They had been doing this for about a week, and Haakon was starting to recognize some of the subtle landmarks around the rock. In the east, the ground was rougher, the endless plains of grass broken up with sporadic clumps of stone, like abandoned gauntlets of forgotten giants. Haakon knew when they were west of the rock because of the lack of rocky formations.
A long time ago, a river had run west and south of the rock, and the only landmark that remained was a meandering course of spruce and cedar. There were gaps in the trees, and whenever they rode through these breaks, they would flush out flocks of tiny birds.
Haakon was the westernmost outrider, and he had been riding parallel to the river’s track for a half hour or so when he decided it was time to cut through the tree line. He nudged his horse to the right and the animal, knowing the routine, complied. The sky was mostly clear of clouds, and Haakon wasn’t wearing a hat. It never got as cold as it did in Týrshammar, and the last few days had been warm enough that little snow remained on the ground.
His horse started as the birds spooked from the trees, a half-dozen tiny shapes winging into the sky. Haakon stared at the birds for a few seconds, wondering why they had spooked before he had even reached the trees and it struck him that they were flying toward him.
He fumbled for his crossbow even as he tried to arrest his horse’s forward motion. The crossbow was cocked but not loaded, and he cursed as he tried to yank open the satchel containing the bolts.
A horse neighed on the other side of the trees, and his horse pricked up its ears and trotted a little faster. “No,” he hissed, pulling at the reins and nearly spilling the satchel of bolts. He got a bolt in place and braced the crossbow against his shoulder.
A horse and rider emerged from the gap in the trees. Haakon took only a second to register tiny details of the pair—short pony, shaggy mane, rider wearing fur-lined jacket and peaked hat, Mongol bow held casually across the saddle—before he pulled the crossbow’s trigger. The bolt rattled as it left the groove of the crossbow, and the rider reacted to the sound. The bolt struck him in the chest and he toppled backward, falling off his horse. The horse, a stolid Mongol pony, didn’t panic when its rider disappeared.
There were two more riders behind the first horse, and Haakon grabbed at his reins and jerked his horse away from the gap. He heard shouts behind him as he snapped the reins hard, urging his horse to a gallop, and as his horse picked up speed, the first arrow sailed past his head. He crouched low in his saddle, knowing there were going to be more.
The Mongols rarely fired just one arrow.
The prolonged stop at the makeshift camp gave Lian time to think—too much time, in fact—and she found herself second-guessing her decisions. Even though she had managed to convince a company of Westerners to bring her with them as they fled the empire, she didn’t have any idea of what happened next. It was a frustrating place to be, especially given how pragmatic she had been in all her planning. At least, that was what she had been telling herself, but lately, she had started to wonder if she had merely made a long string of very bad decisions. And what had they all stemmed from? Gansukh’s refusal to join her.
She had used her natural talents in an effort to convince the young steppe rider that he should leave the empire with her, and she had thought he could be swayed, but he had been steadfast in his duty to the Khagan. She couldn’t decide what she felt about him, or if he really cared for her. Had she really loved him, or had it all been a ruse? They had used the threat of Munokhoi’s ire to find shelter in each other’s arms, but had that been the only reason? And when Gansukh had left the Khagan’s compound on that last day, why had he given her the tiny box that held the sprig? Why had he trusted her with it?
And why had she abandoned him?
The struggle through the winter storms over the past few weeks had been a convenient excuse to not think about what she had done. Food had been scarce, the weather had been bitterly cold and miserable, and all any of them had been thinking about was surviving each night. Putting one foot in front of the other again and again until the storms were behind them, until they were no longer wading through snowdrifts and sliding across icy ground.
But then what?
She learned their language as quickly as she could; in fact, Percival was the easiest to talk to. At first, she had thought he was entirely smitten with her, but she soon realized Percival was helping her learn the trade tongue out of duty. She was in need of assistance, and based on some personal code that he believed very intently, he was required to render as much aid as he could. He was very polite—and a very good conversationalist, as well—but she never learned anything about him. For all her efforts—and she caught herself using all of her wiles on more than one occasion—the Frank remained an enigma.
In fact, all she really learned for her efforts was how badly Cnán wanted to be noticed by Percival, and how much the Binder disliked her relationship with the knight. Not that there was much of one to be angry about.
The short one, Yasper, talked nonstop when he was nervous, which happened anytime she simply stood next to him and did nothing more complicated than breathing. She enjoyed listening to him prattle on, even though she understood less than half of what he was talking about. Of the new men, Gawain and Bruno were the only ones who paid her any attention. She understood them and they understood her; it had been easy to engage in light flirtation with them, and such talk only increased her opportunities to practice the trade tongue of the West.
While her family name afforded her a better life than that of a scullery maid or a concubine, she had still spent the better part of her adult life in servitude. Master Chucai had recognized her intelligence and once she had become part of his house, she had had access to books and scrolls. She had been expected to learn the subtleties of court life, and while mastery of these arts would have never gained her freedom, they did make a difference in the quality of her slavery. Lian was good at reading people, at deciphering the silences between words as well as the tiny gestures and tics that betrayed everyone.
