“Where am I?” Prince Tayyichiut asked. His brows drawn tight in a confused frown, he looked to Eluneke for answers that she felt ill-equiped to give him.
“Do you remember rescuing me?” she countered. It felt odd looking up at him where he lay on the grass overhead, but she was relieved to see that the hungry spirits had had little time to do serious damage to his body. If she could get him out of here, at least he’d still have all his parts.
“I fell into Qutula’s trap,” he corrected her interpretation of events.
“You fought Qutula’s demon-servant with all the courage I could hope for in a husband,” she reminded him in turn. “No mortal could have won that battle.”
“A serpent,” he rememberd. “Did it—” Then he saw the khaness.
“Mother?”
“My son.” The two fell into each other’s arms, enfolded in the love of mother and child. Eluneke found herself torn between sorrow that she could not embrace her own mother one last time and relief that the illness hadn’t turned her mother into one of the hungry spirits. Toragana was a good shamaness. Eluneke had been certain of it before, but she felt it even more so now, when her own travels in the underworld were setting all her assumptions on their heads.
Sort of like the people. Tayy was still clinging to the roof of the underworld. His mother and father, clutching him in their desperate embrace, moved as spirits within it. The resultant confusion of her senses made Eluneke slightly queasy in spite of her full heart.
Though she hated to be the one to say it, they were running out of time for farewells. “We have to go,” she said. The prince had already sustained attacks in both the mortal realm and the underworld. The one left his body moldering in the ground, the other had nearly devoured his spirit. If she were to rescue him from his dire fate, she must do so quickly, while there remained enough of either to make him whole.
Chimbai-Khan clung more tightly to his son. When he turned to face her, Eluneke saw that his features were growing less distinct, all except for his teeth. Desire created hungry spirits, she realized. And Chimbai had within his reach the thing he most desired in all the worlds, his tragic loss restored to him. His son. The underworld had begun to fade the memory of his purpose, to return the prince to the living world. He stood in danger of devouring the very thing he loved.
But the khaness put a gentle hand on his ravaged sleeve and when he looked at her, she shook her head sadly, but very sure.
“You have to let him go,” she said. “He doesn’t belong here. If you try to keep him, you can only destroy us all.”
“He is my son.”
“You want grandchildren, don’t you?” the Lady Temulun asked him wisely. “And what about your daughter? Who will protect her?”
“You’re right, of course.” Chimbai hid his face, but slowly he let go of his son and took a drifting step back. “Take care of my children,” he begged Eluneke.
“I’ll try,” she answered him.
Tayy looked confused, as if awaking from a long sleep. He hadn’t been dead for very long, but Eluneke well knew that time moved differently in the underworld. She took his hand to lead him back to the mortal realm. Then she realized that she didn’t know the way.
They had made no secret of their coming, so it didn’t surprise Prince Daritai to find the grand avenue leading to the ger-tent palace deserted. The women and children would be hidden away, and the old men who attended the Lady Bortu would have gathered at the palace. As for the few hundreds who guarded her—ah, there they were. Daritai raised a hand to halt the war party that had followed him to the parade ground in front of the palace. There the Lady Bortu’s honor guard awaited in battle formation, some with mustaches too grizzled, and some with no mustaches at all. None of the men left behind to defend the tent city were of a fighting age, he saw.
Daritai had brought only a small portion of his force with him into the city. For the moment, they were evenly matched. The lady khaness must know that his ten thousand now circled the city, however, and were making their way to the center from all sides even as the Tinglut prince rode toward her. So he wasn’t surprised to find her mounted on a caparisoned horse at the head of her guardsmen. Her towering silver headdress rattled with beads and precious ornaments as she inclined her head in a precise nod to acknowledge him.
“My lady khaness.” Daritai crossed his hands over his pommel to show he had drawn no weapon and bowed a greeting in return from his saddle. “Your city is taken. I mean you no harm nor any insult, and will shed no Qubal blood if I can help it. But your guardsmen are outnumbered, my ten thousand to this small force. I would not have them throw away their lives in a vain attempt at glory.”
