The Habakar prince knelt in the dirt with his wives and children huddled behind him and the girl in question standing on display to one side with her gaze cast down. They did not veil their women here, so her face was plain for all to see. Her clothes were breathtakingly rich, and she was laden with jewelry that Jiroannes would have been proud to see his own wife wear. How had her father managed to get his family through the lines with his wealth intact? The girl kept glancing to one side, not at her father, but at the boy who knelt at his father’s right hand, the eldest of the brood, who looked to be about Mitya’s age.
Mother Sakhalin had joined in the discussion up on the dais, and some agreement was reached.
“To seal our promise,” said Bakhtiian, addressing the Habakar prince, “we will agree to take both the girl and the eldest boy.”
The prince went white, as well he might: to have one’s heir and beloved eldest son wrenched from you … even Jiroannes, who had no legitimate children yet, knew how hurtful a blow that must be. But what could he do? The man had other sons, that much was evident. The girl maintained her composure; the boy took it bravely enough, rising to stand protectively next to his sister.
“May I beg of you,” said the prince in a low voice. “that you treat them well?”
Bakhtiian regarded him with bemusement. “We are honoring you by this alliance. You are the cousin of the Habakar king, are you not, by your inheritance laws? Thus will your children marry into the noble families of the jaran and be exalted for this reason. For this reason as well, you will remain in our heart.” Clearly, it was a promise. The prince’s face cleared and he looked thoughtful more than anything, now. “You may return to your lands, which will be spared,” finished Bakhtiian.
The dismissal allowed for no reply. The prince bowed deeply and led his entourage away. One of his wives wept copiously. The other looked slyly pleased. Mitya’s Aunt Sonia came forward and herded the two Habakar children away into the jaran camp. Jiroannes felt a sudden and surprising sympathy for the brother and sister, abandoned among the barbarians, hardly knowing whether they might ever see their family or any familiar Habakar faces again. He had glimpsed the ruins of the Habakar cities on the march, and although certainly they did not compare in size or evident scope with Vidiyan cities, still, he could see that these Habakar were civilized people, unlike the jaran.
Another embassy came forward, elders begging clemency for their city, which Sakhalin had invested with some small part of his army before riding on. The afternoon wore on. Jiroannes began to feel faint from heat and sun and thirst. His eyes drooped. Syrannus prodded him awake. After a time, his eyes drooped again. His chin nodded down, and down.
Bells shook him awake. He started up, heart racing. He recognized the sound, the one made by jaran messengers as they raced on their way down the line. A rider appeared at the inner ring of guards. The messenger dismounted, throwing the reins of his blown horse to a guard, and strode forward, bells chiming. Except it wasn’t a man.
Bakhtiian stood up out of sheer surprise. “Nadine!” He got right down off the dais to go and greet her. He embraced her, kissed her on each cheek, and then pushed her back to stare at her. A recent scar disfigured her left cheek. He brushed the line of the scar with his right hand. His eyebrows arched up. “What is this?”
She had a fulminant look about her. “I am married, Uncle. He told me you were dying, and that it was my duty.”
“Is that so? I suppose it was Feodor Grekov. Are you sorry?” He regarded her with a pained expression that might have been amusement or distress.
Her eyes burned. She looked furious and yet well aware that she was the focus of everyone’s attention. Jiroannes enjoyed watching her helpless rage. “That you’re not dead?” Her voice rasped with anger. “If I had to sacrifice myself, then I think you might have been polite enough to die and make it worth my while.” To Jiroannes’s amazement, she flung her arms around her uncle and hugged him tightly.
She let go of him and stalked past him to the dais. She greeted his wife warmly, the blind man warmly, Mitya warmly, and the old crone with distinct reserve. Mother Sakhalin looked smug. Bakhtiian followed her back, not at all offended by her rudeness. Jiroannes was not sure whether to disdain her for her ill-mannered greeting or admire her for having the courage to speak so disrespectfully to her uncle.
“What news from Morava?” Bakhtiian asked of her in a perfectly friendly voice. Then he glanced up, as if recalling that the entire court watched the proceedings eagerly. He gestured. The audience ended.
Soldiers herded the ambassadors away with their usual ruthless efficiency. Jiroannes was glad to retreat to the cool shelter of his awning, to have Jat bathe his feet in lukewarm water and Syrannus recite poetry to him. Lal had done wonders making dinner with the provisions available to him, but then he always did. Just as the boy served him dinner on the three traditional silver trays, Syrannus rose and signaled to the slave to pause. Jiroannes turned.
Mitya had halted at the edge of the Vidiyan encampment, looking uncertain as to what his reception might be if he tried to venture any farther in.
“Go and ask him to share dinner with me,” said Jiroannes sharply, afraid the boy would leave.
Syrannus hurried out and returned with Mitya. The boy glanced around the camp and relaxed when he saw no sign of Samae.
