CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Vasil stood listening to his cousin Anton boring on about their family and tribe, little details of who had married whom, who had borne a child, and what girls and boys had shown unusual aptitudes for important skills. Such gossip fascinated Anton, whose eldest daughter, just married to a respectable blacksmith, was showing talent for dyeing. Vasil swallowed a yawn and smiled and nodded and Anton happily went on, assuming that Vasil must be hungry for news of the tribe he had deserted many years ago in order to ride with Ilyakoria Bakhtiian.

Anton, Vasil reflected, was the perfect etsana's brother: he could support the headwoman by keeping abreast of all the niggling day-to-day details and so help her in her task of keeping the tribe running smoothly. An etsana's husband needed the same skills and interests, and back when Vasil was still young, less than two cycles of the calendar old, back when Bakhtiian had left the tribes to travel south to that half-mythical city called Jeds, Vasil had considered finding an etsana's elder daughter to marry. Actually, he had found three, any one of whom would have been thrilled to have him. But, gods, he could not stand to hear about other people's affairs, to listen to the petty complaints, the disputes, the women and men droning on and on about their concerns. The three young women in question had gone on to find other husbands, presumably better suited for the task, and Vasil hoped they were happy, when he thought about them at all.

Relief from Anton's recital came in the form of Yevgeni riding in from scout to meet up with the main group as they took their midday rest for the horses. With him rode an entire troop of horsemen, impressively armored. They wore sleeveless, knee-length silk robes, slit for riding, over their armor. Some wore gold cloth, some red, all of it embroidered in black and gold and silver.

"Mount," said Vasil, and he and Anton mounted and rode out to greet them.

"Anton Veselov!" The greeting came from the jahar's captain, a young blond man with a handsome face, very blue eyes, and an ambitious set to his shoulders. "Well met." The young man's glance settled on Vasil a moment, questioning, and then flashed back to Anton. Clearly he thought that this was where the authority lay.

"Well met," said Vasil, forestalling Anton's greeting. "I am Vasil Veselov."

"Well met," replied the young man politely, obviously recognizing nothing special in the name. "I am Anatoly Sakhalin. Yaroslav Sakhalin's nephew and Elizaveta Sakhalin's eldest grandson. Are you one of Anton's kin?"

Vasil was so furious that for a moment he could not speak. How dare this boy not know who he was?

"Vasil is my cousin," said Anton. "Sergei Veselov's son."

"I didn't know Veselov had a son. He died some three years past, didn't he?"

"I just learned of my father's death," said Vasil, cutting in before Anton could say any more. "I decided it was time I reunited with my tribe and take on my responsibilities."

Sakhalin regarded him and his black arenabekh clothing, and suddenly comprehension bloomed in his face. "Ah. Now I recall the story. You must have been one of the men riding with Dmitri Mikhailov. Do you think Bakhtiian will welcome you back?''

Vasil smiled. "Yes. I do. Indeed, I am sure of it."

"Ah," said Sakhalin, and then, to Vasil's disgust, he shifted his attention back to Anton. "We rode past your tribe. You can reach them by sundown if you go at a good pace."

"Where is the main army?" Vasil asked.

The arrogant young pup actually hesitated before answering. "Behind us. We've orders from Bakhtiian to take ahead to my uncle." He said that proudly enough, pleased that he had been chosen for such an honor. "Do you have khaja prisoners?"

"Only a Habakar general and his son."

"No doubt Bakhtiian will be pleased. Now, we must be riding on." He made farewells and his troop rode on, south.

Vasil snorted. "A boy in on the intimate counsels of Bakhtiian? Or so he would have it sound."

"He's not much older than Ilya was when he came back from Jeds," said Anton mildly, "and he's ambitious, and he's a Sakhalin, so perhaps it's no surprise that he feels he's important. Though he is young to have a command of his own, and I don't think Bakhtiian gives out such an honor casually. Even to a Sakhalin."

"There's more," said Yevgeni, breaking in. "One of his men told me he's just married a khaja woman, a Singer-no, he had a different word for it. They tell tales, but with their entire bodies and their words… well, it was a khaja art, he said. I've never heard of anything like it. What do you think of that? A khaja wife!"

"What of Bakhtiian's khaja wife?" asked Vasil abruptly. "Is she with the tribes still?"

Anton motioned to Yevgeni with a lift of his chin, and the young rider reined his horse aside to leave the cousins some privacy. "Vasil." Anton spoke slowly, weighing his words. "Bakhtiian still has a wife. Perhaps you didn't know that. It's something you might want to keep in mind."

Dear, good Anton-so right-minded and so honest. "My dear cousin," said Vasil ingenuously, "I also have a wife. Have you forgotten that? And two children."

"That's true." Reminded of this, Anton appeared mollified. "And Sakhalin said-"

"Yes. Let us hasten our reunion."

