"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 wishes 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 p.r.o.nouncement, 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 gra.s.s. 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. "G.o.ds, 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, impa.s.sive.

"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 general'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 pa.s.s."

"Is there a good spot for an ambush?"

She looked back at the band: about one hundred hors.e.m.e.n 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."

"Anton is Arina Veselov's brother," said Vasil.

"That's bound to cause trouble, two so close making decisions."

"And knowing Anton and Arina as I do, because of that, they'll be glad to give the command over to me. It isn't my cousins I have to convince. Viaka." He turned to address the girl. "We must go, quickly. Can you lead us?"

"It is a bad place for swords," she insisted. "There are others of my family who will come, if we can stay in the heights and shoot down. Then perhaps you can overcome your enemy. They have fine armor.''

Grumbling arose from the men closest. "Archery . . . arrows in battle . . . it's dishonorable."

"Come now," said Vasil scornfully. "Surely you men don't believe I'd ever suggest such a thing against an honorable man of the tribes? But these are khaja.

What does it matter if arrows are used against them? They have killed enough jaran men with arrows. And these khaja villagers have agreed out of their own free will to accompany us."

Yevgeni snorted. "Out of the will of their headman's daughter, who's bedding with you." The girl started around and glared at him. Then she flushed. She was an unremarkable young woman, scrubbed clean, with her brown hair tied back and bound with a net of tiny golden beads strung on a bronze wire. She wore a girdle of iron plates around her waist, and a golden embossed pectoral hung from around her neck, covering her upper chest: it was more armor than any of Veselov's riders had.

Vasil smiled. "Yevgeni, my love," he said softly, "are you jealous?"

Yevgeni flushed with anger. "You have no right to say such a thing to me," he said in a fierce undertone. "I have never asked anything of you, Veselov, except first a place in Dmitri Mikhailov's jahar and now, a place with your arenabekh."

"Forgive me," said Vasil, his voice as smooth as silk, "but I do not like to be questioned. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

Vasil surveyed his riders. He pitched his voice to carry to the back ranks. "We're going to bag a prize, boys. We will take some khaja archers with us. If there are any of you who can't stomach their presence, then you may stay behind."

No one moved. Vasil shifted his gaze to the girl. She gazed at him as much with avarice as with love. "Then we can go," he said to her. "And swiftly."

She urged the pony forward and the band set out, riding on twisting paths down off the ridge and through the steep hills. At a narrow crossroads, the party of villagers joined them. A woman took the baby from Viaka and vanished up the trail. The rest went on. The villagers were mounted on st.u.r.dy ponies, each man-and a few young women-armed with bow and arrows and a long knife. Only Viaka spoke khush well, and she used this skill and Vasil's deference to her to bully the older khaja men, who clearly objected to her authority.

She led them along a narrow road cut through the hills. They rode two abreast, with Viaka and Vasil at the fore and the bulk of the villagers at the rear. At last the road dipped down into a gully and gave out onto a wider road that led up toward the pa.s.s. Here, they found signs of the city's death: A burned out wagon and seven corpses, three of them children, littered the roadside.

Yevgeni moved up beside Vasil and sniffed the stench in the air with distaste.

"Arrows. Do they kill their own children?"

"These are Farisa," said Viaka. "As are my people.

We ruled this land once, until the King's grandsire rode here with an army, in my grandfather's father's time. He killed our prince and became prince himself. It was his army attacked the city, not yours, and killed these people. Those who escaped ran to the hills. We do not love the King."

Vasil lifted a brow, questioning. "So that is why your father agreed to help us? I thought all the khaja were alike. Where is the site for the ambush?"

They rode down and came to a curve in the road that was shielded by a rocky ridge. Vasil concealed his riders behind the ridge. Viaka sent archers up the steep cliffs on either side, where they hid behind boulders and underbrush. Then they waited.

After a time, the ring of harness and the pound of hooves drifted to them on the clear air. No voices carried: it was a silent flight. Vasil's face bore a curious stillness as he listened, as if this skirmish signaled the beginning of a momentous campaign.

Sudden shrieks echoed off the cliffs. Shouts and a scream blended with the terrified neighing of horses.

"Forward!" cried Vasil. He led the charge. . The jaran riders came around the curve and smashed straight into the panicked troop. Already demoralized from the battle, they scattered under the archers' fire, half fleeing back down the road, half ahead into the jaran charge.

Next to Vasil, Piotr lowered his lance and with the weight and speed of his horse behind the thrust, he toppled a heavily armored rider from the saddle. The khaja warrior screamed as a man in the second rank cut him down. The charge drove through the khaja ranks and Vasil shouted for half the jahar to go on, after the retreating remnants. Fifty riders headed down the pa.s.s. Behind, the archers let loose a new stream of arrows into the group that had just survived the charge. Then Vasil wheeled his horse around along with his remaining fifty men and hit the disintegrating troop from the rear, trampling some, killing the rest.

Yevgeni and Piotr cornered a man in a golden surcoat, and when the man saw that he was surrounded and defeated, he dropped his weapons and began to plead in a language none of them could understand. Vasil rode up and stared at him: an older man with a grizzled beard, dark eyes and skin, and fine gilded armor.

"Yevgeni," said Vasil, "take twenty riders and help Georgi mop up the others."

Yevgeni rode away.The mountain people scrambled down from the heights and scurried among the bodies, gleefully stabbing those still alive and looting the dead.