Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  He raked his fingers through his hair. Psin said, “Did you tell him what comes of people who anger the Kha-Khan?”

  “He said that the Hungarians were steppe people until nine generations ago, and that they still fight like steppe people. He says when we come they’ll serve us better than they do now.”

  Vortai said, “When will we fight here? This place is rich enough to keep us all in booty for the rest of our lives.”

  Mago nodded. “And I’d like to pay that girl back for the trick in the garden.”

  “Be quiet,” Psin said.

  Rijart sat down on the one cushioned chair and put his feet up on the little table before him. “This is useless. I hope you’re learning what you came here to find out.”

  “I am. Did you ask him why they put us up in this sty?” Psin kicked at the wooden bench. “They treat us like servants.”

  “They think you are. They have no slaves here, and they think you must be my servants. To them these are good quarters for servants. Their own live like beggars. I couldn’t have questioned it without telling them you hold rank.”

  “Hunh.”

  “How is your Latin?”

  “Good. I understand almost everything. I can’t speak it because I’ve had no practice.”

  “You learn fast. Soon now we’ll go home. He’s almost done talking, this King.”

  But they stayed. The summer was slipping past, and Mago and Kobol began to fight like two dogs in the cramped little room. Psin understood; he felt the walls packing him in and the air growing stale, and he dreamt at night of horses galloping wild over a plain that did not end. The rhythm of galloping horses filled his mind even when he was awake. When Mago and Kobol fought he whipped them with his belt and kicked them until they stopped.

  “Are we going to die here?” Kobol said. “In this pen, like somebody’s menagerie?”

  “Just a while longer.”

  That day, in the hall where they were eating, Psin saw the tall knight in the white cloak again. The man lifted his head and smiled, across the rows of the seated court. Psin frowned. The knight was unlike the Hungarians—too tall, too fair, too deliberate in his walk. Psin distrusted him.

  “I want you to speak to your father for me,” Quyuk said.

  “About what?”

  Quyuk looked back toward the camp, strung out a day’s ride over the plain. Tshant followed his eyes. The late sunlight blurred everything; it was hazy, golden, the way everything was in the Russian autumn. A train of carts was straggling up to the eastern edge, and the dogs there began to bark. Djela was riding toward him and Quyuk.

  “I want him to support me for the Khanate,” Quyuk said finally. “I think he will, if I can only… get to him. Before Batu has me carted back to Karakorum.”

  “Don’t get me to talk to him for you. If I say anything he’ll take the other side. By habit.”

  “I thought you were friendly again, after Kozelsk.” Quyuk kicked apart a mushroom. “Breast to breast, I thought.”

  “It never lasts.”

  “You shouldn’t fight with him. He’ll only beat you.”

  Tshant glanced around at Djela, who was still far down the rise from them. “My son doesn’t know about the fight. And I beat him, at Kozelsk. God, he bled—”

  “So I heard. He still runs your life, doesn’t he?”

  Tshant caught himself before he could get angry. There was something wrong in the way Quyuk was approaching this.

  “I have nothing but awe and respect for our gallant Psin,” Quyuk said. “So much that I think I’ll have an easier time at the electing kuriltai if he supports me. Tell him, Tshant, that you will not support me.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  Quyuk moved deeper into the shade of the tree, toward their tethered horses. “I know. I’ve been working hard, Tshant. I have Baidar back again, you know. And Sabotai is coming to me. Mongke goes with Psin, like a matched team.” He laughed harshly. “Badly matched. Good afternoon, noyon.”

  Djela reined up. “Hello, noyon.” He looked curiously at Tshant.

  Quyuk drew his reins over his horse’s head, gathered them at the withers, and mounted. His horse turned in a quick circle before he got his other foot into the stirrup. “Your father and I have been talking, noyon. Who will be the next Kha-Khan, do you think?”

  Djela’s mouth had been slightly open, as usual, but now he pressed his lips together. Tshant went over and took hold of his horse’s rein, near the bit. Djela said, “Ogodai is the Kha-Khan.”

  Quyuk’s brows twitched. “But who will be the—”

  “Ogodai is the Kha-Khan,” Djela said. His voice was so neutral Tshant almost did not recognize it.