They made good time. It was still light when they came in sight of the wagons and tents marking the Veselov tribe. A scout greeted them, an adolescent boy who flushed bright red when he saw Vasil and called to him by name before he even greeted Anton. Vasil did not remember the boy's name, or whose child he was, but he greeted him warmly nevertheless. The child was gratified to be allowed to lead them in.

"Vasil!"

"Look, it's Vasilley."

"Gods, Veselov, I thought you were dead."

"Where have you come from?"

"Let me get Arina."

Vasil slowed his horse to the barest walk, letting the exclamations, the surprise, the warmth, and, to be sure, the adulation wash over him. Here and there he saw a disapproving grimace, a finger pointed, and he noted who they were; they could be won over later. He did not want speed: he wanted his reunion with Karolla and the children to be blindingly public.

He caught sight of Karolla just before she saw him. She was so very plain-that was the first thing he noticed-and she had certainly grown no better looking in their three years apart. Then a child nudged her and pointed, and she spun around. Her hand covered her mouth, and she went dead pale. Another woman might have burst into tears, might have acted rashly or stupidly or made a scene, but not Karolla. She had far too much courage, combined with a huge portion of common sense. She set down her spindle with dignity and shook out her skirts, then called into her tent. Vasil admired her for that self-control. A moment later, two children appeared.

Vasil pulled up his horse. Gods, they were older. Little Valentin had perhaps doubled in size, and Ilyana was a stunning girl, tall, slender, and serious. Vasil dismounted and walked across the last bit of ground separating them.

"Father!" Yana launched herself at him, and he laughed and crouched down to receive her embrace. She clutched him, hugging herself against him. Not sobbing, never that, not Karolla's child. And she was strong, too, for being so young-about eight winters old. She let go of him and grabbed him by the hand, tugging him. "Come, Papa. Come see Mama. And here is Valentin, but I expect he doesn't remember you."

Vasil let her drag him forward. Karolla was staring at him as if he was a spirit, or an angel. She did not move. So he let go of Yana's hand and took his wife by the waist and, well aware that everyone was watching, embraced her and kissed her rather more intimately than was proper for so public a place. The crowd murmured appreciatively. When he released her, her face shone. A few tears slid from her eyes, but she brushed them back impatiently and turned to call the boy to her.

"Valentin, come greet your papa."

Valentin did not move. His mouth set into a sullen frown and he closed his hands into fists. He stared at his father, and then looked up beyond him. "Uncle Anton!" he exclaimed, and darted past Vasil to greet the other man.

Vasil stiffened. "Give him time," said Karolla. Her hand brushed one of his hands, tightened on it, and then let go.

Ilyana came to hang on his other arm. "Are you going to stay, father? Or are you going away again?"

"Hush, Yana," said Karolla.

"No, it's all right. I have every intention of staying." Karolla bit at her lower lip, and Vasil could see that it was only with an immense effort that she refrained from bursting into tears. "But where is my cousin Arina? She is etsana now, is she not? I must have her permission to enter camp, surely."

"Rather late to get that," said a cool voice behind him.

He spun, and was shocked to see his little cousin Arina looking very composed and at her ease, and prettier than he had ever seen her. She held herself with surprising authority, and next to her stood a man Vasil recognized instantly.

"I am happy to see you, cousin," said Arina formally, "and I am pleased to receive you back into the tribe. This is my husband, Kirill Zvertkov. But I'm sure you know each other.''

Zvertkov was a good-looking man, fair-haired, but his appearance was hopelessly marred by one lifeless arm that hung loose at his side, as if it were, like an ill-made saber, a mere dead appendage. In his other, his good, arm, he held a tiny baby, and a child somewhat younger than Valentin peeked out shyly from behind his legs.

"No longer riding with Bakhtiian?" Vasil asked, but smoothly and without glancing at the useless arm.

"No, I am an etsana's husband now," replied Zvertkov, with a touch of ironic pride. Vasil did not recall that Zvertkov's family had ever had high enough standing that Kirill could have expected to marry so well-but perhaps there was more to it than that. So often there was. "And I have other duties as well."

Arina smiled, not disguising her pride in her husband. "Many young men come here to train, to find places in the army, and Kirill is in charge of all of them. He oversees their fighting and what jahar they are assigned to. Since Kerchaniia Bakhalo died, Bakhtiian gave the entire command into Kirill's hands."

One of which was withered and curled up into a clawlike loose fist. "I see you have done well, then," said Vasil kindly, wondering how important Zvertkov was to Bakhtiian.

"If I may?" asked Kirill, looking at his wife.

