by Neal Stephenson; Erik Bear; Greg Bear; Joseph Brassey; E. D. Debirmingham; Cooper Moo; Mark Teppo
Istvan kept a tight grip on his horse’s reins and didn’t allow the animal to traverse the open ground between the two groups, but his stance was aggressively clear. In contrast to the prancing motion of his mount, the Hungarian was a carved statue—eyes locked on his enemy, knuckles white about his sword hilt.
Kristaps stood easily, his stance that of a man who thought the horseman an amusing diversion more than a credible threat.
“Istvan,” Feronantus said, “this is not the time.”
Istvan bared his teeth, a feral growl rising from his throat.
“You heard your master, dog,” Kristaps hissed. “He calls upon you to heel.”
Istvan’s eyes bulged in their sockets, and Cnán feared the tall knight had gone too far. The Hungarian was too quick to anger, overly fond of the comfort afforded by his rage. Her head filled with images of the unrestrained glee that had cloaked him when they had fought the Mongols at the farm.
She held her breath, fearing for the worst.
They were outnumbered, more than three to one. An engagement now would surely be their ruin…
CHAPTER 29:
A BROTHER’S SACRIFICE
Gansukh sat on the edge of his sleeping platform, running his fingers over the tiny lacquered box. After a week of toying with the rectangular puzzle, he had been able to discern tiny seams, but the secret of how to manipulate them continued to elude him.
The right side of his face ached. Ögedei had split his cheek with the cup, and Gansukh knew that the wound looked and felt worse than it was; in a few days, it would heal to a scratch and most of the bruising would vanish. Until then, it was a mark to bear proudly, a persistent throbbing ache to be borne without complaint.
But that didn’t mean he wanted to dwell on it.
The box was slender, and it fit easily in his palm. The thief, when she had run to him that night out on the steppes, had concealed it inside his deel, a desperate sleight of hand. He didn’t understand why she had entrusted the box to him; though, given her choice was between him and Munokhoi, he could not fault her. But what was he supposed to do with it? He shook the box, listening to the rattle of the object inside. Was it the box itself or what was inside that was important?
When he hunted, the moment of purest feeling came in the instant before he released an arrow. Even though the gut string dug into his fingers and his arm quivered with the exertion of holding the pull, his whole body felt light, like a single fine strand of silk stretched between the arrowhead and the target. He seemed to float, vibrating in the air, and when the target twitched, he felt the motion run through him like a bolt of lightning. And then he let go—breath and fingers acting as one—and he knew, even before the arrow had left his bow, where it would strike.
The arrow flew true only when he knew himself, when he knew what must be done and was prepared to act upon that knowledge. Giving the cup to Ögedei and daring him to accept it—as both a gift and as acknowledgement of his madness for drink—had been a moment like that. If he had thought too much about it beforehand, he never would have done it, and now that it was done, there was no reason to not accept it as his fate. The destiny afforded him by the Blue Wolf.
I can discover the secrets of this box.
He held the box gently, his eyes half closed, breath slowing, fingers moving so carefully across its smooth surface. In his mind’s eye, he saw the long seam that ran along its length, and as he traced it slowly with his long finger, he imagined drawing his bow, sighting on his target. As he felt the end of the box, he paused, his finger resting lightly on the lacquered surface, his thumb gently caressing the underside. He listened for that moment, that minute quiver wherein his target would begin to suspect its death was approaching, and when he felt something shift inside him, he let go.
When he opened his eyes, his hands were empty. The box—rather, the three intricate pieces that it was comprised off—lay on the floor. He pushed aside the pieces to reveal the secret contents of the puzzle box. It took him a moment to make sense of it, in its startling simplicity.
It was a green twig—a sprig cut from a tree. Despite its time in the box, away from soil and light, it was still supple, with tight, youthful bark—and one soft, tiny yellow-green leaf.
He raised the sprig to his nose; it smelled like…the mud along a riverbank in the spring, when the ground was redo-lent with young sprouts. When he put his fingertip on the leaf, he could almost feel it pulse like a miniature heart.
