Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  Kaidu had camped on a point of high ground between a river and a marsh. Fires burnt all around, so that nothing could get close without being seen, and sentries walked thick as a procession just behind the fires. Psin growled in his throat. Kaidu was taking no risks.

  “Tajin. Take half the men and go down by the riverbank. I’ll lead him down toward you. Go to the other side of the bridge.”

  Tajin rode off. Psin took his bow out of the case, flexed it, and took the top off his quiver. “The rest of you kill sentries.”

  “Long shots, Khan.”

  “Watch your aim. Get as many as you can. He can’t stay there forever.” He drew his bow and settled on his point of aim. When his target was just passing a fire he shot. The sentry took two more steps and fell.

  Inside the ring of fires a man shouted, and others answered. Psin’s men were shooting quietly, carefully, and another sentry wobbled off with an arrow in his back. Horses neighed. Psin jerked up his dun’s head.

  “They’re coming out. Keep close to the river and watch me. Keep shooting.” Psin trotted around toward the river, keeping low, and looked into the camp. Kaidu’s men were saddling their horses. He shook himself: these weren’t Poles or Hungarians or Russians, to be cowed. He nocked an arrow and shot, but he missed.

  A stream of arrows poured out of the camp. Psin’s men leapt back. He rode into their midst and called out orders—forty men drew off away from the river toward the marsh, and the rest waited, shooting at nothing. Between the fires Kaidu’s men charged toward them.

  “Hold up! Hold up, on the order of the Kha-Khan.”

  With the shout horses galloped into the space between Psin’s and Kaidu’s men. Psin thrust one arm out to keep his men back. That was Mongke. Kaidu’s men yanked their horses to a halt and called out, and Mongke’s voice cried, “This is Mongke Khan. Hold your bows or I’ll have you all slain.”

  Mongke had only two men with him. They trotted back and forth between Psin and Kaidu. Psin cursed. If Mongke had come only a little later—

  “Psin Khan. Come forward. Kaidu, come forward.” Mongke wasn’t shouting, but his voice was clear and crisp and everybody heard him. Psin kicked up his horse. Mongke pulled away from his outriders and waited, looking from Psin to Kaidu, riding up behind him.

  “By what right do you use the name of the Kha-Khan?” Kaidu shouted.

  “By the right of Yasa,” Mongke said. “You might not make war on each other without the Kha-Khan’s permission.”

  Psin turned his horse head to head with Mongke’s. “He started it. Kaidu. Tell him what you’ve done.”

  “I know,” Mongke said. “Nothing’s worth breaking the Yasa for.”

  “My son—”

  “Nothing. Give me light.”

  Kaidu’s horse was on the other side of Mongke’s from Psin. In the silence while they waited for the torch to be brought Mongke sat still and looked from one to the other. At last a man galloped up with a torch from one of the watchfires; the heavy light spilled over them all.

  Kaidu said, “When my grandfather comes—”

  “Be quiet,” Mongke said. “This is a serious matter. If we were near the Gobi the Kha-Khan himself would deal with you. I take on myself the right and duty to judge.”

  “You are Psin’s friend,” Kaidu said.

  “Mongke is Psin’s friend; the Khan isn’t. Each of you give me an arrow.”

  Psin muttered. His temper was cooling. He said, “You’ve messed up my night’s hunting, Khan.” He took an arrow from his quiver and handed it toward Mongke, head first.

  Mongke took his arrow and Kaidu’s and thrust them into his belt. “Your arrows are your pledges. Go home. I’ll send a messenger to each of you to tell you when and where I’ll judge you. In the meantime cause no trouble. Now go.”

  Psin turned his horse. His men were bunched up, waiting, and he called to them to move on south. When they were organized, he stopped his horse and looked back. Kaidu had withdrawn inside his fires. Probably he would camp there until morning. Mongke with his outriders trotted toward Psin.

  “You meddle,” Psin said.

  Mongke laughed. “I saw your trap when I came down the river.”

  “What advantage do you get from this?”

  “None. If I had the choice I would not get mixed up in it. But your grandson sent to me, and the messenger told me in front of witnesses.”

