Jaran

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Dusk, stars, evening.

Tess let Sonia help her dress in all the beautiful women's clothing gifted her by Nadezhda Martov, bracelets, the beaded headpiece. She felt empty, burned away until she was hollow.

"You're being very quiet," said Sonia. "I'll leave the lantern, and you can sit here on these pillows. Tess, it isn't as if you haven't lain with him before-" Abruptly, she sat down beside Tess and took her cold hands in her own. "You haven't?"

Tess could only shake her head numbly.

"But you rode down the Avenue together."

Tess found a whisper. "I didn't know."

"You didn't know!" Sonia was speechless for a moment. "I can only suppose that he didn't have the nerve to try to mark you, knowing you could use your saber, so he-Gods!" Tess glanced at her. The lantern light cast edges on the soft planes of Sonia's face. "Well, Tess, I'm sorry, but you're his wife now, and I can't interfere." She kissed her on the cheek and stood up, abandoning Tess in the middle of the silken mass of Irena Orzhekov's finest pillows. "But listen to me." Her voice was quiet but vehement. "Perhaps we do not know one another so well, you and I, but I can see into your heart, my sister, and I know you are strong enough for what has been given you."

"For Ilya?"

"Ilya is not the sum of your life, Tess. You forget that I have been to Jeds. I have seen the prince on progress through the city. I know there is more to you than these plains, and yet, there is Ilya as well. And you are the only woman-the only woman? no, the only person, truly-who has the courage to stand up to him on every ground. If there is no one to hold him in check, then what is to happen to him and to us?"

Tess stared down at her hands. "You're asking too much of me," she murmured, but when she looked up, Sonia had gone. Every doubt she had ever carried flooded back in on her. All the burdens of being Charles's heir, the cold weight of duty, and now this. Lord, to add this on top of it all.

She heard from outside the sound, but not the words, of a brief conversation: a woman's voice, a man's. Then the rustle of the tent flap and his movement through the outer chamber. He pushed aside the curtains that separated the outer chamber from the inner one and halted, poised there.

"Gods," he said, staring at her, "you are beautiful, my wife."

She said nothing, but her gaze followed him as he let the curtains slip down behind him and crossed to her. He knelt in front of her.

"I brought this for you." He unclasped the black necklace and with the greatest tenderness clasped it around her throat. He let his hands settle on either side of the curve of her neck, warm hands, though she felt the slight tremble in them against her skin. He gazed at her as if the answer to every question he had ever asked rested in her face.

He was so close but she could move neither toward him nor away from him, caught in this eddy.

"I am lost," she whispered.

His eyes narrowed and his lips, slightly parted, closed tightly. "You are afraid of me." He took his hands from her. "You were never afraid of me before," he said accusingly.

She wrenched her gaze away from him. "I don't know what I am.''

She felt him stand, and looked up to see him walk to the curtain. "You are my wife. You are also, I believe, heir to the Prince. And Sonia's sister, and a daughter to Irena Orzhekov. But mostly you are Tess." He looked furiously angry and yet at the same time terribly upset. "And if Tess ever decides she wants me, I will be waiting for her."

He jerked the curtain aside and left. Tess sank back into the pillows. She felt so utterly relieved that she could almost laugh at herself. She stared at the shadows dappling the soft ceiling of the tent. Footsteps stirred, and the curtain slipped aside.

"Tess?"

"Oh, hello, Sonia," said Tess in a voice that sounded almost normal.

"Tess. I-" She hesitated. "Do you- Perhaps- That is, I saw Ilya- But perhaps you'd rather I left you- I don't know-"

"I'm hungry," said Tess, sitting up.

"Well," said Sonia briskly, "you hardly ate a bite at supper so that doesn't surprise me."

"You aren't mad at me?"

"What occurs between you and Ilya is not any of my business, Tess."

Tess stood. "You and Yuri have been matchmaking since the day I got to your tribe. Admit it."

"No, in fact, it was several days before the thought occurred to me. It was at the dance, when you told him you were riding with them. And forced him to accept it and take you along."

"What's wrong with me?" Tess asked, remembering how brash she had been.

"You were almost killed, and you still haven't regained your strength. And you saw your brother killed. I grieve as much as you do but I didn't see him die. I can still imagine that he is simply out riding and will come back tomorrow. I don't envy you that knowledge or that memory.''

"But, Sonia, I want that knowledge and that memory. For you, they rode out one day and never came back. I couldn't stand to live that way.''

Sonia took her gently by the arm. "Perhaps that is why you still practice saber. Come, Tess. There's still meat, I think, or if you wish, a celebration at the Veselov camp. Arina has gone into seclusion for the next nine days but we women can visit her. I'm sure she would like to see you."

"Yes," said Tess, taking great comfort in the thought of the company of women, "I'd like that."

Sonia surveyed her critically. "And I want you to know how very much I hate you for being able to wear that particular shade of green. That is Nadezhda Martov's dye, is it not? Yes, we had some of her cloth once but it simply made me look ill, and it did nothing for Stassi or Kira or Anna either, so we had to trade it off. It made us sick to give it up. But it looks stunning on you." Tess blushed, remembering Ilya's voice as he called her "beautiful."

"Well? Are we going? Or are you going to stand there and gloat over your good looks all night?" Tess laughed and followed her out.

