at her. The candlelight made the blue in his eyes look like the depths of some incandescent flame.

“Oh, no, Mother,” he said in a tone only loud enough for the three of them. “My heart is very disturbed tonight.”

Tess laughed, a sound that echoed across the stillness. She clapped one hand over her mouth and quickly looked away from his grin, only to find her gaze catch on Ilya. His face seemed pale and disapproving. She coughed and choked back her laughter.

“And you, Terese Soerensen?” asked the priestess.

Tess simply laid her hand over her cup, not trusting her voice, and her other hand over her eyes, not trusting herself to look at Kirill or Yuri. Trust Kirill to make her laugh when everyone else was being so serious. The priestess went on to Mikhal. By the time Tess felt it safe to look up, the old woman had gone on to the next table. Kirill and Yuri looked as innocent as babes. Yuri sipped thoughtfully at his wine.

Vladimir was offered the drink, but he glanced at Ilya and refused. Niko smiled and accepted. Bakhtiian. He set his lips together, managing to look stubborn and defiant and failing to look composed, and asked for the wine, his gaze fixed on the flame of the nearest candle. Without comment, the priestess poured and went on.

When she had finished, people began to talk again. There was a wave of laughter around Tess’s table and everyone demanded to know what Kirill had said. Tess refused to tell them. Another round of songs followed, and then everyone settled in to talk.

The Chapalii left first, all together, and with them a handful of priests. Tess only noticed it as movement at the edge of her vision; she was listening to the conversation.

“Mikhal,” Kirill was saying, “you know very well that strength can’t always assure a swift victory.”

“Why is that, Kirill?”

Across from her, Niko slipped into the seat Konstans had vacated. The conversation expanded easily to include him. When two others left and Josef and Tasha joined them, there was scarcely a pause. She could have sat here forever, the candles half gone, wax trailing down their sides, spilling over their holders to lie across the tabletop like pale roots exposed in rich soil. The golden pool of light echoed dimly in the torches racked up behind them on the walls. Kirill’s leg warmed hers. Gods, how easy it was to be with these people. She trusted them, and they had given her their trust in return, one simple exchange which was all the currency they knew. She followed this path down into their souls—not far, perhaps, for she had not known them
that
long—but far enough to see that the composition of the path was one suited to her feet. And if the tongues of the men who had drunk of the wine seemed a little better oiled, it did not matter, because nothing they said shattered the spell that lay over this late conversation.

At the other end of the table, more men stood and left, to be replaced a moment later with two more. It was Ilya, Vladimir with him. Could he never leave her alone to enjoy herself? She realized that if she skipped over his face when her gaze shifted that way, she could ignore him reasonably well.

“Yes,” Tasha was saying, “but if visions are gifted us by the gods, then we must judge them as omens.”

“But what if visions are only waking dreams? Or trances?” asked Kirill. “What about that old woman in Arkhanov’s tribe who used to fall on the ground and speak nonsense? And then she would remember nothing of it when she woke.” He grinned. “They said. I was too scared to stay and watch.”

“Kirill,” said Niko, “you are arguing for no reason but to argue.”

“Someone has to.”

“Well, then, explain to me why old Aunt Lubkhov did these things.”

“Only the gods can explain that, Niko,” Kirill objected, and then he laughed. “Which gives the point to Tasha, of course.”

Tess thought the poor woman probably had some kind of epilepsy. Two younger men got up and left. Vladimir, who had fallen asleep once already, gave it up and went away.

“Ow!” said Yuri, starting. “Niko! Oh, what a twinge in my back. I think I’ll go to bed. Are you coming, Kirill?” He stood up.

“I’m not tired,” said Kirill.

Mikhal stood as well. “Good. Didn’t you wager me, Kirill, that the very first night we got here you would find the marble pool that Josef claims is hidden in these woods?”

“So I did,” said Kirill in an odd tone. He stood up and glanced down at Tess. “Sleep well, my heart,” he said, mockingly. He smiled sweetly at her, taking the sting from the words, and walked away with Yuri and Mikhal.

Tess realized that there were only five of them left: herself, Niko, Josef, Tadheus, and—Ilya was watching her. She felt faint. Somehow he had moved next to Niko. He was very near.

“Perhaps I’ll go—” she began, and then Josef slid in next to her, Tasha on her other side.

“You know,” said Josef, “it was when I was stalking that great hunting cat in the forests south of here that I fell in with those khaja traders who taught me some of their tongue, the one called Taor. Even within the jaran the tribes speak khush each a little different from the others. But this Taor, whatever their accent might be, I never heard a word then or since from traders on the west or the east coast, no matter how far south or north I might roam, that was not exactly the same as that word in another place.”