  “Hunh. Djela is starting to use his head.”

  “He’s a good boy. As long as I have to play judge, I mean to do it properly. Don’t expect me to be easy with you; you killed six of Kaidu’s sentries and you had it in mind to kill them all, every one. Good-by.”

  Mongke galloped off. His horse moved with great long strides through the torchlight. Psin swung around and went down to the river to collect the men waiting there. He thought he would almost prefer to be judged by Batu than Mongke.

  Tshant was already in the camp when Psin got back at dawn. Djela had told Dmitri that they had met Mongke halfway to Kaidu’s camp and Mongke had sent them straight home. Dmitri looked surprised when he said that.

  “He must be sick,” Psin said. “To let Mongke shoo him off.”

  The knight Arnulf came over and helped Psin out of his coat. “We thought he had heard the news, maybe.”

  “Oh? What news? Dmitri, did the courier come from Kadan?”

  “Yes.” Dmitri went into the back of the yurt, and Psin sat down, sighing when the weight left his feet.

  “What news?”

  “Your wives are within a day’s ride of here,” Arnulf said. “All three of them.”

  “All—three—what?” Psin stopped pulling off his socks.

  “Your ladies and your son’s.”

  “Kerulu? She’s come to Hungary? Have you told him?”

  Dmitri said, “I sent a man over to his yurt, but he was asleep.”

  “God. Wait until she sees his face. Help me with these boots, and get me something to eat. I’m not sure whether I’m more tired than hungry or more hungry than tired.” He looked at the seals on the message Dmitri handed him and tore it open. They dragged his boots off and he wiggled his toes.

  “Here. Read this to me. Arnulf, you should learn Uyghur script.”

  The knight looked up; he was kneeling, brushing the mud from Psin’s boots. “I can scarcely read Latin, Khan.”

  Dmitri said, “In the name of God, Kadan the Drunk to Psin Khan.”

  “He’s blunt, Kadan.”

  “The King of the Hungarians has gone south over the Danube. I shall have to wait until winter when the ice freezes to give chase. I have heard envoys from a city called Constantinople, who wish to send envoys to Batu Khan my cousin. They are going to Pesth to see him there. Is Sabotai ill, that I am to report to you and not to him? Thus, Kadan, in my father’s name and the name of God.”

  “I’ll answer him tomorrow. I’m going to sleep. Wake me when the women are almost here.” He got up and pulled back the light cover on the couch. “And you’d better see that we have meat for a feast.”

  When he woke up, in the afternoon, they brought him news that Tshant was feverish. He went immediately over to his yurt. Djela was there, yawning, his face fuzzy with recent sleep. “Is my mother here yet?”

  “No. I’m going to meet them.” Psin went over to the couch where Tshant lay and looked down at him. His slashed face shone with an unhealthy heat.. One of the two Hungarian women he had taken was washing his face and hands. He twitched in his sleep and mumbled, and she bent to whisper to him. Her eyes when she looked at Psin were wary.

  “Can he eat?”

  “He eats,” she said. Her full lips pressed together. “When the other woman comes, let her feed him.”

  “Mind how you talk of the daughter of the Kha-Khan’s brother.” He put the back of his hand against Tshant’s forehead. “Keep him warm.”

  “She shouldn’t see him when he’s sick. Not if she’s not seen him for so long.”

  “She’s seen him sicker
than that.”

  He went out; Djela had gotten his horse and mounted. They rode east. Djela said, “He will get well, won’t he? It was just the riding. When we got back his shirt was drenched with blood.”

  “He’s not badly sick.”

  Yet. They rode at a slow jog. Ahead, they could see the wagons coming, under the dust the slow feet of the oxen raised. It was hard to keep from galloping. Djela began to sing, an old ballad of the Merkits that Psin hadn’t known he knew. The wild sad music blended with the sound of the wind in the tall brown grass. A woman waved to them from the seat of the lead wagon.

  If it were not for the different profiles of the land he could think he was in his home country. The air was the same, and the soft fall of his horse’s hoofs on the steppe. Now he had his women again. But when he lifted his eyes beyond the wagons he saw no forest, no stony mountains.

