CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Ring of Guards

When they came across scouts from the great birbas, Riasonovsky suddenly turned stubborn.

"No," he said to Vasha, "you may not go to Mother Orzhekov or to the Prince of Jeds. My orders were to deliver you to Bakhtiian, and Bakhtiian is in Sarai. That is where we are going."

So they rode on. With each dawn Vasha grew more nervous until he reached such a high pitch of anxiety that he thought he would burst. By the time Sarai rose out of the plains, an exotic blend of jaran camp and khaja city, he could only choke out one-word answers—when anyone bothered to address a comment to him, which wasn't often.

They rode into the city. The khaja along the avenue spared them not a second glance. But as they moved into the great jaran camp, they gained a second escort: children and elders, mostly, all those who had not ridden out on the birbas and were eager for some excitement. Vasha endured their presence without flinching. First Katerina began to wave and call out to people she knew, then Stefan.

He heard his own name called, but he had to keep his eyes fixed on Riasonovsky or he would not have the courage to ride up to Tess Soerensen's tent. The closer they got, the more his vision narrowed, until at last he saw the gold banner in the distance, riding ever closer, ever closer, until he could see Mother Orzhekov's huge tent beyond, could make out the colors and patterns on the walls of Tess's great tent, could see the awning itself where a dark-haired man sat on a pillow playing khot with Stefan's grandfather Niko while a soldier read to him from a report. Vasha thought he could practically read the words on the parchment, his sight had grown so keen and so focused.

Bakhtiian looked up. He jumped to his feet.

As if in slow motion, Riasonovsky dismounted and walked forward to speak to Bakhtiian. All the while he talked, and it went on and on and on until Vasha thought probably the whole day had passed and another one taken its place, Bakhtiian stared straight at Vasha.

In one more instant his father's stare was going to obliterate him. Misri stood with perfect stillness, his only ally, even as Vasha's hands convulsed on the reins. And all the while Bakhtiian's expression grew colder and more furious.

Riasonovsky finished speaking and, as if in precaution, took one step back.

There was silence. Vasha hoped it would last forever.

"Katya!" That was Aunt Soma's voice, full of joy. "My dear girl—" But her voice faltered, swallowed by the stillness that radiated out from Bakhtiian.

When he spoke finally, his voice was not loud but so clear and cutting, so steeped in rage, that it resounded through the assembly.

"I turn my face away from him. I will not see him." He turned and walked into the tent.

At once, a ring of guards closed in around the tent. Vasha just sat there, numb. His ears filled with a roaring, like a river rushing past. He stared at the awning. A few shapes moved around underneath the awning, men, guards, but it was empty of what mattered. His father had repudiated him. His worst dream had come true.

Fingers touched his arm. He jerked so hard that Misri sidestepped until Stefan caught her bridle and stopped her.

"Vasha! Dismount, you idiot. You'll just look worse if you sit up there and gape. Come to Grandmother's tent."

After a moment he realized that it was Katerina who was talking to him. He swung down reflexively from the saddle and let her lead him away, but he could not help but look back over his shoulder toward the tent. Perhaps in another moment his father would emerge and agree to talk to him, to let him explain what had happened, to just see—

"Vasha!" Katerina hissed. "Don't look back. Look dignified."

"I have to talk to him," he blurted out, and wrenched away from her and half-ran back to the tent.

His father's guards crossed their spears before him. "Just let me talk to him!" Vasha cried. "Konstans!"

he pleaded, fixing his gaze on Konstans Barshai, who had taught him saber. "Just let me in, just—" He faltered.

Konstans, stone-faced, made no reply, only blocked Vasha's path. This time, when Katerina took hold of Vasha's arm, she got a good strong grip and tugged him along so hard that he stumbled backward, trying to turn himself.

"I said come with me, you fool!" she said in a low voice. She dragged him all the way to Mother Orzhekov's great tent and shoved him over the threshold and inside, where he found his Aunts Stassia and Sonia and a mob of young, curious cousins.

"Go to the back, Vassily," said Aunt Sonia curtly. "We are making a bath for you. I want you clean. Katya, you will tell us what has happened."

