"Sit down," ordered the etsana. Tess sank down. Mother Sakhalin sat down beside her, and now Tess did not feel as if she towered over the old woman. "You are pregnant, but there is no guarantee the child will also possess this vision, and in any case, the child will inherit through your line. Both Bakhtiian's sister's son and aunt's son are dead, which leaves only his cousin's son."

"Mitya? But he's only-what?-fifteen?"

"There are younger boys as well. Do any of them have this vision?""No one has the vision. No one but Bakhtiian."

"Then what is to become of us if he dies?"

Here in the tent, the air retained night's coolness. From outside, Tess heard Aleksi talking to little Ivan about milking the glariss. Katerina and Galina complained in loud voices about the lack of water to wash clothes. Tess could hear the tension in their voices; they knew what was going on, and they knew-not what it meant if Bakhtiian died, but that it meant that their world would be shattered.

It was too much to cope with. It was all her fault. "I don't know," said Tess. "I don't know."

"You are the sister of the prince of Jheds." Mother Sakhlain's face was creased and lined with age, and her mouth was pursed with disapproval. "You are the adopted daughter of Irena Orzhekov, who is etsana of the Orzhekov tribe. And you are Bakhtiian's wife. You must act."

"I don't understand," said Tess, feeling helpless and inadequate under Mother Sakhalin's eye, "how he became what he is. Where did it come from?"

"His father was a Singer. His mother was a proud and ambitious woman who became etsana very young, too young, I think."

"Like Arina Veselov?"

"Arina Veselov is not ambitious, nor is she proud in the sense I mean. And she married well."

"Ilya's mother did not marry well?"

"Alyona Orzhekov was marked by an orphan named Petre Sokolov, whom no one dared kill for his effrontery because he was a Singer. He said that the G.o.ds had given him a vision that she was the woman he must marry. Surely the G.o.ds must have known that they would have this child"-she gestured with a wrinkled hand toward the unconscious Ilya-"together. But Alyona Orzhekov loved another man. Everyone thought that this other man would marry her. He was a Singer, too, but he was also the dyan of his tribe, young, proud, and ambitious. And virtuous, and pious in his devotion to the laws of the G.o.ds." Tess had always felt overawed by Mother Sakhalin, who was old and wise and impatient with folly. Now Sakhalin smiled, and Tess caught a glimpse of what the younger woman must have been like: shrewd and patient and sharp-tongued. "I never liked him."

"What was his name?"

"Khara Roskhel."

"But he's the man who killed Ilya's family! Isn't he? How could he-? How could-? Yuri once told me that he was cruel."

"The most devout are often the cruelest. Yes, he was cruel, and he had visions as well. He never married, you know. They say he wanted no woman but Alyona. Such possessiveness is a very ugly trait in a man." She glanced again toward Ilya. Was Sakhalin thinking that Bakhtiian himself possessed this ugly trait? "They were lovers," the etsana went on, "always, through the years that followed, and openly so; what Petre Sokolov thought of this, no one ever knew. He was not a good husband for her. She needed a man who would rein back her worst impulses, one she could respect, one she would listen to."

"He did none of these things?"

Sakhalin shrugged. "What he did or did not do, I can't say, since I don't know.

But an etsana ought not install her own son as dyan of her tribe, especially when that son is only twenty-three years old."

"Even if that son is Ilyakoria Bakhtiian?"

"Even so."

"I never had the honor of meeting your husband, Mother Sakhalin. But I feel sure that he was a good husband."

For this impertinence, Tess was rewarded with a smile and a brief, acknowledging nod. "Of course he was. My mother and my aunt chose him very carefully. He was the kind of man your brother Yurinya Orzhekov would have grown into, had he lived."

"Ah," said Tess. "Then he must have been a very fine man, indeed." She folded her hands in her lap and stared at her knuckles.

"It is true, though," added Sakhalin, musing, "that I never understood why Roskhel turned against them. He was one of Bakhtiian's earliest and strongest supporters. No one remarked it at the time; the connection between the two tribes was so close because of his liaison with Alyona Orzhekov. But it was at the great gathering of tribes in the Year of the Hawk that he turned his face against Bakhtiian, and later that year that he rode into the Orzhekov camp and killed the family. That is the mystery, you see, that he killed the two women and the child. He was a pious man-none more so-and it is against all of our laws, both of the G.o.ds and of the jaran, to harm women and children in the sanct.i.ty of the camp, even in the midst of war.''

Someone was arguing violently outside. There was a shriek, then, closer, in the outer chamber, Cara exclaimed in surprise. A moment later the curtain swept aside and Vasil Veselov strode in. He stopped stock-still and stared, horrified, at Ilya.

Mother Sakhalin rose briskly to her feet. Although Vasil stood a head taller than she did, she clearly held the weight of power. Tess stared.

"Your presence here is most improper," snapped Mother Sakhalin.

As if he were in a dream, Vasil took a step forward, then another one, then a third, and he sank down to kneel at the foot of the couch. His agony was palpable in every line of his body.

