by David Cook
Yamun noticed Koja’s skeptical stare. “I talked with Teylas.” The khahan’s voice was filled with conviction.
Koja didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything he could say that wouldn’t sound patronizing or obsequious. He slogged up the muddy slope alongside Yamun in pained silence. “You were glowing,” he finally said.
“Was I? I can never see what happens.”
“You’ve done this before?” Koja sputtered.
“Of course. Teylas demands his offerings.” The khahan waded through a wide puddle.
“But you’re not hurt.”
Yamun stepped over a fallen cooking pot. “Why would Teylas hurt me? I’m the Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, and a son of the Blue Wolf.”
Koja cocked his head at that, trying to decide if Yamun was serious or playing some grotesque joke.
“Teylas will not strike down his own clan.” Yamun splashed through the mud, not breaking his stride.
“Then what happened to the horses?” the lama finally asked.
“Teylas took them.” As Yamun spoke, his breath fogged the air. The temperature was dropping quickly in the wake of the storm.
“What?”
Yamun stopped walking and turned to face Koja. The khahan’s shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his face, especially his eyes, were still vibrant. “The horses now serve Teylas in his realm. Don’t you make sacrifices to your god?”
“You sacrificed them?”
“Teylas took them. I didn’t touch them.” Yamun pointed out.
“Flaming blue sparks flew from your fingers,” Koja said, explaining what he saw.
“That was the power of Teylas,” Yamun replied. He turned and resumed walking toward the Great Yurt. They continued on in silence through Quaraband.
At last they returned to the door of the royal yurt. Yamun threw open the flap and was about to step inside when Koja stopped him.
“Please wait, Great Lord,” Koja blurted, barely observing proper courtesy. Yamun stopped in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder.
“What did Teylas tell you?” Koja asked, bowing slightly as he spoke.
Yamun looked at the priest. A small, sardonic smile crossed his face. “He—”
“He what, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan?” Koja prompted, unable to suppress his curiosity.
Yamun looked slowly at the sky, and saw the starlight visible through the thinning clouds. “He showed me the entire world, priest, from the great water in the east to lands of the west. I saw Shou Lung and this ‘Cor-meer’ you spoke of.” The khahan, eyes blazing, turned back to the priest, yet seemed to focus on something farther away. “Green lands and forests, waiting to be conquered—and all I have to do is reach out and take them.”
Koja stepped back as Yamun spoke. The khahan’s voice was slowly growing as the warlord saw his vision once again unfold before his eyes. “Teylas promised you these things?” Koja ventured fearfully.
“Teylas promises nothing. He only showed what I could have. It’s up to me to take it,” Yamun answered coldly. The priest’s question dimmed the fire in Yamun’s eyes. “I will be emperor of the world.”
“The world is large and has many emperors, Yamun Khahan,” Koja pointed out. The priest shivered in his wet robes.
“Then I’ll conquer them, and they’ll be the slaves of my khans.” Yamun leaned slightly against the doorframe of the yurt. “And you’ll tell the story of my life.”
“What?” Koja gasped in astonishment.
“You will write the history of my rule. I will be a great emperor. As my historian, you will be honored by many.” Yamun stepped inside the yurt, and Koja followed him, still arguing.
“But—but—I am just an envoy, Great Lord. Surely there must be someone better.”
The nightguard, the same man who was in the yurt when they left, ran up to the door and dropped to one knee alongside the khahan. “Great Khan!” he said in surprised relief. “You live! I will tell my brothers that you have safely returned.”
“You’ll stay until I dismiss you,” Yamun countered as he walked past. “Koja of Khazari, you will write the history of my life—starting from right now. No one else will do.”
“Great Lord, I serve Prince Ogandi. It would not be right.” Koja hurried across the yurt.
“I don’t care. You’ll write it because I need you—who else would write the truth? Mother Bayalun? Her wizards? I wouldn’t trust them. My generals? They’re like me—they don’t know this magic of writing. You—” He wagged his finger at Koja. “You, I trust. And that is why I choose you.”
