Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  They reached the plain by the hardest route again, but Psin caught enough glimpses of the way the hills folded around the main trail to know where it was. Two days after they had reached the summit of the pass they rode out onto the grassland. Immediately the Mongol horses began to graze, thrusting their heads down into the high grass, and Vortai with a great show of relief leapt down from his saddle and pressed his forehead to the flat ground. Blushing, Rijart yelled at him, but Psin laughed.

  The knights were careful not to let them see anything but flat pasturage. The mountains grew dim on their backtrail, and the steppe unrolled before them. The knights set the pace. Psin thought they were deliberately going slow to fool the Mongols about distances, but Rijart said that many of them were complaining about how fast they were traveling.

  The second night after they left the hills, they stayed in a stone tower. Psin judged the walls to be as thick as a horse was long, and they rose smoothly to a peaked roof at least five storeys off the ground. The walls were slit with narrow windows. Around the foot of the tower was a ditch half-full of scummy water and lily pads and spanned by a little wooden bridge. The gate was doubled, the inner gate blocked by an iron grille so heavy it needed a winch to lift and lower it.

  Rijart said, “All Europe is filled with these towers. Do you think Mongols could take them?”

  Psin stretched out and shut his eyes. They were alone in the room, except for the other three Mongols. “Yes.” He thought Rijart wasn’t sure whom to be loyal to, his own people or the Kha-Khan. When they got back to the Volga camp he would have to tell Sabotai of that.

  “I feel terrible,” Ana said. “And I don’t know why.” She put her head down on her arms. Artai stroked her hair, undid the ribbons on her braids, and let them out.

  “It’s because of the baby. You’ll be happy when the baby is born.”

  Ana sighed and shifted her ungainly weight. “I feel as if the whole world is falling away from under my feet. All I want to do is cry.”

  “Do you want to go back to your own house?”

  “No.” Ana looked up at her; her long face was drawn and new lines rippled her forehead. “No. I want to stay here. There’s nothing in that house that’s mine—only Qo’a.” She burrowed her head into Artai’s lap. “I want to stay here.”

  “We’re all unhappy when the men are gone.” Artai took the comb from the table and untangled Ana’s hair. “They’ll come back.”

  “It’s different for you. I was happier when I was a slave. I had things to do, and friends—the Kipchak woman and I, we spent the afternoons…And Djela. I had someone to look after.”

  Her body trembled, and she began to cry. Artai pulled the robe up over Ana’s shoulders and rocked her.

  “He took me back because of the baby. Because of the Yasa. I’m a jug that carries something precious for him, that’s all.”

  The door opened; Artai saw someone move in behind the lattice screen, and Chan with a cat walking beside her came into the room. Chan gave Artai an inscrutable glance and sat down on the floor beside the couch. She had her paintbox in her sleeve. Ana was trying to smother her sobs. The cat leapt up and mewling walked along the edge of the couch, its tail perfectly erect.

  “Don’t cry,” Artai said. “When the baby comes you will have all you want.”

  Chan stared at her, sat so that her back was against the couch, and put the paintbox on the floor. The cat sat down on her shoulder.

  Artai said, “Why are you here?”

  “Because I am lonely.” Chan didn’t look up. She unrolled a scroll of paper and anchored it with pots and a slipper.

  “Cats walk differently than horses,” Artai said. “They move both legs on the same side at once.”

  “Sometimes,” Chan said. She began to draw.

  Ana snuffled. “How do horses walk?”

  “Each leg separately,” Artai said. “One hind foot, then the same forefoot, then the other hind foot and the other forefoot.”

  “Sometimes cats do that,” Chan said.

  Ana shoved the cat to make it walk. The cat only gave way and settled back, purring. Artai leaned forward to see what Chan was doing, and saw behind the quick brush a river with trees on the far bank.

  “What is she doing?” Ana said.

  “Drawing.”

  Ana lay still awhile, no longer crying, and finally pushed herself clumsily up on one elbow. Chan had put mountains behind the river, and between them, small horses.

  “Where is that?”

  “China,” Artai said. She pressed Ana gently back into the covers. “You may stay here, with us, until they come home. Shall I send for your women?”