He waited at the back while a big metal tub was filled with steaming water. No one spoke to him, not even the littlest ones. But he was glad of it, since his throat was thick with grief. He could hear a discussion going on at the front, but it passed in a haze. Someone, he wasn't sure who, drew a curtain closed, screening off the bath, and he undressed mechanically and sank down into the water. Just sat there, staring at the tent wall. It was an old panel, fading: Wolves chased a stag.

"Vasha?" The merest whisper. The curtain stirred. Yuri slipped through. "Shhh. Don't tell anyone I'm here." Yuri put two fingers to his lips and grinned. "I missed you. I'm glad you came back." He set his hands on the edge of the tub and leaned forward and kissed Vasha on the cheek. "Why is Papa angry with you?" It was said so innocently by him, who could not imagine his adored older brother doing anything wrong.

Vasha began to cry. The more he dug his nails into his palms, the more he bit his lower lip, to try and stop himself, the more the tears ran from his eyes.

Troubled, Yuri watched him. "Well," said Yuri matter-of-factly, "everything will be all right when Mama gets back."

Only it wasn't. Stassia and Sonia treated him courteously, even perhaps with some sympathy, but coolly. He slept in one of the side chambers of Mother Orzhekov's tent. Only three people visited him: Stefan and Niko Sibirin, and, once, Katerina, who frowned at him for the longest time and then got up and went way without saying anything. Niko made him sit outside under the awning and play khot, and Vasha's humiliation was complete, to be put on show like that. The only way to ignore the stares he knew were being directed at him was to focus on the game so completely that he didn't notice anything else.

That was why he never noticed Tess's arrival until she stood not four paces from him, regarding him with pity. Even with Niko's remonstrations echoing in his ears, he jumped up and retreated inside the tent, into the tiny closed-off chamber, because he could not bear to face her. She had given him everything. At that moment, sitting in darkness on a pillow, wringing his hands, he wasn't sure which was worse: his father's anger or her compassion. He sat there for a long, long time, alone. Finally he lay down. He had been strung too tight last night to sleep. Now, in the stuffy tent, he dozed.

Someone lay down next to him, embraced him, pressed against him. He rolled over. "Mmm?

Katya!" That woke him up.

"Shhh."

"What are you—?" But it was obvious what she was doing. Her body was agreeably familiar to him, and his to her, as if his hands remembered their old paths better than his mind did. Gods, he was angry at her for treating him so badly for the past months, but all that suddenly didn't seem quite so important. For a brief while, he forgot the rest of the world.

Until Katerina, collapsed on top of him afterward, promptly reminded him of them. "Oh, Vasha,"

she said, a little out of breath still, "I didn't know this would happen. I'm sorry."

He ran a hand down her back, confused, and only then realized what she was talking about. He pushed her off him and she toppled back onto the carpet. "Do you mean you just came in here by way of apology?"

"I'll thank you to leave me alone!" He sat up, humiliated, and began to put his clothes back on.

"Vasha" She hesitated, heard voices nearby, and hastily began getting her clothes back on. "That isn't fair."

He grunted, turning his back on her.

"Well, you can scarcely blame me for disliking the way you rode into Sakhalin's army, expecting everyone to treat you like a prince when you'd never even proven yourself yet. It just annoyed me so knowing that you'd ride all the way back here in disgrace only to have Cousin Ilya forgive you and pretend nothing had happened."

"Forgive me! Of course he wouldn't forgive me. Any fool can see that. He's furious."

Katerina shrugged on her blouse and belted it over her skirts. "It's what he always did before. Why should it be different this time?"

"What he always did before?" Vasha was so stunned by this comment that he sat and stared at Katerina, shirt hanging loose in one hand.

She pulled on a boot, not looking at him. "He's always coddled you, Vasha. I was just wrong in thinking he would do the same thing this time."

"He's never coddled me!" But the exclamation trailed off into silence, and he only watched as Katya stood up, straightened her clothes, and listened intently.

"Tess is coming inside," she said. "I am sorry. I wouldn't have been so angry with you if I'd thought Cousin Ilya would be. I just thought it would be bad for you if someone didn't make you realize that you have to—"

There was a discreet cough from outside. Blushing, Vasha tugged on his shirt, got an arm in the neck, cursed, and finally pulled it on just as Tess pushed aside the curtain and stepped inside the tiny chamber. Katya flashed her a shamefaced smile and retreated at once. Vasha buckled on his belt and hoped furiously that Tess would not notice what he was doing. Then he fixed his gaze on his knuckles.

