Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  Who would save me if he wished me dead? For years afterward when he heard Temujin’s voice his stomach contracted and his mouth dried up.

  Now he and Sabotai picked their way through the ruins of the city wall; the grass had grown up over the stones. No stone stood high enough to be seen above the grass. Greener grass in rectangles showed where houses had stood; weeds and wild herbs sprouted in the streets and seeded into the wind that no wall broke. The light was strange, as if the haze diluted it.

  Temujin’s power had lain banked in his eyes: green like this new grass they glowed sometimes in Psin’s dreams and when he woke he spent the following day uncertain and haunted. Even Jebe had flinched before Temujin’s gaze.

  “What are you thinking about?” Sabotai said.

  They had been standing for some time in front of a yurt. Psin mumbled something and dismounted. Sabotai showed the station captain their credentials; he talked to him in a firm cold voice, arranging for a change of horses. Psin walked over to a bush and made water. When he was through he saw that the bush grew up out of a matrix of dry bones.

  The Black Merkits wintered at the southern end of Lake Baikal, on the choice pasture and the teeming forest along the river there. Sidacai had no trouble finding the head camp. Before Temujin had come, the Black Merkits had fought over this pasturage with a clan of Uirats, more numerous and richer; the Merkits had grazed the land for generations, and only that had kept them coming back, year after year, to pay for it in blood. Temujin had given them this land for all time, and now they could stretch their camp along the river basin for three days’ ride.

  Tshant’s yurts stood in a horseshoe bend in the river. Sidacai found them in the middle of the day. Some women were washing; his mother of course wasn’t with them. He rode on past, hearing their laughter and gossiping voices while they sloshed the laundry in the big tubs by the river. Dogs and children and a little flock of piebald goats sprinkled the high grass in the horseshoe. The yurts made an orderly curve along the bank.

  Tshant was always orderly. Sidacai thought of that and wrinkled his nose. He reined in before the biggest of the four yurts and called, “Brother? Will no one welcome the returning warrior?”

  The yurt door was open, and when he dismounted he could see Tshant’s wife, Kerulu, inside sewing felt. She looked over at him. Her bright hair, the hair of Temujin’s family, gleamed in the light from the fire.

  “Tshant,” she called. “Sidacai’s come back.”

  “Ah?”

  Deep inside the yurt something heavy and careless rolled over, grunted, and made its way to the door. Tshant walked stooped out into the sunlight and straightened. He stared at Sidacai.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Brother mine, your welcome is so loving.”

  Tshant snorted. He looked all around the camp and shaded his eyes with his hand to look south. “He didn’t come back with you?”

  A troop of ponies, each carrying a whooping boy, hurtled through the camp, wheeled at the riverside, and swept out again. Sidacai dismounted. “No, he didn’t. The Kha-Khan has sent him to the west.”

  “Oh.” Tshant grimaced. “He was thinking that this winter maybe he could play at being old and unwell.” He turned, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Mother?”

  Sidacai stripped the saddle from his horse. Artai came out of the yurt next to Tshant’s, and Tshant bawled, “The Kha-Khan has sent him to Russia.”

  There was a long pause. Sidacai looked over, across his horse’s back. Artai was standing before her own door, her arms folded over her breast. She was small and her dark hair was stippled with grey; when she was angry her nostrils flared.

  “They use him like an ox,” she said finally. “When will they leave him alone?” She saw Sidacai and her face softened. “Sidacai. At least we got you back in exchange.”

  Tshant had called a slave to take Sidacai’s horse. He called, “Mother, we need salt,” and went back inside his yurt. Sidacai went over to Artai.

  “Now,” she said, “tell me why you’ve come.”

  “The Kha-Khan has ordered Tshant to Russia, too.”

  For a moment her face didn’t change. Abruptly all the fine wrinkles and the deep lines around her mouth creased into a smile. “He can take me, then.”

  “Psin said that he should. And my mother.”

  “Good.” She patted his hand, rising. “Go see her.” She walked back into her own yurt.

  A very young boy on a spotted pony galloped up and skidded to a halt in front of Sidacai. “Who are you?”

