Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  “The baby will have the same rank and privileges as Djela. If I am the Khan when my father dies, which is likely, your son will come first after my sons by Kerulu. You are entitled to a fifth of my plunder in a war and a third of my herds and the spoils of my hunting. There’s a lot else, too, but that’s the most important.”

  All through his speech she had been concentrating on the idea of Chan’s having a son old enough to be twice married. She looked up.

  “It’s very generous.”

  He shrugged. “It’s in the Yasa. Do you want to come to my house tonight or tomorrow?”

  “I want to stay here.”

  He said nothing. He was in front of her, and she lifted her face toward him.

  “I’m not ungrateful,” she said. “You’re being kind. But I like it here.”

  He sat down on his heels. “There’s no place for you here.”

  “I can help. I—”

  “What is my father going to do with a woman who can’t be a slave and who isn’t his wife, and who will have a child not his—You are under my protection. You can’t stay here.”

  “Isn’t there any—” She stood up. “I’ll stay a slave. I don’t—”

  “You can’t. It’s against the Yasa.” He rubbed his face. “Every person has a place. Your place is in my camp.”

  “But—”

  She stopped. He was shaking his head, slowly, and he looked angry. He said, “Women. I will leave you here until the child is ready to be born. You have to have it under my roof. It’s the law. Do you love my father?”

  “No.” She laughed, uneasily. “No.”

  “Tell him to tell Chan that the child is mine, or Chan will make you miserable.”

  “She’s very nice. She—”

  “She’s jealous. And whose could it be but his?” He got up and prowled around the room. “Chan is… different than most women. Don’t think she’s just what she acts like.”

  “Oh,” Ana said. “I’ve discovered that. She and the Khan were by the river one day, and they came back soaking wet and muddy and laughing like children.”

  “Hunh.” He wheeled back. “Do you understand? About why you must come with me.”

  “Yes.” She would ask Artai.

  He sat down next to her, and she shrank away. He picked up one of her hands and closed his fingers over hers. “You’re acting like a little girl. I won’t hurt you. I won’t sleep with you unless you want me to.” He put her hand in her lap and stood up. “Don’t be afraid of me. I don’t like that.” He left the room.

  She sighed. Once she’d gotten over being surprised, she decided, she hadn’t been afraid of him. But she didn’t want to go live with him. There had to be a way to avoid it. She would ask Artai. Rising, she crossed the room to the door and went out into the corridor.

  Psin put his feet up on the table. “Kadan, you stink.”

  Kadan howled, tiptoed like a girl, and plunked into a chair. “Psin Khan, it’s the very b-best perfume—my Russian woman wears it and I go mad.”

  The Altun rocked with laughter. Buri picked up a pear and hurled it at Kadan, who ducked. The pear splashed on the far wall.

  “Stop wrecking my room,” Batu called. “And quiet down. How can we play—”

  Buri gathered up two more pears and hurled them at Tshant and Batu, crouched over the chess board. Tshant threw up one hand and knocked one pear off course. “Check.”

  Mongke walked past Psin, paused long enough to say, “Look at Quyuk,” and moved on. Psin looked over at Quyuk, who was sprawled on a couch. Across Quyuk’s slack face the expressions marched: surprise, momentary fright, and intense pleasure. His eyes were unfocused. Psin put his feet down and stood up.

  “Don’t go near him,” Baidar said. “It’s the hashish.”

  “He’s fun to watch,” Mongke said. “And it keeps him quiet.”

  Kadan shouted, “That is our next Kha-Khan.”

  Quyuk looked over, smiled beatifically, and spoke a long sentence of gibberish. He lay back.

  “If Sabotai were here,” Mongke said, “things would be much less merry.”

  “You are so right,” Kadan shouted. He blinked. Mongke winced away from his voice; Kadan was right beside him.

  “You needn’t yell. I can hear—”

  “I’m not yelling,” Kadan yelled. He reached for his cup.

