He slammed the door behind him, cutting off the sight of his worthless men. Sinking into his private chair, he pressed his fingers against his forehead and massaged his hot skin.
Without a word, the tavern owner scuttled over and rooted around on the floor for Dietrich’s discarded tankard. Finding the vessel, he put it on the table, and with a trembling hand, he poured a full measure. Dietrich waited until the man had finished before he swung his arm and knocked the tankard flying. Ale spattered the nervous man, and his tongue flickered against his flaccid lips.
“Do you really expect me to drink from a dirty tankard?” Dietrich inquired, a deadly stillness in his voice. Shivering with fear, the tavern owner darted off to find a more suitable drinking vessel. Dietrich sank back in his chair, fingers on his forehead again.
* * *
Returning to the chapter house on horseback was both swifter and more exhilarating than a slow trudge through the woods, and Andreas caught up with the younger members of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae not far from the ruins of Koischwitz. This was what they were meant to do, and what the order excelled at: decisively besting better armed or armored men in combat, riding wild across open lands on the horses taken from their defeated enemies, and reveling in the intoxicating freedom that came from openly defying a foe who thought their order weak and complacent. Such a victory as they had accomplished would restore the morale of the others and would serve to remind them all what their roles in this world were. The assembled mass of their enemies could rise against them, and all it would take to beat them back was a strong arm and a strong will. We have been idle too long, Andreas thought, laughing into the wind. We have forgotten who we are.
Passing into the sanctuary of the woods, their horses slowed to a steady trot as the track became narrow. Andreas inhaled deeply, sucking in the scented air of the woods to calm his racing heart. Though the thrill of besting the Livonians was still bright in his blood, it was dangerous to let such enthusiasm guide him completely. He must retain some clarity as to what might follow from this victory. It was a minor skirmish in a much larger campaign, and his enemy—for all his clumsy senselessness—would adapt to his plans.
As his heart’s rapid drumbeat slowed, Andreas took in the richness of the forest. An endless number of drifting motes outlined beams of sunlight that cut between the trees like blessings from Heaven.
We are these specks of dust, he reflected, and it is the design of the Divine Light that brings us together. We cannot see the whole of the Light, but in our passing, we give it form.
It was an idea not unlike an old story he had once heard at Petraathen, one of the oft-told tales that spoke of the Shield-Brethren’s origins.
Andreas paused near the jagged trunk of an old tree, felled long ago by ill weather. Even from the height of his saddle, the place where the crowning branches had been snapped off rose well above his head, and the stump carved a gnomon’s shadow out of the sunlight flowing through the hole in the forest canopy above. Even dead, the old tree seemed eternal, and Andreas was a minute speck drifting in its sheltering shade.
Folk legends made the forest a fearful place, home to evil spirits, and only the truly capable or the desperate braved the woods. In daylight, staring up at the ragged trunk, Andreas was reminded of the wonder and the fear he’d not felt for years; the tree, though no longer growing, was still alive, covered in a stippled pattern of moss, its jutting, broken heartwood the host to all manner of small creatures. Insects buzzed in the shade, a low thrum beneath the celestial chorus of hidden birds. Andreas closed his eyes, and this world of faint voices opened up to him, a mystical realm that could only be heard when all the voices spoke at once.
Styg’s horse ambled past him, the young man’s leg brushing his as the horses jostled, and Andreas put aside his meditative calm. As he flicked the reins, his eyes fell on the roots of the jagged tree. They lay exposed, contorted like a mass of thick vines around a piece of aged granite too massive to be sundered by their persistent and perpetual grip. He saw the tree now as a pillar of stone, retained by loyal roots. In his thoughts, stone and tree coexisted.
As they rode on, he locked away the image in his heart.
They would soon be at the chapter house. Perhaps he would tell Rutger about the tree and the stone—maybe even speak of the hidden sanctuary that belonged to Hans and the other ragged boys of Hünern. Though, he suspected Rutger would be more intent on castigating him for the encounter with the Livonians and the horses.