There was yet a slight sheen of the hunt on her, and it disturbed him. And he was horribly embarrassed. And terrified of what she was going to say.

"I have heard several reports," she said finally. "But I would like to hear your report."

"I made a fool of myself," he mumbled.

"I beg your pardon. I couldn't hear that."

"I don't like Yaroslav Sakhalin," he burst out, flinging his head up. "He treated me like—" He broke off, clamping down on his tongue. Like Mother Kireyevsky treated me.

"I hear that he expected you to do what every boy who joins the army does: care for the horses, help with the herds, do duties here and around for the soldiers."

"I was older than the other boys. Why couldn't he have let me go to the army earlier?" He hated himself even as he said it, for the whining tone.

"A good question."

He wrenched his gaze back down to his knuckles. "Whatever Katya told you is probably true. I didn't like Sakhalin. He didn't like me. We never got along. But it was stupid of me to steal those horses and to convince the others to go along with the plan. And we didn't mean to steal Princess Rusudani, too."

"I'm curious. If you'd gone as a Kireyevsky rider, do you suppose Sakhalin would have liked you?"

The question was so odd that it silenced him. Tess waited him out. "If I'd gone as a Kireyevsky rider, Yaroslav Sakhalin would never have noticed me at all, unless I distinguished myself in battle."

"Yes. Well, do what Niko says, for now, and what your aunts and grandmother say, of course.

How many times did you beat Niko at khot anyway?"

"I don't know. We just played."

Tess made a little sound, and he glanced up at her and saw that she was holding back a laugh.

Anger flared, but he fought it down. How could she laugh?

"Niko says you're a fine khot player. I don't take praise given by Niko lightly." She kissed him on the forehead and left.

Vasha stared at the curtain as it swayed to stillness, leaving him alone again. He had known Tess would not be furious with him, not in the way his father had been. She would scold him, take him to task, expect him to think about what he might learn from the situation—and suddenly Katya's accusation, that his father coddled him, flashed back into his mind. He had a sudden, bothersome idea that she was right. Bakhtiian did not treat him the same way he treated Natalia and Yuri. It was as if there was a line Bakhtiian could never quite bring himself to cross, as if he didn't think it was his right.

The thought plunged Vasha into gloom. He shut his eyes and rested his head on his hands. In the end, of course, the dream was just that, a dream. Any fool could see that he was not truly Ilya Bakhtiian's son.

Tess swept into her tent, took one look at her husband's grim expression, and swept out without saying a word to him. Sonia waited for her outside, but Tess kept walking and did not speak until they stood out on the grass between the tents, away from anyone who might overhear.

"Well?" Sonia asked.

"If I talk to him now, we'll have a fight, and he'll only get more stubborn."

"Should I go in?" Sonia cocked her head to one side. "Ah. You are right. When a man feuds with his son, it is not a woman's matter."

"I would not want to be there when Irena goes in."

"Mother may take his part in this. What makes you think that anyone in this tribe will support Vasha except for you? Has he proven himself worthy of being an Orzhekov son?"

"He has not yet been given a chance to prove himself. He should have gone to Yaroslav Sakhalin sooner or not at all."

"Why are you trying to convince me, Tess?"

"Niko says he plays khot much better than his father."

"I can assure you that most people in the tribes accept Ilya as his father only through his connection with you. I'm sorry, but I won't interfere, and I will counsel our mother not to interfere either. If Ilya's councillors and generals choose to take Vassily's part, then so be it. If they do not...."

"What in hell's name am I going to do with Vasha if they don't? I can't just abandon him. Or, God forbid, force him to be a servant like he was in the Kireyevsky tribe. Do I send him to Jeds? Marry him to a khaja princess so he can have some kind, any kind, of position?"

Their eyes met. With one thought, they both turned and looked toward the distant scatter of tents, pitched beyond the Sakhalin tribe, that housed the khaja hostages, and now housed with them the princess, Rusudani Mirametis, daughter of Prince Zakaria of Tarsina-Kars, granddaughter of King Barsauma of Mircassia, and cousin of Prince Basil of Filis. They had heard the whole story from Katerina, corroborated in a tense interview with a deeply-shamed Stefan.