It was easy enough, in the morning, to go back to her old habits: in the mornings she would practice saber and fighting, and in the afternoons she would work and gossip with the women. Now that Bakhtiian's jahar had returned, she had plenty of company on the practice field, and their acceptance of her presence there did not go unnoticed by the others: especially the respect with which such noted riders as Josef and Tasha treated her. Bakhtiian, who observed and even participated out on the field at intervals, ignored her as he might ignore any other young rider whose presence was beneath his notice. If he did address her, it was always and only as "Cousin." He spent a great deal of time with his new horses, or speaking with the men who had come to join him, or taking reports from the scouts and parties of riders sent out to search for Mikhailov. Kirill continued to be a patient, fair, and shrewd teacher, and he carried himself with a new self-assurance to which even the older men deferred at the appropriate times. But Tess kept in general to the company of the orphans, feeling rather more comfortable with them, half in and half out of the tribes, than with anyone else.

With the women she felt entirely at home. Mother Orzhekov said nothing about her marriage. If anyone noticed that she slept in her tent and Ilya in his, no one mentioned it to her. At meals, Ilya was unfailingly polite to her. If she caught him staring at her now and again-well, then, could she blame him? If she caught herself staring at him-well, God knew how handsome he was.

"I am getting stronger," she said to Sonia one day. "I got through all morning without having to rest."

"Yes," said Sonia, "and we've worked all afternoon without you resting either. Tonight Arina comes out of seclusion. Poor Kirill has been hiding outside of camp all afternoon."

"Yes," said Tess with a grin, "he was looking rather nervous and pink at practice. I told him so."

"You are feeling better."

"Yes," said Tess, realizing it was true. "I am."

After supper, Tess went alone to her tent and pulled out the tiny dagger and stared at it. She slid her thumb up the blade, felt it hum. The hilt peeled away. Charles needed to know that she was alive. She lifted it to her eye level so the intricate machinery could take her retinal scan. Then, with decision, she triggered the codes. Not the primary codes, the emergency alert, but the secondary pulse, tuned to her signature code, that said merely, I am safe. For five minutes it pulsed, silent to her ears, and then it stopped. She slid the transmitter back into its sheath and left it with her saber and her jahar clothes, safe in her tent.

That evening the two tribes held a dance in honor of Mother Veselov's wedding. Arina was carried out to the great fire, weighed down with so much finery that she actually shone. Kirill, allowed to see her for the first time since the day he had marked her, greeted her with a kiss far more intimate than was proper for so public a place, and he was chastised good-naturedly all evening by women and men both.

"Really, Kirill," said Tess, standing aside with him while they watched the dancing, "such an immodest display astonishes me in you." He laughed. He was very happy. "Why don't you just leave early?"

"Oh, I would if I could, Tess, but you know it isn't right. We have to stay here until the very end."

"Poor Kirill. Hello, Sonia."

"You will dance with me, Kirill," Sonia said.

"Sonia, I can't-"

"Not as you used to, no. But you'd better learn."

"Tess," pleaded Kirill, "save me."

"Forgive me," said Tess, "but I have urgent business elsewhere." She left him to his fate.

She walked a ways around the periphery and there, like a beacon, she saw him. Except that he was speaking with Vera Veselov, and Vera was leaning very close, her body canted toward him in a most intimate fashion. Tess stopped dead. It took her a moment to recognize the emotion that had taken hold of her. Arina, of course, shone with joy at this celebration, but Vera was as always the most striking woman present. Tess drew herself up and marched over to them.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Vera," she said sweetly, "but my husband has promised me this dance."

Ilya looked startled. Vera smiled, but it was probably the most vicious smile Tess had ever seen. "No, I beg your pardon, Tess. I hope you enjoy the celebration." She turned on her heel and strode swiftly away.

"Had I promised you this dance?" Ilya asked.

"No. You were behaving most improperly, Bakhtiian."

"Was I?"

"Flirting like that? Yes, you were."

"But this is a celebration. One can allow a little immodesty at a celebration."

"Not that much," Tess muttered. "What did she want, anyway?''

"What do you suppose she wanted?"

"Yes, I suppose it would be easy enough to slip away and return to her tent. Everyone is here, after all."

"Yes, it would be," he agreed.

"What are you smiling at?"

"Your temper."

She did not like the way he was looking at her. "Well," she demanded, "are we going to dance?" -

Immediately, he drew back. "You know I prefer not to dance," he said stiffly.

"What, is it too undignified for you? But you dance very well, Bakhtiian, and I love to dance. Therefore, you will dance with me."

"As you command, my wife," he said meekly, and followed her out. He danced very well indeed, and she made him dance three dances with her before she agreed to pause. They walked off to the side, he with his hand lingering at her waist until, remembering himself, he shifted it selfconsciously to his belt.

"You look very lovely tonight," he said, not looking at her.

"Thank you." She smiled. His sudden shyness made her feel bolder. "But you know, I'm more comfortable in jahar clothes. I only wear these to please Mother Orzhekov."

"As you should," he said in a constrained voice.

"You don't approve of me fighting, do you, Ilya?"

"I have no right to dictate what you do as long as my aunt approves it."

"Your aunt doesn't approve it. Or, that is, I did not ask her permission."

He rounded on her. "You didn't ask her permission! Tess, I remind you that-"

"Don't lecture me. Yes, I am beholden to her hospitality. Yes, she took me in, for which I will always be grateful. But I am not jaran, Ilya, and as long as my behavior does not offend your gods, I will do what I think is best for myself."

"Even if it displeases my aunt?"

"Even if it displeases you. "

"I suggest," he said coldly, "that we either end this conversation now, before we make a spectacle of ourselves, or continue it elsewhere, where the entire camp cannot hear and see us."