But they were very nice horses.
12
Preparations
ÖGEDEI STIRRED AND opened one eye fully. His hand unconsciously started to grope for the low table on his immediate right. The enormous cup Gansukh had given him stood on the table, half full of pale wine.
“You wanted me to tell you about the caravans from Onghwe,” Gansukh reminded the Khagan.
Ögedei sat up, licking his lips. He squinted at Gansukh as his questing hand found the cup. “What did my son send?” Ögedei’s hand shook slightly as he gulped the wine. Gansukh ignored how the Khagan’s eyes twitched in his direction. I am making him aware of his weakness.
“Tribute,” Gansukh said. “Spoils from the lands of Rus and...” He hesitated, unsure how the Khagan would react to the news. “He sent fighting men, captives from some competition that he holds.”
Master Chucai had given him a brief explanation of the arena that Onghwe would erect during the months when the Mongol army was laying siege to foreign strongholds. While he understood the strategy of such an activity, and part of him was even curious as to what it would be like to compete in such a tournament, he found the idea unbecoming of a Mongol. A sure sign of the Empire’s increased dissolution and its departure from the true path given to the Mongolian people by the Blue Wolf.
“How many men?” Ögedei asked.
“Twelve, and the guards say the red-haired one is bigger than two men. Bigger than General Subutai, even.”
“Not likely,” Ögedei laughed. “And even if he were, his talents would be unlike the General’s. Subutai’s genius is not in hand-to-hand combat.” He raised the cup again, but then he changed his mind and lowered it without drinking. Stealthily, he glanced at Gansukh’s hand, the motion of a nervous and guilty child. Gansukh’s hands were empty; he hadn’t brought a bottle with him. “What of the others?” he sighed, sinking his chin into his chest.
“Christians and one Muslim. I do not know what countries they call home. One has yellow-white hair and very pale eyes. A Northerner.”
“Fighters?”
“Yes, my Khan, that is my understanding. Some of them were victorious at your son’s arena.”
“Fights to the death?”
“All but one.” In response to Ögedei’s raised eyebrow, Gansukh explained. “The Northerner fought Onghwe’s ronin. At the end of the fight, the Northerner had taken the ronin’s naginata and could have killed him with it, but chose to spare his life instead.”
Ögedei stared at the Spirit Banner. “Interesting,” he murmured.
Gansukh had heard stories of the warriors from the islands that lay beyond China. More demon than man, the stories went, so impervious to fear that even the Chinese would think twice about facing even a modest army of these skilled swordsmen. A ronin was a disgraced warrior, a man who had lost his lord and who wandered those islands like a ghost, beholden only to his blade. That Onghwe had such a man in his stable of fighters was almost too incredible to believe; that the pale Northerner, almost a ghost himself, had apparently bested the man further beggared belief. Gansukh was inclined to dismiss everything he had heard from the caravan guards as wild rumors, the sort of exaggerated storytelling to which men, bored into foolishness by the tedium of their long journey, would fall prey.
However, the detail that the Northerner had shown mercy to the ronin had piqued his curiosity as well.
“What else?” Ögedei said, his attention drifting. “What other tribute has my son sent? Wine f
rom foreign lands?”
Gansukh nodded, his heart sinking. “Yes, my Khan.” As far as he knew, Ögedei was honoring his wish about the cup—restricting himself to but a single full vessel a day—but he worried that such self-control was a tenuous arrangement, one that could be put aside in an instant. Gansukh wished they would leave Karakorum already. The journey to Burqan-qaldun would offer many distractions—including these fighters. While they remained here, Ögedei had nothing to do but brood.
Gansukh did not know how to fight brooding. Nor, he feared, did the Khagan.
* * *
Lian sat on her sleeping platform, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees. On the floor of her room was a large leather bag, half filled with clothing and other items she should take. But the task had become overwhelming, and she had retreated to the safety of her bed. She stared sightlessly out the tiny window of her room, oblivious to the changing colors of the clouds as the sun set.