"In Erthe, in older times," said Tess slowly, "a man who captured a woman under such circumstances had the right to marry her."

"How barbaric!"

"Oh, Sonia! Is that really so different from a man riding into a tribe and marking a woman who does not want him?"

"Of course it is!" said Sonia indignantly. "We are not savages."

"Oh, of course not."

"It may not be your choice to make. Are you going to try to discuss Vassily with Ilya?"

"Not now. Ilya won't mind being angry with me. That would only feed his anger."

"Then wait and see what Niko and Josef do. See what his senior captains, Konstans Barshai and the others, counsel. You cannot make the tribe keep Vassily here simply because you will it to be so.

The boy will never be able to live in the Orzhekov tribe now if the tribe itself does not want him here."

"I'll wait a few days. Poor child. He was already thrown out once."

"He is not a child anymore. That should be evident."

"Umm, yes. Katya has taken up with him again, I think."

Sonia did not respond to this feint, and Tess was forced to follow her meekly back to her tent and attend to more domestic chores.

Vasha endured the Orzhekov camp for another day, but on the evening of the second he could bear their forbearance no longer. He fled to the part of the camp where the khaja hostages and envoys lived. A small group of people had gathered at the end of the line of tents closest to Sarai. He paused to look them over. He was surprised to see the priest, Brother Saghir. When the priest recognized him, he smiled at Vasha, beckoning him over.

"What are these people doing?" Vasha asked him.

"They have come to receive the recitation of the Lord's Word. Some of these people already belong to the faithful, and it has been years since a priest of our Order has come among them. Others seek to learn more of God's law."

"It is good to be reminded of the gods' laws," agreed Vasha, "since it is by their favor that the jaran have gained so much."

" 'Those whom God favors have also a greater responsibility,' " replied Brother Saghir instantly. He had an answer for everything, rather like Tess did. But Vasha had never once seen Tess worship any god. "Likewise, in another place, 'If more is given you, then also ought you to love more.' If the jaran and their Bakhtiian have been given much, then by Whose hand has this been done? By the idols, by the thousand demons named as gods by the ignorant? No, by the hand of God Almighty, Who made heaven and earth and all kingdoms upon it, and by the grace of His anointed Son, who was sundered and yet lived again so that we might be granted a vision of the power of life over death."

"My father was granted a vision by the gods," said Vasha, and then cringed, cursing himself inwardly. His father was not his father at all; Bakhtiian had already repudiated him.

Brother Saghir nodded gravely, whether at Vasha's statement or with a mysterious knowledge of Vasha's plight. He had a sallow complexion and black hair, and though he was not much older than Vassily himself, he carried himself as a man does, not as a boy. "For every man and woman there is the hope of salvation, if he will only hear God's word, if she will only take unto heart the Pilgrim's journey."

"Is that true?" Vasha asked wistfully.

The appearance of Princess Rusudani distracted him from Brother Saghir's answer. She arrived in great state: Her servant, Jaelle, walked three paces behind her, and behind them came three soldiers walking and four riding, with Stefan at the tail end of the procession. Brother Saghir left Vasha immediately and hurried forward to bow in front of the princess. The townspeople parted to let them through, and Brother Saghir busied himself setting out a table as an altar, covering it with a cloth sewn of gold fabric and setting on the cloth a large carved box and several cups.

Rusudani knelt at the front of the gathering, in front of the altar. Jaelle knelt farther back, with the people gathered from Sarai. Vasha sidled over to stand next to Stefan.

"What are they doing?" Stefan asked.

"They've come to pray," said the soldier in charge, Gennady Berezin. He was Vasha's uncle by marriage, having been married to Anna Orzhekov, the sister who had died years before Vasha came to the tribe. "They have all sorts of strange khaja rituals, but they can't help it, since they know nothing of the true gods."

"They read from their book," said Vasha, desperately wanting to impress Berezin with his knowledge. "And they sing. Then they pour the wine on the ground. But I don't know why."

"Jaelle says they do not worship in the right way," said Stefan suddenly. "She comes from a different place."

