gesture was so touching and so intimate that she felt embarrassed suddenly, afraid that her feelings for him- tenderness and liking crossed with simple desire-might prove inadequate for his toward her. What if he loved her? She halted on her knees beside the little bed, hands buried in soft moss, knowing that she could never really love him, not as more than a friend and bedmate, not with her entire being. She was not sure anymore if she could love anyone in that way, the way she had thought she had loved Jacques.
Fedya stood just behind her. He laid a hand tenderly on her shoulder. 'I made you a song, Anya,' he said softly, and then he chuckled, because he had just called her by his wife's name. 'Forgive me, Tess. I have not made a song since she died.''
Tess caught her breath, relieved and touched at the same time. 'I am honored, Fedya,' she said, equally softly, and she felt a sudden warmth toward him, unrelated to their friendship, to their lovemaking, because that inadvertent slip made the truth so evident that she could not believe she had not seen it until now: she had never loved Jacques, just as he had never loved her. She had been infatuated with him, certainly, but love-Fedya had loved his wife. She did not feel diminished because he loved Anya still, though his Anya was dead and he stood here with a different woman. 'I hope you will sing it for me.'
'For what other reason would I make it, if not to sing it for you?' He knelt across from her, head slightly bowed by the slope of the overhang, and he sang. It was a song about the legendary dyan Yuri Sakhalin who, wounded unto death, had come to beg healing from the daughter of the sun.
Tess stretched out and leaned on her elbows, cushioned by the moss and his blanket, and watched him, transfixed. Singing, he was entirely with her and yet entirely away from her, so that she could really look at him, at his face, his shock of pale hair and the curve of his mouth, the elaborate design of birds embroidered into the sleeves and collar of his shirt, the fine spiraling patterns worked into his leather belt, his saber, lying parallel to his legs where he sat. In a more luxurious land he would have tended to plumpness, but this land had made him lean and tough, hardened with the riding. Yet his voice was sweet, as fragile as a budding flower. And when he finished, silence lay on him as naturally as song had.
'It's beautiful, Fedya,' she said, a little in awe. 'Thank you.' She kissed him.
'Remember it. Remember this place.'
Tess let her face slide in against his neck. His hair brushed her eyes. 'He's chosen this place for the ambush,' she said, because for four days no one, not even Yuri, had spoken a word to her about fighting.
He slipped his hand down to her back, holding her against him. 'The plains are wide, but when men travel on a set path, they are very small, indeed.' His fingers found her waist and explored it to the clasp of her belt.
'Too small to run?' His hair smelled of grass. 'Too small to avoid-your pursuer?'
'Tess,' he said. 'There are better things to think of, this night, than war and death.'
She woke with a start. Someone in her dream had been calling her name insistently, unable to reach her.
'Tess. Tess.' The voice was wrong. That voice and her name did not belong together in waking life. Therefore, she was still asleep. But as she opened her eyes, she knew the voice for Bakhtiian's. She reached out her hand-
Fedya was gone.
'Tess.'
Light infiltrated their bower. It had been dark when she had fallen asleep. Her clothes lay in a heap at her feet, so tangled that she had to pull them apart and set them in a neat row before she could put them on. Her hands shook. She tried to tuck in her shirt with one hand and comb her hair with the other, gave it up, and tucked her trousers into her boots instead. Crawling on her hands and knees to the entrance, pushing through leaves, untangling a vine from her hair, she stood up just outside. His back was to her.
'Ilya?' Morning sun shone brightly in her eyes. She had to squint, and still she could not make him out clearly. He turned. She saw, with a shock, the streak of blood down his face, and then, like a rush of sick trembling, she realized that it was not his blood at all but someone else's. 'The blood,' she gasped.
His hand lifted and explored his cheek. He looked surprised, as if he had not noticed it before. 'I must have been too close when I killed him,'' he said conversationally. His body was tense with controlled energy: nervousness or perhaps exhilaration. She shuddered. What had he said?
'Killed who?' Her hand rose to touch, on her own face, the area the blood covered on his.
'I don't know,' he said cheerfully. 'He was about to gut Niko. By the gods, woman, I couldn't let a man do that to my oldest friend.'' He sat down abruptly and his expression changed so completely that it frightened her. 'Listen, Tess. I have to tell you something.'
The world was silent, waiting on his words. They were too far from the jahar camp, even from the Chapalii camp, to hear-anything-and there was not even wind to rustle the grass. The sun simply shone, painfully bright as it crested the hills. 'What happened? Damn it. Tell me.'
'No one told- He didn't- Oh, gods.' He ripped up a handful of grass and wiped the blood from his cheek. Pale streaks remained, striping his skin.
Tess knew what had happened. She hadn't even said good night to Yuri yesterday afternoon; she'd been in such a hurry to go off with Fedya- She couldn't even picture where she'd left him, last seen him. She sank down onto her knees.
'Who was killed?' she whispered. She almost reached out to touch him.
He looked away, troubled.
'Ilya,' she said, his name strange on her lips.
'Fedya.'
Tess merely stared at him, caught between relief and disbelief. She had been with Fedya only a few hours past; he was simply gone away for a bit. But Yuri- All her breath sighed out of her and she slumped forward, catching herself on her hands.
'Yuri is alive? Where is he? I want to see him.' Fright made her childish. She was horrified that she had slept while blood was shed.
'You can't see him.'
'Why not? Why not! He's dead. Just tell me he's dead!'
'Don't go hysterical on me.' His voice shook and he leaned toward her, one hand jerking out as if to steady her.
She drew back. 'I never faint. Where is Yuri?'
'I sent him with Niko to help the khepelli break their camp and move out. We must travel as far from here as possible today.''
'Let me go to him.'
'Yes. But after you come with me.'
She simply sat, unable to absorb the tone of his voice-implacable or entreating, she could not tell. He frowned, angry or impatient, and took hold of her arm and pulled her to her feet. A kind of haze descended on her. She let him lead her, as if he were afraid she would bolt given the chance, and they walked and walked, grass dragging at their boots. He talked as they went, his voice a level monotone.
'Seven of our riders were injured, but all will live. Eight of the horses, but we'll have to kill three of them, may the gods grant them peace. Six of Mikhaillov's men I know we killed, and at least twelve were hurt, perhaps more. It isn't that we're such better fighters, even though they outnumbered us. We had the advantage. I chose the ground carefully and we ambushed them, forced them to split into two groups. Vasil… The one who gave you the necklace fought well. He got away unhurt.'
He led her down to a place she never had any clear idea of, only glimpses: three men building a fire, the bittersweet smell of ulyan sifting into the air; a bird hovering high above, wings unfolded in some updraft; a dead horse being flayed and its flesh cut into strips for provisions; and beyond it-
'Who was killed?' She would have run, but Bakhtiian held her arm and she knew, anyway, who had been killed. In a way, she had known even before he told her. Bakhtiian waited until they were close to the body before he let her go. She took one step, and a second, and then stopped. Fedya. A blanket lay over him, stained reddish- brown at the chest. He could have been asleep; there was nothing but peace in his face. He looked young, relaxed, unguarded. She moved to kneel by him and glanced up.
They were all turning away, averting their faces, offering her privacy for her grief as the only consolation they could give. Everyone had known, everyone. Yuri had lied to her when he said that no one knew. He had lied to spare
