Niko settled back and did nothing. Soon enough she exhausted herself and, with tears still seeping down her face, she fell asleep.
When she woke again, she was alone. She called out Niko's name once, softly, but he did not answer. Well, it was all she deserved. As if the memory had been seared into her, she could see Yuri falling from his horse, ever so slowly. If she could only catch him, then perhaps he might live-but Yuri was dead. Mikhal was dead. The ache of her wound paled beside the ache of her loss.
Niko came then, but she would not speak to him and only mechanically obeyed his injunctions to eat and drink. After a while, having tried stories and songs and one-sided conversation, and even reading aloud from the volume of Casiara, he left.
It was better that way. Yuri would have cajoled her into crying, teased her, laughed her into it. She hated herself for not dying with him, hated herself more for wanting to live, a coward afraid of the dark. How could she ever face Sonia? Sonia, the one person with that same open confidence that Yuri had, whom she had deprived of a brother and a husband in a single swift stroke. Sonia would never look at her again with anything but loathing. And Ilya. He would know very well whose fault this was. Her thoughts wound down in this manner and left her in desolation.
It rained for hours, for days, perhaps; she neither knew nor cared. She submitted listlessly to Niko's care.
"It's clearing," he said finally. She did not know whether it was morning or afternoon, only that where the flap lay askew a thin line of light lanced across the dark floor. She refused to ask how many days it had been. "Today we are moving you to Veselov's tribe."
She stared at the shadowed roof. Although he kept her scrupulously clean, still her back itched, a constant, damp prickling. Mold was surely growing in the blankets. The air was overpowering, dank. Her legs chafed where they rubbed the coarse bedding.
He sighed. "Your wounds are showing some progress, girl, but your spirits aren't."
He knelt close to her, filling all her space. Before his entrance she had been remembering Yuri demonstrating, to her immense delight, how not to use a saber, with Kirill acting as his willing and hilarious foil. "Why can't you leave me alone?"
"To what? To die? I believe you promised Bakhtiian that you would live."
"Did I?"
"Don't you remember?"
"I don't care." And then, perhaps because his words had triggered it, she did remember. She flung an arm across her eyes so that she wouldn't have to look at Niko. "He doesn't care anyway. Why should he? I killed Yuri and Mikhal."
"You are a difficult child. Why do you suppose Ilya wants you to live?"
"To torment me."
"Tess, I am getting rather tired of you. I'm leaving now, and when I return, it will be to take you out of this tent and move you to Veselov's tribe. Do you understand?"
"I don't want to go."
"You haven't a choice." He left.
She lowered her arm and stared at the canvas above her, recalling Ilya in all his moods and depressing herself further. Then, so soon it startled her, Niko threw the tent flap unceremoniously back. She had to cover her eyes with her hands until they could adjust to the unaccustomed light.
"Now. You are coming out. Here, Tasha, help me, please."
They pulled her out on the blanket and bundled her onto one of the light wagons that the women used to transport their tents. It hurt, but not as much as the sight of Petya, with his damned beautiful face, without the slightest visible scar from the battle. And he was riding Yuri's Khani. Tess was filled with such a vicious, burning wish that Petya could have died instead of Yuri that she was horrified at the depth of her own hatred.
"Tess, I'm so glad you're alive." Tess glanced up to see that Arina Veselov was driving the wagon. Arina looked at Tess's expression, and looked away again, questioningly to Niko. Tasha and Vladimir were taking down her tent. No one spoke. When they finished and brought the tent and gear to put in beside her, she pulled the blanket up over her face and ignored them.
For three days, she ignored them. After the first day, only Niko and Arina spoke to her, both unfailingly kind. Tess grew sick of their kindness. She could not look at Petya without feeling that same sickening jealousy, that hatred, so she did not look at any of them. The jolting of the wagon hurt, every bump, every jar, but not enough, not enough to make up for everyone who had died.
When they rode into Veselov's camp, she hid herself, buried herself in blankets, and wished with all her strength that they would leave her alone. The wagon halted. Their voices spoke together, low, conspiring. She could hear in the distance the noises of the camp, and could gauge fairly enough that they had stopped some ways away. Thank God.
Then: "Ah, here you are," said Niko with relief. "I can do nothing with her. She has given up, I think. She blames herself for what happened."
Weight rocked the wagon. A moment later, a strong hand yanked the blanket away from her face. She shut her eyes.
"Tess, look at me."
Because his voice surprised her, she opened her eyes. "Kirill."
"Well?" he asked. He bore a pink scar on his forehead and past his ear, down to his jaw. His right arm and shoulder were swathed in a sling.
"Go away," Tess said, acutely embarrassed by his presence, staring at her with such knowing eyes.
He lifted his left hand, and the figures behind him moved away. "So, my heart, is this how you repay Yuri's sacrifice?"
She flushed, trapped here under his gaze because she could not move. "How dare you scold me!"
"How dare I? How dare you pretend you're the only one who loved Yuri? Who cared for Mikhal? Don't you think Petya hates himself, wondering why his best friend is dead and he's still alive? Don't you think the rest of us would give our own lives to bring them back? But we can't because we're alive and they're dead. Nothing will bring them back, Tess, and you might as well be dead, too, if all you care for is your own grief.''
She stared at him. She felt stripped of words.
"Tomorrow Niko says he'll let you sit up," he added, softer now. "By the gods, Tess, if you aren't walking by the time Bakhtiian gets back, you aren't the one who'll get the worst edge of Ilya's tongue. So think of the rest of us, if you please."
Then he walked away. Limped away. He favored one side, and his right arm and shoulder were stiff and lifeless. Arina Veselov met him twenty paces out, and he allowed her, small as she was, to support him with an arm at his elbow.
Tess began to cry, but silently. When Niko came up, she simply reached for his hand and held it tightly, while Tasha and Vladimir put up her tent, and Niko and Tasha carried her over to it.
"Might I lie outside for just a little bit?" she asked.
"Yes, child. Set her down here, Tasha."
It was afternoon. Beyond, she saw the tents of Veselov's camp. Women talked, but quietly, and children played, more quietly still. She saw a few riders, but not many, and most of them she did not recognize.
"Where is Petya?" she asked.
"Here. Petya!"
A moment later, Petya arrived, looking pale. He wore three necklaces, one of them the amber one she had given him.
"Petya," she said. "I'm sorry."
He ducked his head, paling even more. "Tess," he said, and then he turned away abruptly and she realized that he was crying. He strode away quickly, out into the grass.
"Inside now," said Niko. "Rain is coming on." They hauled her in, and Tasha retreated. "Well, child, have you decided to live?"
"I thought I made a promise. Oh, Niko, I remember the last thing he said to me. He said, 'Don't cry. Live.' Oh, Niko." The wind rustled the tent flap. A light spatter of rain fell. "Will it always be this painful?"
"Not always, child, but we will sit with you, those of us whom you care to see, as often as you wish, if that will comfort you."