Sleep eluded him.
Opening the box had not solved its mystery, and after an hour of lying on his bed, staring at the sprig, rolling it gently in his fingers, he had wrapped it in a piece of silk and tucked it inside his robe. Hiding it once again, much as the thief had done.
But his mind could not rest; his thoughts buzzed like angry bees swarming from a disturbed nest. The more he tried to get comfortable on his bed, the more aware he became of how small and cramped his room was. The walls were too close; if he threw out his arms, he felt as if he could touch opposite walls. He was like the sprig, rattling around in a tiny box.
How could anything survive in such a box? he thought, throwing a wool-trimmed jacket over his robe. Maybe the sprig only seemed alive once he opened the box. Maybe it was rejuvenated by fresh air…
He strode out of the guest quarters, inhaling great draughts of air as he left the confines of the building. I am not a man of this place, he reflected, peering up at the night sky. Torches still sputtered and danced along the paths, the fading remnants of the revelry that had filled the palace earlier, and their light made it difficult to see the stars.
A strange cry filled the air, raising the hair on Gansukh’s arms. He heard other voices too—men shouting—and he staggered, unable to comprehend how he had been thrown into the past, back to the night when the thief had fled Ögedei’s palace and changed everything.
But it wasn’t that night. The noise came again, a trumpeting bleat of an angry animal, and when Gansukh reached the corner of the palace, he spied the source of the tumult.
In the square, a majestic beast struggled. Gray and titanic, nearly twice as tall as a man, with ears like tent cloth, great tusks like a boar, and a long snout that curled and uncurled like a snake—a monstrous beast was rearing on tree-trunk hind legs, straining against ropes wrapped around pegs and held by men who were trying to contain it. As if rope alone could restrain such a creature, Gansukh thought. Proof of Heaven’s humor. Its handlers—brown-skinned men with tall wrapped hats—prodded at the beast with long, hooked spears, shouting frantically at each other.
The beast bellowed and trumpeted, stomping the ground with its huge feet, each one as thick as a tent-pole log. As Gansukh watched, both awed and amused that men would try to tame a creature such as this, it reared again. The ropes groaned like men in pain and then tore free of their moorings. The ground shook as the beast came down, and it flung its trunk to the side, smacking a puny handler. The man flew across the square like a child’s doll as the other handlers tried—valiantly but hopelessly—to control the beast.
Released from its bonds, the great animal vented a triumphant cry, like a dozen blatting horns, and pounded across the square in a ponderous but unstoppable gallop.
Gansukh shrank against the side of the building as the animal thundered past him. He felt like an insect clinging desperately to a stone shaken by a fierce earthquake. He knew its power by the slow sway of its huge belly and the thick muscles and sinews of its thumping limbs…and by the deep bellows of its lungs pumping a grassy, sour breath.
Why, it’s simply a great, snouted bull, with ears like flapping carpets and gray, pitted, wrinkled skin like armor…
Now his mind kicked in. This was not a rhinoceros, whose hide was cut into real armor for royalty, but something like… Its great nose horn softened and lengthened to an obscenely grasping member…and yet that hazel-brown eye, fixing him as it rushed by, deep sunk and frantic, yet intelligent, like the measuring eye of a giant warrior…
And then it was past him, and Gansukh fell away from the wall, sucking in breath. Now the gray beast’s handlers ran and pranced by, pointing at him and laughing, but lagging at a safe distance as the warrior bull with the swaying nose pounded and rumbled toward the palace gate. The gate guards, laughing like maniacs, but not at all willing to stand in the way of this living battering ram, hurriedly swung the gate wide to let it pass. The massive animal galloped through, unimpeded in its flight toward the open steppe, and shouts of derision and delight followed. Better to let it run free until its anger was spent rather than try to stop it. Gansukh smiled at the thought of such a strange creature roaming free on the plains. There was no doubt in his mind that it would be recaptured eventually, if not hunted down and slaughtered, but for now, it was free to run under the open sky.