This is how she knew Percival yearned—with a desire that almost pained him—to return to the West; that Vera’s hatred for the Mongols ran very, very deep; and that Cnán was angry at her for merely being in the camp. Haakon had dreams about her that embarrassed him when he did remember them, and she had wondered once or twice herself what might have happened in those dreams. Raphael carried a mantle of sorrow that weighed heavy on him, a burden of betrayal whose source she could not discern.
She knew the four who had rescued them were running from someone, and all she was certain of was that it wasn’t Mongols. Lately she had been wondering what Gawain and Bruno’s past would mean to the Shield-Brethren when it caught up with both companies.
“Daydreaming again?”
Lian started from her reverie, discovering that Bruno had snuck up on her. She had been sitting on a rock not far from the fire pit. It afforded her a view of the surrounding plain, a view where nothing moved for hours but the occasional column of wind blowing through the scattered tufts of wormwood.
She ran her hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. “This land makes it easy,” she said, tilting her head to look at him. The rock jutted out of the ground enough that, when she sat on it, she could look him in the eye.
Bruno laughed. He was a broad-shouldered man with curly black hair and an equally curly beard. His teeth were large and straight and when he laughed, he showed them off. His nose was distinctive, easily the largest she had ever seen, but none of the others seemed to notice its size. His hands were large too; she could recall—without much difficulty—what it had felt like to be carried by him. How comforting that sensation had been.
“What were you thinking about?” he asked.
She shrugged, both from a lack of desire to tell him and from a lack of enough words in the trade tongue to say everything.
“Home?” he asked.
Lian snorted and shook her head. “Home is�
�—she pointed straight out in front of her—“so far away.”
He gently took her arm in his beefy hands and rotated it so that it pointed off to her left. “That way,” he said.
“It’s still far,” she said, letting her arm go limp in his hands. He wasn’t in any hurry to let go.
He turned her arm again, crossing her body and leaning in close as he did. “My home is that way,” he said, his chin close to her shoulder. “Lombardy.”
She nodded, her arm still loose in his hands. “Lombardy,” she tried, stretching out the word.
“Many forests and mountains,” he said. “Not like this at all. And the sea. Oh, how I miss the sea. Do you know what that is?”
She turned her head toward him, and her eyes went to his lips. “Like a lake,” she said. “But bigger.”
He grinned. “Aye.”
“I have seen it,” she said.
“How is that possible?” Bruno asked. “I thought you said you were from a land beyond the Mongol empire. To the east. The sea lies to the west.”
She laughed. “That may be, but I have stood on a beach and watched the sun rise out of the water.”
Bruno stroked his beard thoughtfully. “It must be a very large lake,” he said.
Lian shook her head. “Very well,” she said. “I misspoke. It was a lake. But”—she cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow at Bruno—“how do you know that the body of water that you sailed on wasn’t a very large lake as well?”
It was Bruno’s turn to laugh. “You are clever, Lian. I grant you that.” He inclined his head. “I confess that I cannot say, with complete conviction, that the sea I sailed upon did not have a far shore.”
Lian turned her gaze toward the endless steppe. “I wonder how far away it is,” she said, her heart tripping in her chest. Was she willing to go that far, or did each step take her farther away from all that mattered to her?
Cnán had hoped a visit to the Binder shrine would nudge Raphael into some sort of decision, but his mind was still recovering from his latest bout with winter fever. He wasn’t enfeebled like most who get lost in madness, but his thoughts were still caught around a central idea, like a goat tied to a stake. He could only range so far and, as he talked, he twisted in ever-tightening circles.
It was only after the three of them had returned from their meeting at the Binder shrine and she had made polite excuses and removed herself from the conversation that she realized what was truly bothering her. She admired Raphael. Whatever her feelings were for Percival—and while they were less confusing now then they had been last fall, they were still extant enough to cause the occasional bout of confusion and embarrassment—she did not regard the Frank in the same way that she regarded Raphael. Percival was erudite in speech, educated and well-traveled, and he was pleasing to look upon. He was, in many regards, a natural leader. More so than Feronantus, certainly, who could be best described as brusque, taciturn, and exasperatingly enigmatic. And with Feronantus gone, the company needed a leader. They needed someone with…vision.
The thought made her shiver.
Raphael, it seemed, was suffering from a lack of vision. Which is worse? she wondered. Feronantus telling me only a fraction of what he thought I should know, or Raphael being unable to frame his thoughts well enough for anyone else to follow?
Her wandering feet led her over to the fire pit where Yasper was tending to his endless alchemical experiment. Of all of the company, the alchemist was the least concerned about their lengthy stay. He was a constant presence at the fire, and while he would infrequently poke at the oblong cakes buried in the ashes, for the most part he simply sat on a large rock and stared at the pit of ashes and smoldering wood.
He glanced up as she approached, offering her a smile. His grin faltered as he saw the look on her face, and she quickly hid her frustration and offered him a smile of her own. “Still waiting?” she asked.
“’Tis the only constant in the subtle art of alchemy,” he said. “Still no decision on where we’re going?”
“I had hoped he was well enough.” She shook her head. “But he is caught in a confusion about visions.”