“Lord Yamun, I am very flattered, but you barely know me. I have a responsibility to my prince. I cannot serve you.” Koja realized he was knotting his fingers.
“You’re in my tent, in my land. You will do what I say,” Yamun commanded. He began unwrapping the wet sash from around his waist.
“And if Prince Ogandi bids me otherwise?” asked Koja as he nervously squeezed the water from his cuffs.
“Then I will deal with your prince.” Yamun spoke in slow, measured words.
“I’m loyal to Khazari,” Koja pressed, his throat getting dry with tension.
“It doesn’t matter. I trust you. There’s no more discussion to be had of this.” Yamun tossed his wet sash aside and settled himself on his throne.
Koja rubbed his head in frustration. He was stymied. In desperation he tried another ploy. “Isn’t there a saying of your people about a man who tells the truth?”
Yamun looked about for his wine cup. “ ‘A man who tells the truth should have one foot in the stirrup,’ ” he quoted. “It’s good advice. You should remember it.”
Koja finally gave up and spoke his mind. “I do not want to be your chronicler, Yamun Khahan.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you make me do it? Why do you need a biographer?”
“Because Teylas revealed that I should,” Yamun said testily as he pulled at one of his sodden boots.
“But why? What good would I do you?”
“This is no longer amusing, scribe. There will be no more argument,” Yamun snapped, his voice rising in volume. “You will write the history of my great deeds because I am the khahan of the Tuigan and I say you will. Every king and every emperor has someone to make songs about them. You will write mine. Now leave until you are called for!” With a jerk Yamun pulled the boot off and threw it aside.
Stiffly, Koja walked out of the tent, giving only a slight bow and turning his back to the khahan upon leaving. The tent flap slapped shut with a wet flop.
After the priest left, Yamun sat brooding, staring into his glass. The wind whistled around through the small gaps in the smoke hole. Drips fell in the corners where the rainwater had soaked through the seams of the tent.
After the nightguard had laced up the flap of the tent, Yamun spoke. “What do you think?”
“Me, Great Lord?” the guard asked in surprise.
“What do you think of the Khazari priest?” Yamun said, pointing to the door.
“It’s not for me to say, Great Lord,” the guard deferred.
“I’m asking, so it is. Come closer and tell me.”
Intimidated by the khahan, the man hesitantly came forward. “Noble khahan, I apologize for speaking so boldly, but I speak because you have ordered it. The foreigner is disrespectful.”
“Oh,” Yamun commented as he began tugging at his other boot.
The guard became more confident. “He argues and does not heed your word. He is only a foreigner, yet he dares challenge you.”
“And what should I do?” Yamun asked, jerking on the stubborn shoe.
“He should be flogged. If a man in my tumen spoke as he did, our commander would have him beaten!”
“Your commander is a fool,” Yamun observed, adding a loud grunt as the boot came off with a thick pop.
The guard looked up, his eyes wide with astonishment.
Yamun continued. “What if everyone obeyed me and ne
ver questioned my word? Where would I get my wise advisors? They’d be no better than a worn boot.” The khahan held up his own mud-caked boot and then tossed it aside.
Humbled, the guard nodded automatically.
“Why do you think the truthful man has one foot in the stirrup? Truth is not always what people want to hear. Learn and someday I will make you a commander,” Yamun finished, suppressing a yawn. He struggled to his feet and began unfastening the toggles of his robes. “Now, I’m tired and will sleep alone tonight. See that my guards are in order and send someone to the women’s tent. Tell the ladies they won’t be needed. You will sleep at my doorstep.”
“By your word, it shall be done,” said the guard, touching his head to the floor, acknowledging the duty the khahan had given him. He ran to the doorway and loosened the laces enough to bark out his orders.
Before the guard finished, the khahan had struggled out of his clothes and collapsed, exhausted, onto the hard wooden bed set up behind his throne.
