“Someone had better talk to him,” said Nadine, voicing Aleksi’s thoughts out loud.
“Surely his grandmother will speak to him,” said Aleksi. “She’s very pretty.”
“She’s beautiful,” said Nadine. “She is also khaja. Look how the other man, Marco Burckhardt, look how he glares at them.”
The dance ended. The angel strolled out of the ring of light with Sakhalin. She held her head cocked slightly to one side, looking at him with a provocative smile on her lips as he spoke to her. Surely she could not understand what he was saying. But perhaps the words did not matter.
A moment later, before they could vanish into the gloom, Elizaveta Sakhalin appeared and called to her grandson. His head jerked up and he halted, hesitated visibly, and finally, reluctantly, slowly, he retreated to his grandmother’s side. The angel watched him go and with an unfathomable shrug of her delicate shoulders, she walked on out into the night, alone.
“And that,” said Nadine, “is that. Excuse me, Aleksi. I’ve a sudden urge to dance.” She broke away from him and strode straight toward the distant figure of Feodor Grekov.
Aleksi sighed and wandered on. He paused to watch Raysia Grekov where she sat on the now vacant wagon, playing simple songs for the amusement of a swarm of jaran men and two of the foreigners: Margaret O’Neill and the actor Gwyn Jones. The copper-haired foreign woman had her right hand on her belt buckle, and she kept toying with it, as if she was nervous. In contrast, her left hand held the bronze medallion around her throat with deliberate steadiness, canting the medallion’s onyx eye so that it faced the singer. Beside Raysia, a young man played a low accompaniment on a drum. As Aleksi listened, he caught a fainter counterpoint, a vocal one, distant, whispering on the breeze. He lifted his chin and tilted his head, sounding for direction, and drifted out into the night.
Stars blazed above. Out beyond the awnings, the angel was cursing at Marco Burckhardt. Aleksi stopped stockstill, astonished. Burckhardt had his hands on her. He held her in a tight grip, one hand on each of her shoulders, and each time she spit words at him, he replied in an equally angry voice.
They were not married. Nor were they related by blood. If anything, Marco Burckhardt was as interested in her as Anatoly Sakhalin was. But no jaran man would stand by and see a woman handled like this, by a man who was neither husband nor brother.
Before Aleksi could come forward, before he could even speak to warn them, another figure burst onto the scene, materializing from the direction of the celebration. Diana gasped. Burckhardt whirled.
Anatoly Sakhalin drew his saber.
“No!” Diana cried in Rhuian. “Don’t hurt him!” She cast herself between the two men. There was silence. Diana took four steps forward. “Anatoly, please, put away your sword.”
Anatoly lifted the saber to rest on her cheek. She froze, and her face went white from shock and fear. Marco shifted. In an instant, he would lunge—”
“Stop!” shouted Aleksi. He sprinted forward.
In that moment, with Marco hesitating, Anatoly marked Diana, cutting a line on her cheek diagonally from her cheekbone almost to her chin. Blood welled from the cut. Slowly, she lifted her hand to touch her skin. Lowering it, she stared at her fingers. They were covered with blood. She swayed. Then she collapsed to her knees.
Aleksi hit Marco broadside and slammed him backward before he could do something rash. A knife spun out of Marco’s grip and Aleksi pounced and grabbed it before Marco could react.
Anatoly had sheathed his saber. Now he stared at Diana with concern. He knelt beside her and put his good arm, comforting, firm, around her shoulders. At his touch, she screamed and scrambled away from him, panting.
“Damn you,” said Marco from the ground.
Aleksi offered him a hand. Surprised, Marco took it and let Aleksi pull him up. Marco took a step toward Diana, but Aleksi held him back. “Don’t go to her,” Aleksi said.
Anatoly climbed to his feet and fixed a threatening stare on Marco, keeping himself between Marco and Diana. He rested his good hand on his saber hilt.
“What do you mean?” Marco demanded. “My God.”
“He’s marked her,” Aleksi explained patiently.
“I can see that,” said Marco caustically. “What kind of savages are you, anyway?”
