The Mongoliad: Book One

would have done so at her master’s request.

Gansukh had not sought out the Khagan’s advisor since the day they had last spoken—that day when everything had changed—nor had he felt any urge to. He should have reported Ogedei’s behavior that night, as well as confronted Chucai about their unfinished conversation from the throne room—not to mention the issue with the lacquered box (which he had not been able to open)—but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. It was much simpler—like a rabbit hiding—to simply avoid Master Chucai until he could decide what to do.

Which had also meant staying away from Lian, and that had been harder to do.

Still… Seemingly by accident, he nudged his horse closer to hers. Taking advantage of their proximity, as well as the privacy the open plain offered—inside the Khagan’s compound, it was impossible to have any real privacy—he reached out and laid his hand over hers where they gripped the saddle.

Lian bowed her head but didn’t pull her hands away. The wind-whipped hair made it impossible to read her expression—another way for a rabbit to hide—and then, just as Chucai’s hat again rose into view, Lian raised the little finger of her left hand and wrapped it around Gansukh’s thumb. Before he could react, she slipped free and tugged at the reins. Her horse exhaled noisily and took several prancing steps sideways, moving Lian out of reach. Only a few aid away.

“Young Gansukh!” Chucai called as his horse topped the rise. “Lian told me she had seen you ride out earlier. I am most pleased we have found you.” His face was bright with windburn and exertion, and his voice was brisk and cheerful, as if the events of the past few days did not weigh in the slightest. As if he had not presided over the torture and execution of a defenseless woman.

“Master Chucai,” Gansukh returned. “Indeed, it is a surprise that we must meet so far from where we pass our days.” He was trying for the same sort of cheer, even levity, but judging by the flat response in Chucai’s eyes, his tone did not convince.

Chucai brought his horse around in front of Gansukh and Lian, blocking their view. Making sure he could keep an eye on both of them. “Had I been able to find you, we could have spoken this in the city.”

“I have been—” Gansukh started.

“It doesn’t matter,” Chucai cut him off. “It is what you haven’t been doing that concerns me.”

Gansukh flushed. Was this all that Chucai worried about? “Do you mean, learning how to simper and preen at court? To what end? Ogedei is blind to everything and everyone around him.”

Chucai’s face was impassive and his eyes still flat, but he nodded. “You are plain spoken, Gansukh. It is, as Lian has mentioned to me on more than one occasion, one of your best traits, and most dangerous. I had hoped that she could teach you how to wriggle your tongue like a snake’s rather than shoot it out like an arrow. A devious tongue would allow you to more readily gain the Khagan’s ear. But that skill is still beyond you, and you do not yet rise above his lobes…and penetrate…with soft words, do you?”

Gansukh glanced at Lian, who was looking down at her horse’s flank, not embarrassed by this metaphor, but not affording it the dignity of a response.

“Does the fault lie with your tutor?” Chucai said, noticing Gansukh’s glance. “Is she incapable of teaching you the ways of the court?”

“She teaches well enough,” Gansukh growled.

“Is he not an able student?” Chucai asked Lian.

“Able enough,” Lian replied.

Chucai peered at Gansukh. “Then what is distracting you from your education?”

Neither answered, and Gansukh dared not glance at her this time. His heart beat quickly, and he wiped his hands on his pants. Is she thinking the same thing?

“I see,” said Chucai, leaning back and tugging at the few long hairs on his cheek. “Perhaps you need to refocus your efforts. Both of you.”

Gansukh controlled his breathing. As stung as he was by Master Chucai’s words—as well as by the implication therein—he couldn’t so easily forget what he had witnessed in the throne room.

“Master Chucai—” Lian began, but Gansukh cut her off.

“What goals are those?” he demanded. “Yours? The empire’s? Ogedei’s? Chagatai Khan sent me to help the Khagan, and I thought my mission was simply to stop his drinking, but now I am confused. Now I wonder if the assistance the Khagan needs is far greater than taking away his drink…” His words stumbled to a stop. He found himself unwilling to say more, fearing he had already said too much. Arrow for a tongue…

A tiny muscle twitched in Master Chucai’s cheek, making the corner of his mouth lift, as if he might smile. Or he might have been trying to suppress a roar of outrage. Gansukh wasn’t sure which, but like a standoff with a wounded predator, he knew it was best to show no fear. To give no ground until his adversary made the next move.

Master Chucai almost seemed to deflate a little in his saddle. “Plain speech,” he sighed, allowing his gaze to rove out across the land of grass. “In the court, the more refined refer to this as the ‘country eye,’ and they whisper of it as if they fear its coming. The horrible day when the horsemen would follow this longing gaze back to the plains of grass, back to chasing the endlessly migrating herds. Back to…oblivion.” A thin smile creased his lips. “The court, however, would be vastly improved if there were more men like you, young Gansukh, and fewer of the two-faced creatures that surround Ogedei now.”

This caught Gansukh off guard. Lian was surprised by Chucai’s candor as well.

“I need to speak plainly with you, Gansukh—that is why I followed you out here.” Master Chucai sounded tired. “It is possible that even if you succeed in reducing the Khagan’s drinking, we will still have accomplished nothing.”

“I do not…” Gansukh met Chucai’s gaze, and in the older man’s small, dark eyes Gansukh saw conflicting emotions: hope and resignation, elation and exhaustion. He said “we.” Chucai did understand his confusion. Gansukh had witnessed Ogedei’s frustrated outburst, the Khagan’s desperate cry for someone to share his view of the world, to understand his country eye, and while he hadn’t confided that information to Chucai, it was apparent such information would not be news to Chucai.

Gansukh was startled. If we accomplish nothing, then what has been saved? Was Chucai suggesting the very thought he had been turning over in his head before they arrived? The idea felt like a betrayal, not just of the Khagan, but of the whole of the Mongolian Empire, and he immediately wished he could undo it, that he could wipe his mind clean and go back to the innocent naivete he had been full of on the first day he had rode into Karakorum.

Was Ogedei Khan worthy of leading the empire?

“The Khagan is great,” he muttered, trying to muster some enthusiasm for what those words meant, but he felt off balance, his mind and spirit fractured by the revelation he had seen—reflected— in Chucai’s expression.

Chucai was still looking at him. “The empire must be great, Gansukh. Not just the Khagan. You have seen what lies beneath the mask, haven’t you? Not just the Khagan, but everything—and everyone—around him. It is our duty to help him. It is our duty to help the empire. Your duty.”

“Why me?” Gansukh asked.

Chucai laughed. “Why not?”

“But it is…too great…”

“Of course it is,” Chucai snorted. “No one person can change the course of the empire, and yet one man created this very empire.” He swept an arm out to indicate the open steppe. “Before Temujin brought the clans together, this was just grasslands. Before Ogedei inherited the empire, Karakorum was nothing more than a few tents clustered around the river. Look at it now. All change happens because one man wants something different. Ogedei has forgotten this; most of the men who cluster around him and dog his steps don’t want the world to change—as much as they claim otherwise.

“You are not special, Gansukh,” Chucai continued. “When you came to Karakorum, you were nothing more