Jiroannes stood up. “I am honored by your presence,” he said, and realized that he was smiling with pleasure. “I have missed your company.” There, it was said. Let the boy scorn him if he chose.
“I’m sorry,” said Mitya hesitantly. “My aunt said—” Samae came out from inside the women’s tent, saw Mitya, and ducked back inside. The boy went crimson.
“I beg your pardon for whatever insult I may have unwittingly offered you,” said Jiroannes hastily. “Please, sit and eat with me. Syrannus, the other chair.”
Syrannus brought the other chair. Mitya sat. Lal retreated, only to return quickly with a full set of dishes for two diners and the food cunningly set out for both men. They ate in polite silence.
Lal cleared the dishes away and brought hot tea, spiced to perfection. Mitya sipped cautiously at the aromatic liquid. “Are you married?” he asked suddenly.
“Not yet, but I hope to marry once I return to my country.”
“Whom will you marry?”
Jiroannes shrugged. “There are several women I have in mind. They must all be of good birth, of course. The Great King’s fourth cousin has a daughter, and with my uncle’s influence to favor my suit, I may be able to marry her.”
“But she is a Vidiyan woman. Of your own kind.”
Jiroannes thought now that he knew why Mitya had come to him, this evening. “Yes. But if an advantageous match with a woman of high birth from another kingdom presented itself, I would certainly accept it.”
“Even if it meant you couldn’t have the—the fourth cousin’s daughter?”
“Why should it prevent me from marrying her as well?”
They stared at each other in mutual incomprehension. Light dawned on Mitya’s face. “You mean it’s true, what Tess says, that you marry more than one woman? At the same time? Gods!”
“So did the Everlasting God ordain, that each man may marry as many women as he can support. Thus also may he guarantee that he has heirs to carry on after he dies.”
“Gods,” echoed Mitya. Then he flushed and stared down at his hands.
“You’re young to think of marrying.”
Mitya’s hands moved restlessly in his lap, twisting and wringing and lacing his fingers together and then pulling them apart. “Ilya wants me to marry the Habakar princess. Not now, of course, but when I’m old enough. In four winters it will be the Year of the Wolf, and I’ll be twenty years old and of age to ride in jahar. But then he wants me to become the dyan, the governor, of these lands, Habakar lands, with her as my—my etsana, I suppose.”
“Ah,” said Jiroannes, seeing that Bakhtiian had more than simple plunder on his mind. ??
?Well, you must know, Mitya, that the Great King of Vidiya has a wife who is the daughter of the Elenti king, so it’s common enough for nobles to marry women of other races.”
Mitya looked skeptical. “Galina said she won’t marry the boy no matter what, even if they all agree to it.”
“The boy?”
“The prince. He’ll have to marry an etsana, of course, or an etsana’s daughter. They mean him to stay with the camp. They’re going to send both the sister and the brother out to the plains for a few years and then decide. Do you think I should marry her?”
“I’m flattered that you desire my opinion, Mitya,” said Jiroannes, thrilled, that the boy had come to him in such a confiding mood.
“But you’re not jaran. You must think about these things differently than we do.”
“A prince rarely marries to suit himself. Is that not also so with the jaran?”
“My cousin married to suit himself,” muttered Mitya.
“Your cousin? Oh, you mean Bakhtiian. But he married the sister of the Prince of Jeds. That was surely a wise match for him to make.”
Mitya laughed. “You don’t know Ilya at all. That isn’t why he married her.”
Well, Mitya was still young, and Jiroannes too delighted by his presence here to want to ruin the mood by disabusing the boy of his fantastical notions about Bakhtiian. Of course a king like Bakhtiian married where he found the most benefit for himself and his ambitions. Certainly for this upstart barbarian to marry the sister of the Prince of Jeds was a tactical victory of the highest order.
“Do you want to marry the girl?” Jiroannes asked instead.
Mitya shrugged. “I don’t know. I want to please Ilya. I want to do my duty to the jaran. He told me that until Nadine has a child, I’m his heir.” He made a face of comical relief. “Gods, I’m happy Dina got married. I don’t think I want to inherit, or at least, not everything.”
“You don’t want to be Bakhtiian in your turn?” Jiroannes was astonished.
“Of course I will do what Ilya asks of me.” Lal came by and refilled their cups with steaming hot tea, fresh-brewed and piquant. “But because my mother will become etsana in time, I never thought as a boy to dream about becoming dyan.”
“Now you must think again.”
“Yes,” replied Mitya, seeming as struck by Jiroannes’s simple comment as if it were the most profound revelation. He lapsed into a silence which Jiroannes nourished with a companionable silence of his own.
“You have many khaja women in your camp now,” said Mitya finally.
“Yes. My guardsmen have—married them.”
“Mitya considered this statement. “Do they have wives at home as well, then?”
“Well. Yes. Some of them do. Not all.”
