precious grandson was being treated with the honor he deserved.
'Diana, I know you don't want to see Grandmother-'
'I have rehearsal tonight. I can't go.'
It took him a moment to process that one through. They communicated in a hodgepodge of khush and Rhuian, each gaining more of the other every day, but they still stumbled now and again. He shook his head. 'No rehearsal. I ask Mother Yomi. Before I find you.'
'Today you asked?'
He nodded emphatically. 'Now I asked. Diana, I know you don't want to see Grandmother. She doesn't respect you as she ought to. But this time, I think you should go'
Anatoly was impossible to fight with. He always gave enough ground that she could not stay angry with him, and yet, he always seemed to get what he wanted.
'Why?' she muttered, but already she knew, and he knew, that she was going to agree.
'We will eat. No one, not even Grandmother, can say that you did not act as a good woman in the yadoshtmi.'
'Yadoshtmi. Is that a battle?'
'Battle.' He thought about it. 'No. It was a small thing. Not a battle.'
Not a battle. All at once, she remembered being out beyond the wagons, she and Galina, dragging in a wounded jaran soldier, and she had looked to her left in time to see a man clawing at the arrow in his throat and reaching toward her in supplication, pleading, for what-mercy? death? healing? water? — she could not know. And they had gone on and just left him there. She gasped, it was so vivid, and covered her face with her hands, but that only made it worse, because then she saw vultures picking at the heap of khaja dead and heard the little girl sobbing over the body of her dead father.
Anatoly moved. He enclosed her in his arms and held her tight.
'I'm sorry,' she mumbled, almost incoherent, because she knew that he would be scolded by his grandmother for such behavior in public should anyone report the scene.
He only shook his head against her hair. 'It's no shame for you to feel deeply,' he murmured into her ear.
'Because I'm a woman?' She said it with anger, because anger was the only place she had to turn to. But she knew him just well enough by now to hear that his silence was one of puzzlement, and that dragged her out of the memory and back to him. She tilted her head back.
He regarded her with a quizzical expression. 'No. Because you're a Singer.' He wiped away her tears with his fingers. Then he insisted she mount the horse and he led her back through camp, like a queen or a prisoner, she thought wryly, to his grandmother's tent.
Mother Sakhalin greeted Anatoly with a kiss on each cheek, fondly, and Diana with formidable civility. 'You have acted bravely in the yadoshtmi,' she said by way of sealing her greeting. 'Now you will eat with us.'
Not that Diana had any choice in the matter. Anatoly brushed his boot up against hers, a subtle reminder. 'Mother Sakhalin,' she said, and the tiny old woman fixed her eagle eye on Diana's face. No mercy there for the khaja wounded, Diana thought wildly at random, nor even for her own, those of her own people whom she deemed had crossed over the line of the jaran law. 'I thank you for this offer of hospitality.'' She managed the polite phrase Anatoly had taught her, realized she had gotten it wrong, and braced herself for Mother Sakhalin's disapproval. But Mother Sakhalin merely regarded her a moment longer and then turned to go back inside her tent.
Inside it was huge. The public chamber was easily as large as the Company tent, and behind it, behind a bold tapestry of lions, lay the private chamber which must, judging by the circumference of the tent, be equally as large. Hordes of Sakhalin relatives waited there, seated on pillows and served by an exotic collection of their own children, older jaran men and women, and one old khaja man who looked utterly out of place. Diana could not help but watch him as the meal proceeded, but they treated him no differently than they did the others as far as she could see.
Anatoly sat beside his grandmother. Diana was placed farther down, between Anatoly's younger sister Shura and an old man, and they proved genial companions. They even took it in stride when she paused for a moment of silence to give thanks for the food. They paused with her.
After they had eaten for awhile, the old man, who was some kind of an uncle, took it upon himself to begin the conversation. 'In the Orzhekov tribe,' he said, 'they say you are a Singer.'
'I listened to the first song you sang, you and the others,' added Shura, a girl of about sixteen who was not as pretty as her brother but equally self-possessed, 'and I thought, maybe a Singer of our tribe could learn that tale-make it to a song. Do you understand?'
'Maybe you could make it to a song, Shura,' said Diana, thinking it was a wonderful suggestion.
But Shura went red, and Diana was terrified: she had offended her. 'I am not a Singer,' Shura said, making a little warding gesture with one hand. 'There has been no Singer born into the Sakhalin tribe since my grandmother's great-grandmother's time.'
Not offended. Shura was scared. 'I am the only actor in my family,' Diana confessed. 'These are beautiful tapestries. Who made them?'
With this safe subject, they managed to while out supper time discussing weaving and then the complex thread of relationships within the Sakhalin tribe: who was related to whom, and how, and which cousins had stayed on the plains with Konstantina Sakhalin, Mother Sakhalin's only living daughter, and which had come with Mother Sakhalin to attend the army. That was the oddest thing about Anatoly and Shura: They were in fact orphans. Both their mother-the eldest daughter of Mother Sakhalin-and their father-a Vershinin cousin-were dead, and they had also lost two siblings, and yet they weren't orphans at all except by the strict definition. The Sakhalin tribe was their family and within the tribe itself, this web of cousins and uncles and aunts was so interwoven that it was rather like a blanket that protects you against the cold night. No wonder Tess Soerensen, orphaned and left alone with only a much older sibling who was distracted by huge responsibilities, had fallen in love with the jaran.
'Shura likes you,' said Anatoly when they left.
'I like Shura,' she replied, and he looked pleased.
They walked back to the Company's encampment. The barest drizzle began, but it was scarcely enough to mist her hair. It was already twilight, and under the awning of the Company tent five actors sat out with lanterns hung around them, staring at slates set on their laps.
Diana put out a hand and stopped Anatoly. She coughed. Hal looked up, saw them, and at once Quinn leapt up to her feet, collected the slates, and took them inside the tent. She came out with Joseph, and he had tea. He beckoned them over.
'Come in, come in,' he called. 'Don't stand out there in the rain.'
Diana cringed. It looked so patently obvious that they were hiding something from Anatoly. She glanced at him, but he simply waited patiently for her to move forward. So she went, and they sat down. Anatoly sat on the carpet; she could not get him to sit in a chair. Joseph offered Anatoly tea first and then poured for the others, and they all tasted it politely and stared at each other: Hal, Quinn, Oriana, Hyacinth, and Phillippe. Joseph retreated back into the tent.
'Where were you?' Quinn asked finally in Rhuian.
'We had supper with the Sakhalin family,' said Diana.
Anatoly smiled. There was silence. Hyacinth eyed Anatoly out of the corner of his eye, admiring him, but for once he was on his best behavior and he did not do one outrageous thing.
'Well,' said Hal. He looked at Oriana, Oriana looked at Quinn, Quinn looked at Phillippe. Phillippe shrugged and looked at Hyacinth.
'That was a terrible fight,' said Hyacinth. 'Yesterday.'
'Fight? Oh. Yes, it is terrible thing that soldiers attack the women and children. But khaja have no honor-' Anatoly broke off, looking chagrined. 'I beg your pardon. I do not mean you.'
'We know that,' said Quinn. 'But it was still awful. It was awful to see it. I suppose that's why you train to be a soldier, so you can be used to fighting and not mind it so much. You must have always known that you would be a rider, a soldier.''
Anatoly digested this statement and then nodded. 'Yes,' he said calmly, 'I have always known I would be a rider.''
'But don't all the men ride?' asked Hal. 'Aren't all the men soldiers?'
