Earthly Crown (60 page)

Two young men stood on either side of the awning, Vladimir the orphan and Konstans Barshai. They stared at him as he walked up to the tent, Vladimir with enmity, Konstans with curiosity. He gave Konstans a brief smile and ignored Vladimir. He paused on the carpet. A moment later the healer came out of the tent, rubbing her hands together briskly.

“Konstans, where did—?” She broke off, seeing Vasil. “Ah, you’re here. Well, I’ll go in with you.”

Vasil followed her meekly. Now she was a strange one. He found her disconcerting. As far as he could tell, she did not care about him one way or the other, neither to disapprove or to sympathize. He was not altogether sure that she cared about Bakhtiian all that much either; like Aleksi, her loyalties lay with Tess Soerensen. She led him in through the outer chamber, with its khaja furniture and a single scarlet shirt lying on the table, a shirt whose sleeves and collar were embroidered with Ilya’s distinctive pattern. Vasil wanted desperately to touch that shirt, but he did not dare stop. They went on, past the curtain, into the inner chamber. There lay Ilya, looking thinner and paler and just as still. Fifteen days, it had been, and still his spirit wandered the heavens.

“Now,” said the healer, turning to view him. “I can’t leave you here alone with him. I hope you know that.”

He bowed his head, acceding to her judgment. Of course she could not trust him. He had ridden for six years with the dyan who had tried his best to kill Bakhtiian. He had ridden as an outlaw these past three years. Who was to say that he had truly given up his vow to see Ilya dead? The doctor settled down on a pillow and propped a book open on her knees.

“Can you
read?”
he asked, more to woo her than because he was interested.

She glanced up at him, as if she were surprised that he had addressed her. “Yes.” Her gaze dropped back down to her book.

“Ilya tried to teach me, when he first came back from Jeds,” Vasil continued. “But it’s so much easier to learn things by hearing them. I don’t understand how those marks can speak.”

Her face sparked with sudden interest. “Here,” she said. She turned the pages and then stopped. “I’ll read this aloud to you, and then you see how much you can repeat back to me. Hmm. I’ll have to translate it into khush, so bear with me.” She spoke:

“He, who the sword of heaven will bear

Should be as holy as severe;

Pattern in himself to know,

Grace to stand, and virtue go;

More nor less to others paying

Than by self offenses weighing. Shame to him whose cruel striking Kills for faults of his own liking!”

Vasil felt the heat of shame rise to his cheeks. “Are you mocking me?” he demanded.

She cocked her head to look at him, measuring. “Not at all. Should I be? I was thinking of someone else entirely.”

“You were thinking of Bakhtiian,” he said accusingly.

“No, in fact, I wasn’t. Sit down, Veselov. You’re looking rather peaked. Can you remember it?”

He snorted, disgusted. “Of course,” he said, and reeled the speech off without effort.

“Here, let’s try a longer one.” But he managed that as well, and a third, and she harrumphed and shut the book. “Well, you have good memories, you jaran, which shouldn’t surprise me, since you’re not dependent on writing. Why are you here, Vasil?”

The question surprised him. “Surely they have all told you?” he said bitterly.

“I’ve heard many things,” said the healer in her matter-of-fact voice, “but I’m curious to hear what you would say, given the chance.”

Ilya’s presence wore on him, standing here so close to him. He strayed over to the couch, half an eye on the healer, and just brushed Ilya’s hand with his fingers. Ilya’s skin was cool but not cold. The healer said nothing. Vasil slid his touch up to cup Ilya’s wrist and just stood there, feeling the pulse of his blood, the throb of his heart. He shut his eyes.

“I remember,” he said in a low voice, “when I first saw him. Our tribes came together that year—it was one cycle plus two winters past my birth year—”

“So you were fourteen.”

“I must have been, I suppose. The Orzhekov girls all wanted to bed me. They even ignored some of the riders, the older men, because of me—but still, I grew into my beauty early. My mother always said so. She said there had never been a child as beautiful as I was.”