  Djela gave a cry and charged toward the wagons. He had seen his mother. Psin held his horse down. Djela’s horse plunged up alongside the third wagon, draped in cloth-of-gold and fluttering with silk ribbons. The boy disappeared inside. Psin let his horse jog up to the lead wagon.

  Artai said, “Psin, we come sooner than you might have wished.”

  “Not soon enough.” Her smile sent the old familiar shock through him, as if now he could let go. He stood in his off stirrup so that he could reach her and they embraced.

  “We’ve brought Kerulu,” she said. “She came out in the winter from Karakorum.”

  “I heard. You look well.” He stroked her hair. “What’s that? He’s big for his age.”

  The slave girl grinned and jiggled the baby. He had red hair and drooled. Artai said, “We thought he was strong enough to come with us. There was no one to leave him with.”

  “What does she think of him?”

  “Not much. Go see Chan.”

  He pulled his horse away and went on to the next wagon. The curtains were tied back; inside, Chan sat on silk cushions, with two maids combing her hair. She looked at him coolly and said, “How much farther am I to be dragged?”

  “Oh, a year’s trek.” He couldn’t help laughing. She surveyed him expressionlessly. Abruptly the corners of her mouth twitched; she fought the smile, but her eyes, resting steadily on his, brimmed full of delight. He touched her cheek and rode on to Kerulu’s cart.

  Her clothes flashed in the sunlight. Djela was sitting beside her on the cushions, and she had her arm around his shoulders. “My son tells me he’s been fighting,” she said to Psin. Her cheeks were flushed. “Where is Tshant? Can’t he dig himself out of his adulterous bed to come meet me?”

  “He’s been hurt,” Psin said. “Not badly. You’re just in time to nurse him lovingly back to health.” He climbed into the cart to hug her. Her brocades scratched him. She smiled and let him get back on his horse.

  “Karakorum is dull,” she said. “Who wants to play games with a flock of other women? Psin, you’re scarred.” Her nose wrinkled. The flush in her cheeks was receding, and the bright birthmark on her cheekbone faded. “But you look no older. I wish I were a Merkit, to age so well.”

  “Better an old Yek Mongol than a Merkit in the prime of life.”

  Her eyes flashed. “That depends on the Merkit.”

  “And not at all on the Mongol?”

  She laughed. One forefinger touched the mark on her cheek. “You forget, Khan, that I was born capable of any man. Or so the shaman said. Get me a horse. If he won’t come to me, I’ll ride to him. Djela, I’ll take your horse.”

  “Ama—”

  “You can stay with your little brother. He’s in the front wagon.” She scrambled clumsily to the side of the cart and reeled in Djela’s horse by the reins. “Psin, help me.” Under the brocade coat she wore silk trousers. She flung one leg across the saddle, while Psin held the horse, and undid the coat halfway up from the bottom. The horse shied from the flapping brocade. She took the whip from the saddle pommel and lashed the horse twice. It shot between Psin’s horse and the wagon and streaked for the open plain, tail high. Psin trotted up to the lead wagon.

  Chan said, “She is unwomanly, that one.”

  He glanced at her, looked after Kerulu, and said, “Hah.” To Artai, he said, “I’ll see you in the camp,” and sent his horse after Kerulu’s.

  She was already far ahead. She had seen which way he and Djela had come, and she was following their track, but they had swung wide to make sure of meeting the train. He headed the dun horse straight for the camp and let it stretch out. The sun glinted in her heavy coat. He could see that she was having trouble with her horse, which wanted to get away from the coat. The horse slammed to a halt and spun entirely around. She clung easily. He knew she was laughing. The dun was running flat out. When Djela’s black heard him coming, it took off again. Kerulu urged it on.

  Psin was much closer now, and with each stride pulling up. She raised her whip, but the little black was already straining, and she didn’t beat it. The camp lay ahead of her and to the north. She veered toward it. The dun surged up, its muzzle even with the black’s girth. Her face was vivid with excitement. Her hair was coming loose from its bands, and long red strands flew out behind her like banners.