As all things should be.
Ögedei could never speak of his secret terror. The knot of fear wound tighter and tighter in his gut every year as this day of memory approached. It wasn’t remembering Tolui, the youngest of Genghis’s four children, that caused him such pain; it was clear to everyone how dear his brother’s memory was to the Khagan. Nor was it the endless processionals or the interminable ceremonial dinners held in his dead brother’s honor throughout the week of the festival. No, what made his guts spasm and ache was the fact that he had to address the court; he had to stand before them and speak of the importance of Tolui’s sacrifice.
Ögedei paced the length of his chamber like a caged tiger. The great cup stood on a nearby table, half filled. He could not stand to look at it. The smell of the wine followed him. More than once he had wrapped his hands around the cup’s stem as if it were a neck he could throttle; if he couldn’t snap it in half then at least he could hurl it from his sight. But each time, he would raise the brim to his trembling lips and pour more of its contents into his gasping mouth.
Oh, how he wished the cup were even larger, like a tub, that he might drown in the pool of wine and be released from his burden, freed from the weight of the empire. Each gulp was bitter, but then he only drank more to banish the taste of the previous draught.
Ögedei cursed and slammed the cup down on the table, once more unable to throw it out the window. The young warrior, Gansukh, had stood up to him, in front of all his guests. He should have had him dragged from the room and flogged.
The Khagan sneered at his quivering reflection in the surface of the wine. He should have drawn his knife and killed the insolent pup himself. But the fierce expression on the whelp’s face had reminded him of Tolui…as had the large cup.
Chagatai, his older brother, had chosen this envoy well.
A light knock sounded at the door, and before he could shout at whoever was foolish enough to disturb him, his wife, Toregene, opened the door and entered.
“You should see how many there are,” she said, gliding across the floor. She was heavily made up—dressed in layers of yellow and orange silk, her hair freshly braided. “They are all waiting for their glorious and exalted leader.” She touched his arm lightly, and he could smell the jasmine and lemongrass oils in her hair.
Ögedei exhaled noisily, his shoulders and chest slumping. He wanted to lie down on one of the couches. Take a short nap. “They should come back tomorrow,” he sighed. “Or not at all.” His hand edged toward the cup. Even though he refused to look at it, he knew exactly how far away it was. Just one more gulp, he thought. Perhaps that will numb me enough…
She leaned against him, slipping her arm through his. Her voice floated up to his ear. “They don’t want much. Show them your face. Tell them to begin their revels.”
“What are they celebrating?” Ögedei snapped. “Master Chucai said this feast would be like nothing seen before under Heaven, but why? To honor my dead brother? To honor…” He stumbled to one side, wrenching her arm loose, and his hand snapped out and grabbed up the cup. He peered over the rim at her as he thrust it against his lips. Wine sloshed and spilled into his beard. “To honor his sacrifice? My brother doesn’t care. He’s dead. He is gone. His bones are gone. A worthless sacrifice to foreign gods.”
Toregene kissed him on the cheek, swiping away drips of wine with her thumb. Her soft smile hurt him more than memory. “He died for the glory of the empire,” she said, neither chiding nor blaming—merely reminding. “He died for your father’s dream. He knew his sacrifice was necessary so the empire would live on.”
“How many other sons and brothers have been sacrificed for my father’s dream?” Ögedei shouted. “How many more?”
“Tolui was a good man, the best and most noble brother anyone could ever hope to have, but he knew what must be done to keep the empire alive.” Toregene gently grasped his cheeks and temples in her warm, dry hands and looked him in the eye. “You are the best of your father’s sons. His only worthy successor. Do not shame Tolui’s sacrifice by denying what you are.”
Ögedei’s eyes began to fill with tears. “My brother,” he sobbed. “Who else would make such a sacrifice?”