“They needn’t kill ten thousand,” she pointed out. “One would do.”
She meant him, of course, the leader of that army, but she was much too wise in statecraft to believe her own words. “You would be doing my father a favor,” he pointed out, “ridding him of a troublesome son, and you would find my half brother, Prince Hulegu, a more exacting taskmaster.”
“We’ve lately had one of those ourselves,” she groused sourly. He figured she meant Qutula and agreed with her assessment. Hulegu was very different from Mergen’s blanket-son, being his father’s heir and also less than forthcoming in battle. That Qutula might share Hulegu’s coldly ruthless streak of vicious self-interest, however, he had no doubt. He said nothing of this, but nudged his horse forward and rode past the lady, ignoring the angry rumbling of her guardsmen. He understood their frustration, but prayed no one acted on their emotions. He didn’t want to kill an old man or a child today for throwing a rock at his head. He didn’t want a massacre if they threw a spear instead.
He made it through the lady’s defenses unmolested by the glaring old men, however. A young one with more courage than sense pulled a knife on him, but a sharp cuff against the boy’s head sent him reeling from his horse. The distraction saw him safely to the door of Mergen’s ger-tent palace.
There were ritual insults to be observed when conquering a neighbor, and defiling the home of the deposed khan was one of them. So he ducked his head low and rode his horse inside. Just a handful of his men followed.
He did it well, sustaining his dignity when his horse released a steaming pile on the carpets. As he rode past the firebox, he took stock of the painted chests with all their treasures as he remembered them. They were his now, or would be if he could just outwit old Tinglut-Khan. When he neared the dais, however, his resolution failed him.
Densly packed around the center of the dais, the old and infirm among the Qubal nobles sat in all their finery. He counted perhaps forty or more, not one of whom carried a weapon more imposing than a small dagger. And yet, he knew, they would sit where they were and die without raising a hand before they would move a single step. At their center was the Princess Orda, bundled in a blanket with the silks of her little coats peeping through where it had slipped.
She started to smile at him, then cast a fearful glance at the nobles who protected her on the dais. A tiny fist seemed to have got hold of Daritai’s throat when he thought that he had frightened her. He had a daughter and shuddered to think of his own tents seized, his own family thrown into despair by a ruthless enemy. May the spirits preserve them, he’d gotten them out safely, he thought, all but Tumbinai.
Then the little princess put a warning finger to the side of her mouth. “You’re not supposed to ride your horse inside,” she whispered, loud enough for all the nobles to hear. “You’ll get in trouble.” Her little face took on a look of horror that would have been droll if he hadn’t been the cause.
Behind him he heard the rustle of silks and realized that her formidable grandmother had caused that sudden fright. For his sake, not her own. Ritual insults were fine and well in the abstract, he decided, but they made him feel foolish in practice.
“Then I suppose I should have these nice men take her outside for me, shouldn’t I?” He dismounted and gave the reins to a warrior
who had the good sense to suppress his grin on the way out.
“Now the Lady Bortu won’t be mad at me.”
The snort behind him told him otherwise, but the little girl relaxed at once. The next step would be trickier. He needed to take possession of the princess. That meant making his way past the old retainers who surrounded her. But first he had to overcome his own fatherly misgivings about hurting the people who protected her. And there was the whole not wanting to scare her thing.
He hadn’t counted on the princess herself, who stood up in her little boots with their upturned toes and picked her way carefully through the rows of old nobles to stand in front of him. With her solemn, trusting eyes fixed on his, she lifted her arms to be picked up. Since that was exactly what he had wanted, he obliged.
He had not exactly feared for his life until now. Something in the very air of the ger-tent palace shifted when he lifted the princess into his arms, however. Rumor said the old khaness had strange powers of her own. His back was feeling very exposed.
“Come,” he said, and invited the Lady Bortu with a glance he hoped conveyed casual command and not the vague unease he was feeling. “We can talk more comfortably on the dais.”
