Ilya shifted on the bed. Slightly, barely, but his mouth moved and his right hand curled and uncurled, then stilled. Vasil thought his own heart would burst, it pounded so fiercely.
“Konstans!” called the healer. “Come in here.” A moment later Konstans appeared, wide-eyed. “Send Vladimir to get Tess. You will watch Veselov in the outer chamber.”
Konstans ducked out again. Vasil heard words exchanged and then the sound of someone running away from the tent.
Ilya opened his eyes. And suddenly, everything about him had changed. What had been a slack, limp form was abruptly invested with that fire—however dampened, however weakened—that characterized him. Vasil could not help but be drawn toward it, to the foot of the couch. Ilya stared for the longest endless moment at the billowing ceiling of the tent. The healer glanced at Vasil, then passed a hand slowly over Bakhtiian’s eyes. At first he simply stared above. Belatedly, weakly, his gaze caught the movement and tracked it.
“Oh, gods,” said Konstans hoarsely from the curtain. Vasil felt more than saw the young rider collapse to his knees onto the carpet. Bakhtiian reacted to the sound. His head moved and his right hand curled up into a fist.
“Bakhtiian,” said the healer in a calm, even voice, “you are in your own tent. I am Dr. Hierakis. I—”
But his gaze had tracked down his own body and caught on Vasil. He stared at him. Vasil stared back, drinking in the sight of him. Gods, Ilya was looking at him, just looking at him. Was it possible that it was his own presence, his story, his voice, that had brought Ilya back?
Ilya's lips moved. A hoarse croak came out. Bakhtiian shut his eyes, took in a difficult, shuddering breath, and opened them again.
“Tess,” he said. The word was slurred and thick but perfectly understandable. “Where is Tess?”
“I sent for her,” said the healer in that unruffled tone. “She will be here soon. You have suffered an illness, but I think you will be well now. You will be fine, you must just rest and regain your strength.”
Ilya tracked up to look at her. His mouth quirked, as if he was trying to recall who she was. “Hand,” he croaked. “Can’t move—hand.” His right hand uncurled and curled again. Down by Vasil’s hips, his feet and legs stirred.
“Rest for now,” said the doctor sternly. “Rest here until Tess comes. Let me give you a little water, to moisten your lips.” She turned away. “Konstans, don’t just sit there and gape. Go get Sonia. And Ursula.”
“Of course.” Konstans leapt to his feet and left, but his face, his whole expression, transformed from gravity to joy.
Tess. Ilya’s first thought had been for Tess.
Ilya tracked down to stare at Vasil again. What did that expression mean? That he was glad to see him? Furious at seeing him? That he didn’t recognize him at all?
“Left hand,” said Ilya. “I can’t move my left hand.” Which was concealed under a blanket.
“Don’t try to move it,” said the healer. “Here. I’ll just moisten your lips a little, and we’ll see how you swallow.” She softened his lips with water, and he managed to swallow, but he kept staring at Vasil. Outside, Vasil heard the sound of running footsteps. Her voice. The curtain swept aside and Tess stood there, just stood there, staring avidly and with sheer incredulous disbelief at her husband.
Ilya still stared at Vasil. He shifted his head slightly to the right, to the left, as if testing to see if his neck still worked. He did not see his wife, not yet. He saw only Vasil.
“Grandmother Night is laughing at me,” said Bakhtiian.
“Ilya. Oh, God, Ilya.” Her voice was low and husky with emotion. At the sound of it, Bakhtiian’s attention broke utterly away from Vasil. The healer stepped away from the couch and the next instant Tess was there. She made a sound low in her throat and fell to her knees beside her husband, stroking his face with one hand and his hair with the other. His right hand fluttered and moved and he lifted it to touch her cheek.
A hand brushed his sleeve. Vasil started, he was so taken aback. He had forgotten anyone else existed, but the two of them—the three of them.
“It is time you left,” said the healer kindly. By her tone, she did not mean to entertain any protests. Vasil bowed to the inevitable and walked to the curtain. He paused there, but neither Tess nor Ilya marked his going. The healer gestured, looking a little impatient. He ducked out.