“You’re upset.” Aleksi put a hand on his shoulder just to make sure he didn’t bolt. “He’s marked her for marriage. But I suppose you khaja don’t do that.”
Diana threw her head up. “What did you say?” she gasped. Left hand still pressed against her cheek, she rose unsteadily to her feet, flinched away from Anatoly’s awkward offer of help, and circled him warily to come stand next to Marco. But when Marco reached toward her, she jerked away from him as well. “What do you mean, he marked me for marriage?” she demanded of Aleksi.
“When a man chooses a woman, he marks her. To show he means to marry her.”
“That’s barbaric,” said Marco.
“What about the woman’s choice, then?” Diana asked.
Aleksi shook his head. “But marriage is not a woman’s choice. Someday you’ll hear Raysia sing the tale of Mekhala, and how horses came to the jaran. You see—” He hesitated, finding words in this foreign tongue of Rhuian and placing them together in a form that would make sense to these people. “—when Mekhala beseeched the wind spirit for the horses that would set her people, that would set the jaran, free, he agreed only on the condition that she marry him. But in those days, before the jaran had horses, women chose both lovers and husbands. And so the wind spirit said, ‘I will give you horses, but you must give me the choice of your husbands, and a woman may never choose her husband again.’ And the women agreed that this was a fair trade for the gift of horses. So that women may still choose their lovers, but no longer their husbands. But this was long ago, in the—” He faltered, running up against concepts he had no words for in Rhuian. “In the long ago time.”
Marco looked appalled. Diana gaped, looking as if she was still in shock.
“Aleksi,” said Anatoly in khush. “What are you telling her?”
What a fool. But, of course, Aleksi was not about to say that to Mother Sakhalin’s grandson. “She didn’t know what you were doing.” He glanced at the other man, but Anatoly’s expression showed only stubborn resolve. “She thought you were trying to kill her.”
Anatoly flushed, but he said nothing. He glared at Marco.
“But Tess Soerensen has a mark like this on her cheek,” said Diana suddenly in a low voice. “And so does Bakhtiian. That means she is married to him.” She glanced sidelong at Anatoly Sakhalin and then away. “So why can’t I, if I love him?”
“God help us,” Marco said. It was an oath Aleksi recognized, because Tess used it. “Diana, you can’t begin to go along with this—”
“I can do what I want,” said Diana emphatically. She tossed her hair out of her face and walked over to Anatoly. He started, looking at her, and she tilted his chin down and kissed him on the mouth.
Marco swore.
“What in hell is going on?” The first person to arrive from the direction of the celebration was Dr. Hierakis. “Diana, come here. Goddess help us, child, what has happened to you?” The doctor lifted a hand to trace the cut on Diana’s cheek. A moment later Charles Soerensen appeared, and behind him, Tess and Bakhtiian.
“Oh, God,” said Tess. Then in khush: “Anatoly, have you gone out of your mind?”
“This is your work, then?” Bakhtiian demanded.
Anatoly held his ground under that devastating stare. “Yes. I marked her.”
“Gods. You will come with me, young man. We will see what your grandmother has to say about this.”
Anatoly did not move. He was tense, but determined. “It is a man’s choice, in marriage.”
“She is not jaran, Anatoly,” said Tess.
He glanced at her, and she smiled slightly, ironically, since neither was she jaran. Then he returned his gaze to Bakhtiian. “If she wis
hes to be rid of the marriage, she can do so, but I am content.”
“Tess,” said Charles in a calm voice, in Rhuian, “what is going on?”
“He wants to marry me,” said Diana suddenly. “This is the way they get married.”
“Ah,” said Charles. He studied his sister a moment, and Tess flushed and lifted a hand to brush the scar on her cheek, then lowered it again self-consciously. “I understand this is sudden, Diana. Such an action is not binding on you.”
“No,” she said stubbornly. “I want to marry him.”
Marco muttered something.
“Marco, really,” said Dr. Hierakis in Rhuian. “There’s no need for such language.”
Burckhardt’s hands were clenched into rigid fists, and he looked so angry that Aleksi wondered how long he could maintain his composure.
“That is your choice, of course,” said Charles to Diana. If he was shocked by her pronouncement, he did not show it. “But surely, Bakhtiian, the matter can be waived for some days so that the young woman can think it over.”