She nodded. Kirill motioned to Vasil and led him aside. A moment later Anton joined them. The baby whimpered and Kirill shifted it deftly in his arm, and it quieted. Behind them, Arina ruthlessly dispersed the crowd. Karolla, with stunning aplomb, went back to her spinning. Yana trailed after the men, loitering just far enough from them that they would have no reason to shoo her away. Her face was bright with joy. A gorgeous child, she was, prettier than her brother, but only because his features were blemished by his fretful, sullen expression.

"Well, Vasil," said Zvertkov. "I'm surprised to see you."

"I heard my father died."

"It's true, but quite a while back. Don't think, Veselov, that I don't have a good idea of why you've really come back."

Vasil blinked innocently. "Why is that?"

Zvertkov smiled mockingly. "I don't think it's anything we need talk of publicly, do you?'' Vasil recalled him as a young and rather foolish man, the kind of overgrown boy who attaches himself to a powerful man out of love and loyalty without having much personality himself. He revised this estimate quickly. Kirill Zvertkov had evidently become a rather more formidable man since they'd last met, and not just because he was now an etsana's husband. "Personally, I'd as soon you were gone for good, meaning no offense to your person, of course. But Karolla has missed you bitterly." He glanced to one side. "As has little Yana there, and for their sake, I'll counsel my wife to let you stay.''

Vasil laughed. "I think Arina loves me rather more than you realize."

"I am sure she does, and if this were the times before, I would not be talking to you now. But it isn't. Bakhtiian has changed everything we are."

' 'Is that why I see khaja weapons in camp?''

"You can't take cities on horseback, Veselov. We have learned that, and other things. We're going to conquer the khaja lands, as the gods have meant us to all along, and nothing will interfere with that. Especially not you."

"What is this, Kirill? Don't forget I knew you when you were young. I always thought your infatuation with Ilya was only a boy's admiration for a stronger man-well, but perhaps I was wrong."

Kirill's lips tightened, and he shifted. The baby mewled. "I don't think you have any power over him anymore, Vasil. Perhaps you've forgotten that he is married."

"I have never forgotten it," said Vasil softly. "But what makes you think I returned because of Bakhtiian? I, too, have married. And now that my father is dead, I am dyan by right.''

Now Kirill was startled. "What? Anton-"

Anton shrugged. "What's past is past, Kirill. It's true enough that Vasil is the proper dyan."

And since it was true, Kirill did not reply.

Vasil smiled and nodded. "Excuse me," he said. "My daughter is waiting." The moment he turned away from them, Yana dashed across to grab his arm. Clearly she did not mean to let go, but the weight did not distress Vasil. He kissed her on the brow and mussed her golden hair, and let her lead him back to his wife's tent where Karolla waited, patient, solemn, and just as desperately in love with him as she had been from the very first, when he had marked her in order to make her father, Dmitri Mikhailov, take him into his jahar. He sat down beside her as if he had never been gone and helped her wind yarn.

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.

Then, ignoring the unsettled problem lingering in their midst, the riders greeted each other. Arina dismounted and went to hug a brown-haired woman-yes, it was indeed Bakhtiian's khaja wife. She, too, was one of the rare people Vasil would never forget: he was not sure whether he hated or loved her more for what she was to Ilya. Tess. She walked across to Kirill and smiled up at Zvertkov.

"She loves him," said Vasil under his breath, and he glanced over to see what Bakhtiian made of this greeting. But Ilya was sitting stock still, moving only with a twitch of his hands here, and here, to keep his restive stallion from walking forward. He was staring at the sky. Otherwise, the movement as the two parties greeted each other excluded him, although he was its center.

"Vasil," said Anton mildly, "Tess Soerensen loves many men, and women as well. She has a generous heart. If you try to stir up trouble there, I think you'll find trouble, but only for yourself."

"I'm only surprised that anyone, loving Bakhtiian, could find room in his heart to love another.''

"Ah," said Anton. "As well you might be. If you will excuse me." He reined his horse away to go greet Niko Sibirin.

Vasil cursed under his breath, aware that he had just given himself away. Beside him, Tess Soerensen reached her arms up to take little Mira Veselov down from the saddle, and she turned to look up at Vasil. Behind her, Bakhtiian had shifted his attention to his wife, and his expression, fixed on her with the child in her arms, was painfully naked: no man ought to reveal himself so, not in public, at least.

"Well, Vasil," said Tess. "How like you to come along when you're least expected."

"And least wanted?"

Tess smiled, not entirely kindly. "How is your wife?"

Vasil flushed. "Karolla is well. As are the children. Arina was very kind to them."

"Yes, Arina has indeed been kind to them. But I must say I've always thought Karolla deserving of kindness."

"I have always been kind to her," retorted Vasil, stung by this accusation.

"I am sure you have been. But I can't imagine it was kind to desert her for so long."

"I didn't-" He stopped himself, and then laughed at her expression. "You're cruel as well as clever, Tess. How I've missed you."