She was reliving the night of her failed escape. Everyone had been swept up in the celebration of Tolui’s memorial, and she had tried to slip away. But she had run into the guards in the alley, and the experience had made it all too clear to her that her plan had been incredibly foolish.
Running into the guards had been a fortuitous accident. Only after she had escaped them and returned to her chambers had she realized how much a blessing their drunken advances had been. Had they been less—or more—besotted, she could have been raped; had they realized her plan, they probably would have killed her. While her quick thinking and courage had played a large part in saving her from such a horrible fate, she could not ignore how the threat of Master Chucai’s displeasure had helped as well. If she did escape to the steppes outside Karakorum, she would lose the privilege of that security. She would be even more vulnerable, and in some ways, being attacked by marauders would be the most pleasant fate she could hope for.
Lian let her chin drop to her knees. The memory of the men in the alley had vanished, swept aside by a tumbling flood of older memories. Sights and sounds and sensations from when she was a child, when her family was still alive. She wiped angrily at her eyes, shoving aside the memories and the tears that threatened to spill. No, I must think. I must plan.
She needed an accomplice, a warrior who could protect her. But could she convince Gansukh to help her? Could she convince him to betray his Khagan and his tribe? He was fiercely proud of being a Mongolian warrior, and she admired how fervently he clung to the hoary principles of his culture, but she had seen flaws in his devotion. He was beginning to wonder what part he played in the changing Empire. Could the sparks of his discontent be fanned into outright rebellion? How far would he be willing to go for her?
Could she...seduce him? Would that be enough? There was a certain amount of pleasure in that idea—pleasure that had little to do with the actual necessity of her plan—and she toyed with the idea for a moment.
The Khagan’s trip to Burqan-qaldun would take several weeks. The immense caravan of the Khagan’s entourage would distract the Imperial Guard; it would be her best chance to escape. This time, I cannot falter. I must do whatever it takes.
Her resolve restored, she returned her attention to the tedious task before her—packing. Chucai had provided her with a large travel bag, and once it was fully packed, it would be far too large for her to carry by herself, one of Chucai’s little reminders: she enjoyed a great deal of freedom, but that freedom was also a burden. She could, if she so desired, divest herself of a number of her robes as well as many of the lotions, oils, and powders she relied upon, but to do so would be to give up the tools she needed to be something other than a simple chamber slave. Her value to Master Chucai could be readily accounted in the profusion of silks that overflowed the travel bag.
If I left everything, I could fit in this bag, she thought, idly stuffing a poorly folded green silk robe into the gaping mouth of the bag. She had a vision of Gansukh riding away from the Khagan’s caravan, the leather bag thrown across his saddle, her bare feet protruding from the gathered mouth of the bag. I would be free.
Absently toying with the partially packed robe, she let her gaze roam about the room. What was more important? All the trappings of her prison, or freedom? She could earn money—somehow—and buy new robes. They wouldn’t be as fine as these, but what did that matter? The oils and lotions she would miss, but she had lived without them before. When the Mongols had conquered Qingyuan, she had lost everything. She had been just another frightened prisoner, a foreign woman to be shared among the rapacious Mongol warriors until she was nothing more than a dry and broken husk. She had caught Master Chucai’s attention, and it hadn’t been because of fine clothes or her painted face or the way she smelled. It had been her bearing and her tongue that had saved her, two things that could not be taken from her.
If she left everything, she would still be Lian, and that had been enough to save her once before.
Her roaming gaze fell on the small satchel she used to carry her teaching materials. It had a shoulder strap, a critical necessity, as it would leave her hands free. Could she climb or ride a horse or fight if she was carrying a bag? Shaking her head, she started to sift through the detritus of her belongings. She could leave it all, but that was what a terrified slave girl would do. She was not that girl. Sturdy shoes, a waterskin, food. She started to assemble a few critical things. Jewelry can be traded.