“Ah.” Mitya lapsed into silence again. Lal brought more tea. It was dark by now. A cool breeze sprang up, rustling through the dagged fringe of the awning. The moon was up and near full, and its light spread a soft glow over the endless sprawl of tents. The boy looked up at Jiroannes and down again as swiftly. “What does it mean,” he asked softly, “when they say Samae is a slave?” He pronounced the Rhuian word awkwardly.
Jiroannes flushed, glad of the covering darkness. “I don’t know your language well enough to explain it. Perhaps Bakhtiian’s khaja wife can.”
“She did. Is what she said true?”
Jiroannes wondered if he had been cursed in a former life. “Perhaps. Probably.”
“But that’s barbaric,” said Mitya. “Only savages would hold to such a custom.”
“There are strict laws—” Jiroannes began.
“But if a woman or man of the jaran violates the gods’ laws, then they are put to death. That is just.”
“Don’t you have other laws as well? That a man or woman might break?”
“Yes.” Mitya frowned. “It’s true that Vera Veselov betrayed the sanctity of her tribe and was cast down from her high position to act as a servant to the Telyegin family, for so long as she may live. Although now she’s riding with the army, and is a good commander, they say. But still—”
“A slave is a servant,” said Jiroannes, grasping at this explanation. He so desperately did not want Mitya to leave with a disgust of him. “Many people in my country become slaves because they have violated our laws.”
Mitya appeared mollified. “That’s not so different.” He rose and handed the delicate cup carefully back to Lal. “I must go. Perhaps—I may visit another time?”
Jiroannes leapt to his feet and escorted Mitya out to the edge of the encampment. “Assuredly. I would welcome it.” And followed with other effusions, until the boy took his leave and walked out into the night, away into the jaran camp. Jiroannes returned to his chair and sank down into it with a sigh of contentment. Perhaps there was hope for this friendship after all.
“Eminence.” Lal touched his head to the carpet and waited for Jiroannes to notice him.
“You may speak.”
“Eminence, I beg your pardon for this indecent request, but the girl insisted I bring it to your attention.”
“The girl?” He thought for an instant the Habakar captive had importuned Lal. “Did you discover anything more about her?”
Lal was quick. “About the Javani? Nothing, eminence, except that it is a title, not her name. It is Samae who demanded I ask of you if you wish her to go to the young prince tonight.”
The young prince. Jiroannes could not for an instant imagine what Samae meant by this puzzling request. Then, of course, he knew exactly what she meant. The damned whore wanted to go to Mitya. In the four years he had owned her, she had never once come to him without being commanded to. Never. And now she begged for permission—no, for an order—to go to a damned barbarian. He felt a red rage building in him. How dare she make her first request of him now, she who had refused her freedom in order to stay his slave, and make it this? She mocked him. She preferred a half-grown boy to him, who had proven his manhood many times over, with her, with all his concubines, with the quickness of his intellect in the palace school, with his prowess on the hunt and even, once, in battle.
“Tell Samae that the women who run this camp have decreed that she may do what she wishes,” he snarled. He got to his feet in one sharp movement and stalked over to the entrance to his tent. “Send the Javani to me.”
Lal bowed with his hands crossed over his chest and scurried away. Jiroannes thrust the curtained entrance aside and strode into the seclusion of his tent. There he paced up and down, up and down, along the thick carpets that cushioned the interior. When the Javani came at last, she was still afraid of him, but her fear only whetted his appetite.
Buy His Conquering Sword Now!
About the Author
Kate Elliott has been writing stories since she was nine years old, which has led her to believe that she is either a little crazy or that writing, like breathing, keeps her alive. Her most recent series is the Spiritwalker Trilogy (Cold Magic, Cold Fire, and Cold Steel), an Afro-Celtic post-Roman alternate-nineteenth-century Regency ice-punk mashup with airships, Phoenician spies, the intelligent descendants of troodons, and revolution. Her previous works include the Crossroads trilogy (starting with Spirit Gate), the Crown of Stars septology (starting with King’s Dragon), the Novels of the Jaran, the Highroad Trilogy, and the novel The Labyrinth Gate, originally published under the name Alis A. Rasmussen.
She likes to play sports more than she likes to watch them; right now, her sport of choice is outrigger canoe paddling. Her spouse has a much more interesting job than she does, with the added benefit that they had to move to Hawaii for his work; thus the outrigger canoes. They also have a schnauzer (a.k.a. the Schnazghul).
April Quintanilla
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1993 by Katrina Elliott
Map by Eric Elliott
The quote which appears on page ix is reprinted with the permission of Atheneum Publishers, an imprint of Macmillan Publishing Company from The Empty Space by Peter Brook. Copyright © 1968 by Peter Brook.
Cover design by Angela Goddard
978-1-4804-3523-0
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
THE NOVELS OF THE JARAN
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM