“Oh, gods,” said Tess, and then said it again, and then lapsed into silence. She went pale with fear. Tears leaked from her eyes, but she cried without sound. Zhashi, sensing her mood, remained quiet under her.
But the king’s guard disintegrated under the force of Bakhtiian’s attack. In a straggling line they fled backward, deserting their infantry units, racing for the city and for the hills.
The gold banner streamed out onto the deserted field and then stopped and, with deathly precision, the reserve re-formed into ranks and turned and hit from behind the Habakar line engaged with Vershinin.
After that, it was slaughter. Qurat closed its gates. A steady line of Habakar soldiers retreated toward the pass. Like a fainter echo, an uneven stream of jaran casualties forded the river, heading in to camp.
“Tess.” Aleksi unhooked his water flask from his saddle and opened it. “You must drink something. It’s almost midday. And eat. Here.”
“I’m not hungry.” Her voice was hoarse. She started, dragging her gaze away from the field. After a moment she accepted the flask and drank. Then, because he continued to hold out a strip of dried meat, she sighed and took the meat from him and chewed on it unenthusiastically.
The gold banner broke away from the battle and headed toward the river. Now Aleksi could distinguish individuals. Three riders separated from the unit and splashed across the river to head up toward Tess. Tess wiped at her face furiously, eliminating the telltale marks of tears.
Bakhtiian had not one mark on him, though he had been in the thick of the battle. Vladimir, at his right, had four arrows sticking out at angles from his cuirass but a broad grin on his face. In his left hand he held the banner pole, its end braced into a wooden cup tied to his saddle. The gold cloth stirred in the breeze. Another orphan, Vladimir was, who had found a home in the Orzhekov tribe: He was Bakhtiian’s chosen banner bearer, and he was married to a woman of the tribes. No wonder he was happy.
Konstans Barshai had his helmet off, and a wicked-looking cut scored across his left eye and forehead and up onto his scalp, but the blood splashed down his face and on his armor did not seem to bother him, and his seat was steady. Anatoly Sakhalin rode down to greet them. He looked tense and angry.
“Well met,” said Bakhtiian. His gaze had, first and most tellingly, focused in on his wife, but now he scanned the line of riders above and glanced back toward the field below. “A well chosen vantage point.”
Anatoly did not reply for a minute. His face was flushed, and his lips set. “I wished to fight in the battle,” he blurted out. “I would have done well.”
Bakhtiian turned his attention to the younger man. His even gaze caused Anatoly to flush even more. “Is this not honor enough for you, Sakhalin, watching over what I hold most dear? Did I single out any other commander for this post? To serve my wife, who will forge the links that will allow us to hold together what we are winning now? Not every battle can be won out there.” He waved toward the field, and the army mopping up, and swung back to glare at Anatoly. “Your uncle Boris is dead. Killed on the field.”
Anatoly paled, and then color rushed back into his cheeks.
“But in time, if this jahar serves its purpose, we can use words to win our wars, not our own relatives.”
“I beg your pardon, Bakhtiian,” said Anatoly in a low voice. “I spoke rashly. I didn’t think.”
“You are young,” said Bakhtiian, more gently. “Very well. I have no need of envoys right now. Yaroslav Sakhalin is forming up his army now to start over the pass. Anatoly, you will take your jahar and go with him. But I charge to you this duty: that you will be responsible for bringing back to me the head and coat and crown of the Habakar king. After that, I will expect you to serve my wife with a more level head.”
Anatoly flushed a bright red, and Aleksi could not tell whether it was chagrin or excitement that most colored him. “Thank you! You honor me!” He paused and glanced toward the jaran camp, busy with the wounded. “May I say good-bye to my wife?”
Bakhtiian arched an eyebrow. “There is no time. I want the king. Go.”
Without further hesitation, Anatoly nodded his assent and went back up to the ridgetop to order his jahar forward.
“Aleksi,” said Bakhtiian, watching this movement with an expression of pained amusement, “I don’t mean to slight you as well. Would you like to go with them?”
“I am content where I am, Bakhtiian.”
