Frederick fingered a ginger curl near his temple, squinting at the board. He had never played against himself before, and the game had taken on an interesting perspective when he knew all the moves he was going to make.
A shadow crossed the board and he looked up, hoping that the Cardinal had decided to visit after all. A broad smile creased his face when he saw who it was instead. “Good afternoon, Léna,” he said. “You have arrived in the nick of time. I have not been able to figure out how to lure myself into exposing my queen.”
The Binder approached the table and sat down on the camp stool opposite him. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” she responded. She put her hand over the queen on her side—the black one—and the links of a silver chain spilled out of her palm, draping around the shoulders of the chess piece.
Frederick stared at the silver chain. Its links had been separated in one spot. “You delivered your message,” he said somewhat curtly.
“I did,” she said.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
She put her head to one side, gazing with a look normally reserved for recalcitrant children. Frederick sighed. “I don’t understand why you had to actually help the Cardinal. It’s only going to give him an incentive to act outrageously, which is only going to make him more dangerous. Especially if he decides to follow through with his threat of becoming Pope.”
“He will,” Léna said. She moved a black rook, taking one of the white pawns. “Besides, would you have trusted me, as a Binder, if I failed to deliver that message?”
Frederick grunted in reply, staring at the board. He fingered a knight, debating whether he should take the rook that Léna had just exposed. It was a trap, he suspected, and he tried to extrapolate the possible responses.
“You should have more faith,” Léna said with a smile.
Frederick snorted. “That is easy for you to say.” He decided against moving his knight and shoved a pawn forward instead. It wasn’t threatening her rook directly, but in another move, it could.
“You sent the girl after the priest,” Léna pointed out.
“I did, though it ran counter to every fiber of my being.”
“Such is the nature of faith,” Léna countered.
“It isn’t something I wish to make a habit of,” he said.
“I shall try not to ask Your Majesty to make such sacrifices too often,” she demurred, moving a pawn to protect her rook.
“She’ll be hunted,” Frederick said, sounding regretful. He moved one of his bishops. “By everyone, from champions to madmen, saints to villains. And once your kin-sisters find out she went rogue, they won’t shelter her. She’s going to be entirely on her own.”
Léna sobered. “I am aware of that, and I regret it. There was no other way.”
“Your kin-sisters won’t be pleased if they learn of your hand in this, either.”
Léna stiffened very slightly, but recovered quickly enough. She reached for the pawn in front of her queen, advancing it toward Frederick’s side of the board. “He freed me,” she said. “When I gave him the ring.”
“What do you mean?” Frederick asked.
“In return for the ring, I asked him to set me free. Unencumbered by all.”
Frederick shook his head. “You are out of your fucking mind, woman,” he said.
She got up from her stool and came around to his side of the table, kneeling beside him so that her head was slightly lower than his. “I had to if I am going to help you.” She dipped her head slightly. “You won’t tell my sisters, will you?”
Frederick looked at her and grinned. “Not I. My lips are sealed.”
Léna smiled. “I know,” she said, and leaned forward to kiss him.
At night, when the sky was filled with stars, she would be tempted to unwrap the bundle in her satchel. But, more often than not, she resisted the urge.
Instead, she would wrap her thin blankets more tightly around her narrow shoulders and try to make herself more comfortable on the hard ground. It had taken some time for her to get used to sleeping out in the open, but she was making the adjustment. It was a matter of practice.
Like so many things she had been forced to learn since she had fled Rome.
Ocyrhoe didn’t know where she was going. That much had been true when she had said good-bye to Ferenc. She had never been outside the walls of the city that had raised her. The world was a vast blankness to her, an empty map that had only one landmark, and she was moving farther and farther away from that spot on the map.
When the nights were especially cold and when the sky was too vast and bright with stars, she would relent and retrieve the cup from her satchel. She would hug it against her chest, the gold slowly warming against her body. The idea of selling it or throwing it into a crevice or a river never crossed her mind.
