The Mongoliad: Book One

“You lied to me,” she said, holding the bow in both hands.

“When?” he asked.

“When I said you weren’t a very good teacher.”

Gansukh shrugged. “I didn’t correct you,” he said. “But you didn’t tell me you’d handled a bow before either.” He took the last arrow out of the quiver and held out his other hand for the bow. The grin was gone and his face had become unreadable.

Lian handed him the bow. “Not that tree,” she said, swallowing hard. She couldn’t tell what his intention was and thought it best to try to redirect him. Had she gone too far? Trust had to be mutual. “That’s too easy for you.”

“Pick a tree, then,” he said and swept his left hand wide to indicate she had the entire courtyard to choose from.

Lian looked about and spied a sapling some ten horse lengths away. “The young birch, by the wall there,” she pointed.

Gansukh turned abruptly and walked away from her at a brisk pace. For several moments, she was sure she had made a terrible mistake, and when he turned and began sprinting toward her, she was certain she had. As he closed the distance between them, he showed no sign of stopping; in fact, he was increasing his pace.

“Gansukh!” She threw herself to the grass. He jumped over her, bow raised and arrow drawn back. She heard the bowstring twang. Where she had fallen clumsily, breaking her fall with her hip, he tucked his head and rolled in the grass three paces in front of her.

“Are you okay?” He walked over to her as if nothing had happened.

Wanting to get off the grass as quickly as possible, she accepted his hand. His grip was firm, and she flew off the ground as he pulled her up. Their bodies pressed together, their faces but a few fingers’ width apart.

“Did you hit your target?” she asked in an attempt to make him turn around and look. Even though she didn’t want him to move.

He didn’t. “I don’t know, did I?”

Lian rolled her eyes and failed to stifle a laugh. His grin came back, larger than before. She pushed him roughly away.

“The tree, Gansukh. Did you hit the birch?”

Gansukh feigned surprise. “I was supposed to shoot a tree?”

She looked. The sun had gone beyond the palace now, and the entire wall was covered with shadows. She could still see the thin sapling, but she couldn’t tell if his arrow had found its mark. She started walking toward it, and Gansukh fell in beside her.

“Nice fall,” he said. “But you’ll need more practice.”

Lian shot him a look.

“I’m serious!” he protested. “Falling is an important skill in hand-to-hand combat. You’ll see.”

“I can’t wait,” Lian replied sarcastically, but couldn’t help but notice how her body thrilled at the thought of being so engaged with this man.

Preoccupied, she came to a full stop in front of the birch before focusing on the arrow buried a quarter of the way up its shaft. Without comment, Gansukh began gradually working the arrow loose.

“Gansukh, you should have…” she faltered.

Gansukh continued to loosen the arrow from the tree but looked at her.

She met his gaze and started again. “Why didn’t you shoot the crossbow as Ogedei Khan requested?”

His face darkened and he chose to focus on the task of retrieving the arrow for a little while longer before answering. “There’s a difference between hunting,” he said as the arrow popped out of the tree, “and slaughter.”

“You killed your deer with a bow,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “With my father’s bow. And Ogedei appreciated the significance of my choice.” He dropped the arrow in the quiver. “After the hunting was done, we walked in the garden together for a little while. He told me a story about hunting with his father, the Great Khan, when they were on campaign together.”

She was surprised. The serving woman had failed to mention that the two men had had a private moment together. “Excellent, Gansukh. That was beyond my expectations. You are proving to be a good study.”

They retraced their steps to the aspen grove.

“I need to be,” Gansukh said as they walked. “I may have impressed the Khagan, but I fear I made Munokhoi even more my enemy.”

“Any time spent trying to curry Munokhoi’s favor is not only futile but dangerous,” Lian pointed out. “It is wiser to focus your energy on the Khagan.”

Gansukh nodded thoughtfully. “I think you’re right.” They reached the tree with Lian’s arrows in it, and he plucked them out with a sharp twist of his left wrist. “Enough archery for tonight,” he said, changing the subject. “How about some basics in hand-to-hand…”

Lian raised an eyebrow. “I think all this archery has worn me out.”

Gansukh laughed. She liked his laugh, low in timbre and from the belly. His eyes nearly disappeared when he laughed, much like her father’s.

“Next time, then,” he said. He slung the bow across his back and indicated the path toward the servants’ quarters. “Let me walk you back to your chamber, at least.”

She accepted his offer and kept the notional pleasure of more physical contact with him to herself.

The sun had departed, and the palace was transitioning to its nighttime activities. Voices could be heard from the main palace, and servants carrying dirty dishes and piles of clean linen scurried around Gansukh as he ambled toward his own chamber. He stepped aside for a group of concubines. They glided past with effortlessly small steps, their elegantly coiffured heads bowed down in polite deference, leaving a scent of flowers in their wake. Groups of dark-cloaked Khevtuul were out there in the gloom, patrolling the grounds.

Near the garden gate, Gansukh encountered a familiar imposing figure. Gansukh bowed respectfully. “Master Chucai. Good evening.”

Ogedei’s chief advisor responded with a slight nod. “I trust the evening finds you well.” His robe and beard were dark spots in the gloom, making the man seem like an apparition, a floating head come to haunt him.

“It does,” Gansukh replied. “I was just getting some fresh air. This first hour of nightfall has a splendid quality to it.”

“You have been keeping up on your reading?” Chucai smiled. “Or I should say, has Lian been reading you up?”

“Yes. She’s a talented young woman, as far as the Chinese go,” Gansukh said. “The scrolls are boring, but she certainly gives me something to look at.”

Chucai looked at him shrewdly. “I heard about the hunt today,” he said.

Gansukh nodded and waited for him to continue.

“Karakorum is different from anywhere else in the empire. We are transformed by it, would you not say?” Chucai pursed his lips. “No, that’s not correct. We are revealed by it.”

Gansukh shrugged, mainly to hide the shiver that ran up his spine at Master Chucai’s words. He was spared from replying by a crashing sound behind him. He turned, and for a second, he couldn’t place the source of the sound, but then he spotted the broken tile on the ground. His pulse racing, he immediately looked up at the roof of the palace, and a flash of movement caught his eye.

“Intruder!” Chucai shouted behind him.

An assassin, Gansukh thought. Here to kill the Khagan.

“Guards!” Chucai continued to raise the alarm.

The figure had disappeared already, and Gansukh glanced around wildly for any sign of the Khevtuul.

Too late, he thought. He started to run toward the back of the palace—in the direction it seemed the figure had been moving. By the time the guards arrive, he’ll be