“Ah.” Bakhtiian turned his black and they started down toward camp, Tess between Bakhtiian and Aleksi, and the two young riders trailing behind, a discreet escort. “Tess, you haven’t said one word to me. Are you well?”
“You didn’t have to lead that charge,” she said in a low voice. Aleksi could hear how drawn her voice was, taut and strained.
“But I did,” he said, equally softly. “That man killed my envoys and blinded Josef.”
Her silence was eloquent.
“Now do you see?” he asked, softer still. “Do you see why I was so reluctant to let you join Yaroslav Sakhalin’s jahar? Do you think I doubted your ability to fight? Never that, Tess. I doubted my own ability to stand the sight of you in such danger.”
“I never saw you actually ride into battle like this. Not until now. Gods.” She lapsed into silence again, but she sounded mollified.
“In truth, it makes little sense for me to lead the army from the front ranks, or to risk myself in such an impulsive charge.” He grinned. “I won’t do it again, my love.”
She chuckled. Weakly, it was true, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “Unless you have to.”
“Unless I have to.”
They rode into camp and immediately Bakhtiian was besieged. He excused himself and rode off with a trio of men: one of the Vershinin cousins, the Raevsky dyan, and Anton Veselov.
“Now what do I do?” Tess asked of Aleksi. “They have no need of me with the wounded. Mother Sakhalin runs the camp, and Sonia our tents. I don’t have enough experience for any council of war. What use am I?”
Aleksi could hear how upset she was, as if she had turned her fear into disgust at herself. “If this was your brother’s army, what would you be doing?”
Tess glanced at him, startled. She had not been expecting him to reply. Then she laughed. “You’re right, of course. Let’s see if there are any Habakar prisoners. I’ve got a start on their language, and I need to develop my understanding of their legal system as well. Let me see. Aleksi, go to—who is handling prisoners?”
“Raevsky.”
“Well, that seems appropriate. We’ll go sort out a few and take them to my tent. Josef and I can work on this together.”
“You must not forget to eat, Tess.”
“With you here, and Sonia? I won’t.”
On through the afternoon Tess and Josef sat side by side on pillows, under the awning of her tent. Five Habakar prisoners—two noblemen, three priests—knelt out in the sun in front of them, and ten archers and ten riders stood at guard around them. Tess was writing something down in her book when Dr. Hierakis hurried into camp and stopped ten paces away to survey Tess with a skeptical eye. The doctor strode over to Aleksi.
“Has she rested?” she demanded of Aleksi. “Eaten? Has she gotten enough to drink?”
Aleksi nodded. “Sonia and the children have brought us everything we need.”
Tess turned. “Cara.” She switched to Rhuian. “I’ve made up my mind about the—” She said a word Aleksi did not recognize. “I want you to prepare the—” She stopped, glanced at Aleksi, and went on in her other language, the one she called Anglais. Aleksi went very still, and he concentrated. He was quick with language, quicker than anyone suspected, even Tess, and he had learned long ago that in order to survive he had to be one step ahead of everyone else. Something about Ilya, and a drink; something about growing old, or not growing old—that was confusing; the doctor objected, Tess insisted, and between them they reached an agreement. The doctor looked—not reluctant, but as though she
had to make a show of being reluctant. Tess did not look triumphant that she had won out over the doctor’s objections; she looked stubborn and defensive.
The doctor excused herself and left. Tess turned back to her discussion of the general outlines of Habakar legal doctrine. Josef, who wore his empty eye sockets as if they were a badge of pride, brushed Tess’s sleeve with a hand, verifying her presence, and she edged closer to him. Kolia brought them milk. The little boy stared hard at the foreigners baking out under the heat of the sun, at their outlandish clothing and their olive-dark complexions and the sharp line of their black beards. It was a drowsy heat, stifling and dry. Aleksi listened to the voices of the priests droning on, punctuated here and there by a question from Tess or Josef, or a monosyllabic reply from one of the terrified noblemen. Eventually he dozed.
He started awake when Bakhtiian arrived.