In the outer chamber sat the adopted brother and Sonia Orzhekov, faces bright with hope. “Is it true?” Sonia demanded. “He’s awake?”
“It is true,” said Vasil, suddenly heartened that he had this vital news to impart. “He has returned.” Like a messenger bearing good tidings, with this news he would be welcome everywhere. He smiled at Sonia and was pleased to see her smile back. He went outside.
A crowd of them had gathered here, in a semicircle beyond the awning; so quickly did rumor spread. Vasil paused to bask in their regard: not for him personally, it was true, but for what he had to tell them. Still, what did it matter? From now on, he would be associated with this auspicious moment.
“Papa!” There, isolated in one corner of the awning, sat Ilyana. She jumped to her feet and threw herself at him, and he caught her to him. He realized that he was crying from sheer joy, and he ducked his face against her blouse to wipe away the telltale tears.
“It’s true,” he said more loudly. “Bakhtiian has returned to us.”
After that, for the rest of the day at least, no one cared who he was or why Mother Sakhalin disapproved so heartily of him; no one cared about the old stories that Bakhtiian had been forced to banish him or else lose the support of the Elders for his dream of uniting the tribes. With Ilyana at his side, Vasil spread the news and luxuriated in their unreserved and ungrudging attention. He made his way back across the camp to his wife’s tent, and there he set up his own little court, with Karolla and Ilyana at his side—Valentin had run off somewhere—and received visitors until it was too dark to see.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THE COMMOTION BROKE DIANA out of an unpleasantly gratifying dream, unpleasant because, snapping awake, she reached for Anatoly to continue, only to remember that he wasn’t there and that she had ho idea whatsoever when he would return. It seemed to her that the longer he was gone, the more she missed him. Her hand brushed the soft leather pouch in which she stored the finery he had sent to her. Nestled in among the pillows, it was a poor substitute for him, but it had touched his hands more recently than she had, and for that reason she kept it by her.
Outside, a woman spoke in a commanding voice. “Where is your mother?” Then, Diana realized that she knew that voice, and that Arina Veselov was asking for “Mother” Yomi—whom the jaran had mistaken for the headwoman of the actors’ tribe, just as they thought of Owen as dyan.
“Hyacinth, what in hell happened to you?” asked Quinn, outside. She received silence as her reply, except for the muffled sound of crying.
Diana dragged a tunic on over her loose striped trousers and pulled on her soft leather boots. She twisted her hair back and, with a deft flip of her hand and a silver brooch, pinned her hair up at her neck. Then she ventured outside.
To be greeted by a shocking sight: her dear friend Arina Veselov, looking like no friend now, escorting a party of red-shirted fighters who guarded a disheveled Hyacinth. A bruise was forming on Hyacinth’s right cheek. Tears stained his face, and his clothes were grimy, as if he had been dragged through the dirt. Quinn stood staring, with Oriana at her back; a moment later Hal came crawling out of his tent, bleary-eyed, to gape at the scene. Gwyn ran up.
“Arina,” Diana began tentatively, but Arina merely glanced her way and shook her head fractionally, as if to say: I can’t speak to you now.
So they waited. Hyacinth was still crying, but soundlessly now. He wiped his face with his sleeve. The men surrounding him did not look at him, looked anywhere but at him, but they remained aware of his presence nevertheless and alert to any move he might make to escape. The other actors arr
ived in ones and twos, curious, worried. Finally Owen and Ginny arrived, looking sleepy and puzzled, with Yomi and Joseph trailing behind. It was just light enough to see. Behind, in the main camp, activity already bustled at this early hour, and a fair crowd of jaran had gathered at a little distance to watch.
“Mother Yomi,” said Arina formally, inclining her head with the respect of one peer to another. “It is my bitter task to bring this man back to you. He is no longer welcome in our camp, and perhaps will no longer be welcome in yours.” She bowed her head briefly over her folded hands. “Although none of us will venture to interfere in how you judge this case among yourselves.”
Owen and Ginny simply watched. Yomi glanced at Owen and then replied. “I beg your pardon, Mother Veselov, but please let us know what offense the boy has committed. He’s scarcely more than a child.”
Anahita tittered. Quinn slapped her on the arm, looking outraged.