"He exiled you," said Mother Sakhalin. Her voice shook with anger. "How dare you walk unannounced and unasked into his presence?''

"Leave him be," said Tess suddenly, surprising even herself. "Look at him." In the dim chamber, with his head bowed and his hair gleaming in the lantern light, Vasil looked like an angel, praying for G.o.d's Mercy. She felt his pain like heat, and it soothed her to know that someone else suffered as she suffered.

"I knew," said Sakhalin in a cold, furiously calm voice, "that the weaver Nadezhda Martov was Bakhtiian's lover. That she first took him to her bed soon after he returned from Jheds, and that he never refused her when our two tribes came together." Each word came clear and sharp, bitten off, in the hush of the tent. "Had I not known that, you can be sure that I would have forbidden my nephew to ever give his support to Bakhtiian's vision. Because of this one." She said the last two words with revulsion. There was no doubt what she meant by them.

Vasil's head jerked up. "I did nothing most other boys didn't try."

Mother Sakhalin strode across the carpet and cupped her hand back. And slapped him.

The sharp sound shocked Tess out of her stupor. True, and confirmed by Vasil's words and Mother Sakhalin's action, what Tess had only suspected. She stared at them, unable to speak.

"An adolescent boy ought to be wild and curious," replied Sakhalin in a voice both low and threatening. "Then he grows up to become a man. Which is something you never did, Veselov. Your cousin Arina is within her rights as etsana to allow you to remain in the Veselov tribe. But from Bakhtiian's presence you were long ago banished, and that is as it should be."

"I did not ask to love him," said Vasil in a hoa.r.s.e voice. "The G.o.ds made me as I am."

With her left hand, Mother Sakhalin took hold of his chin and held him there, staring down at him, examining his face and his eyes. "The G.o.ds made your body and face beautiful. I have no doubt that your spirit is black and rotting. It is wrong, and it will always be wrong. Go home to your wife."

She released him. He bowed his head. Tears leaked from his eyes and slid unhindered down his cheeks. He rose and turned to go, slowly, as if the weight on him, compelling him, dragged him both forward and back. And there lay Ilya, perhaps dying, whom he clearly loved.

"Let him stay," said Tess in a low voice. Her anger welled up from so deep a source that she did not understand it. Vasil froze, but he did not look at her.

Sakhalin's gaze snapped to Tess. "Do you know, then, that Bakhtiian almost lost everything because of this one? That they said that the reason Bakhtiian never married was because of this one? That the etsanas and dyans were forced to go to Nikolai Sibirin and Irena Orzhekov after the death of Bakhtiian's family, and to tell them that they could not support a man who acted as if he was married to another man?''

Oh, G.o.d, not just that they had been lovers, but that Ilya had loved him in return.

"But Ilya sent him away, didn't he?" Tess asked, feeling oddly detached as she replied, as if one part of her was all rational mind and the other an impenetrable maze of emotions.

"He chose his vision, it is true.""d.a.m.n him," muttered Vasil.

"Shut up," snapped Tess. Vasil's anger gave her sudden strength. "And he slept with women? That is true, too, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And the etsanas and dyans did support him. And he did marry."

"That is also true," agreed Mother Sakhalin. "For what reason are you a.s.suring me of what we both know to be true?''

Tess lifted a hand and motioned Vasil to go to the corner of the room. He glanced at her, swiftly, and then sidled over to a dark corner, where he almost managed to lose himself in the shadows. As a human soul fades into death.

A shiver ran through Tess, like a blast of cold air, but she forced herself to speak slowly and carefully. "You just told me that a woman like Alyona Orzhekov needed a good husband, one who could rein back her worst impulses, one she could respect, one she would listen to. Isn't it also true that a man like Bakhtiian needs a good wife-one who can rein back his worst impulses, one he respects, one that he, and others, will listen to?"

Her gaze on Tess held steady. "That is true, and more true yet, I suppose. There hasn't ever been a man like Bakhtiian among the jaran."

"Has it not been agreed that I am that wife?"

Her lips quirked up. It was not quite a smile, not quite, but for all her outrage, Mother Sakhalin was amused. "Yes, it has been agreed. Not that the etsanas or Elders had a choice in the matter, but still, it is agreed that he chose wisely.''

"Thank you," said Tess demurely. "But if that is true, then you must trust me in this. You must trust me to deal with his ... affairs in an intelligent and judicious manner."

"You're well aware," said Sakhalin slowly, "of the power you have over our fate.''

"Oh, yes." Oh, yes. "I'm well aware of that."

Mother Sakhalin inclined her head, once, with respect, with acceptance. "Then I leave this in your hands. May you judge wisely, and well." She took her leave.

Silence descended. Wind shuddered against the tent wall. Tess could just barely hear Ilya breathing, a shallow, steady rhythm.

"Why?" Vasil asked, his voice scarcely audible above the bl.u.s.ter of the wind.

