The Law of Becoming: 4 (The Novels of the Jaran) Read Online Free

Eldest Tribe of the jaran. None of these khaja had heard of Ilyakoria Bakhtiian, who even now led the jaran army on a gods-inspired mission to unite jaran and khaja lands. Anatoly had left that army to follow his wife to her country, and a damned strange country it was, too.
    He had taken a long and confusing and often inexplicable journey to get here to this city called London, to this province (or was it a kingdom?) called England, to this planet (that had been explained to him, but he remained skeptical about the truth of the explanation since he was well aware that the khaja honored different gods and thus must believe a different story of the world and of creation than the jaran did) called Earth. And the worst of it was, for all his skill at tracking, for all that he had chased the Habakar king a hundred days’ ride into unknown territory and found his way back with no trouble to Bakhtiian’s army and known lands, he did not know where he was. As terrible as it was to admit it, he did not think that, if he wanted to return, he could find his way back to the plains by himself.
    But he refused to return, because it would give his grandmother and Tess Soerensen the satisfaction of knowing they had been right to counsel him not to follow his wife.
    These khaja were like grazel, he reflected as he examined the scene outside with distaste. They preferred to clump together in huge herds rather than roaming in smaller, freer groups as did wild horses and the jaran tribes. He felt closed in. And it smelled funny, too.
    Like an echo of his thoughts, a familiar scent caught at him, and he turned his head to look back into the flat. While not a particularly large room, it had been furnished with little enough furniture that it almost gave the illusion of a tent as spacious as his grandmother’s. In the doorway leading into the hall, a vision appeared, a woman dressed as any proper, well-born jaran woman would dress. Standing there, she seemed a sudden and stark reminder of what he had left behind.
    “I beg your pardon,” said Karolla Arkhanov. “May I come in?”
    He rose at once. “Cousin,” he said, acknowledging her in the formal style.
    She walked into the room, skirted the couch, and sat down on a pillow opposite him on the rug. Her children trailed after her, the fair-haired, sullen, small boy and the gorgeous daughter who carried the infant Anton in her arms.
    “Mama,” said Ilyana in an undertone, shifting her baby brother in her arms as he squirmed to get free and down on the carpet, “we’re supposed to be in school.”
    “Hush,” said Karolla, slanting a quick glance at her daughter. The girl did not look like her mother at all. Karolla was a pale, undistinguished, weary-looking woman, and Anatoly found it odd and rather disturbing that she acted more like her husband’s servant than his wife. “It’s a khaja thing, this school. There’s no reason you need to go.”
    The girl set her lips tight, but to Anatoly’s surprise, she did not protest. The boy flung himself down on the carpet and stared at the flowered wall, or at nothing.
    Anatoly got up and went over to Ilyana. “Here, I’ll take the little one,” he offered. Anton was a robust boy, not quite walking yet; solemn, a little grumpy, but coaxable. Anatoly liked holding him. He set the baby on his knee and turned back to Karolla, careful not to look at her directly. “Cousin, I apologize for… my impertinence, but as my wife says, the children must learn khaja ways as well as jaran ways if they are to get along here.” He pretended not to see the grateful glance Ilyana threw his way. Valentin stared dreamy-eyed into the air and did not appear to hear him. Anton wiggled off his lap and crawled over toward his mother, thought better of it, sat up, and began chewing on his fat fist.
    Watching him, Anatoly conceived the first element of his campaign to win his wife back. They must have a child, preferably three or four.
    “Go on, then, if you