The Law of Becoming: 4 (The Novels of the Jaran)
Read The Law of Becoming: 4 (The Novels of the Jaran) Online
Authors: Kate Elliott
“Elliott’s sure-handed and seductive blend of exotic locales, complex interstellar politics, intriguing cultures, realistic romance, and wonderfully realized characters is addictive. I want my next fix!”—Jennifer Robertson, author of the Novels of Tiger and Del
“Sweeps the reader along like a wild wind across the steppes. Tell Kate to write faster—I want to read the whole saga NOW!”—Melanie Rawn, author of the Dragon Prince Trilogy
“[Kate Elliott] spins a splendid web of a tale to trap the unwary and hold them in thrall until the tale is done. Here is another one . . . take care, for if you open these pages you’ll be up past dawn.”—Dennis McKiernan, author of
Voyage of the Fox Rider
“A new author of considerable talent . . . a rich tapestry of a vibrant society on the brink of epic change.”—
Rave Reviews
“A wonderful, sweeping setting . . . reminds me of C. J. Cherryh.”—Judith Tarr
“Well-written and gripping. After all, with a solidly drawn alien race, galactic-scale politics, intrigue, warfare, even a crackling love story, all set in a fascinating world that opens out onto a vast view of interstellar history, how could anyone resist?”—Katharine Kerr
The Novels of the Jaran Volume 4
Kate Elliott
For Jeanne, Kit, and Sheila, the three spinners who helped me give birth to this book.
And with thanks to Morten Stokholm, who gave me much needed advice about certain laws of the universe that I know too little about, to Michael Zimmerman for the bread pudding, to Ann Marie Rasmussen, my medieval connection, to my early readers for giving me confidence, and, as always, to Jay.
“In this world below the dome of heaven, nothing that is or does can be eternal, for the law of the harvest is the law of becoming. All that is sown must be reaped, and all that is reaped must be sown again back into the world from which it sprang. Thus every change becomes another turn in the great wheel of years.”
—from
The Revelation of Elia
1
The Plains
H
E WOKE BEFORE DAWN
and snuck away from the tents to watch the sun rise, both of them solitary—he and the sun. He had done so every morning since his mother died. On cloudy days only the light changed, paling into day. When it rained, the night leached away reluctantly, spilling into the soil. In the deep winter blizzards snow settled like a blanket over everything. But on other mornings, clean, sharp mornings like this one, the sun rose like a splintering blow, sundering day from night all at once and with the promise of brilliance to come. The promise was for him. At least, that was how he thought of it; he lived here in night, but someday that would change. It had to.
“Vasha! Come here at once!”
Vassily turned away from the east and the light and trudged back into camp. Mother Kireyevsky cuffed him on the ear. “Have you milked Tatyana’s goats yet?” she demanded. “Uncle Yakalev needs your help this instant! Lazy boy! You’re a disgrace!”
A chill edged the morning, but it was no worse than the looks he got from old Tatyana and her son when he caught up with the flock. They spoke not one word to him, not even to greet him. He settled down to milk the goats. When he had finished, he slung four heavy flasks of warm milk over his shoulders and carried them back in toward camp. Passing the herd of
glariss
yearlings, he made the mistake of looking straight at the Vysotsky cousins where they stood watching over the herd.
“Watch your eyes, pest!” shouted the elder, who was only three years older than Vasha himself.
“Bastard!” The younger casually picked up a rock and threw it at Vasha, and he ducked away, but not in time. The rock stung his cheek. The Vysotsky cousins jeered and laughed. “Thought you were better than us, didn’t you?” they called, the familiar refrain. “Now you’re the lowest one of all.”
The fire flared within his heart, but Vasha hunkered down and walked on, fighting it back. It did no good to scrap with them. He had learned that quickly enough: His punishment from Mother Kireyevsky would be severe and swift. Tears of shame burned in his eyes, shame that they all despised him, shame that he had to act like any common servant, shame that he had never made any friends before, when his mother still lived. She had closed him off from everyone else. She had wrapped herself around him, and she had told him over and over again that he was special, that it was the others who were less than he was. It wasn’t fair that she had lied to him.
He swallowed the tears, forcing them down as he came back into camp. His throat choked on them.
Never cry,
his mother had said,
you are a prince’s son. Don’t play with those Vysotsky boys; they aren’t good enough for you. When your father comes, then they’ll understand exactly who you are and how much power you have.
Well, they did understand who he was: He was a bastard, the only child in the tribe who had no father and who never had had a father, despite what his mother claimed. They understood exactly how much power he had, which was none.
Mother Kireyevsky used him as a servant, and the elders themselves had refused to make his mother headwoman of the tribe, as she should have been after her own mother, his grandmother, had died. Because they had all despised his mother as well. They had rejoiced when she had died two winters ago. And he had learned how to survive their contempt and to endure alone.
