Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

The ice storm ended before dawn. When the sun came up the glare nearly blinded them. Every tree, every bush was cased in ice that glittered and changed color in the sun. The wind rattled the branches, and shards of ice fell onto their heads and shoulders. The footing was so slick the horses would not move out of a slow walk.

  All that day, and for the three days after it, they stopped only to change horses and drink from streams, never to sleep or eat. Whenever they saw towers shining in the icy trees, they rode wide circles around them; they ran off the cattle from a village near their trail and butchered them and singed the meat and ate it, but they didn’t make a camp until they reached the Hungarian steppe.

  Tshant came into the yurt, scowling, and Kerulu gestured to one of the slaves to take him kumiss. He sank down on the couch and began to pull off his socks and boots. Djela trotted in, glanced at his father, and without a word circled around him and came over to Kerulu.

  “He’s angry. Is it because of the horses?”

  Kerulu shook her head. Two nights before wolves from the hills had scattered the horse herd, and the men from the camp were still collecting them; the horses had drifted almost as far east as the Danube. Ever since they’d come to this district they’d had trouble with wolves.

  She picked up the felt she was cutting and measured it against Djela’s back. Whatever was bothering Tshant had nothing to do with loose horses. “Go out and play,” she said to Djela.

  “Play,” he said. “I’m too old to play.” He walked, very straight, to the door. Tshant was gulping down kumiss; he dropped the cup onto the carpet and sprawled on the couch with his arms behind his head. She picked up the baby and took it out to the cradle at the head of the couch.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Psin is back.” He stared at the ceiling.

  She tied the baby into the cradle. “Oh.” Psin hadn’t let him go on the big raid into Poland. Maybe that was what it was. “Is he coming here?”

  “He’ll be here to sleep tonight.”

  “And you’ve found out about Batu’s offer, haven’t you.”

  “Yes. I have. Everybody knew about it but me.”

  “Don’t cry,” she said. “We still love you.”

  “Do I sound like that?”

  She threw him a smile over her shoulder. “Yes. If you’d feel better for it, I had to worm it out of Artai.”

  “Don’t you think I ought to know about such things?” He took her by the wrist and laid her hand against his cheek.

  “I decided not long after I married you that I’d never take sides between you and your father.” She sat down beside him. “I don’t plan to now.”

  “When I see him I’m going to lose my temper.”

  She frowned. When he spoke so softly, he was more trouble than when he ranted. She put her head down on his chest. “Is it warm out?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Have you got all the horses back?”

  “I think so.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “I am.”

  She sighed. He was stroking her shoulder, absently, and the silk began to chafe her skin. The baby gurgled. His baby, not hers. Artai had said that Psin never thought about her and Chan on campaign. How did she know? She said that it was good, in a way. They thought of nothing but fighting. Kerulu had heard, in the camp, stories of how Tshant had fought at the siege of the Hungarian city Gran—they said he had driven his men like a wind at their backs, straight into the faces of the defenders.

  Djela said, “Grandfather’s here.”

  Tshant’s fingers clenched around her shoulder. She wrenched free, and he looked at her, amazed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He got up and barefoot went out the door.

  Kerulu plunged after him. The full sunlight hurt her eyes. Tshant was walking slowly toward the middle of the camp, where Psin sat on his dun horse, talking to three men on foot. He lifted his eyes toward Tshant. The men looked around and backed off, saluting. Psin straightened, and the dun turned its head and scratched its shoulder with its teeth.

  “Was it a good raid?” Tshant said. He was only four or five strides away from Psin.

  “Good enough.” Psin looked toward Kerulu. She pressed her hands into fists against her thighs; she would not warn him. The look on Tshant’s face was warning enough. It was cool but she was sweating.

  “I heard something of you and Batu,” Tshant said pleasantly. He was close to Psin; he put one hand on the dun’s nose, and the horse pinned its ears back. “I heard you could make yourself rich, if you wish.”

  Psin’s mouth twisted. He dropped his rein on the dun’s thick mane, threw one leg over the pommel of the saddle, and slid down. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He started toward Kerulu, leading the horse.