  Ana shook her head. She got a cloth out of her robes to clean her face. Chan sat still, her brush poised.

  “When she and the Khan were first married,” Artai said, “Chan would draw pictures of Kinsai burning, just to anger him.”

  “He commanded me to stop,” Chan said. She put the brush lightly to the paper and started a horse in the foreground. The brush slipped. Artai frowned. She had never seen Chan botch anything before. Leaning forward, she saw that Chan’s eyes were shut, the lashes stuck together with tears.

  The Mongols with their escort of knights reached Pesth in the midafternoon. The city streets were packed with people, who stared at them and yelled back and forth. The knights rode with their lances at salute, as if the mob would at any moment charge the Mongols. Under their helmets their cheeks glistened with sweat. The air was heavy with the odor of the crowd, of smoke and houses and the river.

  All the noise made Psin’s dun horse nervous, and it started to canter, as slowly as the other horses walked. Psin kept a tight hold on the reins. While the dun horse rocked along, he judged the size of the crowd. Their clothes were far richer even than the Russians’. Their houses stood well apart from one another, high strong buildings, their windows stuffed with people. All the ox-like faces and the round, glaring eyes made him uneasy.

  The King met them at the gate to his palace and when he appeared the people began to yell and throw their caps into the air. Their arms waved like the stems of flowers. Beside the King stood a younger man, full-bearded. They spoke elegantly to Rijart. Psin looked around at the palace wall and the buildings beyond it. He was glad to see that it wasn’t as strong as the tower on the plain.

  They dismounted and went into the palace. A flock of women in brilliant colors stood on the balconies over the courtyard. The windows were wide, and the corridors flooded with sunlight. Everything glistened, clean and tended. They walked into a large room, out into another courtyard—where women clustered and giggled —and on into a hall hung with tapestries. A white stone table stood along one wall, covered with trays and bowls of food; at the north end of the hall was a dais draped in a cloth-of-gold.

  The King sat on the dais, and the younger man stood behind him. The knights lined the Mongols up formally in a semi-circle facing the King, and a lot of people said things to Rijart. He bowed. A priest in black read from a book and made a sign over them. Psin didn’t listen to the Latin; he was too busy judging the plunder they could have from this one place alone.

  “They are rich here,” Vortai said softly, beside him.

  “Ssssh.” Psin looked at the table again. The dishes were surely of gold. Two women were standing in an alcove at one end of the table, and seeing him looking they laughed and stared boldly back.

  Rijart was introducing them. “Targoutai, my standardbearer. Vortai, of the Borgijin clan of the Mongols, and Mago and Kobol of the Darbin clan.”

  The young man behind the King said something in a high, cold voice. The King smiled.

  “My brother Colomon says that your men should bow.”

  Psin shuffled his feet so that he could pretend he didn’t understand. The King spoke slowly, as if he wasn’t good in the language either. Rijart said, “My lord, the Mongols bow to no one but their Kha-Khan, the Lord of the Earth, the Master of Crowns and Thrones.”

  “Hmm.�
� The King folded his hands over his chest. His dark eyes snapped. “Ask them what they think of my court. Ask him, the old one.”

  Rijart said, in Mongol, “Did you understand?”

  “Yes. If I am old he is half in his grave. Tell him to a man who has seen Karakorum all this is nothing more than a glorified waystation.” Psin kept his voice soft; he’d seen a man off to one side of the dais. “And watch what you say to me. I think that’s a Kipchak and he might speak Mongol.”

  Rijart nodded. “Are you sure—”

  “Damn you. Yes. Tell him what I said. I want to hear what he answers.”

  Rijart translated what Psin had said, and the knights around them muttered. The King’s brother took a step forward. Rijart said, “Targoutai is sometimes rough in his speech.”

  The King smiled up at his brother and said something soft to him. To Rijart, he said, “I’m sure he’s a fine soldier. You have the freedom of my court. Later we shall talk over the issues between us. Now, eat, drink, and talk among yourselves.”

  He rose and went down the steps of the dais. The group before him parted to let him through. His long coat swished metallically. Music burst out, somewhere, and Psin winced. Rijart beckoned to them, and they followed the King to the table.

