Kate Elliott - His conquering sword

Reflexively, Vasil reached up and brushed his fingers along the ragged gash that had laid open his left cheek from his chin almost to his eye. It hurt, and it still oozed.

"Don't touch that, please," said Dr. Hierakis, crouching beside him. "You won't do it any good if you worry it like that."

"Gods," he said harshly, "what does it matter? I'd be better off dead, anyway."

"Possibly," said the doctor curtly, and he flushed at her tone. "You're going to have to find a different way to kill yourself next time, though, since I don't think you're going to be riding any time soon."

He lay back down and stared at the awning. The fabric was, thank the gods, colorful enough, with the light shining through die pattern of squares set within circles set within a frame of squares. She pushed the blanket aside and examined his various wounds; a fine collection-she said so herself, in that dry, sarcastic tone she used. He winced when she touched his shoulder; winced at her hand on his abdomen, but below the hips he felt nothing but the weight of his legs and a steady, numbing ache. At last she shook her head and sat back on her heels.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She sighed. As was fitting, the men on either side of him had turned their heads away to afford the healer and her patient privacy in these close quarters. "Vasil." She sighed again. The awning rose, filled with air, and bottomed out again. A few squares of sunlight dappled the ground, piercing through the palest colors in the design. "I don't know if you'll ever ride again, or even if you'll walk."

He gazed at her, at her serious expression, and then he realized what she had just said. "What about my face?" he demanded. "Will it ever heal?"

Her eyes widened. "It will heal, in rime."

"But I'll always be scarred."

"Yes. It's going to be a bad scar, too. I won't lie to you."

"Gods." he murmured. What had she said? "You're going to have to find a different way to kill yourself He had never done anything as rash in his life as riding out alone into that skirmish. He had always been cautious. But it was true enough that he hadn't cared any more whether he lived or died. But then why had he struggled back toward the jahar? Why had he cared enough to want to live? He should have just given in and let Grandmother Night take him, but every time in his life that Grandmother Night's hands reached out to gather him in, he had fled from her. Maybe Ilya was right. Maybe he didn't love Ilya more than he loved his own life.

"I'd be better off dead," he murmured, but even as he said it, he knew he did not believe his own words.

"You have visitors," said the doctor. "I'll leave you now." She rose and stepped away, and he saw Ilya approaching him down the aisle, flanked by his usual retinue.

Vasil grabbed the edge of the blanket, covering the laceration, and he turned his face to the side so that his right side, the unmarked side, showed.

Bakhtiian's retinue halted some ways down the aisle and dispersed to walk among the wounded. Ilya came on alone. He was pale with exhaustion and with some other overwhelming emotion. His eyes were dark with it, and the mark of marriage on his left cheek glared vividly against his dark skin. And yet, on Ilya, the scar did not mar his beauty; it had simply become part of him. His steps slowed as he caught sight of Vasil, and he halted beside him and knelt,

"Veselov," he said roughly. Stopped. He reached out and took hold of the blanket, to draw it down. Vasil gripped it tighter and pulled away from him. Ilya let go and sat back. "You saved my honor, in the battle," he said in a low voice, in the formal style, "at great cost to yourself. Is there some favor I may show you, to repay you?"

"What I want, you will never give me," said Vasil. Tears burned at his eyes but did not fall. "There is nothing else I want."

"It was bravely done," said Ilya in a whisper, eyes cast down. "You ought to have died."

"I ought to have died many times in the last eleven years. But I never did."

A smile touched Ilya's lips and passed away into nothing. "No, you never did. By such means does Grandmother Night work Her justice."

Vasil shuddered, to hear Her name spoken in daylight, and he shifted farther away from Ilya. And then realized that he had done so. "There's nothing more I want from you," he said finally, hoarsely, "except to see that my wife and children always have a tribe and a tent of their own."

Bakhiiian lost even more color. Vasil listened to the ragged sound of Ilya's breathing while he controlled himself; at last he spoke. "Tess lost the child. We burned it, five days past."

Vasil felt the comment like a wound to his heart. All that pain in Ilya, and it was for the dead child, not for him. At that moment, he hated Ilya, hated him fiercely and without forgiveness. He had a sudden memory of the day when he had stood beside the couch where Ilya lay, his body empty and his soul taken up to the gods" lands, and Dr. Hierakis had read him words and he had spoken them back to her. " "How would you be," " he murmured, recalling the lines, " "if She, which is the top of judgment, should but judge you as you are?" "

Ilya's gaze jumped to Vasil's face. The fire that lit Bakhtiian's eyes now was fueled by grief and helpless fury, and Vasil felt a sudden, surprising pity for the khaja who were sure to bear the brunt of Bakhtiian's anger at the gods for taking from him the child he so desired.

But when Ilya spoke, his words only bewildered Vasil. "If you only knew," he said softly, voice rough with pain, "you would be glad to be rid of me."

"You will never understand me," whispered Vasil. He closed his free hand into a fist and held the blanket taut, concealing his face, with the other. "I want no favor from you. Be assured that I will not bother you again. Goodbye."

He gained some satisfaction from the hurt mat passed over Ilya's face and was as quickly controlled. Bakhthan rose and left him. Vasil forced himself not to watch him go, not to follow his exit, and so he was startled when another man cleared his throat beside him and knelt, and addressed him.

"Veselov. I just heard you were badly injured. I'm so sorry." Owen Zerentous sat there, looking concerned and intent, regarding Vasil with that keen eye of his. "Dr. Hierakis tallied up your injuries for me. They're an impressive lot, and some of them are quite serious."

"Your concern honors me," muttered Vasil, mystified by Zerentous's presence.

"You can't ride again, can you?"

"The doctor says not."

Then they sat for a while. Squares of tight shifted on the wounded soldiers as the wind moved the awning up and down. A boy walked down the aisles, seeking his brother; a wife knelt beside her husband and farther away, a husband wept beside his injured wife. Vasil smelled like a faint perfume the bitter scent of ulyan, the herb the jaran burned with the dead. Zerentous regarded the air. The director sat perfectly still, except for his right hand, which twisted at intervals in the cup made by his left hand.

"I have this idea," said Zerentous finally, and lapsed back into silence. From watching rehearsals, Vasil had learned that Zerentous often worked this way; that he thought aloud, not in words but in the way he projected the fact that he was ruminating over some idea of great moment. The actors simply waited him out, having long since learned patience. Vasil, of course, had nothing better to do. "I approached the prince, and he seemed to think we could work something out. But it makes a perfect coda to the experiment we've conducted this past year, don't you think?"

"I don't know," said Vasil, curious now in spite of his pain.

"Well, wouldn't you like to be an actor?" Zerentous demanded. "At least to try?"

The emotion that hit and swelled over Vasil was worse man the physical pain he endured, worse than the agony he had brought on himself by repudiating Ilya once and for all: It was hope. "An actor!"