The Mongoliad: Book Three

Lena closed her eyes briefly and then opened her hand. “And so it is done,” she said softly. The ring fell into Fieschi’s outstretched hand, and he closed his fingers quickly, before she changed her mind.

“Ho, porter,” she called to the ostiarius standing nearby. “Is that carriage available?”

“My apologies, Lady,” the priest said. “It belongs to the Church.”

“Of course it does,” she said. “But I am sure the Church would put it at my disposal, wouldn’t it, Cardinal Fieschi?”

He started at the sound of her voice. The ring was heavy in his hand, and he wanted to look at it. He wanted to put it on.

But not in her presence.

“What?” he said. “Oh, yes. The carriage.” He waved his other hand at the ostiarius. “Let her have it. Get her out of my sight. Out of Rome.”

Lena curtsied, and the ostiarius hurried to assist her aboard the carriage. As the drover snapped his whip at the horses, Fieschi turned away and hurried up the steps. When he reached the top and passed into the shadow of the broad arch of the doorway, he opened his hand and looked at the ring.

The sigil was two fasces-the staves carried by Roman legates in the time before the Church-but they had been bent so that they appeared to form halves of a sundered omega. The ring had been given to him and not to Castiglione. Gregory IX’s successor. The one who would truly carry on in the spirit of the previous Pope.

Celestine IV will not rule long, Fieschi thought. The ring fit snugly on the small finger of his right hand. And then it will be my turn.

He closed his hand and looked at the ring.

My church.

The sight of Father Rodrigo’s body was horrible, made more so by how his death had come to pass. His eyes remained open, and Ocyrhoe couldn’t bear passing in front of them. She felt like they were still watching her, like part of him was still aware inside the sprawled body. She didn’t know which part of him it was-the befuddled Father Rodrigo who had been kind to her, or the monster that had he had become in the end. She didn’t understand how the transformation had happened, and thus, wasn’t entirely sure that whatever it was that had possessed Father Rodrigo couldn’t animate his dead body.

Ferenc rocked and forth on his knees, weeping profusely, and she didn’t know how to console him. What could she say to him? That the priest had left him no choice? She would have died if Ferenc hadn’t acted, and with each painful breath, she was glad he made the choice he had.

The satchel lay nearby, forgotten, as did the cup. Using the satchel, she scooped up the lackluster cup and closed the bag tight around it. The cup no longer glowed, and she put the idea out of her mind that it had taken on a dull rose tint.

The Emperor had only asked that the priest and the cup be separated, and they had in the most brutal way possible. But what was she supposed to do with it now? Take it back to the Emperor?

The Cardinal would be sending men out to search for Ferenc and Father Rodrigo. She had had a few hours’ head start on the search parties, but the longer she stood here, the closer the men of Rome would get.

I can’t go back, she realized. This is what Lena meant for her to do. The Binder had told her she was ready to leave the city, that she had the skills to survive outside the walls that had been her home. Ocyrhoe didn’t understand how Lena could have anticipated this series of events, but somehow the Binder had known.

What had Lena called her when they had first met? An orba matre. Ocyrhoe didn’t know what that meant, but as she furiously thought about what she was supposed to do, she realized Lena had been speaking from personal experience. She and Lena were the same, albeit at different stages of their lives. With that insight came the understanding that Lena would have never asked anything of Ocyrhoe that she wouldn’t have been willing to do herself.

Ocyrhoe wasn’t alone. There was an unassailable connection between her and the other woman. They were, in fact, bound to one another. “Unencumbered by all,” Ocyrhoe whispered, and shivered as she felt the words were being spoken elsewhere at the same moment.

She knew what she had to do.

She touched Ferenc lightly, and he spooked at her touch. He looked at her, his face puffy and his eyes red from crying, and her heart ached at the sight of his suffering. How she wished she could ease it. Using soothing words and a light touch, she talked to him, explaining what had to be done.

They didn’t have the tools to bury the priest’s body, and Father Rodrigo deserved better than to be dragged into the hills by scavengers. His body needed to go back to Rome, and someone needed to go with it. Someone like Ferenc.

Eventually, he nodded, understanding what she wasn’t telling him, and he rose from his kneeling position and set about taking care of the priest’s body. Moving dead weight was much harder than she imagined it could be, but between them they got Father Rodrigo’s body across the saddle of one of the two horses Frederick had given them.

Ferenc helped her to mount her own horse, and once she was in the saddle she put the satchel carefully into one of her saddlebags and made sure the flap was securely tied down. She looked down at Ferenc. “My friend…” Her voice was but a whisper, the bruised muscles of her neck twitching with a new dismay. She didn’t want to say good-bye…

She touched her waist and pointed to his, indicating that he should give her his knife. Blinking back tears, he complied, unsure of what she intended to do. She felt in her tangled hair for the braided piece, the one with the knots he had recognized when they had first met. She separated the strand, and cut it with a quick jerk of his knife.

He accepted her gift, kissing the back of her hand as he did, and he did not try to stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks. He shook his head when she tried to give back the knife, offering her the sheath as well.

“Okay,” she said, pressing the sheathed knife to her lips. “It will keep me safe.”

Ferenc nodded, a brave expression on his face, and then he turned and leaped up onto the third mount with a nimbleness that amazed her. With a final sad smile, he leaned over and gathered the reins of the horse that carried Father Rodrigo. He clicked to the horses and they began a slow walk. Back toward the Emperor’s camp. Back toward Rome.

She watched them for a moment, until the sight of them became too much to bear, and she turned her gaze in the opposite direction. She had absolutely no idea where the road led. That part of her mind that had, in Rome, been an exquisitely detailed, crowded map was now blank parchment. Fresh and unmarked, waiting to reveal itself to her.

And she knew it would.

She pressed her heels against her horse’s side, nudging him forward on the unknown road.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

The Death of a Boy

The sky above Hunern was alight with purple, gold, red, and orange-the sort of sunset that would cause a bard to spontaneously break out into song. But the beauty of the sun was lost on Hans. He wandered through the ruins of the Mongol camp as if in a dream. The painted sky was as unreal to him as the whimpering cries of the wounded and dying.

The scavengers of Hunern were beginning to converge, the bravest had already crept through the open gate and begun looting the bodies of the dead Mongols. Others would follow, timorous rodents that would strip the tents