“I don’t need to think it over—”
“Diana,” said Tess in a friendly but firm voice, “you will, by custom, have nine days to think it over. If you really want to go through with this, then you must go into seclusion for nine days, after which you will be reunited with this man and become husband and wife.”
“Fine.”
“What is she saying?” asked Anatoly in khush, a little desperately.
“You young fool,” said Bakhtiian, also in khush. “Come along. I don’t envy you the tongue-lashing you are about to receive from your grandmother. Perhaps I’ll let Niko in on it as well. If your uncle Yaroslav was here…” He trailed off, letting the thought go unfinished. With a gesture, he indicated that Anatoly precede him. “Your grace,” he said to Soerensen, “perhaps you would be part of this council as well.”
“Of course. I’ll follow in a moment.” He nodded, and Bakhtiian left.
“Diana, Cara, perhaps you’ll come with me,” said Tess. She led the two women off on the long walk to the Soerensen enclave.
Aleksi, silent, did not move. By now the others had forgotten him. He had that gift, to stand so still, to draw so little attention to himself, that it was as if he was invisible.
“Marco,” said Soerensen softly.
“Leave me alone.” Marco did not even look at the other man. He was not looking at anything, exactly, but at some sight, some vision, some pain, that only he could see.
Soerensen sighed, but he honored the request, and left quietly.
Aleksi dared not move. He doesn’t want me here. And Aleksi felt an odd feeling: He felt ashamed because he had intruded on another man’s anguish.
Bells tinkled softly. A golden vision appeared out of the gloom: Sonia, laden with an ornamentation that lent grace to her features and a glow to her expression. A single glance she spared for Aleksi, a brief tilt of her chin in acknowledgment of his presence. Crescent moons spun and danced at her shoulders. She halted beside Marco Burckhardt and settled a hand on his sleeve.
“Come,” she said. That was all. Without a word, he went with her. The bells faded.
But Aleksi still heard the bells. Distant, but growing louder. A shout came from the far ring of tents. Another shout followed, and a lantern, two lanterns, sprang to life. They bobbed and swayed, approaching over the grass. Two horses with two riders, but only the foremost rider rode upright. The second lay over his mount’s neck, hugging it from exhaustion. Men on foot trailed after them, a group that swelled in size and volume.
Aleksi ran to meet them.
“Where is Bakhtiian?” shouted the lead rider. “Gods, man, there’s been treachery from those khaja swine.”
The man lying over the second horse looked unconscious. The horse was blown and scarcely in better condition than its rider, though it did not look wounded. A broad strip of bloodied cloth was wrapped around the rider’s head, obscuring his face, and more cloth bound his ribs and his left thigh. He slipped. Aleksi grabbed him and steadied him on the horse.
Bakhtiian came running, Sibirin behind him. “Bring the horse up to the carpet,” someone called, and they arrived there, a ragtag procession, at the same time Bakhtiian did.
Bakhtiian halted for one instant. A look of rage suffused his face. Then he came forward and tenderly swung the wounded man down from the horse, laying him on the pillows. The movement opened the wound in his thigh, but the blood leaking onto the fine embroidery did not seem to bother Bakhtiian.
“Josef! Niko, go get the healer. Dr. Hierakis. Grekov, see to the horse.”
Now that the rider was lying on his back, Aleksi could see that it was indeed Josef Raevsky, Ilya’s finest general, a man who could have been dyan of his own tribe but who gave it over into his brother’s hands many years ago in order to pledge himself to Bakhtiian and Bakhtiian’s cause. The worst blood stained the cloth bound over his eyes.
“Ilya.” Raevsky had some life yet.
“Who did this? The rest of your party?”
“The Habakar king,” Raevsky gasped. “Treachery. Honored us as envoys and then at the feast, fell on us.” He panted. His face was gray. “Left me alive, to deliver this.” His hand fluttered feebly. A crumpled scroll was tucked into the sheath of his saber. His saber—was gone.