  Mago said, “They are staring at us, those women. Eh. Rijart. Ask the King if he will give them to us.”

  Psin glared at him. “The Christians aren’t generous that way. Don’t make trouble.”

  The women were mingling with the men. The King directed boys in fancy clothes to cut meat and sent one with a plate to Rijart. Rijart bowed, smiling.

  “You bow,” the King’s brother said.

  “I am no Mongol,” Rijart said.

  Now a boy in red and gold was holding a plate toward Psin, and Psin looked at Rijart, surprised. Rijart said, “Take it.”

  Psin took the plate. The heavy gold was cool to his hands. The King said, “Tell your standardbearer his answer pleased me. I’m surrounded by courtiers and the rough words of a simple soldier are sweet to my ears.”

  Rijart smiled. “Did you hear that, simple soldier?”

  “Rijart. When we are back in Russia maybe I’ll have molten lead poured into your ears and mouth.”

  A young woman had come up behind the knight Gabriel; she spoke to him softly. Gabriel patted her hand. She looked at Vortai through the corner of her eye and smiled. Vortai stopped chewing and stared at her, his cheeks bulging with food. The King laughed; he said to Rijart, “Your men seem quite taken with our women.”

  “They are unused to seeing women moving so freely among men, my lord.”

  “Oh. Well, tomorrow we’ll have manly sport. We’ll hunt. I’ve seen Mongol bows, but never in action.”

  Leaning toward Psin, Vortai said, “What would they do if we took their women?”

  “The women would stop you. They entice you and slam the door shut in your face. Rijart warned me against them. We aren’t pretty enough to them, he said.”

  The Kipchak was pushing his way through the crowd toward them. He said, in loud Russian, “King Bela is misled, to let Mongols lay hands on his gold.”

  He was talking to Rijart; his eyes swept around the four Mongols. Rijart, who spoke no Russian, frowned and looked at Psin. Psin translated it into Mongol.

  The King called out sharply, but the sudden intrusion of yet another language had thrown Psin off and he didn’t understand the Latin. Rijart spoke to the King in a level voice.

  In Russian, the Kipchak said, “Here is one of the butchers of Vladimir. Do the Hungarians shelter such animals?”

  Psin alone understood him. The excited voices of the others rose like bird calls. The Kipchak looked all around. He was darkening with frustration. Psin took a bite of his meat. If the Kipchak could speak Mongol, he would. He was too angry to dissemble. Psin said, “I’m the only one here who speaks Russian. If you don’t go away I’ll tell them you are telling us you will join us to plunder Hungary when we cross the Carpathians.”

  The Kipchak’s mouth fell open. “You Tartar pig.”

  “You Kipchak coward. Rijart—”

  “No. I’m going.”

  The Kipchak turned and plowed through the mob. The courtiers were almost screaming; their eyes followed him, they shouted to one another. The King stepped forward and calmed them with a word. He spoke to Rijart, and Rijart turned to Psin.

  “What did he say?”

  “We… exchanged insults. Tell the King that it was the Kipchak who started it.”

  Rijart nodded. “Watch out. If he spoke only Kipchak and Russian there is probably someone here who speaks Russian and Latin.” He swung back to the King and with a bow and many gestures explained.

  Psin ate. Rijart was right. They wouldn’t have let the Kipchak in if he couldn’t be understood. A small man with a bald head was standing just behind the King; the King’s brother turned to him, and the bald man spoke in a quiet voice. The brother nodded. Psin chewed thoughtfully. Rijart was clever. The King’s brother and the bald man saw him watching and he looked away.

  They stood around and ate and drank until the dark drove the King to order torches lit. Finally they were led off to rooms. Rijart was given his own chambers but the four Mongols were thrown together into two small rooms. Their saddles lay tangled on the floor waiting for them. Psin sank down onto a bench, sighing when the weight left his legs, and said, “Straighten up the gear. Vortai, tomorrow we hunt. You and I will shoot. Mago and Kobol, leave your bows here.”

  “Why?” they asked, together.