Whatever she saw in his face, she followed him and settled herself on the right side of the dais. She didn’t try to take the little girl away from him, but seemed to challenge his honor on that score with eyes too dark for comfort. It didn’t matter. He set the Princess Orda down beside him and made a little den out of his arm for her to cuddle in as his own daughter liked to do. And like his own daughter, the princess tucked herself among the folds of his sleeve and peeked out at him with a hopeful pout.
“Is Tumbi here?” she asked.
He closed his eyes, unable to speak for the moment. The old woman was watching, cataloging his weaknesses, but the sudden sharp pain was too new for any practice at hiding it. “Not this time, my sweet,” he told her. Not ever, he thought, unless he turned the Princess Orda over to his father the Tinglut-Khan. The problem was, he didn’t think he could do it.
Lady Bortu saw more than he wished her to see, and perhaps understood more than he did himself about what he would and would not do and what that line might cost him. At any rate she was giving him a look he hadn’t seen much in his life. Sympathy.
“Come here now, child,” she called the princess to her side with brusque disapproval. “Don’t tire our guest with your questions.”
Princess Orda crawled out of her nest beneath his arm and curled up next to her grandmother, who smoothed her coats with grumbling sounds of normalcy. “So tell me about this Tumbi,” she told the little girl, with a warning glare at Daritai to keep his teeth shut around his objections. “Do you like him very much?”
“He’s nice,” the princess assured her grandmother. “And when I grow up, I’m going to marry him.”
“Oh, are you now, girl? And don’t you think your khan may have something to say about that?”
“Tumbi could steal me away, like in the story of Quchar and Nomulun,” she said, defiant in her determination.
“Who is telling you such tales?” The old khaness chided her. “Children shouldn’t listen to such stories, much less make plans for acting them out when they are bigger!” She laughed to take the bite out of her scolding, however. It seemed to Daritai that Lady Bortu didn’t object to the idea but tested the feelings of the little girl. Though she had seen only seven summers, the royal family of the Qubal was well known for sprouting witches on their family tree.
Daritai had seen the value of the match the first time the idea had come to him, over a Qubal murder. Unfortunately, his plans depended on keeping both of the children alive, which didn’t seem all that likely at present.
“Well, we’ll see what we can do, then.” The Lady Bortu gave the princess a hug. “We can’t have you running away like Quchar and Nomulun.” With the sweet dark head tucked under her chin, she looked at Daritai, measuring up all that he was thinking. Lines of concern etched the corners of her eyes, but she gave him a little nod, accepting the bond forged by two children that would unite them as more than conqueror and conquered. He just had to get Tumbinai out of Tinglut’s clutches alive.
“But first,” the lady continued, and this time she spoke to Prince Daritai, though still in tones that wouldn’t frighten the child. “We must stop my foolish grandson, who is causing such a fuss.”
“Prince Tayy?” the little girl asked.
“No, my dear. The other one.” The old grandmother patted the child reasuringly, but tears gathered in her eyes.
Daritai knew that all he had surmised and the worst that his spies had gathered was true. “Let me help you,” he said. “For Tumbinai’s sake.”
The crows had started to gather. Sprawled in the rusty mud awash in his own blood, Bekter had accepted his approaching death. Already his mind and spirit withdrew from the terrible pain that racked his flesh. He would have liked to see Toragana one last time, though, to tell her that he’d changed his mind about older women. One of them, at least. He would miss her.
A bird settled too close to his face and he flinched away, closing his eyes tightly against the threat of its sharp beak. He was getting used to the agony in his back, but the thought of ending his life in blindness and rending pain as the creature ripped the eyes out of his living head was more than he could bear. Please, he tried to say, though nothing escaped his lips but a scarlet froth of blood. Not my eyes.
He didn’t know whose mercy he would have begged, but a gentle hand wiped the blood from his mouth and fluttered softly to his cheek.
“I know, my love. You’re safe now. Be still.”