She began to walk away from the crowd and the fire and he walked beside her. Their silence was not as much antagonistic as measuring. "Teach me saber," she said.

"What, right now?"

"Yes, right now. No, of course not right now. Tomorrow. The next day."

"I can't teach you, Tess."

"Because you don't want to?"

"Because I can't. Give me credit, please, for so much self knowledge. I would not teach you well or fairly."

"Well," she admitted, a little mollified, "Kirill said as much. Then let me ride in your jahar."

"You are not adept enough yet, nor experienced enough yet. Not for my jahar or for any dyan's jahar."

"If I learn enough to become so?"

"Most of these young men have been fighting with saber since they were boys, I might remind you."

"Am I that bad?"

"No," he said reluctantly. "You're rather good, for how few months you've been practicing. You have a certain gift, you're strong, and you work very hard."

It was quiet in the Veselov camp. The great fire burned with a roar alongside the beaten ground of the practice field, where now the dancing was being held. A man passed them, hurrying toward the celebration, and they saw a shape slip into a tent out at the edge of camp.

"Where are we going?" Ilya asked finally.

"I'm not sure." She looked up at the brilliant cast of stars above. Somewhere out there, worlds spun and ships traveled, spanning vast distances; Charles wove his plots, and the Chapalii wove other plots still. Her life, all of it, and yet this world was hers as well. She had done her duty to Charles-tracked the Chapalii and not only alerted him to their presence but discovered a relic of such value that she could not begin to measure it. "I'm not sure what I ought to do anymore, or what I can do, or whether or not Yuri was right.''

"Right about what?" he asked softly.

She stopped. They had walked about halfway through the Veselov camp, and the two great tents, one belonging to Arina and one to Vera, lay some fifty paces behind them. A low fire burned in the fire pit that separated the tents, illuminating the wedding ribbons woven up the tent poles that supported the awning of Arina's tent. And, Tess saw, a small pile of gear deposited on one corner of the rug: her new husband's possessions, to be moved inside by him this night.

"Oh, damn," said Tess in a low voice. "Look, there's Vera."

Vera stood just outside the entrance to her own tent, talking with a man Tess could not recognize from this distance. By the way she was gesticulating with her arms, Tess could guess that it was poor Petya, and that he was being scolded for some illusory offense.

"Tess," said Ilya as softly as he had spoken before but in an utterly changed voice, "where is your saber?"

"In my tent."

"Damn. Walk back to the fire."

"Ilya."

"That is Vasil. How he got into this camp I do not know, why Vera is sheltering him I do not care to guess, but there is going to be trouble any moment now. Go alert Josef and Tasha."

"Where are you going?"

He put one hand on his saber hilt. "To talk with him."

She laid both hands on his chest. "No. Don't be a fool. Don't you remember when Doroskayev sent men into Sakhalin's camp to kill you? What if Vasil isn't alone? Let's walk back to the fire together, now.''

But it was already too late. Vera's companion had stepped past her and it was obvious that, even over such distance and in the darkness, Vasil and Ilya were looking at each other. The flap leading into Vera's tent swept aside, and three men rushed out, sabers drawn.

"Stahar linaya!" Ilya cried. He drew his saber. "Tess! Back to the fire."

She stepped away from him. The three men closed, slowing now to split around him, and Ilya edged away from her. Vasil had not moved. Tess ran for Vera's tent.

"Damn you!" Vera was shrieking. "Go kill him! You coward, go kill him!"

Vasil backhanded her so hard she fell to the rug. She began to sob. "You're a fool, Vera. He will never love you. But who is this?" He sidestepped Tess's rush neatly, tripped her, and than pinned her to the ground. "The khaja pilgrim. How interesting."

Behind, she heard the ring of sabers and a distant-too distant-shout. "Give me your saber," she said to Vasil the ground, "and I'll speak for you, and maybe they'll spare your life."

"He rode with her down the Avenue," Vera gasped out between sobs. "I want him dead."

"Vera. Shut up. Get the horses." Then, moving before she realized he meant to, Vasil lifted Tess up and pinned her to him. "They'll never spare my life, and I don't plan on giving it up. Retreat to me!" he cried.

Horses snorted and pawed beside them. Vera stood at their heads, clutching their reins. Tears streamed down her face. "You are a coward," she gasped. "You're afraid to kill him. You've always loved him more than you ever loved me."

"Forgive me," said Vasil, and in the instant before she realized he was speaking to her, Tess got her head turned enough to see Vasil's three men sprinting back toward them, Ilya at their heels. Farther, much farther back, cries of alarm and shouts and commotion stirred the camp. Then she saw the flash of Vasil's knife, and a hard knob struck her temple.

Charles Soerensen sat in an anteroom of the imperial palace. Indeed, the only city left on the homeworld of Chapal was the imperial palace.

It had taken him five days from his arrival on Paladia Major to get dispensation to enter imperial space, and five days on Chapal to get this far, seven doors away from audience with the emperor. Suzanne sat next to him, decently swathed in scholar's robes; she was his best interpreter-best except for his own missing sister, of course-but very few females were allowed into the imperial presence. Across from them, on benches grown from crystal, sat Hon Echido and two elder members of Keinaba, those who would partake of the rite of loyalty with Charles in the emperor's presence.