  Tshant stepped in front of the dun, and the horse stopped dead to keep from treading on him. Psin jerked around at the end of the rein. Tshant said, “You’ll talk about it to me.”

  Psin turned to face him. Kerulu’s mouth was dry. She had never noticed how Psin’s bulk made Tshant look slender. They faced each other—Psin’s back was to her, but she could see Tshant’s face settle into hard angles.

  “I’m tired,” Psin said. “I’m really not up to arguing with you. I’m not going to talk about anything in the open, either.”

  “Will you accept it?”

  “I haven’t decided. And it’s mine to decide, not yours. Get away from my horse.”

  Tshant did not move. Psin’s huge shoulders hunched, as if he were coiling himself. Kerulu almost heard his temper snap. He flung the rein to Tshant and said, “Tend him, then.” He turned and walked toward Kerulu. His eyes were blazing. If he saw her at all he gave no sign of it.

  In two leaps Tshant reached him, and his arm swung out to turn Psin around. Psin whirled. He ducked under Tshant’s arm; his fist drove across the space between them. Tshant wobbled back. Psin leaned to one side and tripped him.

  The men watching gasped. Tshant landed on his back in the mud. The dun horse, reins trailing, stood with its ears pricked watching. Tshant got slowly to his feet. He wasn’t hurt, only collecting himself. Kerulu took a deep breath.

  Djela said, “Don’t worry, Ama. They always fight.”

  She jerked her eyes around to stare at him. He was sitting on his heels, watching without concern. She looked back at the men. They were circling, their arms loose at their sides. Before her eyes they shrank back to human size, and all the fear left her, and she almost laughed.

  They lunged together and struggled, gritting their teeth in each other’s faces, and leapt apart. Psin snarled something and turned and went to his horse. Tshant prowled nervously around, eyeing him, and when he was mounted walked stiff-legged toward Kerulu. Psin rode slowly off in the other direction. When they were shouting distance apart, Tshant spun around and yelled an obscenity, and Psin turned and gestured at him. Tshant spat in the dust. He came up past Kerulu and without speaking ducked into the yurt.

  “What do you do that for?” she said, following him.

  He flopped down on the couch. “I almost killed him once. I don’t dare lose my temper. I might do it right, this time.”

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  He reached for the kumiss jug standing on the carpet beside him, fumbled, and knocked it over. She yelped, furious. The clear liquor puddled on the floor. One of the slaves charged out of the back with a rag. Kneeling, Kerulu snatched up the jug before it emptied.

  “You clumsy ox. I like that carpet.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll get you another.”

  She clenched her teeth. “Look when you reach, will you?” She went over to the masterpole and filled the jug again. When she brought it back, his eyes were shut, and his bare, muddy feet were staining the furs on the couch. She put the jug down with a clunk and stamped off; she sat fuming in the back long enough for him to fall asleep before she realized that he’d knocked the jug over on purpose.

  “What do you think I should do?” Psin
said.

  Tshant unwrapped one of the black elephants to his chess set and put it on the board. “You said it wasn’t mine to decide.”

  “It isn’t. But I want your opinion.”

  Kerulu came in from the back of the yurt, looked surprised, and left. Tshant took out the other black elephant and investigated a nick in the onyx. “Every time we move another piece breaks.”

  “You still have the jade one at home.”

  “I like this set better. I don’t know. Do you want to accept it?”

  Psin rubbed his jaw. Tshant dug out another wrapped piece. “No,” Psin said finally. “Because I don’t like Batu.”

  “There isn’t much to him.”

  “But it would be ... I don’t know. I would dislike turning it down.”

  Tshant set the pawn on the board. “Your move.”

  “Tshant. I can’t play chess.”

  “Pay attention.”

  “And declining it because I don’t like him isn’t a good enough reason.”

  Tshant frowned. “Make up your own mind.”

  “If I don’t ask you you’re angry; if I ask you you’re angry. Nothing makes you happy.” Psin moved a pawn.

