The Mongoliad: Book One

than a bumbling warrior from the steppe, regardless of all the glory heaped on your shoulders from your exploits on the edge of the empire. You were nothing to the court; you still may account for nothing. But…” Chucai stopped with a shrug.

“But what? Is your speech supposed to inspire me?” Gansukh asked.

“The anniversary of Tolui’s death approaches.” Chucai pointed toward Karakorum, ignoring Gansukh’s question. “A grand festival is planned, to distract the Khagan from the depression that always falls upon him at this time. Caravans arrive each day bearing gifts from every corner of the empire. Games will be conducted—wrestling, riding, shooting, fighting. There will be minstrels, acrobats, dancers, poets—every sort of entertainment possible. The festival grows every year, but Ogedei attends to less and less of it, as he drowns himself in drink.”

Tolui. The younger brother of both Ogedei and Chagatai. Chagatai had spoken briefly of his younger brother’s death, and Gansukh tried to recall the details: Ogedei had fallen ill during a campaign in Northern China—a disease caused by angry spirits. The dead had demanded blood, payment for what had been taken from them.

Gansukh shivered. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said, pushing aside the thoughts of ghosts.

“I didn’t think I needed to,” Chucai said with a grim smile. “What we taught you about court protocol and practice was meant to open your eyes—and it has, has it not? I’ll ask you a question in return: what is worth saving?”

Gansukh rubbed his arms, feeling chilled even under the gaze of the sun. A sacrifice, he thought, to save the empire.

“You don’t need inspiration, Gansukh,” Chucai said. “You simply need permission, and not from me or the Khagan.”

CHAPTER 23: A CHANGE OF PLANS

For several days, they traveled east through a seemingly endless landscape of broken marsh and straggling forest. Even with Yasper’s discovery of Mongolian arkhi—a drink Cnan knew well enough to avoid—the pall of Taran’s absence refused to lift. The nights when they made a fire were oppressively dark, and the awareness of higher, greater things—the soughing of the wind, the haze of cold, sharp stars—brought no comfort, even to her, though she loved the wilderness.

When the quiet of an evening was broken, it was more often than not by Istvan, who rambled on at length of Mongol myths he’d once heard, or perhaps dreamed up in the magic haze of his freebuttons—barely coherent stories of endless seas of horses and of a banner, tall and terrible, from whence the Khans drew their power. The Brethren paid him little heed; most turned away, rolled over, tried to ignore the Hungarian. None were inclined to speak with him while the sting of Taran’s death was still so fresh.

Never had Cnan seen a man so alone and so blissfully unaware of his isolation.

In the aftermath of the departure, Roger’s anger at Istvan did not waver or lessen and was echoed, Cnan saw, in the eyes of the others, though none of them were so bloodthirsty. She later heard Feronantus and Roger privately arguing the matter. Given what chaos had been caused by Istvan’s insanity and bloodlust, Cnan was inclined to sympathize with the Norman’s point of view.

“We need him,” Feronantus had said with gentle firmness. “He is mad, he is dangerous, yes. But he is also a fine horseman and, next to R?dwulf, the best archer we have. Furthermore, he is a veteran of Mohi. Few know better how the Mongols fight.”

“Are you certain,” Roger responded testily, “that you’re not remembering a debt to his teacher? The younger boy may have had potential. The man is deranged, and he is not one of us.”

After that, they spoke more often in the Frankish tongue, of which Cnan had less knowledge, but she did not forget what she’d heard. Though Istvan had never been a member of the Order, he’d been trained by a member, or one at least known to them, a man important to Feronantus. The arguments of the Brethren’s leader seemed sound, if overly forgiving, but Roger’s words made her uneasy, and now she wondered, was it wisdom that kept Istvan alive or sentimentality?

The matter of where their road took them next was not broached for several days, until Feronantus spoke, addressing Illarion.

“You must guide us through Kiev,” he said.

“Are you mad?” Roger said from where he sat. The Norman was sharpening one of his axes with a whetstone, the rhythmic scraping sound coming to an abrupt halt as he spoke. “Don’t let me be the one to affront our prowess, but it was as much fortune as skill that left only one of us dead just days ago.” At this, he cast a dark glance at Istvan.

“We have a duty,” Percival calmly asserted. His words, however, lacked conviction. The loss of Taran and his horse had shaken the Frank and left him uncertain in a way Cnan had never thought to see him. It was unsettling to witness, and there again was the memory of the sound of his voice in the woods, alone but for her—and Raphael— unknowingly bearing witness.

When he looked her way, she could not meet his eyes.

“We have been seen,” Feronantus said, not ignoring Percival’s statement, but not standing by it either, Cnan noted. “And not by some stripling fool of a Mongol scout, who alone would have been enough to raise alarm. Enough well-blooded warriors have crossed my path to make knowing a wise one easy when I see him. Word of us will travel back to the greater horde, and they will watch us. We need an excuse to be traveling east, so arrayed, one that does not alarm our enemy.”

He leveled world-weary eyes at Percival and for a moment seemed unable to continue. “Percival has spoken to me, of a role required of us in that city, and while I am unable to fully explain the task”—he glanced at Raphael, who nodded slightly, and then looked over at Cnan as if to dare her to speak—“there is another purpose that visiting Kiev may serve; for there, we may learn something of what has been going on in the world as we kept to the wilderness.”

“What task?” Roger asked of Percival.

The knight shook his head. “I do not know,” he said softly, “but I have been given a sign of what it is that I seek.”

“In Kiev?” Roger pressed.

Percival smiled at him, and Cnan’s breath caught in her throat. How could the Norman not see the light shining from his face?

“I still say it’s a mistake,” Roger murmured, still too caught up in his own disillusionment and anger. “If we’ve been spotted, better to put as many miles as we can between them and us. Mongols and their lackeys run thick here, like flies on a corpse.”

“And that will not change from here to the heart of the Khan’s empire,” Eleazar replied in his accented Latin. He had spoken very little since their journey had begun, and Cnan had not gotten used to the quiet way in which he spoke. It was so unlike everything else about him. “I am with Feronantus and Percival—eleven visiting Kiev will be less strange to their eyes than eleven riding east with no reason. Whether or not they guess our errand means nothing. If they follow us closely—and likely they will—we will be slowed regardless of our motives. We must attempt to shake undue suspicion.”

“I can take you there, though I do not know how much we will find,” Illarion said in his low, sad voice. “I have heard only rumors about the fate of Prince Alexander’s city. If they are to be believed, then the city will be little more than a ruin filled with ghosts.” Suddenly a light came to the Slav’s face, and he actually smiled, then nodded toward Feronantus. “I can think of no better place to shake off pursuit.”

They changed their course the next morning. The fresh horses acquired from the fight made travel a little easier, though heat and the humidity evened their score of misery. As day by day they drew imperceptibly nearer to