Tess's entire face lit up with amusement, and she laughed. "Have you, indeed?"

"Tess!" Bakhtiian had reined his stallion two lengths closer to them, and his expression lowered to fury once again. "The child." Jealous! Ilya was jealous of him for gaining Tess's attention.

Tess swallowed the last of her laughter and carried the child over to her husband. Surprisingly, Mira was not afraid of this grim-faced man in the least. The little girl reached right up to him. Ilya plucked her out of Tess's arms and settled her in the saddle before him, and shot a glance toward Vasil that was filled with such venom that Vasil was immensely heartened.

"Zvertkov." The tone was stiff, but Kirill rode over to Bakhtiian quite cheerfully. "Have you any riders ready for the army?''

"Yes. A whole troop that I recommend you fit entire into one of the commands. They've worked quite well together-boys who came to me three years past, who've grown up here, and two girls."

"Two?"

"One fights well enough." Kirill winked down at Tess. "As well as Tess, I must say."

Vasil saw how Ilya frowned at this comment, how a certain indefinable tension settled around his shoulders, yet Zvertkov seemed immune to it. "And the other?"

"Well, not every man has the gift for fighting, so why should every woman? She'll not get herself into trouble, and she wants nothing else but to ride. Has nothing else. She was with Mikhailov." Kirill glanced back at Vasil and then away. "Also, Veselov brought men with him."

Bakhtiian's gaze jerked to Vasil and then wrenched away. "How many?" He halted, seemed to inhale resolve like air, and turned to hail Arina. "I will end this now," he said. "Mother Veselov. And you. Why have you come back, Vasil?''

As if it were warmth, Vasil basked in the intensity of Ilya's regard, let it flow over him and envelop him. "My father is dead. I am dyan by right."

"'I do not approve it.''

"Whether you approve it or not," said Vasil lightly, "it is not your decision to make."

"Is it not? Anton, come here. Arina, are you determined to allow this man back into your tribe?"

Arina bowed her head. "Even though you disapprove, Bakhtiian, I will allow him back. For his wife's sake. She has suffered enough."

"Even if I ask you to forbid him?"

Her voice was even, and calm. "Even so."

"Very well. I cannot interfere in your decisions. But he will not be a dyan in my army, whether your tribe elects him or not."

"I refuse the command," said Anton. "I bow to the greater wisdom of the gods."

"And in many tribes it would be wrong. But not here. You are my choice, Anton."

Anton, too, bowed his head before Bakhtiian's wrath, but his voice remained mild. "Nevertheless, I refuse."

"As do I," said Arina.

Well, there was no argument against that. Ilya sighed and settled back, and Mira reached up to rub her fingers along his trim beard. His expression altered instantly and he smiled at the little girl. "So be it. Kirill, I leave it to you to split up the men he brought with him into other jahars. No two together."

"No!" Vasil started forward and then reined his horse back sharply, coming close to trampling his own cousins. He was furious. "They are my men. They have been loyal to me for three years now.''

Bakhtiian smiled coldly. "Exactly. Now they will learn to be loyal to me. As is the rest of this army, Veselov, a fact you had best learn quickly. Now, if you will excuse me." He gave little Mira a kiss on the cheek and handed her back to her father. "Tess. Niko." He gathered his party back together swiftly and with the single-minded purpose characteristic of him. He did not look toward Vasil again, and they rode away, back toward the army streaming past on the plains below.

Arina mounted. So did Anton. With a lift of her chin, Arina signaled something unspoken but understood to her husband, and Kirill took the rest of the party aside, leaving the cousins together.

"Vasil," Arina started, and lapsed into silence.

"You have honored me with your trust," Vasil began. "I will never betray you."

Anton sighed. "Won't you, Vasil? I almost believe you."

Arina looked out at the party of riders approaching the army beyond. "Vasil." Her expression was pained but hopeful. "I was too young, really, to know much of what went on… before… between you and Bakhtiian. But you must see that whatever power you may have had over him, whatever feelings he may once have had-well, this isn't anything that ought to be spoken of, as you well know.''

"Do go on," said Vasil softly.

"The past is gone, Vasil. You can't recapture it." Anton, too, stared out at the army. "Look at that, out there, and you can see. We have another destiny now. Don't try to interfere with it. We can only protect you so far. Beyond that-"

"Beyond that, Vasil," said Arina firmly, sounding very much the etsana, "Bakhtiian will not hesitate to kill you if you make him angry again. That he has not done so now is only because of his respect for Anton and me. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Good. Then come, Anton. Vasil. We have much to do."

She rode away, and Anton followed her. But Vasil lingered, watching as Bakhtiian's party mingled in with the vanguard of Bakhtiian's army. "I understand very well," he said to himself. "I understand that Ilya is afraid of me. And that gives me hope."

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