  Quyuk snorted. He whipped his horse into a gallop and plunged down toward the camp.

  “What’s the matter?” Djela said. “Why were you here?”

  “I came up to get out of the camp,” Tshant said. “He followed me. That was a good answer.”

  “I couldn’t—I mean, there was nothing else to say.”

  Tshant nodded. He remembered telling Ana that Quyuk was not treacherous. “Of course not,” he had said. But Psin had given Quyuk shelter and protection and it sounded as if Quyuk meant to start them fighting again, him and Psin. He couldn’t think of any other reason for what Quyuk had said—the way he had said it.

  “Have you seen Baidar with him lately?”

  Djela shrugged. “They’re always together, aren’t they? All of them. Ada, come on, let’s go hunting. I brought my new bow.”

  Tshant nodded. He patted Djela’s horse and went to his own. They rode away from the camp, down toward the river where the marshes began in the broad curve of the bank. When they were almost there, Tshant heard the hoarse call of geese over his head and looked up. A great flock was sailing overhead, in a V pointing south. Djela was staring at them with bright eyes.

  “Do you remember when we hunted the geese, that time by the Lake?” Tshant said. “With your grandfather.”

  “Yes.”

  The geese were already only flecks in the vast sky. Their cries were dim in his ears. Djela said, “When is Grandfather coming back?”

  “Before the snow falls.” Tshant kicked his horse up. Beyond, in the marshes, a heron stood on the margin of the water; at the sound of the horses coming, it flapped its wings, took two awkward steps on its stick-legs, and rose softly into the air. It had been nearly this time last year when he had left the Lake. Only a year ... he thought of Kerulu with a fierce, fresh longing.

  Rijart said, “It’s over. I have six packets of messages to take back, none of which says more than I’ve already told you. The news came today that we took Pereislav and Chernigov, and they say that we come smiling to talk about peace and friendship while we burn and loot and destroy in the background.”

  “Hunh.” Psin stretched out his legs. “We’ve told him often enough peace and friendship come only when he submits to the Kha-Khan. He was just—”

  Somebody knocked on the door. Psin leapt up. Rijart raised his brows, and Psin nodded. He went to sit on the wooden bench against the blind wall.

  Rijart called out, and the door swung inward. The knight in the white cloak came in. He smiled quickly at Rijart, glanced around, and went to stand behind the cushioned chair. Rijart stood in the center of the room, frowning.

  “My name is Arnulf,” the knight said. “I am a knight of the Teutonic Order of Saint Mary of Jerusalem, and I am here as the agent of the Emperor Frederick. King Bela knows nothing of this visit. I have messages to give you, to be relayed by word of mouth to whoever commands the Mongol armies in Russia, and through him to the Kha-Khan. The King is to remain ignorant.”

  Psin leaned back against the wall. The knight was speaking slowly, so that a novice at Latin could understand, but he would know that Rijart was no novice. The other three Mongols watched curiously from across the room. The knight sat down, and Rijart perched on the bench across from him.

  “You trespass on the King’s
courtesy,” Rijart said.

  “So do you. We have information that a certain Mongol general has crossed the Carpathians. We suspect that he is among your retinue, traveling discreetly as a servant. Spying, in short.”

  “I know nothing of it,” Rijart said.

  “Our information is good. We know, for example, that the Mongol is named Psin. And that he is one of the men who planned the attack on Russia. And that he speaks Arabic and fought in your campaigns against the Turks and Syrians.”

  “You insult me.” Rijart’s neck was red.

  “Oh? Why should we talk to an underling when we could treat directly with a Mongol khan?”

  Rijart’s shoulders quivered. Psin drew one knee up and rested his arm on it. He wondered who the Emperor’s spies were. They even knew about the ambiguous command in Russia. Rijart’s voice croaked, “I have never heard—”

  “Outside this room,” the knight said, “are four crossbowmen. Presently I shall call them in. We will shoot your retinue, one man at a time. I don’t think you will allow your general to die when one word could save him. We shall start with the young man over by the window.”