  Psin put his feet up again. He thought of Temujin, of Temujin’s harsh law against drink. But even Temujin hadn’t considered hashish. Slaves trotted in with huge platters of meat, and the Altun attacked them before they could set the food on the table. Psin dove into the tangle and emerged with a roast pigeon. He retreated to one end of the table, near Tshant and Batu, and with his dagger cut up the bird. Tshant said, “And check.”

  “Hmmmm,” Batu said.

  Psin glanced over at them. Tshant hadn’t told him what had come of the talk with Ana, but Artai said that Ana didn’t want to move into Tshant’s house.

  Kadan was shouting at Mongke. Mongke sat back and listened, half-smiling, as if Kadan were making sense. His eyes danced with amusement. Psin looked over at Quyuk again, and saw that he was still in the hashish fog. His lips moved soundlessly. Psin got up and went around the table to Mongke.

  “If you’d moved the horse here,” Batu was saying comfortably, “I’d have had a great deal more trouble—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Tshant said.

  Psin knelt by Mongke’s chair. “What’s he like when he recovers?”

  “Who? Oh.” Mongke glanced at Quyuk. Kadan went on shouting, his eyes shut. Mongke said, “He’ll be groggy and bad-tempered and nervous. He’s no trouble.”

  “Then I’ll leave.”

  “If anything happens I’ll send for you.”

  Psin nodded and got up. A platter of meat had spilled and the floor was covered with juice and bits of roast animal. He stepped on a chicken wing, slipped, caught himself, and went out the door. In the corridor the noise from the room was only a muted rumble.

  Sentries jerked up their lances in salute when he passed, and two of them pulled the front door open for him. He stepped into the cool night air, breathed deep, and started off toward his own house.

  In the middle of the night Chan woke up from a bad dream and lay, soaked in sweat, and cried. When she couldn’t cry any more, she curled up with her face buried in the covers, afraid to go back to sleep. Two of her cats slept in the hollow behind her knees. The other usually slept on the windowsill, but now it leapt down, walked across the floor, and jumped up beside her to lick her face. She stroked it, and the cat arched its back, purring.

  She couldn’t remember the dream. She thought it had been of monsters. She pulled the cat under the covers and the cat immediately struggled out again.

  Across the house, Psin slept with his arms around Artai, his face against her skin. Chan felt the tears harsh in her eyes. Artai was old and ugly, but Psin still went to her, once out of every two nights.

  When I am old, she thought, he will not come to me.

  She wondered if that were really so. He was fond of her, she was sure of that. But he did not love her the way he loved Artai.

  The cat walked up and down her back, purring, and eventually curled up against her and went to sleep. Through the window the moonlight tumbled onto the rug, onto the couch; the bright colors of the daylight vanished into blue-silver and black. She threw the covers off and got up.

  It was cold. She pulled her cloak over her shoulders, shivering, her hands frozen. The cats were lumps on the rumpled covers. She went into the antechamber, moved softly past the three women sleeping there, and slid between the lattice screen and the wall, through the door.

  The corridor was empty. She ran down it, her bare feet soundless on the timber floor. Through one window she saw the garden under the moonlight, like a blasted city—the stone benches, the stark black shrubs. Ash heaps. Somebody was coming. She pulled the cloak tight around her and waited.

  It was a sentry; he stopped and said, “
Who is it?”

  “Chan Khatun. Let me pass.”

  He pressed himself against the wall so that she could get past him without touching him. She caught a glimpse of his face, young, the eyes round with awe. She walked away with all the dignity she owned, turned the corner, and ran. The door to the garden was bolted. She swore at it, using a curse Psin sometimes used, and climbed out the window.

  Artai’s window was straight across from this one. She went along the edge of the garden, avoiding the places where the brick in the walk was loose. Her feet were cold. At Artai’s window she stepped in among the tended plants and rapped lightly on the shutter.

  Silence. She shivered. Something moved in there, and she tensed to run away. She shouldn’t be here and he would beat her, probably. Most likely. The shutter opened swiftly inward, and Psin with a dagger in his hand looked out.

