Oh, God, 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.'
'Damn 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 assuring 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 bluster 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, gods, 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
'Damn 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
