“He claims to be an old friend of the Khagan’s,” Namkhai rumbled.
“Here? Now?” Chucai scoffed. “The nearest outpost is how many days away?”
“Two, Master Chucai,” the interloper called out. He raised his arm-slowly, so as to not startle the already tense Torguud-and pointed. “In that direction. It used to be an old Merkit village before Temujin and the clans took it over. Do you remember it, Master? Or was that before you came to the Great Khan’s household?”
“The Merkit are no more,” Chucai said. “We are all Mongols now.”
The gray-haired man smiled. “Some of us remember, though, because we were there.”
“Who are you, old man?” Namkhai demanded.
“His name is Alchiq.” Ogedei rode up beside Chucai, and though his face and beard were wet with tears, there was a smile on his face. “He was my father’s man. On one of my first hunts, he helped me carry the meat from my kill back to camp.” His smile became a broad grin. “I thought you were dead.”
“Not dead, my Khan,” Alchiq replied, sparing a withering glance at Chucai as he placed a closed fist over his heart and bowed his head. “Just far away, in the West.”
Ogedei appeared to not notice the glance as he waved his hands at the Torguud surrounding the gray-haired man. “He is an old companion,” he commanded. “Do not treat him as an enemy.”
But he was, Chucai recalled, when you first became enamored of the spoils of the empire. He was one of those who stood at your side-exhorting you to drink, to enjoy the privileges of being the Khan of Khans.
The dissolution had begun with the desire to build Karakorum. Shortly after vanquishing the Jin Dynasty-one of the last conquests left unfinished by his father-Ogedei had decided to build himself an imperial palace, much like those his armies had demolished throughout the Chinese provinces. Chucai could recall the arguments about the foundation of such a fixed camp, and one of the few regrets he had concerning his governance of Genghis’s legacy had been telling Ogedei that Genghis never would have built such a place.
I am not my father, Ogedei had shouted at him, and there had been such finality in those few words, such outrage and such pain, that Chucai knew he had indelibly damaged his relationship with the son of the Great Khan.
And now this man, this gaunt and weather-hardened Mongol, has returned, and in his gaze, Chucai saw an obdurate devotion that had refused to wither. When Alchiq had been exiled from the nascent palace of Karakorum, his only duty-his final duty to his Khagan-had been to go someplace far away, to wander past the edge of the empire and die. Like the decency a dog has when it realizes it is too old to hunt.
While Chucai ruminated on Alchiq’s arrival, Ogedei pushed his way past his sluggish and reluctant Torguud, and warmly clasped Alchiq’s hands in his own. “You have returned at the right time,” the Khagan said, pulling the older man half out of his saddle in an effort to hug him. “You are an omen of good luck, sent by Blue Heaven to bless my hunt.”
“No, my Khan-” Alchiq began. His mouth closed to a narrow line and his nostrils flared as he smelled the wine on the Khagan’s breath.
“Yes!” Ogedei blustered on, ignoring Alchiq’s change of expression. “The hunt!” He turned in his saddle, seeking to make eye contact with Namkhai. “I am done here. I have paid my respects to my father, and the spirits of this place have responded. They have sent me an old friend. They approve of my quest. They approve of me.”
“Of course, my Khan,” Namkhai replied smoothly. He turned in his saddle and, with a quick series of hand gestures, informed the bodyguard of the Khagan’s desire to ride back to the caravan. The riders fanned out into a teardrop formation.
Namkhai is the right choice, Chucai thought, watching the other riders respond to the wrestling champion’s commands. I will inform Ogedei tonight that Namkhai is his new Torguud captain.
“You will dine with me,” Ogedei said to Alchiq. “I will hear of everything that has happened to you in the last few years.”
“There is one thing-” Alchiq started.
“It can wait,” Ogedei said, and with a wild cry, he snapped his reins. His horse leaped to a gallop, and the Torguud followed, smoothly parting around Alchiq, Chucai, and the few Darkhat who had accompanied the Khagan to Genghis’s grave.
Ghaltai, the Darkhat leader, hesitated for a moment, and then he and his men followed the Khagan and his bodyguard, leaving Chucai and Alchiq behind.
Chucai stroked his beard and stared at Ogedei’s old companion, daring Alchiq to lock eyes with him again. The surprise had worn off, and his own mental guard was back up. Exiling Alchiq and the few others who had been a bad influence on the Khagan had been the right decision. They had all been drunks, and he had hoped the shame of the exile would have been enough to give them the requisite excuse to drink themselves to death, but such a supposition had clearly failed in Alchiq’s case.
“He’s still drinking,” Alchiq frowned.
“Yes, he is,” Chucai said. We both failed. He brushed that thought aside as readily-and with the same indifference-as if he was brushing dust from his sleeve. The past is dead; there is only the future of the empire to consider. “Do you recall the penalty for breaking your exile?”
“I do.”
“Then why have you returned?”
“The Khagan is in danger. I–I had to warn him.”
“You could have sent a messenger.”
“Would you have believed a messenger?”
Chucai offered Alchiq a withering smile as his answer.
“That is why I came,” Alchiq said, a fervent finality in his voice. “My duty was clear.”
And so are your eyes, Chucai noted, and the irony of Alchiq finding salvation in exile was not lost on him.
The Darkhat had met the Khagan with a great deal of noisy ceremony when the caravan reached the Kherlen River, two arban of identically clad warriors on splendid horses thundering across the water. Only one of the Darkhat spoke, offering greetings to the Khagan; the rest had sat like imposing statues on their horses, staring into the distance as if they could see the enormity of the empire’s history laid out in the caravan’s wake.
They were meant to be imposing, and Gansukh had noticed the effect their stoic intensity had on a number of the younger Torguud. When the Darkhat had arrived, they had galloped toward the Khagan’s ger without pause, as if they expected the Torguud to get out of their way. The Khagan’s Imperial Guard had moved aside for the oncoming riders, and-just like that-the Khagan’s men had already ceded the mental advantage to the newcomers. Without even realizing it, they had accepted a presumed subordination.
After the Khagan departed for the grave of Genghis Khan with a retinue of his own men and half of the Darkhat riders, Gansukh had had an opportunity to watch the remaining Darkhat as they preceded the caravan to its final destination.
The caravan was being taken to a valley on the southern slope of Burqan-qaldun. It was not-as he had inaccurately assumed-the location of the Sacred Grove that the shaman had spoke of back in Karakorum, but a long meadow that would provide sufficient open ground for the many ger as well as pasture for the horses and running water. The grove itself was closer to the mountain, through a vale of rock and-according to the vague nonanswer offered by one of the Darkhat when Gansukh had inquired-