  Sidacai looked him up and down. The boy had flamboyant hair and hazel eyes. He wore a brocade coat with gold hooks. “I’m your uncle Sidacai.”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “You’re Djela.”

  “Yes.” The boy grinned. “I know all about you. You’re in the Kha-Khan’s guard and you drink too much. And you’ve not married because my grandfather won’t let you marry anybody but a princess and nobody’s offered him a good enough princess yet for you. I fell off my pony last summer and knocked all my front teeth out.”

  “That’s good.” Sidacai started toward the next yurt, and Djela trotted along beside him.

  “My father says when he goes fighting again he’ll take me with him. When I grow up I’ll speak as many different languages as my grandfather does, maybe even more. I already know how to say horse in Chinese.”

  “Useful.” Sidacai bent to crawl into his mother’s yurt.

  “I have a friend named Dekko, but nobody can see him except me. Muko had twin kids and I was the first one to find them, they have spots and they were awfully little. They’re grown up now, almost.”

  “Good.”

  Sidacai stood up inside his mother’s yurt; Djela had come with him. On the other side of the front room two slaves were fixing a broken chair. One looked up and spoke softly into the back room. Sidacai looked around and sat. The silks and brocades here were as rich as any in Karakorum, including those in the Kha-Khan’s antechamber. The fire burnt in a big iron pot so that no coals or soot got onto the carpet.

  The veil across the door into the front room trembled, and Sidacai’s mother moved into the room. She bowed to Djela, put her cheek gently against Sidacai’s, and settled herself next to him. Her robe was so stiff with gold thread that it bent in sharp angles. Her black hair hung over one shoulder, and the clasp at the nape of her neck held a jewel the size of Sidacai’s thumb. She smelled of regal lilies. Sidacai had never seen a regal lily, but he knew what they smelled like because she had told him. Her hands like ivory leaves lay in her lap before her, soft as a newborn’s, the nails faintly pink. Djela had stopped talking and was staring meekly at her.

  “You come unexpectedly,” Chan said.

  “My father sent me.”

  She nodded, lowering her eyes. Sidacai was always astonished, seeing her after long absences, that she had borne him. She seemed younger than he. “He is well, your father?”

  “Yes. The Kha-Khan has sent him to the west—to Russia.”

  The long eyes regarded him, expressionlessly, before she turned to call one of the slaves. “Bring rice wine for my son.”

  The slave crept out. Chan turned back to Sidacai. “You must be in disfavor, to be sent back here.”

  At the base of her long throat another jewel flashed. Sidacai stared at it. He could not believe that she could cross the northern route to Russia in the winter, that she could endure the snow and the cold. Her wrist was so slender he could have snapped it between thumb and forefinger. “No,” he said. “I am to play khan. Tshant is going to Russia too.”

  The slave returned with the wine. Sidacai hated it but drank it for her sake. She took the jug and the cup and poured it for him.

  “Artai will go, then,” she said, handing him the cup.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me of Karakorum.”

  “Oh, the winds blow, the sands bite.”

  Djela’s mouth was slightly o
pen; he was staring at Chan. Sidacai glanced at him, amused. Chan said, “Djela, surely there are more interesting things outside?”

  “Can’t I—”

  “No. You talk too much.”

  Djela’s shoulders sagged. He left the yurt.

  “He’s a very annoying child,” Chan said. “They treat him as if he were the son of a god.”

  “He doesn’t seem spoiled to me.”

  “Tshant worships him.” Her teeth pressed against her lower lip. “Did he say anything of me?”

  “He wants you to go to Russia with Artai.”

  She scowled. “That will be tedious.”

  “Where is Malekai?”

  “Up the river. He has a new child. I wish you would marry.”

  “My nephew tells me my father wants me to marry a princess, but they’re in short supply.”

  “Your brother married no princess.”

  Sidacai laughed. Malekai had married a Mangghut. “Perhaps I’ll find a Chinese wife.”

  “No. Would you bring another woman to suffer in this barbaric captivity?” She put her hands to her hair, smoothing it down. “I don’t want to go to Russia.”

