Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [127]
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Aleksei was quiet and withdrawn.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.
There are things no one can ever know, I supposed.
For the first time in a while, I found myself missing Master Lo Feng, feeling his loss acutely. He’d always had a way of putting everything into perspective. I pictured him smiling, folding his hands into his wide sleeves.
All ways lead to the Way, Moirin.
“Moirin?”
“Aye?” I was startled out of my reverie by Vachir’s