"I still have a headache. It seems to me that now that you're free of the camp, you can let me go."
"Oh, no, Terese Soerensen, we're not free yet. So Ilya married you, did he?" He looked thoughtful. "You rode down the Avenue together. He must love you very much."
"He wants me," said Tess, and then, because the tone of her voice reminded her of the venom in Vera's voice, she went on. "Yes, he does love me. It's just taken me this long to really understand that." She paused a moment, shading her eyes. All she could see was unending grass around them, and she had not the faintest idea where they might be or in what direction the camp lay. "Why am I telling you this?"
"Because we are alike, you and I," he said with perfect seriousness.
"Are we? In what way?"
"We both love Ilya. But he will never have me, and therefore he must die."
"How like your sister you are," she said bitterly, and suddenly wished he was not holding her so closely.
"Yes, I am," he said cheerfully. "It's a terrible thought, isn't it? I find her quite unbearable."
"You could have killed him last night."
Vasil shrugged. "The truth is, I am a coward. I'll never be able to kill him with my own hand. That's why I ride with Mikhailov, to let him do it. But I see this subject is upsetting you. Shall we speak of something else?"
She turned her head away from him, staring out at the men riding ahead of them. "I don't want to speak to you at all."
They rode on in silence for a time. Her head ached, but when he paused long enough to give her some water to drink, the pain dulled to a throb.
"Can't you at least untie my ankles so I can ride more comfortably?" she asked at last.
"Certainly. I'll untie your ankles and your wrists if you will promise me on your husband's honor that you won't attempt to escape."
"Damn you. I can't promise that."
"I didn't think you would. Ilya holds his honor very high."
She did not reply. They rode on, and she gauged by the sun that they were riding northeast. In early afternoon they rode into a hollow backed by a steep ridge. A copse of trees ringed a water hole at the base of the ridge, and beyond it lay a small, makeshift camp. One great tent was pitched on the far side, on a low rise above the others, twenty small tents scattered haphazardly below it. The inhabitants were mostly men, she saw as they paused on the crest of a rise to look down, but women and children were there as well.
Vasil and his companions made directly for the great tent. Dmitri Mikhailov stood outside, leaning on a crutch, watching them.
"Evidently you failed," he said. "Who is this? The khaja pilgrim? Why?"
"I wouldn't have failed!" Vera cried. "I would have gotten him to come back with me but then she interrupted me!"
"He would never have gone with you," said Tess. Her ankles were bound loosely enough that she could stand next to Vasil.
"Do you think so? Everyone knows you sleep in separate tents. You couldn't even get your own husband to lie with you."
Tess was suddenly struck with a feeling of great pity for Vera, who had nothing left to her now but her own gall to succor her through the months and the years. "I'm sorry," she said.
Vera slapped her. Vasil grabbed his sister and wrenched her arm back so hard that Vera gasped with pain.
Mikhailov sighed. "Must I put up with this? Karolla!"
A young woman about Tess's age emerged from the tent. "Yes, Father?" Her gaze settled on Tess, and she looked surprised and curious at the same time. She bore an old, white scar of marriage on her cheek.
"Take this Veselov woman somewhere, anywhere, that is out of my sight."
"Yes, Father." Karolla looked at Vasil. Tess caught the infinitesimal nod that he gave her, as if it was his permission and not her father's that she sought. "Well, you must be Vera. I'm sure you'd like to wash and get some food. Will you come with me?"
Vera gathered together the last shreds of her dignity and with a final, parting glance of sheer hatred-not for Tess but for her brother-she walked away with Karolla.
"You three," said Mikhailov to the riders, "please follow them and see that she makes no mischief. Now, Vasil, what happened?''
"As Vera said. Vera got us into camp easily enough but Bakhtiian would not go with her to her tent. It was luck that this woman and Bakhtiian came walking through camp-well, there wasn't time to fight him fairly, so I took her as hostage."
"That is very well, Vasil, but how will this help us kill Bakhtiian? We are already driven into a corner, and now he will attack us with far superior forces."
"But, Dmitri, she is his wife."
"There is no mark."
"By the Avenue."
"Gods!" Dmitri looked at her for the first time as if her presence mattered to him. "Is that true?"
Tess did not reply. Her cheek still stung from Vera's slap.
"Yes," answered Vasil. "Given the brief moments we had to get out of the camp alive, I did as well as I could. I told Bakhtiian that if he did not leave us alone, I would let Vera kill her.''
Mikhailov smiled, bitterly amused. "Did you? Would Vera kill her?"
"I think so. Gladly. Vera is not all show, Dmitri."
"But would you let Vera kill her?"
Vasil shrugged. "I don't know."
"Well, send Yevgeni with a message: Tell Bakhtiian that if he gives himself into our hands, we will free his wife."
"Will Bakhtiian believe you?"
"What is left us, Vasil? This is our last chance. We'll break camp and move, and when Bakhtiian comes, we must kill him. Put her in my tent."
Vasil picked Tess up and carried her inside, depositing her on two threadbare pillows in the outer chamber. Mikhailov followed them in.
"Leave us," he commanded. Vasil left without a word. Mikhailov lit a lantern and then twitched the entrance flap down with his free hand. The other hand still gripped his crutch. "Yes," he said, following her eyes to the crutch. "You nearly cut my leg off. I'll have this hurt for the rest of my life."
"Why do you want to kill him?" she asked. The lantern cast shadows high on the dim, sloping walls.
His mouth was an angled line, like the edge of shadow. "I don't know that you can understand the complexities of the jaran. His reputation hurts mine. His greatness lessens all. His peace enslaves us to his will. He has great notions, our Bakhtiian, but he will kill us as surely as he saves us."
"The old ways must give way before the new," said Tess quietly. She had a sudden, fierce vision of Charles's face, still and shadowed, knowing as he must that in time, whether years or centuries, whether in his lifetime or his descendants', this sanctuary that was Rhui would be breached and flooded, its culture obliterated by the wave of progress brought down from the stars. "But even if you kill Bakhtiian, it will still happen. You are a thousand tribes, and a thousand thousand families, and the lands of the khaja stretch all around you. Another man will come to the jaran, and he will lead them into war against the settled lands."
Mikhailov limped over to her, grabbed her shoulders, and jerked her to her feet. He was very strong, and he could stand quite well without the crutch. "Are you a prophet?" he asked, not mocking at all. "Is that why Bakhtiian married you, a holy woman?"
"Oh, I'm many things, but not a prophet, I don't think. Let me go, Mikhailov, let me go free, and I'll see that your family and your riders are forgiven all this."
"Not myself?" He smiled.
"No," she said even more softly. "You killed my brother.''
His eyes were a deep blue, deeper than any she had seen, almost green, like the sea. He muttered an oath and let her go. She fell in a heap onto the pillows.
"Even if what you say is true, I will be dead and burned. But I swore by the gods and by my honor that I would not let Bakhtiian destroy my people while I yet lived. And if your brother died, then only remember, that is the price every sister will pay for Bakhtiian's dreams."