  He stared at her, and she stared at him, until she wondered if he thought he was dreaming. Finally he put one finger to his lips, nodded at the couch, and climbed out the window, naked.

  “What’s the matter?” he whispered.

  “I had a bad dream.”

  “Oh.” He looked around. “Well, wait here.”

  He climbed back into Artai’s room. She heard Artai say something in a sleepy, comfortable voice, and he said, “I’m just going outside. I’ll be right back.” Artai mumbled and rolled over. Psin crawled out the window, his coat loosely wrapped around him. He took Chan by the hand and led her toward the far door.

  “Are you angry?” she said.

  “Livid.”

  He stopped in front of the door, tried the latch, and swore. He used exactly the same words she had, and she laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “You.”

  He snorted, climbed through the window, and unbolted the door from the inside. The noise apparently woke a sentry, who called out, and Psin said something to him. He opened the door and Chan went in, walking very straight.

  “What was the dream about?”

  “You.”

  He said nothing. She tried to think of something to say if he asked why she had come running to him when she’d had a nightmare about him, but he never asked. They passed the same sentry, who flattened himself against the wall once more, and all three of her women woke up when they entered her antechamber.

  Psin ignored them. He pushed Chan into her room, scooped her up, dumped her on the bed, and said, “Stay here.” He turned on his heel and walked out. Chan pulled the covers over her, glared at the door, and shut her eyes, furious.

  The noyon of Novgorod said, “I have come to ask the terms of our submission.”

  Psin glanced up at him and went back to eating the orange. Batu on the table behind him said in his formal voice, “The terms are those we offered your uncle, the Grand Duke Yuri. One quarter of your goods now, one tenth of your young men to train for our army. A yearly tithe thereafter in the name of the Kha-Khan.”

  The prince looked tired. His eyes never left Batu’s face, and his voice was almost bored. “These terms are unacceptable to us.”

  Psin looked down the table. Kadan was not there, being too drunk to look pretty before Russians; Mongke and Baidar and Buri sat ignoring the noyon. On the dais, at Batu’s table, Quyuk slouched with his head on the back of his chair. Batu said calmly, “I think you’ll find them acceptable enough.”

  “We are of Novgorod the Unconquered,” the noyon said.

  “Would you care to test it? Did we destroy all that lay between the inland seas and your little lake to bend before your pride? We offer you much, boy.”

  Psin looked quickly at the noyon, but he didn’t react at all to the insult. The men behind him in their ceremonial robes frowned a little. The noyon said, “You offer us only slavery.”

  “If such is slavery,” Batu said, “then we all are slaves. The Kha-Khan’s will is the will of God. Defy us, and you defy God. Submit, and we throw the shield of our protection over you. In our peace you will prosper without such distractions as foreign or domestic war.”

  Tshant came in behind the Russian delegation, circled them and bent to talk to Psin, one hand on the back of Psin’s chair. “Messages from Sabotai.”

  Psin nodded. He turned to catch Batu’s eye; Batu was saying, “The alternative is, of course, the same your uncle chose, noyon. We looked among the dead beside the Sit’ River, but we couldn’t find his body to send it to you for proper burial.”

  He glanced at Psin and nodded, and Psin rose. Following Tshant to the door, he heard Batu’s deep voice rolling on, describing in detail how Novgorod would benefit from the protection of the Mongols.

  Tshant said, “Was that Yuri’s nephew?”

  “Yes. Alexander Something-or-other-evitch.”

  “He’s not like these Southern Russians.”

  Psin smiled faintly. They went down the corridor to a small room where the messenger waited, and while Tshant took the rolls of messages and dismissed the courier Psin brought in a chair from the next room and sat down. Tshant was reading quickly through the first roll.

  “He’ll be here before sundown. He wants to talk to you about the new campaign. Before he sees Batu. Reconnaissance, envoys, the usual. He asks is Rijart here.” He looked over, his brows arched.

  “One of the Kha-Khan’s Europeans. We sent for him in the spring.”

  “He says he has trained Kipchaks until he’s sick for the sight of a Mongol face. The horses have come in from the south. He wants to attack Kiev this coming fall.”

