Jaran

her, perhaps to spare Fedya, though surely Fedya had had no illusions about the secrecy of their affair. Lord, had she really thought such a thing could be kept secret?

She stared at his quiet face, and she reached out to touch, briefly, his slack body. She smelled blood and grass, that was all. She should have stayed with the tribe, should have stayed on Earth. And she was afraid because as she gazed at the dead man she felt no grief for him, torn so abruptly and horribly from life, only affection for what he had given her, as if her living, her memory of him, made up for his death. Why had he sung her that beautiful song last night of all nights? How could she have slept through the battle, fought so close, paid for so dearly? How could she not have known and acted to prevent it? Surely there was something she could have done.

'He knew he was going to die,' she said aloud, trying to absolve herself, but all the riders had moved away. She shuddered, drawing her hands in to her chest.

'There are some who seek release from the burdens of earth.' It was Bakhtiian's voice, not too close, but low and gentle.

She stood and turned to him. The tears in her eyes blurred his form. 'He was protecting me, wasn't he?' she demanded, suddenly furious. 'He took me out there to make sure I stayed away from the battle.' As if, if he had not, he might still be alive. She walked away from all of them, found her way to the shaded, empty overhang, and wept.

The sun, bright and silent, viewed the earth from her high seat and found nothing there worth mentioning, not even the stretch of ground where so short a time ago two bands had met and struggled and come to a temporary decision. Now the field of battle lay empty, yet from such a height it looked the same whether peopled by fifty or one.

Or two. These two were dark and fair, night and day, maturity and youth. They lay without moving on the slope, watching their horses, watching the vacant plain, watching the last flames of the pyre.

'Ilya?' Vladimir sat up. 'Will it storm soon?'

Bakhtiian did not move. 'Yes.'

'Down from the mountains.' Something lit in the eyes of the younger man. 'When will we reach the mountains?'

'You should be able to work that out for yourself. Forty days.'

Vladimir took a breath, hesitated. 'When we get back to our tribe, would you object if-if I marked Elena?'

'Why should I object, Vladi?'

'Why should-?' Vladimir swung his head around so fast that his hair caught for an instant in his eyes. 'Don't be coy, damn you. It's common knowledge that she makes up to you every chance she gets.'

'Is it?'

'You're laughing at me.' He jumped up and began to pace. 'You always laugh at me when I talk about this. I know very well you've got no eye for her, but so much is said and-and it's true I've nothing to bring her, being an orphan-and I never know what she thinks, and the gods know I want your approval.' He stopped in front of Bakhtiian.

'Vladi, it isn't my approval you need. You'd best discuss this with my aunt. Or Niko's wife, perhaps.'

'That's not what I meant.'

'I know what you meant. If you worry a bit more about what people are saying or thinking about you, then you'll be almost as unsure of yourself as I was at your age. In this matter, my opinion isn't important.'

'It is to me…' Vladimir's comment trailed off into silence. He sat down.

'Vladi, who do you suppose built that temple?' Ilya picked a blade of grass and chewed at it halfheartedly, gazing out over the plain, half watching, half waiting.

'I don't know. The gods did.'

'I don't think the gods build in that manner.' He traced the curve of his lips with the rough, broken end of the stem. 'It must have been long ago. What people could they have been?'

'What were the khaja doing so far out on the plain?'

Bakhtiian curled the stem around one finger and snapped the finger up, splitting the fibers. 'I was also wondering that.' He touched his tongue to the moisture left on his finger. 'I wonder who built the shrine.'

'Which shrine?'

'The shrine of Morava. I wonder who she thinks built it.'

Vladimir grimaced. 'I'm glad I don't have to go to this Uynervirsite in Jheds that everyone talks about. It's madness, wondering so much.'

'It might be, at that,' said Ilya, sitting straighter and staring at something in the distance. 'But don't be so sure you won't have to go.'

'Ilya! You wouldn't. Here I've finally got a place and-oh, damn you. I never know when you're joking. Is that Yuri and Niko? Why did you tell the others to send them back?'

Ilya stood and walked down the slope to meet them. They pulled up and dismounted, the horses snuffling and blowing.

'Mikhailov's jahar?' asked Niko.

'Josef and Kirill are still tracking them. Tasha brought me the last report. I think we're rid of them. For now.'

Yuri had been looking about. 'Ilya, you've got Myshla. Where is Tess?'

'Get her and bring her to the new camp. She's up-' He motioned.

' 'I know.'' Yuri led his horse over to Myshla and then, taking both leads in his hands, walked away up into the hills.

'She's been up there all this time?' Niko demanded. 'After she saw Fedya? Damn it, Ilya! You know better. Why didn't you go up?'

Bakhtiian looked up at the sky, down at the ground, and, finally, out of the corners of his eyes at the old man. 'Because I'm a damned coward.'

'Ilya.'

Bakhtiian colored, turning quickly to walk over to Vladimir. 'Ah, thank you, Vladi.' He took the reins Vladimir offered him. 'Shall we go?'

Tess watched silently as Yuri left the horses below and climbed the rocky slope. She did not rise as he reached her, but when, wordlessly, he put out a hand, she gave him hers and let him pull her to her feet. They paused a moment, frozen there.

'Oh, Tess,' he said, the barest whisper, but his eyes held a grief surely greater than her own. She turned in to him, hugged him for a timeless while. He was alive, he was here with her, solid and comforting. She did not want to think, but her thoughts wound around viciously nonetheless: what if she had been given the choice, to save Yuri or Fedya? Was it wrong of her to be glad that Yuri was alive? Not glad that Fedya was dead, never that, but she could not help but feel that her preference for Yuri, given the inevitability of the death of someone she cared for, had somehow influenced the outcome.

Moisture cooled her face. She pulled back to look at him; tears wet his cheeks. He wiped at them quickly, the movement made jerky by his embarrassment. 'Don't tell anyone,' he said in a low voice that caught even as he spoke.

'Oh, Yuri, I'm sorry. You knew him better than I did.'

He shook his head, unable to reply. In the sun, his hair had the same dull gold cast as the grass.

His sorrow so eclipsed hers as to make her ashamed, and doubly ashamed that where she might be allowed her grief, he must hide his. 'Oh, God,' she said, directing her shame into self-loathing, 'I slept through it. How can anyone sleep while someone else dies?'

'Gods. Tess. I hope you never see battle.'

'No. I'd rather have seen it. He was here, and then I woke up, and he'll never come back. I don't want to live like that. I want to see the things affecting me.'

'You don't want to see that.'

But I do, she thought, but she did not say it. Yuri's face was white and strained. Below, Myshla pawed restlessly at the ground and pulled at the tether. 'Where is everyone else?' she asked.

'They've gone on to the new camp.'