Berezin snorted and Stefan looked embarrassed. "If she worships a different God, then why does she worship with her mistress here?"

"No, it is the same God, but...."

Several of the soldiers in attendance chuckled, while on the grass near the altar the congregation sang softly and rather off-key in a language Vasha did not recognize.

"If it is the same God, then how can they worship differently?" demanded Berezin. "My boy, you had better learn that the khaja are all savages. I grant you she has a pleasing enough face, but there is a proper jaran girl waiting for you out on the plains, no doubt."

Stefan clenched his hands and refused to reply.

"Have you been talking to her?" Vasha whispered in his ear.

"A man is allowed to talk to a woman!" Stefan lapsed into an indignant silence.

The soldiers settled in for a long wait as the congregation alternated singing and listening. The three on foot hunkered down; Berezin whittled at a stick of wood. The riders dismounted and led their horses around the periphery, reappearing at intervals. Dusk bled to twilight and twilight faded into night. Stars filled the sky. Brother Saghir circled the congregation with a lit lantern bobbing up and down in front of him like a beacon, and when he returned to the altar he spoke rhythmic words to the congregation which they repeated back to him.

Vasha could not help but stare at Rusudani. She swayed in time to Brother Saghir's speaking, and he had a feeling that she alone of the gathered was speaking the words to herself along with the priest.

Her dark head was bent submissively, her hands clasped and pressed against her breast. Vasha felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, and he walked around a little bit to work off his nerves.

Finally, Brother Saghir poured a full cup of red wine out on the ground and first Rusudani and after her the others in turn came forward to touch the damp earth, their way lighted by Brother Saghir with the lantern. Then Brother Saghir opened the wooden box and lifted out a loaf of bread, they sang a final song, and that seemed to signal the end of their worship.

The townspeople filtered away toward Sarai. Rusudani's escort reassembled and she walked with dignity back into their guard. Jaelle, behind her, glanced toward Stefan and away. Poor Stefan looked pathetically gratified by that scrap of attention.

Suddenly, Rusudani looked straight toward Vasha. "Brother Saghir tells me you spoke with him about the word of God," she said; that is, she spoke the words in her tongue and Jaelle translated them into Taor.

Vasha was horrified and ecstatic together. "Yes," he managed to reply. By the light of the lanterns held by her escort, Rusudani's face glowed mysteriously.

"What does she say?" asked Berezin. Vasha was so thrilled by the old soldier's interest that he could hardly reply for fear of saying something stupid.

"She says, she saw, that I spoke with her priest about their God."

"And did you speak with him?"

"I did." On this ground, Vasha felt sure of himself. "It is always wise to learn the ways of the khaja, so that we may rule them more wisely."

Berezin lifted an expressive eyebrow. "That is true, and sensibly said."

Vasha felt the fierce pain of hope, like Brother Saghir's promised salvation. If a soldier like Berezin spoke in his favor ... but Berezin was already moving off, saying something to one of his riders about some of the straggling townspeople.

Rusudani was talking again, and Jaelle translated. "Princess Rusudani says that she had heard that there were followers of the True Faith among the jaran, but that when she came among you she saw that it was not so. For this reason she feared you." Jaelle looked nervous saying these words. Vasha, risking a glance full at Rusudani's face, did not think the princess looked afraid. She looked more annoyed than anything, as if she wasn't sure she could trust her servant to translate correctly. "But Sister Yvanne brought her to a fuller knowledge of God's will, and if that means that she must follow the path of the Pilgrim, Our Holy Sister, then so will she follow that path."

Berezin signaled, and the guard formed around Rusudani, herding her away. She went without a backward glance for Vasha. Vasha wanted to follow her, to speak to her again, but he did not dare to. What if Berezin did not approve? What did it matter what Berezin thought, anyway, if Bakhtiian had already turned against him?

"What am I going to do?" he asked the air, wanting to cry, but he could not.

From the altar, Brother Saghir looked up at him, hearing his tone if not understanding the words. "I will pray with you, if you wish, Prince Vasil'ii," he said sympathetically, and Vasha winced away from the title, knowing he had no right to it.

"Come on," said Stefan. "I know an inn in Sarai where we can get drunk in peace." He took Vasha by the arm and drew him away.