  “That I know.” Psin rose. “Go back and take my place at the audience. Quyuk looks in a bad temper.”

  “What am I to do with him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When are you going to talk to Ana?”

  “I’ll go now. She’ll understand. You didn’t explain it right, that’s all.”

  “I hope so. She’s big as a mare already.”

  “She’ll be in your house tomorrow. What are you going to do about Kerulu?”

  “I’ll handle my own household. You were leaving?”

  Psin laughed and went out.

  In her antechamber, in the midst of her women, Artai was making felt. She beamed at Psin when he looked through the door. The women rose and moved discreetly off into the next room, and Psin shut the door after them.

  “Ana told Tshant she won’t go with him,” he said. He sat down on the floor, just behind Artai’s shoulder, so that he could see her quick hands kneading.

  “She told me. She wants to stay here.”

  “Do you think…”

  “You take too much trouble over slaves.”

  “She’s not a slave.”

  “Let them alone. Let her come to it herself.” She measured out size and mixed it into the hair. “Are you fighting again next winter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “No.”

  “You have women in the baggage trains. Take me.”

  “We have slaves with the baggage. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” She turned her head toward him. “When we were first married, the Yek Mongols were hunting Merkits like birds from tree to tree. Whenever we made a camp your father had us tethering the horses to our wrists while we slept.”

  Psin frowned. “My father was overexcited.”

  “Ah? There used to be fifty clans of the Merkits. How many are there now?”

  “We are Mongols now.”

  “Two.” She thrust the felt away from her. “Your beloved Temujin. I want to go with you. How can it be so dangerous?”

  “Do you think I would take my women in a baggage train?”

  “Better than languishing here, like—”

  “No. If I took you I would have to take Chan.”

  “She would go.”

  “She’s too fragile.”

  “She’s as fragile as a yak. Didn’t she keep you pinned down in a river for—”

  He felt the heat rising across his face, and Ar
tai grinned. “Oh, yes. We heard about that. The Khan’s favorite bit of thigh—”

  “Did she tell you?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll beat her.”

  “No, don’t. She didn’t mean to. I just asked how you’d gotten so wet.”

  “She could have lied.”

  “Don’t hurt her. You’ll be sorry if you do.”

  “You sound like Djela.” He got up and went out of the room.

  He sent a slave to bring Ana into the small room opposite Chan’s; if he left the door open he would see her when she came in from the market. His blood ached in his ears. He could picture Chan telling Artai the story, laughing, adding small touches out of her imagination, and the serving women giggling in the background. In his rage he hardly noticed Ana come in.

  She said, “Khan.”

  He swung around. “Oh. My son told me that you refuse to go to his house.”

  “I want to stay here.”

  “You can’t.” He sat down on a chest. “There is no place for you here.”

  She was twisting her hands together. “Please let me stay.”

  “Every day you stay here is a mark against me and Tshant. Pack up your clothes. You’ll move there before sundown.”

  She flinched as if he had struck her. He stood up again and went over to her. He tried to make his voice gentle. “You’re a Mongol now. You have to do things the way Mongols do them.”

  Her face was turned up toward his. He hadn’t noticed how she had filled out—her cheeks were rounder, her eyes brighter. She said, “I’m not a Mongol. I’m a Russian.”

  “Not any more. Don’t make me lose my temper. I’m angry with Chan and I’m in a bad mood. Go pack. You’ll be happier with Tshant.” He put his hand against her cheek. “That’s my grandchild you carry. Be careful.”

  She put her hand over his. “I will.”

  “Good.” He turned and walked toward the window, his hands behind his back.

  “Do you ... do you remember when I said Mongols were ugly?”

  “Very well.”

  “You aren’t,” she said, softly. When he turned to look she was gone. He sat down again, watching the door, willing Chan to come back.

  A horse clattered into the garden. He leapt up and threw the window open. It was Quyuk. He dismounted, let his reins trail, and stamped toward the main door into the house. Psin leaned out the window.