Yasper nodded as if he understood, all too well, that sort of confusion.
Cnán sighed loudly. “I do not understand how the Shield-Brethren can be so caught up in this question of whether or not one of their members has had a vision.”
“As I understand it, their tradition is very old and they cling to certain beliefs very strongly. It is the basis for their faith, if you will.”
“What about you, Yasper?” Cnán asked.
“What do I believe in?” He raised his eyebrows and looked at her as if to assess whether she was being entirely serious. “I’m an alchemist,” he said. “I’m ardent practitioner in believing in the impossible.”
“You’re no help,” she said with a sigh.
He laughed, and the sound loosened some of her annoyance. His laugh was a unique sound, almost like the call of a giant bird out of legend, and it came out of him in gusts. During their journey through the western forests, she would scout ahead of the company as well as spending time in the woods by herself, and she always could find her way back to the camp by following the echoing hoots of Yasper’s laughter.
The tension left her shoulders, and she felt her fingers uncurl from the half-fists she had been holding them in. His laughter was like the rumbling course of an avalanche—snow and rocks breaking free from the icy mountainside and spilling down to the valley below. You couldn’t stand before it; you could merely be carried along with it.
“Does that earnestness apply to your experiment?” she asked, nodding toward the cakes buried in the coals. “What are you making again?”
“Phoenix eggs,” he said, and he laughed again when she rolled her eyes.
“Phoenixes don’t exist,” she countered, trying to hide the smile that was threatening to break across her face.
“Not yet,” he said with a wink. “Give me a few more days.”
The urge to smile won, and he beamed with pride at having changed the disposition of her face. With a final shake of her head, she let go of the conversation with Vera and Raphael. She had done what she could. Raphael would make a decision soon, she hoped.
She leaned forward, peering at the yellowed cakes nestled in the fire. They were rough, like dried mud, and when she examined them closely, she could see tiny crimson veins running along their surfaces. “But you made these,” she said. “You can’t make a phoenix. It’s a living creature.”
“Is it?” He tilted his head at her. “I thought you said they don’t exist. If that is true, then why I can’t make them?”
She groaned and put her hands over her face. “You’re just as bad as Raphael,” she said. “I ask a simple question and I get philosophy in return.”
He touched her hands lightly, drawing them away from her face. His expression was tender and attentive, and his eyes were wide and imploring. “Cnán,” he said gently, as if he were about to impart a grave secret, “maybe you should ask easier questions.” And then he threw his head back and laughed again.
She laughed with him this time, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. When the laughter had run its course, they both stared at the ashes, and Cnán felt a strange awkwardness stealing over her.
“You don’t like standing still, do you?” Yasper asked suddenly, just as she had been about to offer some pithy comment and take her leave.
“I…what?”
“All this sitting around,” Yasper said, indicating the spread of the camp with a sweep of his arm. “No destination in mind, no plan for our departure. No horses, for that matter. It makes you uncomfortable.”
“I…” The awkwardness was getting worse. “I travel a great deal,” she finished, mentally kicking herself as soon as the words left her mouth.
“Aye,” Yasper said. “We all have recently. I’ve spent more time on a horse in the last eight months than in the previous three years. And yo
u? Where did you come from before you found us at Legnica?”
“I spent the winter in Samarkand,” she said, waving her hand over his shoulder.
He turned and shaded his eyes, and after looking for a moment, he climbed up on the rock he had been sitting on and looked some more. “I don’t see it,” he said, looking down at her. “I don’t know how you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Know where places are without consulting a map or the stars.”
“I’m guessing,” she said. She indicated the rock behind her. “The point there? That’s east. The sun, there—” she pointed at the blazing light in the sky.
“Is that what that is?” he said, mockingly.
“The sun, there,” she continued, ignoring him, “means that we are on the southern side of the rock. Samarkand is south of us.” And when she waved her hand this time, she made the gesture more broadly, covering the entire sweep of the southern horizon. “Somewhere out there.”
“You’re patronizing me,” Yasper said as he hopped down from the rock. He picked up his fire stick and gently moved the ashes around his alchemical cakes. “It’s okay,” he said as she began to argue otherwise, “I probably deserved it with the joke about phoenix eggs.”
“Probably,” she said. She stood next to him, her shoulder lightly brushing his. “I don’t like waiting,” she admitted.
“I know,” he said. He held out the stick and she took it without thought. Kneeling beside the ring of rocks, Yasper leaned over the fire pit and blew heavily on his alchemical cakes. White ash blew up, rising into the sky as it passed over the still-hot center of the fire. On the cakes, the crimson veins stood out in stark relief. “Something is going to happen soon,” he said. “There’s very little we can do to hasten its arrival.”
“I know,” she said.
From the hemp rope that outlined the large paddock, Raphael watched Percival move among the horses. Most ignored him, but the pair of gray mares vied for his attention. He held his left hand out to one, who nosed his palm eagerly, as he ran his fingers through the mane of the other. The left-hand one snorted lightly as she discovered he had no treat for her and butted him lightly on the shoulder with her forehead. Percival smiled at her and scratched her neck affectionately.
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 11