4
Chanar
It was late the next morning when an escort of black-robed dayguards arrived for Koja to lead him to the royal compound. Reluctantly, the priest gathered his writing materials together. Today he was not eager to enter Yamun’s presence, not after what had happened last night. Although the wild night out in the storm was clear in his mind, except for the moments where he had succumbed to blind panic, Koja still had no understanding of what had happened. That, along with the idea of becoming the khahan’s biographer, frightened him.
Taking the horse waiting for him, the priest set out. One man rode alongside him, holding the reins of his horse. Ever since Koja’s accident, the guards had taken the utmost precautions with his mount. None of them wanted the foreigner’s horse to go galloping off again.
The rain from the night before had altered the dry steppe. The snow cover had melted to patches and pools of slushy mud. Grasses and flowers, filled with bright vibrant green, had sprung up where none had been before. The ground around the Great Yurt was checked with swatches of fresh green and barren areas of churned mud. Small, black-headed birds hopped around the edges of these mires, poking at the standing water with their beaks. Children charged at them, scaring them off, and then splashed merrily through the muck. The legs and the hems of their robes were caked in mud.
Passing through the entrance to the khahan’s compound, the guards dismounted and led their horses up the slope. As they marched to the royal yurt, Koja looked out across the the horse pens, trying to decide which corral had been the scene of last night’s terrifying visitation. There was nothing to distinguish one from another, so he couldn’t be sure which of them was the one.
“Captain,” Koja called out as he hurried to ride alongside the officer in charge, “did anything unusual happen last night?”
Slowing his pace, the officer turned to look at Koja. “Unusual? Teylas sent a storm.”
“Yes, but more than that. Did the nightguards report anything strange?”
The captain looked at him suspiciously, his eyes narrowed. “Strange? I did not hear of anything strange.”
“I heard rumors some horses had escaped.”
“A man who listens to his neighbors seldom hears the truth.” The captain once again picked up his pace, making it clear he would answer no more questions.
As he neared the top of the hill, Koja saw that the court was to be held outside today. The area was already prepared. Felt rugs in bright red and black patterns were laid out over the sodden ground, layered thickly to keep the topmost ones dry. A small stool for the khahan sat near the doorway to his yurt. Behind the seat towered the khahan’s horsetail standard, a sign that he was present in his compound. On the left was the khahan’s golden bow case as well as a quiver filled with blue-feathered arrows. On the right side of the standard was a saddle of polished red leather. A white trim of sheepskin decorated the saddle’s edges, and its silver fittings gleamed brilliantly in the sun. A tray with cups, a kettle, and a pitcher sat beside Yamun’s throne.
“And let his horses graze in our pasture,” boomed the khahan from nearby. He was walking up the hill along another trail, evidently returning from some business. He was still dressed in the thick layers of the his sleeping robes, and his hair was loose, undone. Koja could see the tips of his toes under the long hems, unshod and covered in cold mud.
With Yamun walked an old, stoop-backed khan, who was absentmindedly nodding as the khahan gave his orders. The ancient man was a short, thin fellow with patchy spots of hair and a perpetual stoop. Koja recognized the man as Goyuk Khan, one of Yamun’s trusted advisors.
Behind those two followed an entourage of guards and attendants. There were several unsmiling dayguards in heavy black kalats, hands always at the hilts of their swords. Yamun’s quiverbearers, his personal servants, carried his morning clothes and a silver-hilted sword in a bejeweled scabbard. At the end of the group came one servant carrying a hooded falcon, the khahan’s prized hunting bird, out for its exercise. All told, Koja counted at least thirty people. Yamun acted as if they were not there.
Koja had been told the khahan had two thousand quiverbearers in his service and another four thousand dayguards. No one had ever estimated the number of nightguards, the finest of the bodyguard, because the khahan had decreed anyone that curious would be beheaded. Koja had no doubt the khahan would carry out the sentence, too.
Yamun casually tracked mud across the carpets and took his seat on the throne. Goyuk bowed and took his leave to carry out the khahan’s orders. Koja stood, waiting to be recognized, his shoes slowly filling up with cold mud.
“Bring my bird,” Yamun ordered.
