Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [126]
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