If she spit in it, it would catch the light of the stars. She would wrap her blankets over her head, blocking out all the light except for the glow coming from the cup.
She tried very hard not to rely on the cup’s light or warmth to feel safe, but the nights when she feel asleep hugging the Grail were the nights she was without fear or anxiety. Those were the nights when she knew what she had to do.
From a vantage point near the top of a narrow ridge, Gansukh watched the Skjaldbræður ride west. There were seven of them, including the young Northerner. There were three women in the group, one of whom was Lian.
He didn’t know why she was with them, though a number of ugly reasons had flitted through his head more than once since they had picked up the Skjaldbræður trail.
The black-haired man who had been one of the two archers on the day the Khagan died was not among the seven, and Gansukh continued to puzzle over that man’s absence—as well as the absence of the other one, the grizzled veteran who led them. His body had not been accounted for either.
They had left two behind: the tall archer whom he and Alchiq had brought down, and another one—the wielder of the immense sword. Gansukh couldn’t believe such a blade could actually be swung, but the presence of several legless ponies near the man’s body had suggested otherwise.
The Skjaldbræður made little effort to hide themselves as they rode, and Gansukh wondered if it was arrogance that allowed them to think themselves invisible and invincible to any roving group of Mongol tribesmen or simply that they did not know where they were going. West was easy enough; they followed the track of the sun across the sky, reorienting themselves in the afternoon.
They were going home. They had accomplished what they came to do.
Having satisfied his curiosity as to the location and condition of the Skjaldbræður party, he climbed over the ridge and returned to his horse. He had shot several rabbits, and his stomach grumbled noisily at the thought of fresh meat for dinner. He rode north, losing himself in the endless grasslands of the steppe, until he reached the narrow stream. He followed it awhile, fording it at a place where it bent back on itself.
The camp was on the lee of a small rise, sheltered from the wind. His horse nickered as he approached, and he heard an answering call from the other horse.
Alchiq looked up from where he sat beside the fire, his leather jerkin in his lap, needle and thread in his hand.
Gansukh tossed the rabbits on the ground. “Still heading west,” he reported as he slid off his horse and went about taking off the saddle.
Alchiq nodded as he tied his thread, biting it off, and packed up his sewing kit. “Is she still with them?”
Gansukh began brushing his horse down. “She is.”
“Still think she didn’t betray us?”
And when Gansukh didn’t reply, Alchiq chuckled and began dressing the rabbits. “They’ll lead us to it,” he said. “And when we find the Spirit Banner, you can do whatever you like.”
HERE ENDS THE MONGOLIAD: BOOK THREE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ERIK BEAR
Thanks to my family, to my friends, and to everyone who’s fought alongside
me on this book both metaphorically and literally. Thanks to all the other writers, especially Mark, for working harder than any one person should. Thanks to my dad and my grandpa, for guiding me down the path of writing.
GREG BEAR
It’s been terrific working with all of these fine writers, clashing steel in the mornings under Neal’s guidance, then quaffing coffee and breakfasting out of pink boxes of muffins while plotting at a mad pace... watching Mark outline and organize chapters on our blackboard while Joe and Cooper paced and swung and flashed their blades, shooting ideas back and forth with Neal across our writers’ table, talking across the continent with Nicole (and wickedly offering her virtual muffins), collaborating with son Erik on both fight strategies and chapters... while we all ventured on foot and horseback through untold carnage and across wide plains of rippling grass, straight into the fabulous territories of Harold Lamb, Talbot Mundy, and Robert E. Howard. Thanks to all for the amazing experience!
JOSEPH BRASSEY
To Neal Stephenson, who gave me my shot, I hope I’ve made you proud. To Mark Teppo, who beat my prose with a stick until it was pretty. To Greg, Erik, Cooper, Nicole, and everyone else at Subutai. To Tinker, who taught me to always add violence and put my feet on the path. To Ken and Rob at Fort Lewis, for opening my mind to new possibilities. To my lovely wife and my patient parents, who have always supported me. To my little sister and every friend I’ve had along the way who believed this could happen. Dreams come true. This is for you.