As a falconer walked forward, another quiverbearer ran up with Yamun’s hawking gauntlet and a small dish of raw meat. Yamun pulled on the thick glove, adorned with mottled red leather cut from the belly of a giant fire lizard, one of the strange creatures that roamed the steppe. The servant stood by with the meat ready.
Yamun held out his arm and coaxed the falcon onto his hand. Even hooded, the bird spread its wings and tried to fly away. The khahan held the bird by its jesses and gripped the leash in his teeth. He whispered soft words through clamped jaws as he took off the bird’s hood. The falcon blinked and flapped again, trying to get away. Yamun held out a strip of raw meat. The falcon snapped at the morsel, tossing its head back to get the piece down. When the bird settled down, Yamun spit out the leash.
“Welcome to my tent, Koja of the Khazari. Sit and enjoy the flesh of my lambs, the milk of my horses,” the khahan called out, giving the traditional greeting that preceded each day’s audience.
“I thank you, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, for your generosity,” Koja responded with a slight bow. Like the invitation, his answer was repeated every day, a part of the ancient ritual that ruled the lives of the Tuigan.
“Well, then, come and sit. Quickly—there’s a lot to do today. I want to go hunting later,” Yamun said, dispensing with etiquette.
“Yes, Great Lord,” Koja said as he hurried to his seat.
“You will come, too. You will hunt with me.” Yamun handed the fierce bird to the falconer and dismissed the servant with a wave. “But first you must be my scribe for a little bit more—just for today.”
Koja nodded and took his seat, laying out his papers, brushes, inking stones, and pressed cakes of powdered ink—both red and black. A servant set out a small dish of water for mixing the powder.
Yamun waved his hand to his waiting attendants. “I’ll dress now,” he commanded.
The quiverbearers ran forward, unfurling a long strip of white cloth. Four of them took positions in a square around the khahan, their eyes turned, holding the fabric up to form a screen. Other servants set piles of clothes inside the screen, then backed away.
“Bring my women to dress me.”
After a short delay, two young girls came from the direction of the women’s tents. Koja guessed they were little more than eighteen years old. They were
Shou in appearanee, with glossy black hair, pale skin, and narrow eyes. The girls hurried forward in quick, mincing steps, the way court ladies were trained to do. Each wore a tight silk dress and the towering headdress of an unmarried woman. Combs carved from the bones of exotic monsters held their hair in place. Giggling shyly when they saw there was an audience, the two girls stepped inside the screen and set to work.
“These are the princesses Water Flower and Spring Peony,” Yamun boasted over the screen. “Gifts from the Shou emperor. He sends me more than wine. These two are princesses of the royal blood, and he has given them to me. Has he done this for your prince?” Yamun wriggled as the girls pulled his outer robes off.
Koja didn’t answer, trying to discreetly keep his eyes lowered. He looked up briefly. The khahan’s bare shoulders were covered with long, narrow scars.
“Dressing is not all they are good at.” Yamun broadly leered. “But then, you would not know that. Is it true you priests never touch women?”
Koja flushed at the question. “Purity of mind and body is the path by which we seek Furo,” he said defensively.
“So then women are impure?” Yamun asked, an incredulous tone creeping into his voice.
Koja could hear more giggling behind the screen.
“Passions cloud the mind and corrupt the spirit. We live to control our passions and purify our minds, so we can achieve perfection in thought and deed.” Unconsciously, Koja settled into the cross-legged pose assumed by the priests of his temple when at their lessons.
“Hah! And what does that get you in the world?” Yamun held up his arms as the princesses undid his trousers.
“Only one with a pure spirit can enter into the presence of the Enlightened One.”
“So if you avoid women you might, just might, get a chance to see your god?” Yamun had ducked from sight behind the screen.
“Something like that, yes.” There was a lot more to the philosophy of the Red Mountain Temple, but Koja wasn’t about to go into it now. Preparing for his work, Koja mixed his inks.
“What does your Enlightened One do? Does he reward you and strike down your enemies with lightning?” Yamun’s voice was muffled as fresh clothes were pulled over his head.