If the emperor allowed it. Charles allowed himself a smile, a brief one, secure that Chapalii did not interpret facial tics as meaningful of emotion or thought. For all he knew, it would take him five months to get past those last seven doors, and even then he did not know if the Keinaba dispensation would still be in force. But, like water working past a dam in a stream, eventually he would find his way past each obstacle. Eventually, one way or the other, he would get the key that would allow the next rebellion to succeed.

The far door-the door leading back away from the emperor's presence-opened, and Tai Naroshi Toraokii entered with his retinue. The near door opened, revealing a lord in the silver livery of the imperial house. Tai Naroshi paused in front of Charles. Charles did not rise.

"Tai-en." Naroshi inclined his head.

"Tai-en." Charles inclined his head in turn. "The translation program works very well. Your artisans are efficient."

"I am gratified that you find them so. I express my grief with your family at this time."

Charles glanced at Suzanne, wondering if the program was not working. She blinked twice: the words were correct. "Your concern is generous, Tai-en," Charles replied.

"Perhaps you will adopt a proper male heir now. I would be honored, Tai-en, if you would consider my sister, who is an architect of great renown, for the design of your sister's mausoleum. She would certainly design a fitting and magnificent structure of unparalleled beauty.''

One of his retinue had flushed blue. Charles stared at Naroshi, both of them equally impassive.

Suzanne pulled the loose drape of her hood over her face. "Oh, Goddess," she said in a stifled voice.

"Tai-en," said Charles at last. "Are you telling me that my sister is dead?''

If Naroshi was surprised by Charles's ignorance, or by his directness, he showed no sign of it. "This one of mine, who is named Cha Ishii Hokokul, has brought me this news. Are you telling me, Tai Charles, that you have not heard it yet?"

The far door swept aside and Tomaszio strode in, followed by a lord in imperial silver who was flushed green with disapproval. Charles stood up. The lord halted, facing two dukes, and let Tomaszio proceed alone.

"This is just in," said Tomaszio in Ophiuchi-Sei. "Goddess, I'm sorry to disturb you here, Charles, but it's code red from Odys."

Charles took the palm-sized bullet and just stood for a moment. Suzanne still held the cloth across her face. Keinaba watched. Naroshi and his retinue watched. The one called Cha Ishii watched, skin fading to a neutral white.

Charles pressed his thumb to the pad, and the bullet peeled open. It was not even scrambled, the message, just two bites. One bore Marco's signature code, and it read: Tess found the key. The other, the unique signature code of his only sibling, his heir, twined into the secondary pulse of an emergency transmitter's beacon and flatcoded to be sent on to him: / am safe.

Without a word Charles nodded to Tomaszio, dismissing him, and handed the bullet to Suzanne, who lowered the cloth enough to read it and then with a suppressed gasp pulled the cloth back over her face again. She pressed the fail-safe on the tube, and the casing and contents dissolved her hand.

"Your sympathy is well-taken, Tai-en," said Charles. He at down.

'Tai Naroshi Toraokii." The lord at the near door spoke, ad he bowed to the precise degree. "I beg you to allow me to admit you into the next antechamber."

Naroshi inclined his head to Charles. "Tai-en."

"Tai-en."

Naroshi and his retinue went on, moving one step closer to the emperor's presence.

"Oh, Goddess," said Suzanne again.

Hon Echido had flushed blue. "I beg of you, Tai Charles, to indulge me in this. Has the Tai-endi Terese indeed died? I would be stricken to desolation were it so. She was kind to me."

Charles examined Hon Echido, examined the Keinaba elders. He glanced at Suzanne, who lowered the cloth from her face. Drying tears streaked her face. She lifted a hand and wiped them away.

"My servants," said Charles, and then he tapped off the translation program. "Hon Echido," he said in Anglais. "Do you understand what it means to be allied to my house?"

Hon Echido bent his head, subservient. "I understand. You are daiga, human, and will be always a barbarian, you and your kind." His skin faded to orange, the color of peace. "But we chose, we of Keinaba, to live rather than to die. Thus we have made our choice."

"Then I will tell you this. The Tai-endi lives but it is better that we alone, of my house, know this."

The three merchants studied him, knowing full well that such a declaration meant that their duke had chosen to enter the struggle, to vie for position within the emperor's sight, to begin the slow, intricate dance of time uncounted and years beyond years, the politic art, the only art granted to males: the art of intrigue.

"Oh dammit dammit my head hurts," Tess muttered. She opened her eyes and shut them immediately. "The light hurts. Ilya." She was cradled against his chest. "Why is everything moving so much?"

"Because we're riding," he said, sounding amused.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, trying to push away from him. Her wrists and ankles were bound, and she was seated sidesaddle on his horse, held against him. "Vasil!"

"I apologize for that blow to the head but there really was no way to get out of there without a hostage." He smiled.

"Good Lord," said Tess, getting a good look at him as her eyes adjusted to the light, "you really are the handsomest man I've ever met."

He laughed. "Thank you. I will take the compliment in the spirit in which it was offered."

"You bitch," said a second voice. "You aren't content with just one, are you?"

"Vera," said Vasil, "spite makes you ugly. Yevgeni, take her forward, please."

Yevgeni grinned and urged his horse into a gallop. Vera clutched at his belt and her face went white but she kept yelling back at them, the words lost in the wind.

"Poor Yevgeni," said Vasil. "Our family has always been cursed with loving its face more than its heart. You two, go and keep him company, if you will." The other men rode after Yevgeni. "I hope your head isn't hurting too much."

"I still have a headache. It seems to me that now that you're free of the camp, you can let me go."

