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 alclass="underline" It was hope. "An actor!"
"Oh, it won't be easy. You've some instinctive talents, but there'd be much much work to be done, training, practice, endless rehearsals, and even with the Company to support you, you're far behind them in skills right now. Still, to have brought our theater here and then to bring one of you back, to see how you might reflect our tradition back at us, how you might interpret it, that would be fascinating!"
"But-I'd have to leave the jaran."
"We'd be your tribe. We theater people always have been a tribe unto ourselves."
"But my family-?"
"Can't they come? Are they fixed here?"
Vasil winced as a pain stabbed up from his hips and splintered into a thousand pieces all the way up his backbone, "No," he said, gasping a little. "No, not at all. They live only on the sufferance granted them by my cousin. My wife long ago left her tribe, and my children only have her. But could they-?"
"Oh, they could come too," said Zerentous blithely. "We'll fix some kind of pension on them. You needn't worry about leaving them behind. What do you say?" Zerentous was clearly in the grip of his obsession now. His dark face shone.
"But the doctor says I can't walk."
Zerentous coughed into his hand and glanced around, the gesture so acting-like that Vasil almost smiled. He bent down closer to Vasil. "We're going back to our country," he said in a low, conspiratorial voice. "To Erthe. There, you'll find that… we can do things there… it won't matter. Truly. It won't."
Vasil felt sick with hope and despair intermingled. He felt as if the gods themselves had conspired to offer him his heart's desire and yet make it impossible for him to grasp it. Like Ilya, who had never really been his, because the gods had already marked him as theirs.
"I can't be an actor," he said finally.
"Why not?" Zerentous demanded, looking affronted.
Vasil took in a deep breath, for courage, and pulled the blanket down and turned his lacerated face to the air.
"Well?" demanded Zerentous again. The director's gaze had flicked onto the gash and then returned to stare into Vasil's eyes. The force of his gaze was immense, like a weight bearing down on Vasil. "Why not?"
"But…" Vasil faltered. "My face."
"Oh." Zerentous dismissed the terrible disfigurement with a wave of one hand. "I said it won't matter. We have arts of healing-we can erase it. You must believe me. More than that I can't say now. Veselov, what I'm offering you will be safe for you and your family. What's left you here-if you're crippled-I can't guess. Stay here if you will. Or come with me and the Company. The choice is yours."
There was, in Owen Zerentous, a certainty that Vasil found attractive. He was so sure of himself and of his vision.
"Yes," Vasil said before he realized himself that he meant to say it. "I'll go with you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Before dawn, many partings.
Diana had stayed up half the night, helping Anatoly and two boys from the Sakhalin camp polish his armor. She had persuaded him to come to bed at last, but she slept far more restlessly than he did, and she woke before him, before dawn. A kind of bitter fatalism had descended on her, and she lay curled around him and watched him breathe. Today they launched the final assault on Karkand. Everyone expected the fighting to be prolonged and bloody, and Diana knew that Anatoly meant to throw himself and his men into the thick of it. She had a horrible premonition that he was going to die.
He was a heavy sleeper. When she ran a hand down his arm he did not stir. From outside, she heard horses and conversation and the creak of leather armor. He opened his eyes and sat up.
"Diana!" He started to scramble to his feet, then flung an arm around her and kissed her warmly. He murmured something, sweet phrases, and then jumped up and dressed. She hurried and dressed and followed him outside. Already, the same two boys had arrived, waiting for the honor of helping him into his armor. Diana wanted to help, but it was a privilege reserved for the adolescent boys and she knew better than to interfere. She held on to his helmet instead, running her fingers through the black plume that ornamented its peak while she watched the boys tie Anatoly into his armor and check for the fourth time all the iron and lacquered-leather strips that made up the body of his armor. For her was reserved the honor of belting on his saber. She did so gravely, and handed him his helmet. He put it on. A boy brought his horse, and Anatoly mounted. The other boy gave him his spear and, last, one of Bakhtiian's officers rode up and handed to Anatoly his staff of command.
Anatoly smiled down at Diana. He looked utterly confident. He looked magnificent, with his fair hair and his gleaming, plumed helmet, his polished armor and bright silk surcoat. He reined his horse aside and rode away, leaving her there. She watched him go. A horrible weight pressed against her chest, like a stone caught in her heart. She was convinced that she would never see him alive again. A bleak agony settled onto her, and she felt that every emotion except dread had been washed away with the first light of morning.
The boys had already excused themselves and run away to other duties. In such a camp, on such a day as this, no one had patience for idle hands. Diana went back into her tent. Shrugging on her old khaki tunic, she set out for the hospital. In the distance, she heard the steady thudding of the siege engines, hurling stones and flaming arrows into Karkand.