His Conquering Sword Read Free

Vasil and had for many years. Ilya was not rejecting her; he was rejecting himself, and thus anything that loved him and might yet scorn him for what he had revealed himself to be.
    “I’m a damned hypocrite,” he said in Rhuian. The curtain had ceased swaying, but he still stared at it.
    Tess made a brief laugh in her throat. “Ah, Bakhtiian returns to the lands of the mortals. How unique you are. I’m sure you’re the only person afflicted with hypocrisy.”
    He twisted around to glare at her. “You don’t understand what that means!”
    “What? That you’re not perfect? But I’ve known that for a long time.” She could see by his expression that she was offending him, so she continued gleefully. “Of course! Why didn’t I ever see it before? Yuri always said so, that you thought you had to be the best. Kirill said it, too: that you always had to win. I didn’t see then that it also meant that you had to be the purest one, the one with no flaws, no stain on your spirit, the one who never committed the slightest offense or the least impolite exchange. Do you know how boring that kind of person is? Why, I’m relieved to see that you’re flawed like the rest of us. Even if it’s only with so common a sin as hypocrisy.”
    “How dare you laugh at me!” He looked livid with anger.
    “Because you won’t laugh at yourself. Someone must. Since I’m your wife, I’ve been granted that dubious honor.”
    “The gods do not grant their gifts lightly, Tess,” he said stiffly, “and with that gift comes a burden.”
    “Yes, a burden greater than that any other person has to bear. I’m well aware of it. I’m aware of it constantly, and it’s beginning to weary me. It may even be true, but that still doesn’t mean that you’re any different than the rest of us. That you’re any better.”
    “No,” he said softly, still not looking at her, “I am worse.”
    “Oh, Ilya.” This time when she leaned across to touch him, he sat motionless under her hands, neither responding to her nor retreating from her. As he had with Vasil. “You must know that I don’t think it’s wrong for you to love him. Only that I—” She hesitated. Their bed was a wild landscape of rumpled blankets, stripes and patterns muted in the lantern light, of furs thrown into topographical relief, mountains and valleys and long ridges and the far mound of her toes, of pillows, one shoved up against the far wall, two flung together at the head of the bed, more scattered beyond Ilya, and of his clothing, littering the carpet beyond. One boot listed against a stray pillow. His belt curled around the other boot, snaring it.
    He said nothing, but his silence was expectant, and courageous, too; how easily he might think it would be natural for her to repudiate him, based on the morals of his culture, faced with what she now knew of him.
    “He’s just so damned beautiful,” she said at last, afraid to say it, “that I can’t help but think that—that anyone would love him more than … me….” She faltered.
    “Tess!” He spun back to her, upsetting her balance. She tumbled over and landed on her back, half laughing, half shocked, in the middle of the bed. “You’re jealous of him!”
    “Why shouldn’t I be?” she demanded, rolling up onto her side. He rested on his elbows a handbreadth from her, staring astonished at her. “You’ve known him a long time, much longer than you’ve known me. It’s obvious you still love him. All that keeps you apart is that the jaran don’t recognize, don’t accept, that kind of love.”
    “That is not all that keeps us apart, my heart,” he replied gravely, but humor glinted in his eyes as well. “I loved him with a boy’s awkward, headlong passion. But you,” his gaze had the intensity of fire on a bitter cold night. “You I love like…” He shook his head, impatient with words. When he spoke again, he spoke in his autocratic tone, one that brooked no disagreement. “You, I