When she did not answer immediately, he came out of the corner, his face a mask of light and shadow. "It's true, you know. Everything Mother Sakhalin said was true."

"I'm not convinced that the truth can ever be that simple."

"Tess?" That was Sonia, calling from the outer chamber.

"It's all right." Then she laughed weakly and sank down to her knees beside Ilya's couch. "Oh, G.o.ds, no it isn't," she said, her throat choked up with sudden misery.

Vasil walked over and sank down next to her. He bowed his head. What did it matter who Ilya loved more if Ilya died? And she had killed him. Wasn't it better that Ilya live no matter what choice he made? No matter what choice he wished to make?

And he had to live. He had to live.

Somehow, Vasil's presence was balm. No matter that she might fear Vasil's beauty, no matter that the jaran condemned him, still, a link bound the two men. As she thought it, as if Vasil felt her thoughts, he touched her on the hand. She caught in a sob and turned to him and embraced him for what comfort he could give. It was almost like being held by Ilya.

Then she heard footsteps in the outer room, and at once, like conspirators, they broke away from each other. Sonia came in and brought milk for Tess; she cast a skeptical glance toward Vasil and left again. Ilya breathed. The day grew hotter, and the air inside the tent, stuffy. Outside, the wind died down, only to come up again in the early afternoon. Otherwise, nothing changed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

"d.a.m.n him!" swore Diana. The tent collapsed in a heap. She burst into tears.

A moment later Anahita strode by, her dark hair caught up in a loose bun. She adjusted her duffel bag on her shoulder. "Still hasn't come back, has he?" she asked sweetly. "Do you think he's going to? Or do you suppose he's out there looting and raping with the rest of them?"

"Shut up! Leave me alone!"

Anahita smirked at her. Diana knew that in one second more she was going to hit the black-haired woman.

"Do you need help?" asked Gwyn, entering just in time to avert catastrophe. He set down a chest-Joseph's disguised oven-and surveyed the ruin of the tent.

Anahita flounced away.

"These tents just aren't meant to be taken down by one person, and everyone else is busy. ..." And Anatoly was gone. Just ridden away sixteen days ago without saying good-bye, although he had sent a message back to her through his sister, Shura. Diana had not the least idea when he might return, or if he would return at all. She began to cry again.

Gwyn laid a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Now, Di, this won't avail you anything. Let's get that tent in order, and load it into the wagons. They don't wait for anyone, you know."

Between her sobs, she helped him fold up the tent walls and roll up the carpets and bind the poles together. The sun breasted the horizon and spilled light onto the trampled field of grain on which they had made their night's camp. On the march, she and Anatoly had done this together every morning, sometimes with one of the Veselov tribe's children to help out. They had worked out a system: this edge of the carpet to be rolled up first; the lantern to nestle in this corner of the finely carved wooden chest that had been one of the groom gifts from the Sakhalin family; Anatoly to bind up the poles and she to layer and fold up the tent. Then he would ride off, but she could be sure of seeing him once or twice during the day-indeed, Arina Veselov had once commented kindly that Anatoly was a little immodest in his public attentions toward her-and almost always at night.

"Do you think it's true?" she asked in a small voice. "About the looting and the ...

the raping?"

Gwyn shrugged. "I'm not about to tell you that war is pretty, Diana, and these last fourteen days we've seen how badly this land has been devastated since the news came about Bakhtiian collapsing. Still, they treat their own women with respect. I don't know."

Diana wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, sniffing. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Gwyn demanded.

"Why did he just go off that way?" She struggled to stop the tears, and failed.

"Oh, I hate this. I just hate this. I don't know what's wrong with me. I hate this army. I want to go home."

Gwyn sighed and hugged her, holding her while she sobbed noisily on his shoulder. "It's been a difficult trip," he said finally. "I think Owen is the only one not showing signs of wear and tear. It's especially hard for you."

"It wasn't," she said into the cloth of his tunic. "Not until Anatoly left again. But I wonder sometimes-" She broke off and pushed herself free of Gwyn's embrace.

"What?"

"I don't know. Here, if you hand me the tent folded over that way, up on my back like-yes, that's right-"

"You can carry that?"

"It's not that far, and it's more unwieldy than heavy."

"That's what I meant."

They trudged across to the wagons and deposited their burdens in the bed of a wagon, and then returned to fetch the rest of Diana's things. "I wonder, though," she said softly as she knelt to pick up the chest where her clothes and his nestled together, "if we really had all day to spend together, if we'd have anything to talk about. Even on the march, before the battle-it was sixty days or more, I think-still, most of what we did together was things."

"Things?"

"I mean daily things. Setting up the tent. Taking down the tent. Sleeping. Eating.

Helping with the ch.o.r.es at the Veselov tribe. Watching the children. I'm not sure we have anything in common."

"Besides blond hair and handsome faces, you mean?" She made a face at him. He chuckled. "Can't sharing a life full of daily things be something shared in common?"