Toregene liberated the cup from Ögedei’s slack fingers and set it back on the table. Without a word, she drew him toward the balcony. Under the sky’s great blue tent cloth, a host of warriors stood silent, waiting. The sun shone directly overhead, glinting off iron helmets and golden jewelry, and the crowd glimmered like water.
“All of them,” she said quietly. “Every last one of them and the thousands who already died in their service—all of them would sacrifice their lives for you, O Great Khan.” She wiped his face with her sleeve, clearing away the tears with tender dabs. “Do not deny them.”
Ögedei’s mouth became firm, and his back straightened. Gently he gathered her hands in his and kissed them. Then, with his own thick finger, he wiped the slight stain of wine from her supple skin and looked up at her from beneath wide brows, his small black eyes sharp. She had this effect on him always, like a tonic, better than any wine, better even than the sight of a fine horse.
When he stepped out onto the balcony, the wind greeted him like an old friend; the horsehair strands of the Spirit Banner mounted on the railing danced and snapped in the breeze. He could almost hear the wind-borne whinny of anxious, prancing horses, eager to be ridden across the land of grass.
The army assembled below gave one voice, and the sound was like an avalanche falling down a steep mountainside. He let their united voices buffet him, and then, enlivened, rejuvenated by the intensity of their adoration, and smiling like a new father, he raised his arms to silence them and focus their attention.
The sudden expectant quiet of a thousand men seemed to freeze the very air.
“Today,” he began, and then started again in a louder voice. “Today we celebrate the sacrifice of my dear brother Tolui.”
The knot in his gut gripped him once and then let go, and all the memories that he both cherished and despised flowed back. The time had come. This all meant nothing; it meant everything.
“Nine years ago…”
Nine years ago…on a night where thick clouds obscured the moon and the air pressed down heavily, threatening rain, Ögedei lay on his deathbed.
His hair was matted to his sweltering skull, and a thin robe clung to his shivering frame. Whenever he had enough strength, he would try to throw off the furs that were damp and rank with his sweat, but the healers would always replace them, ignoring his guttural grunts. Most of the time he simply stared at the wooden lattice supporting the ger’s ceiling, watching the smoke curl up and escape through the smoke hole. Shamans, like smoked mummies wrapped in patchwork robes, would appear and disappear like wraiths illuminated by the moon sneaking between clouds. They beat hide drums, droned endless prayers, and made noises like birds and foxes. He was sure one time he would look and they would all be transformed into wolf cubs, panting and whining with fear.
The fever had fallen upon him during the dark of the moon, seizing him like a malevolent demon conjured by his enemies. It grew in him, eating first the strength in his legs an
d arms, and now it worked on his guts and his lungs. Soon it would crawl up his throat and find a way into his brain, and then he would no longer be Ögedei Khan, but just a sack of pale skin, filled with hot ash.
Riders had gone out, summoning every shaman and healer in the land, and they continued to appear, laboring to drive out the heat demon that infected him. They sang, they danced, they burned incense; some searched for answers in the bubbling, wandering, meaningless words that dribbled from his lips, in the pattern of finger and knuckle bones they shook out on leather maps, in the striations and patterns on charred tortoiseshells.
They all failed to cure him. In defense, they decreed his malady to be a curse, a malediction set upon him by angry gods of the southern kingdoms—vengeance upon the empire that had slaughtered the tribes and despoiled their lands. Some of the shamans tried to communicate with the foreign gods, to seek a sign of what they must do in order to appease their anger. Harsh, dusty winds and sudden lightning storms were the only response.
A life precious to you, the shamans told him, in return for all those that have been taken. That is the only sacrifice they will accept.
“Brother…”
Ögedei blearily looked around the smoke-filled tent, trying to find the source of the voice that intruded on his feverish dreams. Squinting against the firelight, he could make out a tall figure, dressed in yellow and white furs. He tried to raise his arm and beckon the figure closer.
“I rode through the night…” The figure knelt at his bedside, slender fingers clutching his hot and greasy hand. “The foreign demon has not yet swallowed you,” the figure said with a smile.