  “I doubt my happiness was anywhere in your mind.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” He moved again. Tshant picked up one of his pawns, smacked it down on the board, and sat back. Psin was bad at chess, and at least he’d have the satisfaction of trouncing him at one thing today.

  “What did your prisoners tell you?” Sabotai said.

  Psin took his feet out of his stirrups and let them dangle. “The plain goes on, in the north, through the German territory beside the sea and down into the country of the French. They say there’s grass the year round. It’s a long ride.”

  Sabotai nodded. They rode past the last of the cattle and veered to head them back into the herd. The ground squished under the horses’ hoofs. Across the muddy plain to the river, the cattle grazed and chewed their cuds. Their winter coats hung in dull patches on their flanks and shoulders; on the new grass great mats of hair showed where they had rolled to get it off. The first calves were already working their knobby legs.

  “Kadan is back,” Sabotai said. “He chased the Hungarian King south as far as a city called Ragusa. The King took ship. It’s mountainous down there, except very near the coast. Boats, I thought. We could sail to Italy from there.”

  Psin looked at him and nodded. “Maybe.” He reined in. Up from the river a dozen Mongols were riding, rope-poles in their hands. “The west is rich. What we’ve taken so far is nothing. Gold, furs, slaves, grain—”

  “There are obstacles,” Sabotai said. “I’ve heard it all in bits, but it seems… Those mountains. The Alps. How would they affect our communications?”

  “We couldn’t communicate across them. If there were an army in Italy and one in Germany. Maybe around, but through the mountains the odds would be too great that the couriers would be caught. We could send so large an army into Italy that they wouldn’t need to be supported from the main army.”

  “How many men?”

  “To take it all?”

  Sabotai nodded.

  “Twenty-five tumans.”

  “God above.” Sabotai winced dramatically. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “I’ve thought enough about it. Yes. Twenty-five tumans.”

  “What if we did this? One army to advance along the plain in the north, another to ride through into the north of Italy, and a third to attack straight through to Vienna? All keeping roughly even.”

  “We’d have to do it that way. And we would need twenty-five tumans.”

  “Letting the southern flank operate independently once it was in Italy.”

  “Yes. You could let them block up the passes out of Italy. Pure defensive fighting.”

  “Name of God. Twenty-five tumans, with remounts.” Sabotai shut his eyes. “When the vanguard reached Vienna the rearguard would still be on this side of the Danube.”

  Psin nodded.

  “We need more reconnaissance. Another season’s worth. You have to know that country so well you can tell me exactly which cities to take, which to bypass, how many men to the ten I can use, and the proportion of heavy cavalry to light.”

  “In a season I can do it. Where is Kadan now?”

  “Just south of the Danube. He’s crossing his army back into Hungary by boats, since the river’s thawed. Batu is holding court just south of Pesth. Tshant is in the west, Batu’s brothers are in the east. Mongke is in the north, Baidar is in the center, and we are here.”

  “Maybe we should hold a kuriltai.”

  “Not until I decide some things.”

  The dun horse lifted his head and stared. Psin squinted to see better. The rider was coming up from the southeast; his horse was tired, and stumbled once while Psin watched. Psin could see the glint of silver on the man’s belt: courier’s bells.

  The wind touched his cheek and blew the dun’s mane up straight. Small in the great plain, under the great sky, the courier galloped wearily toward them. Sabotai had seen him, but he said nothing. The dun horse shifted uneasily, and Psin thought, What if there’s no reason to decide?

  When the courier reached the cattle herd he called out, and a herdsman pointed up to Sabotai. The horse staggered toward them. Sabotai shook himself and rode forward. Without a word the courier held out his dispatches. Psin waited where he was. Sabotai pulled the wrappings off the top packet and opened it and read.

  Psin knew when he had stopped reading, but Sabotai went on staring at the bit of paper. The courier, panting gently, waited to be dismissed. Sabotai turned his horse back to Psin. His face was slack and aged. He said, “We shall have to call a kuriltai now, I guess,” and blindly handed Psin the paper.