  “He said—”

  “I know what he said. He said I am to be packed up like a chest and carted off across the steppes and when I get there all my clothes will be filthy and wrinkled.” She undid the clasp in her hair, pulled a long black hair out of the hinge, and did her hair up again.

  “Sidacai.” Tshant thrust his head and shoulders through the door. “Coward.”

  Sidacai jumped. Tshant crawled all the way in and stood up. “I think he built that door small so that no one could come in here without bowing to her.” He jerked his chin at Chan. “You couldn’t tell me to my face that I have to go to Russia. You had to get it to me roundabout.”

  “I never had the chance.”

  Tshant was taller than Psin, taller than Sidacai, but while Psin was massive Tshant was lanky, with ropy muscles and long bones. He sat on his heels and glared. Chan ignored him as if he had never come in.

  “And besides all that I am to escort a troop of women and slaves,” Tshant said. “Still, it may be worth the trouble to see what knots you can tie yourself into, trying to be khan.”

  “You stink,” Chan said. “Get out.” She snapped her fingers at one of the slaves, who handed her a mirror. She turned her level eyes on Tshant until he flushed, looked at herself in the mirror, and ran one forefinger over her cheekbone.

  “I ask your pardon,” Tshant said. “I’m angry.”

  “I dislike you. You remind me of your father. Leave.”

  Tshant backed out, jerking his head at Sidacai to follow him. Sidacai did so. Outside, Tshant said, “I wish I reminded her even more of the old ox.”

  “I shouldn’t try to.”

  “No. Come to my yurt. Between him and Kerulu I don’t dare look at Chan twice in one day. What do you know of the western campaigns?”

  “Mongke’s there.”

  Tshant halted in midstep, settled back slowly onto both feet, and smiled. “Mongke. How enjoyable. Of course. The Kha-Khan’s sent them all to Batu, hasn’t he? To keep them from tearing Karakorum up by the roots. Psin will be gnawing his mustaches.”

  He swung around to look back at Chan’s yurt. Every time he moved, Sidacai jumped, alert to the strength in Tshant’s arms and shoulders. It was like standing next to a stallion. Tshant said, “I’m taking Djela. We’ll ride on ahead. Malekai can escort the women and their baggage. Come inside. I can’t remember much about Russia.”

  He started off again, and Sidacai hopped to catch up. Tshant swore pleasantly under his breath and said, “Mongke. How interesting.”

  Psin cursed steadily. They had ridden all day long under lowering skies, and in the early evening the first storm of the steppes autumn had broken over them. Sleet lay crusted on his horse’s mane, and his mustaches were frozen so that they crackled. He could barely see Sabotai through the driving rain and snow. But the horses were walking quickly, their heads high. Psin shivered. When they had left the last waystation the captain had told them that the Volga camp was only a day’s ride north.

  “Stop out there—stand still!”

  The voice swooped up on the wind. Psin jerked his horse down. Sabotai sidled closer and leaned forward; wet snow caked his coat front.

  “It’s Sabotai and Psin of the Merkits. Who’s there?”

  For a moment the rain lashed at their faces and they heard nothing. Sabotai took a breath to shout again, but before he could a man on foot staggered toward them. He walked up to Psin’s horse and laid one hand on the thick neck.

  “Sabotai?”

  “Here.”

  The man lifted his head. He was not a Mongol; all Psin could see of him was his shape.

  “You’ve reached the Volga camp—we never expected you so soon. Go straight on.”

  “Thank you,” Sabotai said.

  They whipped their horses into a trot. Despite the wind and sleet in their faces, the horses were eager and almost broke into a canter. They had gone hardly a dozen strides before Sabotai’s horse swerved off to avoid running into the stockade wall.

  “I’m freezing,” Psin said. “Which way?”

  “I don’t know,” Sabotai said. He reined back and looked up through the dark. “They hadn’t built the wall when I was here last.” He shouted, but in the wind no one heard.

  “We could die in this damned storm before we found the gate.” Psin wheeled his horse. “Which way does the wind blow on this steppe?”

  “From the north.”

  “No help in that. Come on.” Psin rode off along the wall, headed east.