As he crossed behind Mother Kireyevsky’s tent, he heard messenger bells and saw, out beyond the other tents, a figure swinging down from a spent horse. He would have liked to stop and look, but he knew someone would tell on him if he faltered at all, so he walked on.
“Vassily!” His cousin Tamara called to him. “Give me those flasks. Go to Mother Kireyevsky at once!” Her face was flushed.
He was too shocked to do anything but obey, but as he circled the tent and ducked under the awning a sudden foreboding washed over him.
Now what had he done wrong? What was she going to punish him for?
“Aha!” said Mother Kireyevsky, catching sight of him. “You will attend me here, Vasha. You will do exactly as I say, you will not speak one single word, and you will serve
komis
to our guest. Do you understand?”
He nodded, mystified. She hurried away, and he knelt down and waited. What could this be about? When guests came to visit at Mother Kireyevsky’s tent, he was banished from the family circle because he represented a shameful stain on the Kireyevsky line.
Mother Kireyevsky soon returned, bringing with her the messenger—who was a
woman
! Dressed in soldier’s clothing, too! Vasha dutifully offered the woman a cup of komis, which she accepted without looking at him. Tamara brought her food, and she ate with relish and politely complimented his cousin on the meat and the fine texture of the sweet cakes.
Then, just as Vasha moved to offer her a second cup, Mother Kireyevsky said the fateful words. “Ah, you are Bakhtiian’s niece.”
Vasha almost dropped the cup, but the woman took it from him as if she did not notice his shaking hands. As the rest of the cousins and aunts and old uncles filtered in to listen, they lapsed into a long discussion of the disposition of the Kireyevsky riders in the great jaran army, the army led by the great general and prince, Ilyakoria Bakhtiian. This dragged on endlessly while Vasha stared surreptitiously at Bakhtiian’s niece—Nadine Orzhekov—from under the screen of his dark hair. As if by examining her he could divine something—anything—about the man who was the greatest leader the jaran had ever had, the man who commanded the combined jaran tribes in their war against their ancient enemies, the khaja, the settled peoples.
“Vasha!” said Mother Kireyevsky tartly, no doubt divining his purpose in her turn and deciding now, at last, to dismiss him. “Bring more sweetcakes.”
For an instant, Vasha’s gaze met that of Nadine Orzhekov. She had a sharp, penetrating eye, but she did not appear to scorn him. Of course, she did not yet know the truth. He hurried away.
When he returned, Mother Kireyevsky did an unheard of thing. “Vasha, set those down. Then you will sit beside me.”
Sit beside her! Stunned by this sign of favor, he obeyed, sinking down beside her and folding his hands in his lap. He risked another look at their visitor.
Bakhtiian’s
niece! She looked no different, really, than other women, except that she dressed and walked like a soldier. Her black hair was caught back in single braid and her cheek bore a recent scar. Again her gaze met his, measuring, keen, but this time he forgot himself enough that he did not drop his away immediately.
“Vasha!” scolded Mother Kireyevsky. He stared at his hands. Then the horrible truth came out. “Inessa Kireyevsky was not married when her mother died, although by this time she had an eight-year-old child. She had no husband. She never married.”
“But then how—” Nadine Orzhekov broke off, looking at him.
How could she then have a child?
Shame writhed through Vasha. He felt it stain his cheeks, a visible mark of the disgrace that his mother had brought on her tribe.
“Luckily,” Mother Kireyevsky was saying, “she died a year after her mother died.”
“Leaving her son,” said Orzhekov. Vasha could not bear to look up now, knowing he would see contempt, not curiosity, in her gaze.
“Leaving a boy with no father, dead or otherwise, and no closer relatives than distant cousins. That line was not strong.” Mother Kireyevsky’s voice rang like hammer blows, unrelenting. Gods, why was she humiliating him like this? What was the point? Hadn’t he been brought low enough already, that she had to make sure that Bakhtiian’s niece knew of the scandal as well? Would she never be satisfied?
Like a spark, like his thoughts had triggered the words in her, Nadine Orzhekov spoke. “Why are you telling me this?” Then, secure as he could never be, she carelessly took another sweetcake.
Vasha felt more than heard Mother Kireyevsky take in a breath for the momentous pronouncement. “Inessa claimed to know who the child’s father was. It was her last wish, as she lay dying of a fever, that the boy be sent to his father. If it is at all possible….” His hearing hazed over as a roar of fear and hope descended on him, claiming him. Mother Kireyevsky continued to speak, but he did not hear her words, not until she pounded the final strokes: “She claimed that his father was Ilyakoria Orzhekov.”