Tess felt obliged to explain the difference between a native language with dialects and a lingua franca. The talk drifted to weather, no desultory chatter but a complex examination of the year’s weather and how it boded for the winter. In a peculiar way it became philosophical. Tess felt utterly out of her depth and she shifted on the bench, waiting for the right moment to excuse herself.

“Ah, well.” Niko stood. “I’m off to bed.”

Tasha rose as well. “Good night.” They left together.

“Ilya says you can read the writing in this shrine,” Josef said.

“A little. I really—”

“Oh, I’m well aware that you’re modest about your accomplishments. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who can speak as many languages as you can, and khush so well, after so short a time with us. My grandfather used to say—” Josef was at his most compelling when he was telling tales. This one wound on until Niko and Tasha were safely gone. Then Josef yawned abruptly and with no warning whatsoever excused himself and deserted her.

His footsteps faded away, leaving her with a few guttering candles and Bakhtiian. It took no great intelligence to see that she had been set up. The torches had gone out. The candlelight cast his shadow on the wall behind him like a huge, black, jagged tapestry. His shirt gleamed a dull red. The pallid light made his face look as gaunt as a starving man’s. He stared at her with unnaturally bright eyes. Speech failed her. She stood up.

“It’s so late,” she said stupidly. “I guess I’ll go.”

Of course he came after her. She accidentally took the wrong corridor, one that led along the gardens, but she did not have the courage to turn back. Afraid to run, afraid to turn back—what damned use was she?

She stopped and turned to face him.

But when he caught up with her, he took her by the arm and stared, simply stared, at her. The moon lit them. She was trembling.

“Let go of me.”

“Tess.” He put his other hand on her other arm.

“Are you drunk?” she said, breathing hard. She strained away from him.

“Drunk?” His voice was low, intense. “I only now see things clearly.” His pull was like the drag of the tide; she could not help but be drawn in.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tried to twist her arms out of his grasp, but his hands were too strong.

“You rode down the Avenue with me,” he whispered, his face lit by the moon and the wine. “You are my wife.”

“You led me into it.” He slipped his arms behind her back, enclosing her. The heat of his hands seared through the cloth into her flesh. His lips were parted, so that the line of his mouth seemed soft and yielding. “I didn’t know.” Her voice came out hoarse. “You know I didn’t know. You knew then. You trapped me.”

“Trapped you?” His voice was like the touch of soft fur. He held her so close that she could feel the beat of his heart. “Do I fill you with such aversion?”

He did not let her answer but kissed her. Such compulsion as this was impossible to resist. The world could have gone ablaze at that moment and she would never have noticed. All she felt was him. There was no cruelty in Ilya Bakhtiian—if she had not known that before, she knew it now when it could not possibly be disguised. But there was passion. Gods, yes, enough of that.

They were forced eventually to pause to catch their breath. Reason flooded back. She pushed away from him. His eyes opened, and his grip tightened.

“No,” she said. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“Let me go, Ilya.”

“I will not.” They had reached an equilibrium of opposing forces, she retreating, he restraining. He let go of one wrist and with his free hand traced the hard ridge of her spine, all the way to her neck. He drew his hand over the swell of her shoulder and down, fingers a caress on her skin, around her collarbone to the hollow of her throat, and leaned forward to kiss her there, lightly. She couldn’t control her breathing. She shut her eyes.

“Bakhtiian. I will not submit to treachery. Now let me go.” She felt his breath brush her neck but she held herself rigid; clenched all her muscles like a fist. If she gave in now, she would never respect herself.

He drew away. Slowly, reluctantly, he relinquished his grip on her.

She spun away from him and ran. When she reached the little room the priests had given her, she flung herself on the bed and wept. Her throat still tingled where he had kissed her. Finally she fell into an uneasy sleep filled with vivid dreams in which Ilya Bakhtiian played all too large a part.

In the morning, as she walked down the hall before breakfast, he came out from a side hall. They both stopped.

“Forgive me.” He looked pale and tired and subdued. “It
was
no better than treachery, and I was wrong to force myself on you in that fashion when you were ignorant of the consequences. I cannot withdraw myself as your husband, not now, but I will no longer trouble you.”

He bowed, as courtiers bowed in Jeds to the Prince, and limped away, leaving her to stare after him. She walked on in a daze to the eating hall. Yuri waved at her from his seat beside Mikhal. Kirill was sitting across from them, looking pale himself. She hesitated and then sat down beside Kirill and surveyed Yuri and Mikhal wearily.