  The wall made a lee, and the sloppy snow was light on the ground directly under it. Psin’s horse lengthened its stride. They could be going in exactly the wrong direction. But perhaps the wall had more than one gate. Psin ducked his chin in against his chest and pulled his hat down hard over both ears. He could hear Sabotai galloping along just behind him.

  They were veering north again, not in a sharp turn like a good corner but gradually. They’d built the damned wall in a circle. Psin opened his mouth to call to Sabotai, but suddenly his horse dove to the left and stopped dead.

  “What?” Sabotai said, running his horse up alongside Psin’s.

  “Gate.” Psin pointed. The gate was shut; it rose up twice as high as his head. He shouted, “Open this gate,” but there was no answer. Furious, he stood in his stirrups and hammered on the gate with his fist.

  “Who’s there?”

  A shutter clapped open, and a head thrust out through a window in the wall. Psin scraped the ice and snow off his horse’s mane, balled it up, and hurled the ball into the man’s face.

  “Let us in, you fools. Did we come all from Karakorum to die of cold here? Open this dung-eating gate.”

  The gate had begun to open before he finished shouting. Behind it were half a dozen men with lances and bows. Sabotai rode in among them and they recognized him and began to cheer. None of them was Mongol. A torch bloomed and the light spread across their faces—Psin decided that they were Kipchaks or Bulgars, and he almost laughed at the thought that they should cheer Sabotai. His horse jammed its shoulders in between Sabotai’s horse and the gate, so that they could not close it and Sabotai had to move.

  “It’s a foul night,” the sentry said. “You didn’t have to come far, did you?”

  “I’m cold,” Psin said.

  Sabotai kicked his horse. “Yes. Take us to the Khan’s yurt.”

  The gateman started off, trotting on foot down a street that ran due north. Psin could tell the sleet was changing to pure snow from the way it rasped on his cheeks. Sabotai gestured, and he rode over closer to him.

  “This is new-built,” Sabotai said, “but much better in the planning than Karakorum, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t see anything of it. Cities are for burning, not for living in.”

  “There’s a Merkit speaking.”

&n
bsp; The gateman had stopped, up ahead, in front of a smaller gate. This stood open. The wall was man-high and enclosed other buildings. Psin stopped to let Sabotai ride through in front of him, dismissed the gateman, and turned when he had entered to shut the gate.

  No slaves waited in the courtyard. Psin dismounted and held Sabotai’s horse, looking around. “Everyone’s gone to bed.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Psin did also. Lights showed through the slits of windows in the great building before them. “I’ll take the horses. You go in and tell them to put the pots over the fire.”

  “Do you know where the stables are?”

  “I’ll find them.” Psin knotted up his horse’s reins and slapped it on the rump. Sabotai smiled and stamped up the stair to the front door. Psin went off after the trotting horse, leading the other.

  The horse jogged straight to a low barn full of horses. Psin caught him at the door and took both inside. The warmth and the dank rich smell engulfed him. He tugged off his gloves and thrust them into his belt. The horses nuzzled at him, jingling their bits. He unsaddled them, threw the gear under the mangers, and tied each horse to the pole that ran at waist height along the wall.

  All around him the horses stamped and rustled the straw. He rubbed down his two with a wisp of straw, working over them until they were dry. Outside the wind rattled doors and loose shingle; he could hear the snow hissing on the roof. He forked hay from a great heap of it onto the floor in front of his horse and turned to get some for Sabotai’s.

  The door opened, and Mongke, gorgeous in red satin, walked in.

  He stared at Psin, latching the door behind him with one hand.

  “So my uncle sent you, did he?”

  Psin looked him over. Mongke was smaller than he by a full head, and Mongke hated to look up at anybody. Psin went to the hay pile and thrust in the fork.

  “Answer me,” Mongke said.

  The cold still lingered in Psin’s hands. He blew on them, lifted the fork with its mat of hay, and walked back to Sabotai’s horse.

  “Answer me.”

  “Why should I?” Psin dumped the hay and went back for another forkful. The young man in the center of the barn stood rigid, trembling. Psin leered at him. He got more hay; when he threw it in, the horse swished its tail across Psin’s knee.