NICOLE GALLAND
Much gratitude to Mark, Neal, Greg, Cooper, Joe, and Erik for the lively trip we’ve all taken together—especially for keeping the Skype signal open over the miles, even with all those crickets. A special thank-you to Liz Darhansoff. And a nod to everyone involved in the brief, ineffable existence of E. D. DeBirmingham.
COOPER MOO
Heartfelt thanks to my family for their support: my wife, Mary; our children Keagan, Connor, and Haven; and my parents, Jan and Greg Moo. A debt of gratitude is owed every member of the writing team, particularly Neal for his leadership and Mark for his editorial guidance. I raise a bowl of airag to you all!
NEAL STEPHENSON
Thanks to Mark Teppo, the centripetal force.
MARK TEPPO
This project began when someone asked that eternal question that every storyteller loves to hear: “So what happened next?” I don’t think any of us realized the full scope of what Foreworld would be (and it is still very much in its infancy), but I am exceptionally grateful to have had this creative team—Erik, Greg, Cooper, Nicole, Joseph, and Neal—during this journey. I’d also like to thank Karen Laur, Jason Norgaar, and Neal Von Flue for the character portraits they provided, as well as the entire mongoliad.com community that ventured into the shiny future with us. Jeremy Bornstein and Lenny Raymond took care of us in that eternally unrecognized way that infrastructure people do; thank you, gentlemen. Fleetwood Robbins provided a keen editorial eye, offering a great perspective on the final arrangement of these words. Also, a nod to Emm, whose constant and unflagging support matters. So very much.
Tinker Pierce, Gus Trim, and Guy Windsor provided a great deal of useful insight and instruction as to the western martial arts. Additionally, Ellis Amdur and Aaron Fields offered fantastic commentary on all matters relating to the martial arts of thirteenth-century Japan. These five gentlemen are true scholars in their fields, and any creative license taken with the arts they study is entirely our own.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Neal Stephenson is primarily a fiction author and has received several awards for his works in speculative fiction. His more popular books include Snow Crash, The Diamond Age, Cryptonomicon, The Baroque Cycle, and Anathem.
Greg Bear is the author of more than thirty books, spanning the thriller, science fiction, and fantasy genres, including Blood Music, Eon, The Forge of God, Darwin’s Radio, City at the End of Time, and Hull Zero Three. His books have won numerous international prizes, have been translated into more than twenty-two languages, and have sold millions of copies worldwide.
Nicole Galland is the author of I, Iago, as well as The Fool’s Tale, Revenge of the Rose, and Crossed: A Tale of the Fourth Crusade. An award-winning screenwriter, she is married to actor Billy Meleady and, unlike all her handsome and talented co-writers, spends no time at all hitting people with sticks in Seattle.
Mark Teppo is the author of the Codex of Souls urban fantasy series, the hypertext dream narrative The Potemkin Mosaic, and the eco-thriller, Earth Thirst.
Joseph Brassey lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and two cats. He teaches medieval fighting techniques to members of the armed forces. The Mongoliad is his first published fiction.
Erik Bear lives and writes in Seattle, Washington. He has written for a bestselling video game and is currently working on several comic book series.
Cooper Moo spent five minutes in Mongolia in 1986 before he had to get back on the train—he never expected to be channeling Mongolian warriors. In 2007 Cooper fought a Chinese long-sword instructor on a Hong Kong rooftop—he never thought the experience would help him write battle scenes. In addition to being a member of The Mongoliad writing team, Cooper has written articles for various magazines. His autobiographical piece “Growing Up Black and White,” published in the Seattle Weekly, was awarded Social Issues Reporting article of the year by the Society of Professional Journalists. He lives in Issaquah, Washington, with his wife, three children, and numerous bladed weapons.
Neal Stephenson, The Mongoliad: Book Three
(Series: The Foreworld Saga # 3)
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