But Vasha shook loose of him and went over to Brother Saghir first. "I thank you," he said, not sure whether he was thanking the khaja priest for his sympathy or for his kind-hearted ignorance, giving Vasha the title he so badly wished for, that of prince, a true prince, acknowledged as such by khaja and jaran.

Then, because it seemed the best solution to his pain, he went with Stefan and got blindingly drunk.

After three days, a delegation of older men requested permission, through Konstans Barshai, who diligently maintained the ring of guards around the tent, to see Bakhtiian. Tess could not quite bring herself to go directly in with them, but she could not stand to miss the confrontation, so she simply let herself into the inner chamber through the unsewn back flap and peeked through the curtain.

There were five men, Niko Sibirin, Sonia's husband Josef Raevsky, Kira and Stassia's husbands, and Gennady Berezin. They sat, as was their right, and Josef refused help in finding a pillow to sit on until Ilya himself, shamed by Josef's blind groping, helped him. Niko acted as spokesman.

"Why have you grown angry, Bakhtiian?" he asked.

Ilya glowered at them and did not answer.

"The Habakar king fled from your wrath and came to a bad end, and now his cities and his people belong to the tribes. Our armies are rich, and with each day they continue to advance southward.

People of three different faiths bow to our governors. How can you remain angry?"

Still Ilya did not reply, but his hands shifted restlessly on his knees.

"The child knows he has done wrong," continued Niko, "but now he is afraid of your anger. If you continue in this way, you will break his spirit. Let him see you."

The other men nodded in agreement. The silence lasted a long time, but these were men who were both willing and able to wait Ilya out. After a while, Niko unfolded a knot board and got out some stones and he and Josef commenced playing a game.

Yuri poked his head through the back flap, and Tess, with a hand over her mouth, waved him away. Ilya had responded to the provocation of the game by pressing his mouth together more firmly and refusing to be drawn, but like the others he could not help but watch. Josef was the finest khot player in the Orzhekov tribe. He used an unpolished set of stones, and he played by touch, his fingers fluttering across the board, lightly marking each stone as it was laid down in order to memorize its position. When the game ended, with Josef winning as usual, Ilya stirred.

"Very well."

When Niko brought him before the tent, and Konstans Barshai pulled back his spear in order to let Vasha through, Vassily shuddered, a shock wave passing through him so hard and fast that at first he could not step forward.

He heard Bakhtiian's voice say, "Send him in," and he felt for an instant as if he had never heard that voice before. Memory hit him, staggering him: Eight years ago he had stood before this tent a tribeless, kinless child of eleven, thrown on the mercy of the Orzhekov tribe, and been called in to stand before the man who would pass judgment on him with those same sharp words.

Except that in the end Tess Soerensen, not Bakhtiian, had made a choice whose repercussions had, perhaps inevitably, led him to this moment when Bakhtiian would repudiate him once and for all.

Niko nudged him, and with the old man beside him, he forced himself to push past the entrance flap and go inside. Konstans Barshai followed them in, as if to guard Bakhtiian against the threat Vasha posed, and after him a handful of other men. Vasha did not really see them.

Bakhtiian sat on a pillow, a closed book balanced on his left knee, covered by a hand, and his other hand in a fist on the carpet beside him. Vasha scarcely had time to draw breath before Bakhtiian started in.

"I have satisfied myself that the report I have heard of your behavior is true. Do you dispute it?"

Vasha shook his head numbly.

"Is this the way a child of the Orzhekov tribe is expected to conduct himself? Do we train our boys to grow up into men who will steal women out of the sanctity of the tents—"

That was too much. "We didn't steal her! She ran to us—"

"Silence! I did not ask you to speak. Can an army march when the soldiers will not obey their captain? Truly, 'the boy who does not respect his uncle will never learn to fight.' Is a boy's judgment to be honored above that of a man? If the children of the jaran refuse to respect the wisdom of their elders, why should the gods grant us their favor any longer?"

The force of Bakhtiian's anger felt like heat, melting him. The worst of it was, this was just the beginning.