Bakhtiian removed the scroll and unrolled it. Scanned it. His lips were pressed so tight that they had lost all color. His eyes burned. “‘So that you will understand that you must fear me, and set no foot on my ground, I have shown you my power. But because I am merciful as well as strong, I have left one alive to tell the tale.’”
Sibirin came up with Dr. Hierakis in tow, and Bakhtiian shifted aside to make room for her. She knelt beside Raevsky and stripped the cloth bandages away. Her face was intent, impassive.
“It looks like they burned the eyes out.” She ran a finger down the bridge of Raevsky’s nose. “How far did he come?”
Bakhtiian shrugged. “It’s about ten days’ ride to the border. Much much farther to the royal city.”
“Incredible,” she said curtly. “Make me a litter to bear him to my tent. If you wish him to live, do it quickly.” She rose. “I will be waiting there.” And left, striding out into the darkness.
“Do as she says,” said Bakhtiian. He stayed kneeling beside Raevsky until men came with a litter and bore him away. Then he rose. Glanced around, at the men waiting on his word. “You,” he said to the rider who had come in with Raevsky. “What is your name?”
“Svyatoslav Zhulin, with Veselov’s jahar.”
“You will return south, then, with this message. I want Veselov and Yaroslav Sakhalin to drive into Habakar territory. Then the king will begin to understand that he must fear us.” He glanced down at the pillow that rested against his boots, at the bright stain drying between the two birds of prey. “Then he will understand our power. Aleksi.” His voice had the temper of the finest steel, decisive, cold, and sharp. “You will bring the Habakar philosopher to me. Now.”
“Are you going to kill him?” someone asked, angry, wanting revenge.
“Of course not! We respect philosophers and envoys here. But I will inform him myself of this treachery. In the end, he may prove a valuable ally. Aleksi?”
Aleksi nodded and retreated, heading for the foreign envoys’ enclave. Behind, he could hear Bakhtiian’s crisp voice issuing more orders. The spring’s campaign was beginning.
ACT TWO
“Some good I mean to do
Despite of mine own nature.”
—SHAKESPEARE,
King Lear
CHAPTER TWENTY
FROM THE RIDGE THAT bounded the valley on the northeast, black-shirted riders watched the battle raging below.
“They’ll be routed by nightfall,” said the black-haired man who sat on his horse at the fore of the group, next to its leader.
“Sooner, Yevgeni,” replied the leader. “Look there. The center is breaking. And there: do you see the gen
eral’s standard? It’s wavering.”
Yevgeni spat. “The coward. He’s running.”
The leader of the band watched as a clot of riders broke away from the back of the khaja army and raced for the western hills. He was fair, with golden hair and a strikingly handsome face. “Bring the woman up here, Piotr,” he ordered, and a moment later Piotr returned. With him came the woman, a girl, more like, with a baby strapped to her back. She clutched the reins of a mountain pony, and she gave the battle below the briefest glance before fastening her gaze on what interested her most: the fair-haired man.
He gestured toward the retreating riders below. “Do you know where they’re heading? What path they’ll take?” he asked, speaking khush slowly.
She tore her gaze from his face and studied the valley and the swell of hills that marked the western boundary. Near a lake, a city lay smoking and battered, and it was past these ruins that the riders fled. “That way,” she replied, pointing to a gap in the hills. Her khush was faltering, but comprehensible. “A road leading to the pass.”
“Is there a good spot for an ambush?”
She looked back at the band: about one hundred horsemen in black, all with sabers, a few with lances. “With arrows, yes.” She ran her left hand over the quiver that hung from her belt along her thigh. “With swords…” She shook her head. “It is narrow.”
“I want that general,” said the leader.
“Vasil, are you mad?” asked Yevgeni. “Let the khaja pig go, that’s what I say. What does he matter? He’ll be a worse burden on the khaja king alive than dead.”
Vasil glanced at the riders in his group and then down at the jaran army driving through the khaja infantry in the valley below. Evidently the bulk of the army had not yet realized that its leader had deserted it. “I need a prize.”
Yevgeni shook his head. “I don’t understand you, Vasil. Your father was dyan of your tribe’s jahar. It’s a fair enough claim, if you want it back. But your cousin has been dyan now for—what?—three years? He may contest you.”