  Psin did not look at Vortai. He saw Rijart tense; Rijart turned his head, looking desperately to Psin for help. The knight leaned back, smiling.

  “You fool,” Psin said.

  Rijart clamped his jaws shut. The knight reached out and pushed him gently to one side, so that he could see Psin better.

  “We knew it was you, of course,” the knight said. “But we weren’t sure you spoke Latin.”

  “What do you want?”

  Vortai said quickly, “Who is this man?”

  Psin got up. “Some hireling of the Emperor’s. Rijart let him know who I am. Don’t hurt him. We’ll give him to the Kha-Khan to hurt, when we get back.” He drew a chair over and sat down on it, forcing his mind back to Latin. “If you speak Arabic, that’s better.”

  “Yes.” The knight went on in Syriac Arabic. “My master the Emperor received messages recently from your Kha-Khan. Through the Muslims. I have replies.”

  “So you said.”

  “First, you may tell your superiors that the signs of disunity within the Christian world that you’ve undoubtedly seen are not signs of weakness. We are strong and we will fight to the last man to resist you, if you attack us. You shouldn’t take that lightly. You have fought the Muslims; they are good warriors, and they set you back once or twice. We’ve fought them too, and beaten them as well as you have.”

  “I’ve heard. Tell your master that if we had flinched at the thought of hard fighting we would not hold more of the world than he dreams exists. Tell him that his knowledge of my name doesn’t surprise me. His name might be known within his own country, but mine is known from here to China, and I’m not a very important man.”

  “You malign yourself.” The knight smiled. He took the silk cap off his head; his pale hair gleamed in the late sunlight. His blue eyes were direct and intelligent. “But you recall the crossbow you shot. With your own bow you were killing deer at a range fully four bowshots longer than ours, certainly, but I doubt I could bend your bow, and I’m accounted a strong man. The bow I showed you how to shoot a woman could handle. And women shall, and children, if you ride against us.”

  “They’ll die before they come close enough.”

  “Oh? Europe is thick with forest, Khan. West of Hungary is nothing but forest. You’ve hunted in the trees, I’m sure. How often do you get a long clear shot in a forest? The branches deflect the arrow, the trees hide your game. And we need not be strong to kill.”

  Psin cocked his brows. “A good point. I’ll think about that. But it is God’s will that the Kha-Khan rule the world. One sun in the sky, and one lord on the earth, no more.”

  “God’s will. To rule the world, perhaps. Or, perhaps, to be a terror to it, scourge the peoples for their sins, and afterward to return to whatever the hell you sprang from, to be heard of never again.”

  “Who can know the mind of God? You are a good advocate for your Emperor.”

  “I? No. I only say what he told me to say.”

  Psin started to rise, surprised, but sank back again. He smoothed his mustaches along his jaw. “He told you what I would say, and how to answer?”

  The knight nodded. “The exact words of my answers.”

  Psin studied him. The knight was not lying. “Rijart said he was a great man.”

  The knight’s broad smile flashed again. “Also, he wants to send envoys to your Kha-Khan to discuss an alliance against the Turks.”

  “Oh.” Psin shrugged. “We know that the Turks have asked you for an alliance against us. I’ll send that on, but the answer is no.”

  The knight nodded. “Your Kha-Khan sent to the Emperor that the Emperor should come in person to Karakorum and make his obeisance. To that the Emperor said, ‘Tell them this: that I think I know enough about birds of prey to serve as falconer to the Kha-Khan.’”

  Psin laughed. “Good. Tell him this. From me, not from the Kha-Khan. When we ride into Europe, I will come for him, because I think I would like to talk to him. And that he should wait and not run, when all the cities burn around him.”

  The knight rose. “I will tell him.” He bowed. The sunlight lay on his shoulder, across the black emblem of his Order. “I doubt you’ll find our cities burn as well as the Russians’.” To Rijart, in Latin much more fluent than before, he said, “I’m sorry I had to trick you. In any case, I would not have harmed your men. We knew it was he. The description was explicit.” He turned back to Psin and bowed again and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  “Well?” Tshant said.

  Psin nodded. “I saw enough. Where is Sabotai? I didn’t see his banner, when I came through the camp.”