“How dare you!” shrieked Anahita, tossing her black curls back away from her face.
“Anahita,” said Gwyn in a low voice. “Shut up, or leave.”
Anahita went red in the face. With a snort of anger, she walked away. But no one laughed at her discomposure. Hyacinth fell silent.
Arina Veselov looked grave. She looked so impossibly tiny, standing there with the weight of her authority on her, and yet she carried an air of implacability with her. Her chin quivered, and she set her mouth in a thin line, then spoke. “In the days before day existed, Mother Sun and Father Wind talked together, Aunt Cloud and Uncle Moon talked together, and from this congress came children. So did they, the gods, decree that when a girl becomes a woman, when a boy becomes a man, so will they talk together, that from such congress will come children. And so did the tents of the jaran grow from one tent to many tents, and the tribes of the jaran from ten tribes to a hundred hundred tribes. But this one—” She opened a hand, palm out, to indicate Hyacinth, “—has turned his face away from the gods’ decree. Thus must we, in our turn, turn our face away from him.”
Quinn had sidled up next to Diana, and Diana felt that Gwyn had moved up behind her, like a shield at her back. Hal glowered at the jaran. Yomi looked perplexed, and for once, Owen appeared to be perfectly alert, absorbing every word.
“I don’t understand,” whispered Quinn. “What does that mean? What did he do?”
“I thought,” said Gwyn in an undertone, “that Hyacinth was being discreet.”
Yomi sighed and stepped forward to extend a hand toward Hyacinth, but he ignored her. “Mother Veselov, I’m still not sure I understand what you are trying to say.”
Arina set her lips even tighter, as if the entire conversation were distasteful to her. She glanced back once at Hyacinth and then at one of the men standing guard—her brother Anton, Diana realized. “I beg your pardon for bringing such news to you, Mother Yomi. He was found consorting with another man.”
“And?” Yomi asked, waiting for the explanation of the crime that had evidently followed this discovery.
Arina stared blankly at her. Yomi stared blankly back.
Diana took one step forward. “Yomi,” she said softly in Anglais, “I think she’s trying to tell you that same-sex partnerships aren’t—ah—tolerated here, and certainly not when they become public.”
Owen swore loudly. Yomi hastened forward and took Hyacinth firmly by one elbow, dragging him away from his jaran escort. “Mother Veselov,” she said briskly, “I thank you for bringing this boy back here. Now we will speak with him.”
It was a dismissal. Arina recognized it. She nodded, apologized again for the unseemly episode, and retreated, ruthlessly dispersing the distant crowd as she went.
“You damned fool,” said Owen.
“Oh, hell,” murmured Gwyn. “He’s going to lose his temper and antagonize Hyacinth at the same time.”
“Have you no self-control?” Owen demanded. “I thought I admitted only professionals to my troupe, but now I see that I’ve made an exception. Clearly you can’t think any farther than your genitals extend.”
Hyacinth burst into tears. He gulped out words that no one could make sense of, strangled in sobs.
“Owen,” said Ginny quietly, going over to put an arm around Hyacinth. “Perhaps we’d have better luck in a softer and more private discussion of what happened.”
But Owen was in a white rage by now. “I wash my hands of him!” He stalked off.
“Yes, let’s discuss this in private,” said Yomi. “Ginny? Joseph?” She glanced up. “Gwyn and Diana, you, too. Come.” Hyacinth trailed passively after her. They went to the Company tent.
“Sit,” said Ginny sternly, pressing Hyacinth down into a chair. “Now, what in hell happened, my boy?”
Hyacinth looked awful. His bright hair was mussed and tangled. Dirt streaked his chin. His left sleeve had a rip in it. He stared at his hands, which lay motionless in his lap. There was a long silence. At last Hyacinth spoke, his voice so low that Diana had to strain to hear him. “I met this man. I liked him.”
“But, Hyacinth,” said Diana, “by the way you talk, I thought you knew all about—I mean—” She faltered.
“I think what Diana is trying to say,” said Yomi, “is how, if you’re so experienced at this, did you get yourself into this mess?”
“Oh, Goddess,” said Ginny under her breath, “what will Soerensen say when he hears of this? He was so insistent that we not break any taboos.”