  “Because we can’t risk a miss, and neither of you is good at long shots. Vortai. We shoot as deep as we can. Can you draw my spare bow?”

  “Yes,” Vortai said. “But I’d rather use my own. The pull’s not so heavy, but I’m good with it at maximum range.”

  “I know.” Psin drew his bowcase out of the tangle, pulled the bow out, strung it, and drew it a couple of times. “We’ll keep a sentry posted until we’re sure of them. Mago, you first. Kobol second, Vortai third, and I’ll go last. Stay inside the door, though.”

  Rijart talked with the King in the morning, but he said that they spoke of nothing but the weather and the possibility of sending envoys directly from Hungary to Karakorum. They did not mention the Kipchak. In the afternoon, they went to the King’s park, where beaters drove the game right to them. Psin and Vortai took turns killing the few deer they saw long before they came within range of the Hungarians’ stubby little bows. The Hungarians swore, murmured, and shrugged as if it were a trick to shoot so far.

  A deer waded out into the tall grass at the edge of the wood, saw the line of archers, and turned to dive back. Psin raised his bow and shot. The arrow struck the deer just behind the shoulder, and it leapt and fell dead.

  “Good shot,” a man said behind Psin. He spoke Latin. Psin looked over at Rijart, and Rijart translated.

  Psin looked back at the man who had spoken; he was a knight, brawny in his mail. He wore a white cloak with a black cross sewn onto the left front.

  “Perhaps you would like to try one of our bows,” the knight said. He smiled pleasantly, and Rijart translated.

  Psin nodded. The knight reached over and with a soft word took one of the odd little bows from the man beside him. The bow had a horn box built into it, from the grip across to the nocking point of the drawn string. The knight said, “Turn the handle, here,” and Psin, taking the bow, just remembered to wait for Rijart’s translation. He stopped listening to the knight’s Latin. The harsh, deep voice so close to his ear bothered him. He cranked, and the string wound back to the nocking point.

  “The bolt goes here.” The knight slipped in the short arrow. “Aim. No, that’s too far. Try that tree.” He guided the bow. The tree loomed up before him. Psin moved his shoulder until the butt of the bow fit better. “Sight through those prongs. Mary Mother, this one’s quick. Now. Pull the trigger. This.”

  Psin pulled, and the bow shot itself. He swore. The bolt traveled faster and
flatter than the Mongol arrows. “Ask him if that’s the full range.”

  Rijart did so, and the knight smiled and nodded and went away. Psin gave the bow back to its owner and whirled to watch the knight walk back toward the tethered horses.

  “What did that mean?” Rijart said. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.” The knight had come here, to the park, to the hunting, for this one purpose. He was already riding away. Psin chewed his mustaches. He picked up his own bow, nocked an arrow, and drew the bow as full as he could. The game wasn’t running any more, and the others on the line turned to watch. He lifted the arrow until the point lay against the sun and let the string fly. The arrow whistled straight up toward the sun. At the top of its trajectory, it stood like a hawk in the air; against the sun’s brightness he could see it turn and fall. The Hungarians sighed. The arrow had fallen out of sight, in the wood. Psin looked at Rijart, but Rijart only shrugged and turned away.

  The court at Pesth quickly grew boring. They were not permitted to ride by themselves in the town; the King said that the people would do them some harm. The days drifted by, full of meaningless chatter and overcooked food and the thick red wine, while Rijart and the King discussed minor points of courtesy and the people of the court stared, muttered, probed and laughed at the Mongols. Mago chased a woman into the garden one night, and only Rijart’s frantic explanations kept the knights from killing him. He hadn’t touched the woman. She retired from the court, sick, they said, of the awful shock. Psin listened to the Latin and remembered words he hadn’t heard before and asked Rijart what they meant, when Rijart came in the evenings to tell him what had gone on between him and the King in their private sessions.

  “Nothing,” Rijart said. “Nothing. Today, at least, we reached the question of the Kipchaks who fled here. He says that they were given refuge as an act of common mercy. I say they are fugitives from the Kha-Khan and must be returned. He says he can’t. I say he can. He says he will not. I say the Kha-Khan will be angry. He says that’s too bad.”