"Oh, no, Terese Soerensen, we're not free yet. So Ilya married you, did he?" He looked thoughtful. "You rode down the Avenue together. He must love you very much."

"He wants me," said Tess, and then, because the tone of her voice reminded her of the venom in Vera's voice, she went on. "Yes, he does love me. It's just taken me this long to really understand that." She paused a moment, shading her eyes. All she could see was unending grass around them, and she had not the faintest idea where they might be or in what direction the camp lay. "Why am I telling you this?"

"Because we are alike, you and I," he said with perfect seriousness.

"Are we? In what way?"

"We both love Ilya. But he will never have me, and therefore he must die."

"How like your sister you are," she said bitterly, and suddenly wished he was not holding her so closely.

"Yes, I am," he said cheerfully. "It's a terrible thought, isn't it? I find her quite unbearable."

"You could have killed him last night."

Vasil shrugged. "The truth is, I am a coward. I'll never be able to kill him with my own hand. That's why I ride with Mikhailov, to let him do it. But I see this subject is upsetting you. Shall we speak of something else?"

She turned her head away from him, staring out at the men riding ahead of them. "I don't want to speak to you at all."

They rode on in silence for a time. Her head ached, but when he paused long enough to give her some water to drink, the pain dulled to a throb.

"Can't you at least untie my ankles so I can ride more comfortably?" she asked at last.

"Certainly. I'll untie your ankles and your wrists if you will promise me on your husband's honor that you won't attempt to escape."

"Damn you. I can't promise that."

"I didn't think you would. Ilya holds his honor very high."

She did not reply. They rode on, and she gauged by the sun that they were riding northeast. In early afternoon they rode into a hollow backed by a steep ridge. A copse of trees ringed a water hole at the base of the ridge, and beyond it lay a small, makeshift camp. One great tent was pitched on the far side, on a low rise above the others, twenty small tents scattered haphazardly below it. The inhabitants were mostly men, she saw as they paused on the crest of a rise to look down, but women and children were there as well.

Vasil and his companions made directly for the great tent. Dmitri Mikhailov stood outside, leaning on a crutch, watching them.

"Evidently you failed," he said. "Who is this? The khaja pilgrim? Why?"

"I wouldn't have failed!" Vera cried. "I would have gotten him to come back with me but then she interrupted me!"

"He would never have gone with you," said Tess. Her ankles were bound loosely enough that she could stand next to Vasil.

"Do you think so? Everyone knows you sleep in separate tents. You couldn't even get your own husband to lie with you."

Tess was suddenly struck with a feeling of great pity for Vera, who had nothing left to her now but her own gall to succor her through the months and the years. "I'm sorry," she said.

Vera slapped her. Vasil grabbed his sister and wrenched her arm back so hard that Vera gasped with pain.

Mikhailov sighed. "Must I put up with this? Karolla!"

A young woman about Tess's age emerged from the tent. "Yes, Father?" Her gaze settled on Tess, and she looked surprised and curious at the same time. She bore an old, white scar of marriage on her cheek.

"Take this Veselov woman somewhere, anywhere, that is out of my sight."

"Yes, Father." Karolla looked at Vasil. Tess caught the infinitesimal nod that he gave her, as if it was his permission and not her father's that she sought. "Well, you must be Vera. I'm sure you'd like to wash and get some food. Will you come with me?"

Vera gathered together the last shreds of her dignity and with a final, parting glance of sheer hatred-not for Tess but for her brother-she walked away with Karolla.

"You three," said Mikhailov to the riders, "please follow them and see that she makes no mischief. Now, Vasil, what happened?''

"As Vera said. Vera got us into camp easily enough but Bakhtiian would not go with her to her tent. It was luck that this woman and Bakhtiian came walking through camp-well, there wasn't time to fight him fairly, so I took her as hostage."

"That is very well, Vasil, but how will this help us kill Bakhtiian? We are already driven into a corner, and now he will attack us with far superior forces."

"But, Dmitri, she is his wife."

"There is no mark."

"By the Avenue."

"Gods!" Dmitri looked at her for the first time as if her presence mattered to him. "Is that true?"

Tess did not reply. Her cheek still stung from Vera's slap.

"Yes," answered Vasil. "Given the brief moments we had to get out of the camp alive, I did as well as I could. I told Bakhtiian that if he did not leave us alone, I would let Vera kill her.''

Mikhailov smiled, bitterly amused. "Did you? Would Vera kill her?"

"I think so. Gladly. Vera is not all show, Dmitri."

"But would you let Vera kill her?"

Vasil shrugged. "I don't know."

"Well, send Yevgeni with a message: Tell Bakhtiian that if he gives himself into our hands, we will free his wife."

"Will Bakhtiian believe you?"

"What is left us, Vasil? This is our last chance. We'll break camp and move, and when Bakhtiian comes, we must kill him. Put her in my tent."

Vasil picked Tess up and carried her inside, depositing her on two threadbare pillows in the outer chamber. Mikhailov followed them in.

"Leave us," he commanded. Vasil left without a word. Mikhailov lit a lantern and then twitched the entrance flap down with his free hand. The other hand still gripped his crutch. "Yes," he said, following her eyes to the crutch. "You nearly cut my leg off. I'll have this hurt for the rest of my life."

"Why do you want to kill him?" she asked. The lantern cast shadows high on the dim, sloping walls.

His mouth was an angled line, like the edge of shadow. "I don't know that you can understand the complexities of the jaran. His reputation hurts mine. His greatness lessens all. His peace enslaves us to his will. He has great notions, our Bakhtiian, but he will kill us as surely as he saves us."