"When the tribes first came to earth and their tents spread from the west to the east, there were two brothers, Mstislav and Daniil. Now Daniil had but a single eye in the middle of his forehead, and with this eye he could see as far distant a place as would take a man three days to ride. One day he saw a tribe riding toward them, and he spied a young woman riding in their midst who was as fair as the dawn. At once he asked his brother to ride down and see what this tribe was, so that he might marry the young woman. Mstislav agreed, and he rode down to the tribe, but coming before her, he fell in love with her as well. But because he had given his brother his sworn word, he did not mark the woman, but instead marked her older sister, who was also unmarried. Daniil rode into the tribe as well, and he marked the younger sister. So came the brothers into the tribe."

Vasha could not have moved even if he had wanted to. Although, outside, the season was turning, he found it inexplicably stuffy in the tent, and he sweated and sweated.

"Mstislav's wife bore two daughters and four sons, and Daniil's wife bore four daughters and two sons, but all those years Mstislav nursed his jealousy against his brother, and this jealousy he passed down into his sons' hearts.

"In time Mstislav passed away, but his sons nursed their father's resentment against their uncle Daniil. They did not leave to marry women in other tribes because their grievance had blinded them to their duty."

Vasha was beginning to feel faint. Sweat trickled down the small of his back. His feet felt so hot and swollen that it hurt to stand on them.

"One day when the jahar rode out to scout, Daniil saw a jahar of an enemy tribe riding toward them, still three days off. He alerted the jahar and they turned and rode into the broken lands to protect themselves. The four brothers refused to believe him. They had seen no signs of a large force nearby. They remained in the valley where the grass was sweet and plentiful. The other jahar arrived at dawn on the third day and killed them.

"Any man I name dyan in my armies is as an uncle to you, and any boy who will not heed the word of his uncle is as good as dead to his tribe."

The tirade went on. Vasha lost track of words and then phrases and then whole portions as he concentrated more and more on simply not toppling over. He began to hear, not the words, but the spate of words and the pauses during which Bakhtiian took breath to start in again.

During a pause, a new voice broke in, staggering Vasha with its placidity.

"All of these words are true," said Niko slowly, "but what is the point of abusing the boy at such length? If you end by putting fear in his heart, then how will he ever learn what to do in war? He is young. Like an immature eagle, his first strike may fail to capture his chosen prey."

Then Konstans spoke. "Why strike with your anger against the boy? We have enemies enough. Set us loose against them, and the gods will give us greater strength, greater riches, and many more people to rule. You need only to ask, 'Which people?' and I would tell you that the king of Mircassia and the prince of Filis alone prevent us from ruling all the lands between the plains and Jeds. Let us strike at them now and with such fury that they will scatter and run and beg to become our servants."

There was a long silence.

Bakhtiian stirred finally. For the first time his gaze shifted away from Vasha. Vasha's knees almost gave out. "It is past time for me to rejoin the army, and to call in Zvertkov's army to join with Sakhalin's in the attack against Mircassia and Filis. Between those two swords, the khaja will fall." He paused. "The boy can go to Kirill Zvertkov, providing he behaves himself. He may ride with us southward until we meet up with Zvertkov's jahar."

He lifted a hand, to signal that the audience was over.

Vasha gaped. So casually came the reprieve. At first he was too stunned to feel anything. Hard on that came shame: Shame, that Katya had been right. Bakhtiian coddled him, in the wrong way, making things easy for him because, perhaps ... well, how could he know why? A real father would have been less lenient.

But I will prove myself worthy, he said, voicing the words soundlessly. Aware that the other men watched him, he accepted the pronouncement with a cool nod, turned without haste, and walked out of the tent on steady legs. But it was too much to have to face the crowd that greeted him outside.

Tess saved him, as usual.

"Come, Vasha. I want you and Stefan to attend me at Princess Rusudani's tent."

The thought of Rusudani calmed him at once. With her serene face and composed voice as a promise held before him, he could press through the assembly without quailing.

In the end, Tess did nothing more on that visit than establish the language Rusudani spoke, a dialect of the Yos language, confirm the princess's pedigree, and listen politely while Rusudani, through Jaelle, begged leave to bring the word of her God to the attention of Bakhtiian and the elders and women of the jaran.

Vasha needed to do nothing but sit in respectful silence. Slowly the weight of tension sloughed off him. He was surprised by the revelation that he felt more at ease sitting here with khaja women than with the women of his own people.