“Send them away.” Bakhtiian gestured toward the Habakar prisoners. “I’m hungry.” He vanished into the tent, reappeared a moment later with a pillow, and threw it on the ground beside Josef. Then he sank down beside the blind man and took one of Josef’s hands in his own. Rapidly and in a low voice, he began to tell him in detail about the battle.
Tess rose and went to help Sonia and the children with the food. It was getting dark. Aleksi got up and lit the lanterns, hanging them around the tent poles so that they gave off a soft glow of light that penetrated out beyond the awning. Venedikt Grekov and his nephew Feodor came by with an intelligence report about the pass and the flight of the Habakar king. Sakhalin’s jahar was hard on the king’s heels and they had overtaken so many khaja soldiers that they had simply killed them rather than be burdened with prisoners. With Grekov also came his niece, Raysia. She offered to stay and sing for them.
Dr. Hierakis came back in time to eat with them, and she brought with her the stocky khaja woman Ursula, who was flush with accounts of the battle. Other members of the Orzhekov tribe came, Vladimir and Konstans and other riders—some with their wives and children, those who had them along—and Niko Sibirin and Juli Danov and their grandchildren. Everyone was in a fine humor, as well they might be.
Raysia sang. Between each song she looked long and hard at Aleksi before beginning her next piece. He was gratified by her attention, but worried by it, too. What if Raysia Grekov told her mother that she wanted Aleksi to marry her? A Singer did not have to concern herself with pleasing anyone but herself. The gods had touched her, everyone knew that, and with the gods’ touch came not only great responsibilities and burdens but great freedom as well. Raysia was also an outsider, in a way. At the age of twelve her spirit had been borne away by the gods to visit their realms, and her body had lain for days, empty, in her mother’s tent. When she returned, she was a Singer, her sight altered forever. She was shunned and feared by some, but respected by everyone, and she had the gift to see what was hidden from others. Aleksi sometimes wondered if he had been touched by the gods in that way, but the curse he had brought down first on his tribe and then on his beloved sister Anastasia was surely a punishment for his presumption. If Raysia Grekov wanted him, how could he refuse her, though it was properly a man’s choice in marriage? He did not want to leave Tess, even to go to live with Raysia. He had lost Anastasia already, those many years ago. He did not intend to lose his new sister, Tess. It would be better not to marry, or perhaps to marry another orphan, one Tess and Bakhtiian and Sonia were willing to admit into the family. Valye Usova was a nice girl…but she would bring her brother Yevgeni with her, a brother whose loyalty was still suspect, since he had ridden with Vasil Veselov for so many years.
It was too painful to contemplate. Aleksi shut off these thoughts and tried to concentrate on the singing, but his heart was not in listening this night. Next to him, Tess shifted restlessly. She kept glancing over at Dr. Hierakis with a questioning gaze, and the doctor nodded each time, assuring her of something, Aleksi was not sure what. Bakhtiian listened keenly to the music, drank sparingly from the cup refilled by his wife, and spoke closely to Josef in the intervals between songs.
That night, after Aleksi had gone to bed, Raysia came to his tent and he let her in. Gods, but she was sweet. And yet, lying awake after she had gone, he knew that he could not leave Tess, and not just for his own sake.
In the morning a deputation emerged from Qurat to seek terms, but Bakhtiian refused to see them. Instead, he left Josef behind with the rearguard and the Veselov and Raevsky tribes, and told Josef to leave the Qurat envoys waiting for a few days and then strip the wealth from the city in return for its complete and utter submission to jaran rule. They broke camp and started up into the pass. Bakhtiian rode at the head of the army, next to his wife. He looked pale. At midday he called a halt and sat, just sat for a time, rubbing at his forehead with his hands. They camped along the road that night and set out again in the morning. This day Bakhtiian was clearly ill. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his skin had a mottled, pasty color. Once, and only once, Tess suggested he ride in a wagon. But he did switch mounts at midday, choosing a placid little bay mare for the rest of the day’s ride instead of his restive stallion.
Late that afternoon they reached the summit, a broad, windy height. From here, Aleksi saw the hazy outlines of land far below, fields, a miniature city, and the endless spread of land out to the blue horizon. Up here it was clear and hot, and the wind buffeted Aleksi where he stood on an outcropping staring down, far down, to the Habakar lands. Smoke rose in patches scattered across the countryside. Evidently Sakhalin’s army had already arrived.