"The old ways must give way before the new," said Tess quietly. She had a sudden, fierce vision of Charles's face, still and shadowed, knowing as he must that in time, whether years or centuries, whether in his lifetime or his descendants', this sanctuary that was Rhui would be breached and flooded, its culture obliterated by the wave of progress brought down from the stars. "But even if you kill Bakhtiian, it will still happen. You are a thousand tribes, and a thousand thousand families, and the lands of the khaja stretch all around you. Another man will come to the jaran, and he will lead them into war against the settled lands."

Mikhailov limped over to her, grabbed her shoulders, and jerked her to her feet. He was very strong, and he could stand quite well without the crutch. "Are you a prophet?" he asked, not mocking at all. "Is that why Bakhtiian married you, a holy woman?"

"Oh, I'm many things, but not a prophet, I don't think. Let me go, Mikhailov, let me go free, and I'll see that your family and your riders are forgiven all this."

"Not myself?" He smiled.

"No," she said even more softly. "You killed my brother.''

His eyes were a deep blue, deeper than any she had seen, almost green, like the sea. He muttered an oath and let her go. She fell in a heap onto the pillows.

"Even if what you say is true, I will be dead and burned. But I swore by the gods and by my honor that I would not let Bakhtiian destroy my people while I yet lived. And if your brother died, then only remember, that is the price every sister will pay for Bakhtiian's dreams."

He blew out the lantern and left her in darkness. It was true, of course. Where Bakhtiian commanded, men died. It was true of Charles as well, and if he acted on the information she had given him in the Mushai's cylinder, many more, humans and Chapalii, would die. And, of course, he would act on that information. He had to.

"If there is no one to check him, then what will happen to him, and to us?" If she stayed, would Ilya return to the plains and live out his life in peace and quiet, for her? Almost she could laugh at the absurdity of it. Another man would come, another Bakhtiian, another Charles.

And yet together with them, fires would burn in the night and families would gather and bonds be forged based on duty and loyalty and love. A family would take in an orphan, friends would clasp hands, and a man and a woman would come to know and love one another. How could both these things, death and life, hatred and loyalty, killing and love, exist at the same time? There was no good answer. There never was.

She pulled up her knees and struggled to untie her ankles, but it was hard to see and her bonds were tight. A breath of wind stirred the tent, moving along the walls, and then abruptly light glared in on her and was as suddenly extinguished.

A hand caught her chin, and a man kissed her on the mouth. She rolled away from him. He laughed and lit a lantern.

"You have fire in you," said Vasil. "I can taste it."

"How dare you!"

' 'Because I am more a part of Ilya than you can understand, Tess." He knelt beside her and cut her loose with his knife. "Here are some jahar clothes. You can probably get out of camp without being noticed. You can take the knife but not my saber, I fear. I'll need it."

"Why? Turn around." Obediently, he turned his back to her, and she slipped into the inner chamber and changed quickly, hooking the curtain back just enough that she could see him. "Why?" she repeated, stripping off her tunic. "You brought me here."

"Yes, I brought you here. But now I see it was a mistake. I can't protect you. Mikhailov will let Vera kill you, or she will find a way to kill you in the confusion of the battle."

"That still doesn't explain why."

"You can't understand. So long as I thought Ilya had never and would never marry because he loved me, so long as I thought that he banished me from his jahar only because he wanted his war more than he wanted me and did it selfishly, knowing the jaran would never follow him believing there might be something between us, so long as that, I could want him dead. But he rode with you down the Avenue." He laughed again. "Why do you suppose it never occurred to me that he never really loved me except when we were boys, that he had simply not yet found a woman to match him? That he banished me because I forced him to make that choice?''

"I don't know. I don't think the answer is that easy." She pulled on the black trousers. They fit her well enough, once the red shirt was tucked in and belted. "And he would never give up his war for me either.''

"No, but you wouldn't ask him to."

"Did you? My God, that took a lot of nerve."

"Yes, but then, I'm very beautiful, you know." He turned. "Here is the knife." He tossed it to her casually but not without malice. She caught it deftly. "Cut out his heart, if it hasn't all burnt away by now. But leave a corner for me."

"Thank you, Vasil."

"Oh," he said with a smile that made him look uncannily like his sister, "I wish you joy of him. Go."

She walked past him to the flap and thence out under the awning, not looking back. Men and women moved below, striking the camp. She walked swiftly over the crest of the rise and turned back along it toward the high ridge. Then she ran until she could break into the trees. She had no idea, really, what she ought to do, except that once Mikhailov left this camp, someone, some scout, even Bakhtiian's entire force, would track him here. And find her waiting. She hiked out of the trees, which gave scant cover, and scrambled up along a ridge of rock to the top of the height.

There she turned to survey Mikhailov's camp. Far below, Vasil walked through the camp. Karolla ran up to him and took his arm. He shifted to answer her, then froze, and his face lifted suddenly and he stared.

Beyond the hollow the sun spread like a flow of water from the crests of hills. Looking out along Vasil's line of sight, past the hill that marked the other end of the valley, Tess saw a solitary rider emerge on the lit swell of a far rise. He sat there for the space of ten heartbeats before a man shouted off to her right, and the other sentry left his post, running into camp. The rider urged his horse forward.

"Oh, God," whispered Tess.

Men emerged from tents. Horses were saddled. Movement flooded toward the end of the valley where he was about to enter. Alone.

She should have stayed in the tent. At least she had a knife. She had never imagined he would ride in alone, just for her.