“Go on, Hyacinth,” said Joseph gently. “You may as well tell us the truth now, since I think you’ve done as much damage as you can by—”
“By lying?” Hyacinth flung his head back. “Well, it’s true, that I exaggerated. It’s true I joked about sleeping my way through the camp, and sleeping with everyone, and, no, I never did. Oh, men looked at me in that way, a few of them, but they never did anything about it, except once, and then he was ashamed, and it was all so secret and quick and shameful that it was ugly instead of joyful, and it made me feel dirty since he clearly felt that way. Women propositioned me, lots of women, and they were fine and pleasant, those I went to. But you know I prefer men.”
“But then if you knew they thought it shameful, if you knew it was wrong as a cultural norm, then why did you go ahead this time?” Ginny asked, shaking her head. “Why? We’re in their culture, Hyacinth. We can’t just tromp around in our seven-league boots and trample wherever we go.”
“If it was wrong? You know it’s wrong, how they act. Punishing someone for what’s only natural.” He was no longer sobbing, but tears leaked from his eyes again. “Do you know what they’re going to do to him? They’re going to exile him. Ostracize him. You know what that means, don’t you? He’ll die.”
Diana stared. The truth was, she had never thought Hyacinth capable of thinking much about anything. He was a decent actor, with a chance to grow in time if he worked at it, but the rest of the time he was such a damned flighty, shallow, pretty boy that it was hard to take him seriously or even to believe that he could feel this deeply and understand this much.
Gwyn sighed. Yomi covered her eyes with a hand. Joseph shook his head.
“Then why did you do it?” demanded Ginny.
“I didn’t know,” he said, anguished, and Diana believed him. “I know they’re savages, and I knew enough to know that the kind of primitive war they wage would be ugly—but you can learn to look the other way.”
“Oh, Goddess, maybe you can,” whispered Diana.
“But I thought because they’re pretty open about their sexuality that they wouldn’t be so harsh. I knew I had to be discreet. And it was my fault. He said I ought to leave, and I said—well, and then we fell asleep. And then it was morning.” He began to weep in earnest again. “It isn’t fair. His life has been hard enough. He and his sister were orphaned and sent to live with their aunt, but she didn’t treat them well, and then he became an outlaw—I don’t understand that part—and now they let him ride with the army again, but I think they’ll be happy enough to see him g
o. It’s a good excuse to get rid of him. He’s worried about his sister.”
“Hyacinth,” asked Yomi slowly, “how long has this been going on?”
He shrugged. “A month? Right after that skirmish up in the hills we were caught in. Longer than that, I guess. A while.”
Yomi turned to Diana. “Do you know anything about this?”
“No. It’s not a subject I ever—discussed—with my husband. Or with anyone else, for that matter. Just with Hyacinth. But I thought he knew what he was doing!”
“You don’t understand.” Hyacinth stood up. “It’s my fault. If we don’t do something, he’ll die.”
“What do you suggest we do?” asked Ginny quietly. “We’re traveling with them, Hyacinth, not the other way around. I remind you that we work under the duke’s interdiction.”
“Tits!” swore Hyacinth. “You know damn well we’re breaking that interdiction anyway. All the plays. Theater. Everything. It’s so much piss, if you ask me. We’re influencing them just by being here—and his own sister is married to the king! I think it’s for the better, too. They need to be civilized. Do you really approve of the way they kill? Slaughter wholesale? And now they’re going to kill Yevgeni just because he loves men rather than women, as if that means anything.”
“They’re not going to kill him!” Yomi exclaimed.
“Do you think he has a chance, sent out into hostile countryside alone?” Hyacinth sounded disgusted.
“You’re dependent on the tribe, here,” said Diana softly. “Everywhere, here, whether you’re in hostile country or out on the plains.”
“Yevgeni said there used to be a tribe that was just men, just fighters, who had left their tribes because they—because they wanted that freedom. He was with a group of them when they came into the army, but he says that the last real group of them died.” His beautiful, mobile mouth twisted down into a bitter grimace. “They died saving Bakhtiian’s life. I told him that he should demand to see Bakhtiian. If men like that would save Bakhtiian, surely Bakhtiian owes them a favor, to save Yevgeni.”