“It might even have been true,” said the healer in a low voice. Vasil could not tell if she was warming to him, or simply mocking him. But the memory dragged him on.

“But then I met Ilyakoria. He was born in the same year, the Year of the Eagle, but I was a summer’s child and he winter’s.”

“Was he a handsome boy?”

Vasil felt how his skin warmed Ilya’s, as if his heat, his presence, and his tale, too, might draw Ilya back from the heavens if only he told it truthfully enough. “No.” He opened his eyes and grinned at the healer. She, too, was a handsome woman, not of feature but of dignity. “He was one of those hopelessly unattractive boys that no girl ever looks at. And he knew it, and they knew it. But he had fire in his eyes and a vision in his heart. No one saw it there but me. Well.” He shrugged. “Perhaps his father did, but his father rarely spoke. I think his mother was disappointed in him.”

“In her husband?”

“No. In Ilyakoria. But I had never met anyone like him. I loved him. He was like a blazing fire on a bitter cold night, that you cannot help but approach, to find warmth there.”

“Ah. And you were beautiful. Of course he would love you in return, at fourteen.”

“Of course.” Vasil studied her, but still she did not seem to be mocking him.

“And then?”

“Then when my tribe moved on, I stayed with the Orzhekov tribe.”

“That was allowed?”

“Much is allowed, if you’re still a boy, and you’re discreet. Girls, too.”

“Is that so?” A smile played on her lips and vanished. “Is it, indeed?”

Vasil withdrew his hand from Ilya’s wrist. “Then he left for Jeds. I thought he was gone forever.” His shame and his fury and his despair still burned through him, as he remembered. “I tried to find a woman to marry but I found that I could not forget Ilya, that no one, male or female, could replace Ilya in my heart. I hated him for that, all those long years that he was gone.” He had to pause, the force of emotion was so strong in him. He had forgotten how long these feelings had lain there, buried, bidden, festering.

The healer regarded him evenly, and he thought he felt a little sympathy from her. “Then he came back.”

“Then he came back. I heard of his return many seasons later, and I left my tribe again to go to him. His own mother had already made him dyan of the Orzhekov tribe by the time I found him, so quickly had he worked. Like a Singer, he had left the jaran and returned to us gods-touched, except now everyone could see it, not just me. They called him Bakhtiian, ‘he who has traveled far.’ They said he had a vision in his heart, and they all vowed to follow him.” Without meaning to, he lifted a hand to trace the line of Ilya’s brow, tenderly. He turned his hand over and ran the backs of his fingers down around Ilya’s eyes and down the curve of his beard. Ilya’s strong face was so wan and so lifeless. This was only the shell of Ilya, not Ilya at all, and yet Vasil could not imagine a sweeter sight. “He let me join his jahar, because of what we had once been to each other, but there were other boys, other men, who loved him now, too.”

“And he lay with them?”

“No.” He drew his hand away from Ilya’s face and clenched it around his other hand. “No.” He could not help but say it triumphantly. “I was the only one. But a good dyan inspires love from his riders. Only if they love him will they die for him, you see.”

“Yes, that makes sense.”

“He didn’t want to love me. He loved women, too. He’d discovered that in khaja lands, and now, of course, women wanted him, which they’d never done when he was nothing but an awkward, ugly dreamer. But still he did not marry.”

“Why didn’t he want to love you?”

He shook his head, wondering if she was stupid or simply ignorant. “Because he wanted to unite the tribes. I should have known from the first, you see.” Oh, gods, still, after all these years, it was hard to say the truth out loud. “He loved his vision more than he loved me.”

“Is that so surprising? Here.” She stood up abruptly and blinked once, twice, three times, deliberately. “Veselov, move away from his couch.”

Her tone was so sharp that he moved immediately. She went to stand next to Bakhtiian and she placed her hand on a wooden strut at one end of the couch. Then she shut her eyes and stood there for the longest time.

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.