The sun illuminated Bakhtiian as he crested the last hill and came down the final slope. Men surrounded his horse. Four riders closed in around him. Mikhailov limped out from the crowd. Taking the horse's reins, he led Bakhtiian through the camp as if he were a king. It was very quiet.

Quietest of all when they drew up next to Vasil, who had not moved. Something communicated but not spoken passed between them, the dark man tall on his horse and the fair man staring up at him. Tess thought, that is how it has always been between them.

Vasil stepped forward. He had a hand on his saber but it was his other hand that lifted. He grasped Ilya's fingers, lifted the dark man's hand to his lips, and kissed it. Mikhailov said something. For a moment no one moved. Vasil let go of Bakhtiian's hand and Mikhailov led the horse on. Vasil did not follow. They were halfway through camp, people dropping away from the main escort, heading toward Mikhailov's tent, before Tess realized where they were going and that they would not find her there.

"You idiot," she said aloud. She pushed herself forward and slid along the loose rock. Pebbles slipped and tumbled out from under her boots, and she fell, sitting hard on the stones.

Out on the plain, riders came.

A jahar rode in. To its right, a second. To the left, more men rode, their shirts brilliant against the dull grass. In an instant she would hear their cries. In an instant they would reach the camp. But they would never find Ilya in time. She saw neither Bakhtiian nor Mikhailov below. She impelled herself forward, sliding and scrambling down the slope.

She reached the trees just as the first wave of riders hit. She pushed through, thrusting aside branches without care that they snapped back to whip her face. A woman screamed. Men shouted. Metal rang on metal. She burst out of the copse and ran for the camp-to be almost trampled by a knot of horses. She flung herself aside. A horse pulled up beside her, and she looked up to see Vasil. Blood painted his face, and stained his side and one leg.

"Veselov, come on. We're going," shouted one of the men ahead of him, reining in a half-wild horse.

"I told you I was a coward," said Vasil. "But I love my life too well."

"Vasil, where did he go?"

"To Mikhailov's tent." He offered her his saber. When she took it, he gave her a brief, bitter smile and rode on, away from the fight.

Tess ran. The world dissolved into confusion. She dove to one side to avoid the trampling hooves of a line of horses. One of the animals, pressed too close to a tent, caught a leg in the ropes. The horse stumbled, throwing the rider off its neck. The tent shuddered and collapsed. Tess scrambled past it and ran on.

Two horseless men dueled, an eddy in the current rushing around them. Three women, a child sheltered between them, huddled against the wall of a tent. A sudden shove pitched Tess to her knees, and she ducked her head, flinging up her saber, as a horse galloped past. No blow came. Ten steps from her a man lay groaning. Blood bubbled from his mouth.

She struggled on. She felt as if she were fighting upstream. Her lungs stung. Riders galloped past. Men ran in twos and threes. Mikhailov's daughter stared at her, pale-eyed, from the sanctity of a tent. She got a moment's glimpse of Vladimir, mounted, cutting through a clump of horsemen, his saber tracing an intricate pattern through their midst. Beneath the shouting and the cries of the wounded, she heard the constant, anguished sobbing of a woman. A man cursed, shrill and fluent. There was a confusion of shouting: "Break right; fall back; Tasha, to me, to me."

Then she was beyond the fighting. Mikhailov's tent stood alone before her. With her saber leading, she charged up the hill. She could hear voices from inside the tent. A shout. She was almost there. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

A man cried out. Something hit the side of the tent. Then a saber, thrust with murderous force, ripped through the tent to gleam for a single, dull moment in the afternoon sun.

They seemed to be there a year, she and the bloodstained saber, frozen together. It was withdrawn. The form of a body slid down the inside of the tent wall.

Dead.

Far below, a man screamed in agony.

Tess flung herself to the entrance, jerked aside the frayed tent flap, saber raised. Shadows obscured the body slumped against the tent wall. A dark stain spread out on the light rug beneath the limp, tumbled form. The killer stood with his back to her, stiff with tension, arm pulled back as if for another strike, his fingers gripped to whiteness around the hilt.

She took a step. The flap rustled down behind her. He turned and without a break lunged toward her.

His movement halted as suddenly as if rope had brought him up short. The saber fell from his hand. She froze.

He said in the barest whisper: "Tess."

She took a single step toward him. Another. With a slight, inarticulate cry, she dropped her saber and ran into him.

Even at this short distance, he had to take two steps backward to counterbalance the force of their meeting. He had no chance to say anything more because she was kissing him. At first randomly, a cheek, an eye, whatever presented itself, but when he regained his footing he pulled her tight against him and returned her kiss.

Reality existed where their bodies touched, and where they touched, it was as if they were melding, as earth dissolves into the sea and that, evaporating into air, kindles to fire. He murmured something indistinguishable and kissed her along the curve of her jaw to her neck, to her throat. She pulled his head back and kissed him on the mouth again. What other substance could there be in the world, at this moment, but him? And all of him fire.

She felt his attention shift away from her, and he broke away and grabbed for a saber. She dropped to her knees and picked up Vasil's saber and rose to stand beside him.

"Bakhtiian!"

They both relaxed. "Niko," he said. "I'm safe." His gaze returned to her face, a look comprised of equal parts hunger and disbelief. From outside came a muffled command and the sound of horses riding away.

The tent flap was swept aside. Niko strode in, halting just past the entrance. Josef and Tasha screened the daylight behind him. "Ilya. Tess! Thank the gods!" His eyes shifted to the slumped form. "So Mikhailov didn't get away."