Chapter Forty-two
STILL EXHAUSTED, General Jochi rose from a brief nap in his campaign tent. He demanded proper rest periods for his soldiers and tried to set an example. While he pretended to sleep, however, his mind replayed the events of the battlefield behind his eyelids. Mergen’s misbegotten blanket-son fought with demons at his side. The Qubal fallen lay running blood from eye and ear and mouth until they died in agony, blackened and swollen as if they had been dead for many days. Jochi shook his head, but he couldn’t dislodge the images that stole his rest. Warriors went happily to their death, knowing they would fly to their ancestors in the bellies of the birds. But how would the spirits of their dead find peace when even the birds refused to eat from their battlefield?
He remembered a story about the Uulgar, who roamed a land without forests and set their noble dead, not just those of lesser rank, for the birds to take their souls to rest. It was said that when they feasted on the poisoned khan of the Uulgar, the birds died in a dark and stinking blanket that covered all the grasslands around it. He feared the same doom for his own fallen souls.
When he returned from relieving himself, Chahar was waiting. The scout had brought news that Yesugei had turned back with half the Qubal and all of his Uulgar horde to defend the ulus, but so far—
“Anything?” Jochi asked, and gestured for a drink of strong kumiss.
“The Tinglut prince sends his regards,” Chahar told him, bringing no good news of Yesugei’s reinforcements, then. “He’s pulling out of the field with three of his thousands to rest. You have two thousands of his still to command.” The captain had already stated his disapproval of joining forces with their conquerors and he didn’t hide his feelings now.
“Choices?” Jochi threw the challenge at him. His officers and field servants were accustomed to this argument and went about their business preparing him for battle without comment. “Give me choices. Prince Daritai’s withdrawal, even to refresh his troops, leaves us vulnerable.” Like his own horde, the Tinglut had to rest. Demons, apparently, had no such weakness.
“He doesn’t serve you,” Chahar insisted. “His ten thousands will answer to your command only as long as Qutula remains a greater threat to his own security. Once we’ve dealt with the Durluken, what will prevent this Prince Daritai from turning his army against us?”
/> Alone, Qutula would not have stood against Jochi’s forces for even a single battle. But he had seen for himself the Lady Chaiujin shrouded in a green mist and riding among the Durluken. Where she rode, the ground seethed with vipers that rose up larger than a man to sink their poisoned fangs into the warriors who rode against them.
Alone against such supernatural forces, Jochi’s army would have fallen long ago. He didn’t delude himself that Prince Daritai had become a friend, however.
“Just because he’s polite about it, don’t forget that he has taken the ger-tent palace by force of arms,” Jochi reminded his captain. “The Tinglut prince holds the Lady Bortu hostage, with the Princess Orda and all the noble fathers and Great Mothers.
“Right now we need him against Qutula. And we need his goodwill toward the hostages.”
A rumor was spreading that Prince Tayy had died of the bite of a serpent-demon and another that Qutula had stabbed him through the heart. The prisoners he’d interrogated spoke freely, more terrified of their allies than their enemies. They told both stories, among others. In all the tales, however, the prince was dead. If the reports were true, Daritai held the last recognized blood of the khanate.
He understood Chahar’s anger. Who did they fight for, with the khan and his heir both dead? Certainly not for the Tinglut prince who had seized the ulus and only sent his men to fight in defense of his own interests. But General Jochi would fight to the last living breath in his body against Qutula, the murderer who had brought down the Qubal ulus.
Later, when Yesugei arrived with his combined forces and they had ended the usurper’s war, then they would sort out the Tinglut prince. A niggling doubt rippled across all his assumptions, however. Lady Bortu did not seem to disapprove of the conqueror and, as his captive, she’d observed the Tinglut prince more closely than any of them. Jochi needed time to think, but Qutula gave them no respite. He’d slept with his sword still clasped to his side, so he had only to pick up his spear and let his servants put his helmet on his head. His captains were ready, his horse saddled and pawing the ground, anxious for the battle. The general kept them waiting no longer.
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