* * *
Dawn began to recolor the peaks of the palace roof, and Master Chucai watched the light drip down the glazed tiles. It would be another hour before the light warmed the glade in the Khagan’s gardens where he stood. He was not chilled, however; he had begun his qi exercises when the roosters in the camps outside the palace walls had started crowing, and he would be done long before sunlight reached the balconies on the upper floor of the palace.
He had slept very little in the past few weeks. The Khagan’s decision to go to Burqan-qaldun presented a number of logistical problems, and all of his time was devoted to organizing the expedition so that it could leave as soon as possible. Three weeks had passed already, and the Khagan’s patience was starting to become very brittle.
The Khagan’s drinking had lessened, and Master Chucai had congratulated Gansukh on his small victory, but neither man wished to lose the ground he had gained.
Chucai folded his long frame in half, bending impossibly far forward while keeping his legs stiff. His outstretched arms slowly scooped out and up as if he were gathering a large tiger in his arms. His fingers stiff, hands pointing toward the dawn-painted palace, he slowly lifted one foot and stepped under the imaginary tiger in his hands as if he were shifting it to his shoulders. His qi extended deep into the ground, balancing him as he shouldered the imaginary weight of the full-grown tiger. He rotated his hips, lifting his other foot and stretching it toward the southern wall of the garden. He held the pose until the muscles in his lower back quivered, mentally reciting several sets of the questions and answers that the Yellow Emperor put forth in his Inner Canon—questions that were meant to facilitate a cleansing of his mind and body in conjunction with the qi exercises.
After thorough consideration of the Yellow Emperor’s insights, he turned his shoulders and raised his arms. The tiger became an enormous stork, and he stretched to his full height in a stiffened parody of the bird’s own motion as it leaped into flight. He inhaled until his lungs were swollen with air; as he exhaled, he relaxed his arms and let his leg come back to the ground.
Only then did he acknowledge the fidgeting slave who had been standing nearby since before dawn had breached the eastern horizon. “Yes?”
“Master,” the slave bowed, “Mistress Lian has given me her travel trunk, and I have loaded it with the rest of your household.”
Chucai undid the ties on the sleeves of his robe, letting them down. “Did you examine it?”
“Yes, Master. Nothing but clothes and all the other things a woman carries with her.”
Chuca
i nodded absently. No food or money. No sign that she was harboring a plan to flee. He waved the slave away. Nevertheless, he would keep an eye on the Chinese woman. She had been in his household a long time, and he knew all her moods. She was hiding something from him, and while he suspected it was nothing more than a foolish infatuation with Gansukh, he was not entirely confident there wasn’t something else on her mind.
She was an intelligent woman, and she had a certain animal cunning that he knew better than to dismiss. If he were in her place, he would consider escaping during the trip to Burqan-qaldun. It would be the best time.
Chucai left the pastoral embrace of the garden, his mental energies restored by the rigors of his qi meditation. The garden was a placid calm within the swollen chaos of the palace grounds. Walking toward the main courtyard, he reentered the bedlam of the court’s preparations.
The activity that filled the courtyard was not unlike a city marshaling for war.
Hundreds of people swarmed the courtyard, jostling and yelling at one another. What had once been an orderly attempt at a long column of carts had collapsed into a confused mass. Supplies were being thrown, hauled, shoved, and haphazardly stacked in a frenzied effort to get everything packed on top of something with wheels. Crates of dried fruit and meat; barrels of airag, arkhi, and wine; bags of clothing and furnishings; medical supplies; the heavy bundles of dismantled ger; weapons—all manner of goods needed to sustain the hundreds of travelers who would be going with the Khagan.
Six hundred and four. Chucai knew the exact number, just as he knew how many barrels of arkhi and crates of dried meat were being loaded as well.
Six hundred and nine, actually, if one were to count the prisoners from Onghwe, but the Khagan, in a moment of lucidity a few days ago, had reminded him that these men would not be traveling any farther than Burqan-qaldun.
At the center of this activity was the Khagan’s wheeled ger. The hides stretched tightly over its wooden frame had been painted white, and the morning light made them glow. A team of eight oxen shifted impatiently, and behind the ger, six supply carts were being frantically readied.