"Get rid of it," said Ilya. Without a word, Josef and Tasha carried the body out.

"The battle is won, Mikhailov's riders are dead or wounded. A few got away. We need some decision. There's wounded to be considered, and the camp is already half struck. Anton Veselov thinks-"

"We'll stay the night," said Ilya. "There's a fire to be built."

"Yes," agreed Niko, "but we can leave a few riders to watch over the pyre while the rest-"

"Niko," said Tess. "Go away."

An infinitesimal pause. Niko's gaze came to rest on Tess. He began to speak, looking back at Ilya, but only a meaningless syllable came out. A longer pause as he watched Ilya, whose gaze had not strayed from Tess, some invisible line connecting them down which their gazes were impelled to travel.

"Yes," said Niko. "I can see that I have overstayed my welcome." Then he grinned and retreated quickly, pulling the tent flap shut as he left.

Outside, men called out, horses neighed, a woman sobbed. Already the first faint smell of ulyan reached them, but it was something far outside her, the sun seen from a brightly lit room. She felt him, a presence palpable as heat.

Into their silence, he said smoothly, "Where did you get that imperious tone of voice?''

"From you." She set down the saber, picked up the lantern, and walked into the inner chamber. He followed her, halting where his boot came to rest against a pillow. The lantern limned him in light where he stood facing her.

"Tess," he said softly. "You're trembling."

"How could you have been so stupid? I thought he killed you. You idiot. Why did you ride in here alone?"

"I took the chance that once they saw me, they would forget for just long enough that I had a jahar behind me."

"My God, you're arrogant."

Even shaded as he was, she could see the intensity of his eyes. "Is that what you think of me?" he asked.

She felt an intangible swelling within her, a tangle of anger, of wild-eyed hope, of exultation. And she felt despair, knowing he would someday far too soon die. "You know what I think of you, damn you."

If laughter could be noiseless, could be the set of a body changing, a stance, an arm shifted sideways, she would have said he laughed. At the same moment she became acutely aware of his body, of its sensuality of line, of the curve of his jaw, the cut of his trousers over his hips, the slight caressing lift of the fingers of the hand nearest her, like an enticement. One side of his mouth tugged up into a half-smile. "Gods, Tess," he said, and everything about him changed. "How you hate it when I'm right."

Four steps took him into her arms.

He was asleep when she woke, The lantern still burned. It was as silent as death outside. The dim glow on his face gave him a luminous tinge, as if their lovemaking had sparked some smoldering center within him that now flamed forth, investing him in light. She shifted to pillow her head on his shoulder. He woke.

"You're all lit," he murmured, gazing raptly at her. His hand brushed up to her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw, and then as if with a will of its own slid down to the soft rise of her breasts. "I love you."

Tess smiled.

He kissed her.

They rolled, and their legs got tangled in a blanket. As he sat up to free them, he paused. With the swiftness of intimacy, she felt his attention focus away from her. From outside, she heard a cough and the murmur of words exchanged.

"Let me go check outside," he said, standing. Divested of clothing, his body had a simplicity of line that illuminated the grace and slender power of his build.

Tess watched him walk, entirely unself-conscious of his own beauty, to the curtain. "You're a very pleasing sight, my husband, but don't you think you should put something on?"

He laughed and let her toss him a pair of trousers, which he slipped on. The cloth partition swayed as he pushed past it. She heard his footfalls on the rugs beyond.

Alone, she became suddenly aware that they were in Mikhailov's tent-or his daughter's tent, or his wife's-did Mikhailov even have a wife? She sat up, pushing the blankets aside, and sorted through the clothing strewn in their haste across the rug, folding what she recognized and stacking it to one side. A sleeping pallet and pillows, and along one wall a pair of boots neither hers nor Ilya's, together with a stoppered leather flask, a wooden bowl and two cups inlaid with bone and silver, and an old, faded weaving folded into a neat square; that was all. No other possessions, nothing marking what woman lived here, or why this tent had come into Mikhailov's keeping.

Ilya was speaking with someone-two people now, she could tell by the voices. Each time he spoke, she turned toward the sound without at first realizing what she was doing. She shook her head, chuckling, and wrapped a blanket around herself and waited. Soon enough she heard him move across the outer chamber, heard him pause, and when he pushed aside the curtain it was with both sabers in one hand. He looked preoccupied. Then he saw her, and his entire expression changed. He sighed, set the sabers down, and embraced her. They fell back onto the pillows.

"Tess." He shifted. "That was Niko. He tells me that-"

"Ilyakoria. I don't care what Niko told you."

He laughed, his lips cool on her skin. His hair, so lush and so dark, brushed her mouth. It smelled as if it had been freshened in rain, touched with the scent of almonds. "It's true. I don't either." She kissed him, pressed her face against his neck, breathing him in.

Suddenly he drew back, cupping her face in his hands. "Tess. I know who you must be." His eyes were brilliant with longing as he gazed at her, his expression so vulnerable that her heart ached with love for him. "You are the Sun's Child." She shook her head, not understanding him. "The Sun's daughter, come from the heavens to visit the earth."

Tears welled in her eyes, and she hugged him fiercely. "No, my love, no," she whispered. "I'm just Tess. Oh, Ilya, I love you."

He kissed the tears away, each one, carefully, thoroughly. "No more of those. I will stop complimenting you."

"Oh?"

He smiled. "We don't need words, Tess." He kissed her.

And again.