I sucked in my breath, shaking at the vision, my arms trembling from the strain of holding the drawn bow.
Pyotr Rostov smiled in triumph. “Take them.”
Steadying my grip, I loosed the bowstring.
“Moirin, no!” Aleksei cried a second time, hurling himself from the saddle and crashing into me, dragging me from my mount. I fell hard onto the cobbled square, striking my head on the stones, Aleksei falling atop me.
The world went black for a moment-pitch-black, with starbursts of light spangling the darkness. My head hurt. Everywhere around us, there was shouting and clattering, sounds like an avalanche of rocks falling.
In the sparkling darkness, I wondered if the folk of Udinsk had begun to stone me already, wondered how they’d armed themselves so quickly. I shoved frantically at Aleksei’s weight, pushing him off me.
The clattering got louder, and so did the shouting.
I scrambled to my feet, shaking my head to clear it. There seemed to be a sea of surging horse-flesh between me and my adversaries. In between the churning legs, shaggy flanks, and thick, arching necks, I caught a glimpse of the Duke’s men retreating to regroup and the Patriarch kneeling on the cobblestones, grimacing, his fingers clutching at the shaft of an arrow protruding just below his collarbone.
“Lady archer.” Vachir’s face hung above me, silhouetted against the bright blue sky as he leaned down from the saddle. I squinted, seeing two of him. “Are you well?”
Tatars.
The Tatars from the encampment had come to my rescue.
I laughed, a short, wondering laugh. “Not exactly. But, Vachir… why?”
He smiled his quiet smile. “I offered you the hospitality of my roof.”
There was more to it, but I understood. Vachir and his fellow traders were settling the balance of debt the Great Khan Naram himself incurred when he violated the sacred laws of hospitality. “Thank you,” I said softly.
Vachir nodded. “You should come with us. Now.”
I rubbed my hands over my face, gave my aching head another shake, and took stock of the situation. Beside me, Aleksei got to his feet, trembling.
It was a standoff. The Duke of Vralsturm and his men were in a cluster around the kneeling Patriarch, hands on their sword-hilts. Mounted Tatar warriors milled around them, bows drawn, arrows nocked and poised. The younger men among them had dark, glittering eyes and fierce battle-smiles that reminded me of Bao.
Vachir spoke.
One of the younger men translated his words into Vralian. “We are taking the lady archer and her companion,” he said cheerfully. “If you do not wish to provoke a war, you will let us.”
Pyotr Rostov drew a ragged breath, his voice hoarse with pain. “Your Great Khan gave her to me!”
The Tatars conferred.
“Oh, yes,” their spokesman agreed. “That was a mistake. And the Great Khan will thank us for fixing it… one day.” His battle-smile widened, his eyes bright. “Today, do you wish to make war?”
The Patriarch did.
The Duke of Vralsturm did not. He was a practical man. I watched resignation settle over his broad features, watched him signal his men to stand down.
I hoisted myself astride my mount, glancing at Aleksei. “I think it is best we go with the Tatars. Will you come?”
He hesitated.
“Aleksei, no!” his uncle grated. “It’s not too late for you, boy!”
Aleksei squared his shoulders. “It is, actually,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, Uncle. All my life, I have tried to conform to your vision of what I should be. I have tried to redeem my mother’s sin. But I think… I think you were wrong. I think you have tried to force God and his son Yeshua alike into a mold that is too small and narrow to contain them.” He shook his head. “I did my best to honor you. I did my best to save your life. But I will not allow you to lessen the myriad wonder of God’s infinite grace for me.”
My heart and my diadh-anam sang within me.
“Aleksei…” The Patriarch of Riva repeated his name. “Aleksei, listen, only listen to me!”
My sweet, scholarly boy turned away from him, refusing to hear him.
I kneed my unnamed mount gently, and she stepped forward, ears pricked. From my vantage point, I gazed down at Pyotr Rostov, who knelt on the cobblestones and clutched the protruding shaft, staring at me with hot, angry eyes, as hot and angry as the image of Yeshua on the wall of his temple.
He would live, I thought. Aleksei had done that much for his uncle, sending the arrow I had loosed astray by mere inches.
But his dream, his hateful dream, would die. Neither Aleksei nor I would die here today at the hands of an angry mob. The future the Patriarch had envisioned would no longer come to pass.
And for that, I was grateful. Alive, and grateful.
“You lose,” I said in Vralian, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “And I win.”
FORTY-FOUR
We returned to the Tatar camp, Aleksei and I, protected by a guard of Vachir and his fellow traders.
They were in good spirits, having enjoyed the confrontation immensely, especially the younger men. I learned that it was a young fellow named Chagan, the one who had served as Vachir’s translator, who had witnessed the beginning of the conflict and gone racing to rouse the camp, having recognized me from the archery rematch.
When I thanked him for it, he laughed, showing strong white teeth. “It was a matter of honor, lady archer! Anyone who shoots as well as you do must have Tatar blood in her somewhere.”
Aleksei was quiet and withdrawn. Sensing he wished to be left alone, I didn’t try to draw him out. When he suggested that he should return to the inn with an armed escort and fetch our things, I didn’t argue, even though I had reservations.
I could not blame him for not wanting to be around me at the moment. After all, I had just attempted to kill his uncle in cold blood. The man might have been a monster to me, but for all his faults, he had been like a father to Aleksei; and Aleksei had no way of knowing the vision I had seen unfold.
Despite my reservations, he and his Tatar escorts returned safely with all the possessions we had purchased so painstakingly, even the pack-horse.
“What’s the mood in the city?” I asked in an effort to gauge his own mood.
“Tense,” he murmured without meeting my eyes. “But they are afraid of the Tatars. No one will make trouble.”
I left him alone a while longer, busying myself with helping Arigh with chores around the ger. It felt oddly familiar, except for the absence of children. When I asked Arigh about it, she shook her head with regret, laying one hand over her belly. “No children, no.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She glanced at Vachir, conferring with a handful of traders on the men’s side of the ger. “He is a good husband, though. And I think…” Her eyes crinkled. “I think if he had a daughter, he would like one like you. Spirited, and skilled with a bow.”
I smiled at her. “You’re very kind.”
It was a strange thing indeed, I thought, how much cruelty and kindness existed side by side in the world. The great magician Berlik had found sanctuary and redemption among the Yeshuites in Vralia; save for Aleksei and Valentina, I had found only condemnation.
I thought about the D’Angeline Prince Imriel, who had pursued Berlik into the Vralian wilderness to avenge his wife’s death. He had been used cruelly in his youth, stolen away into slavery, a captivity far worse than aught I had endured. There had been a Tatar warlord who hurt him badly, even branding him with a hot iron.
And yet when the adult Prince Imriel had been imprisoned with a young Tatar horse-thief in Vralia, he’d set him free when he made his escape. I wondered if that act of compassion resonated over generations in some mysterious way, leading to this moment, and my salvation at the hands of Vachir and his fellows.