  Tshant said, “Is everybody here?”

  Mongke yawned. “Only us. No thousand-commanders, no tuman-commanders. Just the Altun. I suppose they want advice on something.”

  “Hunh.”

  They were the only people in the big yurt, except for two slaves who were dragging in another couch. Tshant sprawled out on the carpet and drank kumiss. “What did you find in Poland?”

  “Trouble. I don’t like fighting those knights. It makes me nervous.”

  Kadan came in, and Tshant shouted to him. When Kadan turned his face toward them the words stuck in Tshant’s throat. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m sober, that’s all. I hate being sober.” Kadan sat down and put his face in his hands.

  “Hangover,” Tshant said softly.

  Mongke twitched. “Did you bring your wife?”

  “Yes. I—”

  Baidar walked in through the back and sat down beside Kadan. He spoke some soft words to him, looked over at Tshant, and jerked a smile onto his face. Baidar was pale as birch.

  Something’s wrong, Tshant thought. He stood up. “What is it?”

  Kadan lifted his head and stared back. In the silence Tshant heard men approaching the front door. He looked at Mongke, whose eyes were slits, whose mouth was twisted into a bad smile. Suspicion beat at him. The door opened, and his father and Batu and Sabotai came in. Immediately after, Batu’s brothers and Kaidu entered; they ranged themselves around the yurt. Kadan had lowered his face to his hands again. Kaidu and Tshant made routine threatening moves at each other.

  Batu said, “Let you all know, now, that we are to mourn. The Kha-Khan is dead.”

  Very softly, Mongke said, “O God.”

  Nobody said anything. Psin sank down on his heels, staring at the floor. Tshant felt nothing but bewilderment. He looked at Kadan, tore his eyes away, and turned back toward his father. Outside, women began to wail, and men. The walls of the yurt blurred the growing sound of weeping.

  Who will take care of us? Tshant thought. His hands were clammy and he rubbed them together. Quyuk?

  Mongke said, “Sabotai, is the campaign done?”

  “It’s done.”

  Mongke got up and ru
shed out of the yurt. Noise swept in through the door. Before the flap fell closed they heard him calling in a strong high voice to his men. Baidar rose and helped Kadan get onto his feet, and Kadan took a deep breath. He said, “Batu Khan, thank you for the nice war.” He started for the door and with each step grew more steady. Baidar followed him.

  Psin got up and spoke to Sabotai. He caught Tshant’s eye and bobbed his head toward the door, and Tshant went outside.

  The camp was roiled up like a pond. Women sat in clumps before their yurts, sobbing and beating themselves on the breasts with their fists. Their children stared at them; some of the small children were beginning to cry. Three separate strings of horses trotted past Tshant—two of chestnuts, one of sorrels. He ducked around the last and thrust through a swelling crowd to his yurt.

  Most kuriltais lasted for days. This one had gone on for two sentences. He looked for Kerulu and could not find her.

  Djela ran up. “Is it true? Is it true?”

  “Yes. Go find Arcut. And tell him to get horses for twenty men. Go on.”

  “But—but—”

  “Go on!”

  Kerulu came out of the back, her eyes sleek with tears. “Am I going?”

  “Not with a baby coming.”

  “But my father—”

  Psin came in behind Tshant and drew him aside. “Jagatai is dying too. I’ll bring her. One of us should go straight to Karakorum. Look after our interests.”

  “I’ll go.”

  Kerulu sank down. Tshant sat beside her and put his arms around her, and she turned her face against his shoulder and wept. Tshant said, “When did he die?”

  “Over three months ago. They kept it secret, damn them.”

  “Siremon is still under age.”

  “Yes.” Psin chewed his mustaches. “It has to be Quyuk. You know how he is. Don’t bargain with him, just tell him that we vote for him.”

  Kerulu said, “Can’t I go? Please?”

  Tshant hugged her. “If you could, I wouldn’t leave here without you.” He shut his eyes and leaned his head against hers. “You know that.” When he looked up again Psin was gone. As soon as he could, he left Kerulu and went out.