  “He’s gone back to the Volga camp until the ice freezes. It’s been quiet. We had dispatches from Karakorum, the usual thing. Everyone is well. Apparently they hadn’t gotten Batu’s letter about Quyuk when they sent them.” Tshant spat. “He’s driving us all wild.”

  Psin dismounted, groaning. He did not want to go on to the Volga camp, but if Sabotai was there… “Who, Batu or Quyuk?”

  “Quyuk.”

  Djela galloped up, whooping, and flung himself out of the saddle. “Grandfather. I knew you’d be back soon. How was Hungary? How do you like my new horse?”

  “He looks fast.” Psin glanced at the tall black horse and back to Djela. “God’s name. Have you grown, or have I shrunk?”

  Djela grinned. “I’ve grown. Ada says I’m eating him poor.”

  Tshant said, “He eats twice as much as I do. Stay here awhile.”

  “No. I have to find Sabotai.”

  “Well, you’ll stay the night, at least. Go see Quyuk. That’s his yurt. He’ll be there.”

  “Take my horses.”

  Psin went to Quyuk’s yurt and called through the door. Quyuk’s voice came back, rough-edged: “Come in.”

  The yurt was dim and smelled of sweet hemp. The fire cast a red glow over the gold and brocade cushions. Against the wall to the left, Kadan sat, hunched over, his eyes on his brother. Quyuk was pacing up and down the other side of the room.

  “And if you will not,” Quyuk said gently to Kadan. “If you will not—Psin. How pleasant. You look disgustingly well. Sit.”

  Psin sank down on his heels just inside the door. “If he will not what?”

  Kadan said, “The self-proclaimed Successor wants allies against Batu.”

  “Oh. Are you still at that?”

  “Yes. I’ll still be at it the day before Batu dies.”

  “God above. Remind me not to run foul of you. You’re like a jackal with a skullbone worrying out the brains. It must be hard work to be always angry; why don’t you try being sweet and calm, just for the change?”

  Quyuk’s ears grew red, and he glared. Psin laughed.

  “You might find it restful. Stop looking ugly. I’m not going to be here long enough for you to work any revenge. I he
ar your father’s well again. Perhaps you’d better court us, instead of bullying everybody you know.”

  He got up, nodded to Kadan, and went out into the cool autumn sunlight again. He heard Kadan laugh and Quyuk swear. For a moment he wished he had let Quyuk alone. He glanced back; Kadan was coming jauntily out of the yurt. He waved, and Psin saw the flash of his teeth when he smiled. He waved back. In a way, it made him angry to see ordinary men like Kadan laughing in Quyuk’s face.

  He spent the night in Tshant’s yurt and rode on the next morning. The clear chill was turning into the bone-deep cold of the coming winter. When he left the camp, frost lay thick over the dry grass, heavy enough that the horses left sharp prints in it. Tshant had said that the road to the Volga camp was as safe as the streets of Karakorum; Psin rode alone.

  He was beginning to feel all the hard riding. His bones grated against one another, and in the cold mornings his muscles twinged. The horses trotted quickly over the frozen ground. The dun horse was hard as horn from exercise and jogged up even with the horse Psin rode. On his dark winter coat the line down his back was blurred.

  Tshant had said that now they had more than enough horses to mount each tuman on its own color. Blacks, bays, duns, grays. He reined up on a ridge to let the horses blow, and the dun immediately ducked its head and snatched a mouthful of the crisp brown grass. Quyuk had gotten one of the rare spotted horses from the east; his wife Oghul Ghaimish had sent it to him for a gift. The horse was dark grey, except for the white blanket across its hips covered with big grey spots.

  “Skittish,” Tshant had said. “Especially when the light’s bad.”

  Psin had never seen a spotted horse that didn’t have bad eyes. Their lashes were sparse and pale. He wondered why he was lonely, out there on the steppe.

  He spent the night at the new waystation, exchanged one of his remounts that had gone lame, and left before dawn. When he went back to the Dnepr from the Volga camp he would take his sable cloak. The horses trotted along around him, their round dark eyes on the eastern sky.