He walked back to the front rank of wagons to find Sonia ordering that Tess’s great tent be set up, although the rest of the army was on marching orders and sleeping under wagons or out in the open for the night. The cloth walls shook and rippled, torn by the heavy wind, and Aleksi ran over to help. It took fifteen people to battle the tent into place and secure it, and even then the wind boomed and tore at the walls. They could not set up the awning at all. The gold banner, raised on the center pole, snapped loudly in the gale.
Bakhtiian watched the proceedings from horseback. He was white and his hands shook, but he did not dismount until Tess came to lead him inside. Her face, too, was white, but with an agony of the heart not of the physical body. They disappeared inside the tent. Dr. Hierakis strode up soon after and went inside. Sonia followed her in and emerged moments later,
“Aleksi! Set up your tent just beside here, and don’t leave camp.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Aleksi asked in a low voice, aware of people milling around, asking questions.
Sonia shrugged. “Vladimir says one of the Habakar priests cursed him. Perhaps it’s witchcraft.”
“Perhaps,” said Aleksi. But what if it wasn’t Habakar witchcraft? He had seen Dr. Hierakis at work, had seen that she knew how to heal wounds that even the finest jaran healers would have given up on. Everyone got sick, at times. Plagues might race through a tribe, and during the siege of Qurat, many of the jaran had gotten fevers. Children had died, as well as some of the men weakened by wounds. Why should Tess look so anguished? Bakhtiian was strong. There was no reason to think a simple fever would kill him. Unless this was not a simple fever.
Aleksi unsaddled his mare and hobbled her for the night, and set up his tent alongside Tess’s. At dusk, the wind died down. Fires were built, but with night came the strong winds again, ripping at the camp, at the tents, at the fires. Most people hunkered down to wait it out. Dr. Hierakis emerged out of the tent, alone.
Aleksi lit a lantern, shielding the flame with his body until it steadied and then sliding the glass back into place, and he offered to escort her back to her wagons.
She shook her head. “You stay here. Galina is waiting—there she is.”
“Bakhtiian?”
“He’s ill. But he seems stable. I think he’ll have a few rough days before he feels better.”
“Is it the river fever?”
She glanced at him, measuring, curious. “No, I don’t think
it’s the river fever.”
“Ah,” said Aleksi. “Neither did I.”
The light spread a glow across her front, illuminating her face and the strong line of her jaw. Her black hair faded into darkness, and her plain tunic was washed gray. “You’re a strange one. Sometimes I think you see more than we know you do.”
“You speak khush very well now. You learned it quickly. The actors did, too. Have you noticed how many of their—what do they call them? Songs?”
“Plays.”
“—plays that they’ve begun to say in khush?”
“No, I hadn’t. I haven’t seen any of their performances. Good night, Aleksi.”
“Good night, Doctor.”
She gave him a brusque but sympathetic nod and went off with Galina. Aleksi wondered how old she was. She did not look any older than, say, Bakhtiian, but she carried herself like an Elder. She carried herself like Mother Sakhalin or Niko Sibirin, and the Elders treated her like one of their own. Perhaps she, too, was a Singer, a gods-touched mortal, granted knowledge beyond her years. That might explain the Elders’ respect for her, and her own strange way of carrying on, of looking at things from afar, of measuring and watching. Like he did.
He went to bed. As he dozed off, a voice whispered at the front of his tent. He inched forward to twitch the tent flap aside. It was Raysia. Though he could only make out the outline of her form, silhouetted against the incandescent stars, he could feel it was her, knew it by the shape of her hair and the soft, clean scent she bore with her. She slipped inside. The walls of his tent shuddered in the unceasing wind, but otherwise it was silent. He fell asleep afterward with her draped half over him.
Only to start awake, hearing his name.
“Aleksi!”
Tess, calling to him. She was not screaming, not yet, but panic swelled her voice. He eased away from Raysia, and she woke, mumbling a question.