  A herd of horses between them and the camp burst into a gallop and ran along beside them. Men called out, and a few slave women darted forward to shoo the chickens away. A goat bleated. They charged straight into the middle of the camp and Psin tightened his fist on the reins. His horse sat on its haunches to stop. The black bounced twice, slowing, and each time Kerulu had to snatch for the saddle to stay on. She looked over her shoulder at Psin and laughed.

  “I’ve not ridden in months. Where is he?”

  Psin pointed to Tshant’s yurt with his chin. Kerulu rode over and dismounted. The knight Arnulf was coming toward them, and Psin sent him after Kerulu’s horse. His dun was lathered and snorting. The knight led the black over and held Psin’s rein.

  “You’ll have to walk them out,” Psin said.

  “I will. Dmitri says that we should put up another yurt.”

  “Oh. Yes. Naturally.”

  “She rides well. Do all Mongol women ride so well?”

  “No. Only Jagatai’s daughter.”

  Tshant said, “I don’t feel sick.”

  “Liar,” she said. She squirmed closer to him and pulled the cover over them both. His arms tightened around her, and the heat from his body scalded her. He nuzzled her hair.

  “Kerulu.”

  “And besides,” she said, “while I am gone and pining for you, you get a baby on a magnificent Russian girl with big eyes.”

  “She had hair like yours. She reminded me of you.”

  He was so close to her that she couldn’t remember how unhappy she had been without him. After more than two years they lay under the same robe, skin against skin, their hands clasping. He was half-asleep again, but he was smiling.

  “It’s only just that you should be sick. Your eyelids are gummy.”

  “It’s your cousin’s fault.”

  If she followed that line she’d only anger him. She stroked his cheeks and murmured to him until he started to fall asleep again. He was uncomfortable and she shifted him, smoothing the covers.

  Water stood in a bowl beside the couch; she soaked a rag and washed his face.

  “Artai says you and Psin aren’t getting along again.”

  “Depends on the day. When one or the other of us is sick or in trouble, we get along almost like friends.”

  “This Russian girl must have been wonderful. They tell me he suffered the death ban because he wouldn’t leave her.”

  Talk of the Russian girl made him nervous. She could tell by the way his mouth moved. One of the whipstrokes had caught the corner of his lip and puckered it. She stretched her arm across the couch so that he could put his head on it.

  “My heart,” she said. “Tell me again how much you missed me.”

  “How far is the river?” Artai said. She picked through the basket of m
ushrooms one of her women had brought and nodded. “Yes, they’re all good.”

  “Just over the horizon,” the knight said.

  “No, don’t go. So that’s why he won’t let us leave the camp without an escort. Poor Chan.” She smiled at Arnulf, and he smiled back. It was impossible not to love Artai. He sank down next to her again, and she picked up her sewing. “And across the river is freedom for you, of course.”

  He nodded. For a moment he thought she was trying to find out if he meant to try and escape, but she wasn’t looking at him; she was threading an awl. “Do you miss it?” she said.

  “Yes. Of course. No one likes to be a slave.”

  Her hands paused. “No one like you likes being a slave, no.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone enjoying it.”

  “What? To be cared for, to be protected?”

  “Oh.” He thought of the serfs. “Yes, I can see that you’re right, in some ways.”

  The door to the next yurt opened, and Chan came out. She had a cat draped over one shoulder. Artai called to her, but Chan either did not hear or did not care to. She sat down in the sun, threw her hair back, and stared straight ahead.

  “Don’t watch her,” Artai said. “Psin is jealous of her.”

  “Dmitri told me.” He turned back to Artai.

  “Did you hear the yowling last night? One of her cats got into a fight with the dogs.”

  “I had to go out and help the Khan rescue it.”

  Artai laughed. “You don’t have any marks. Psin’s hands are all clawed up.” She glanced toward Chan. “She’s furious. She has him tonight, but I don’t think he’ll enjoy it.”

  Arnulf felt himself blushing. At first he had thought these women indecent, from the way they talked. He still wasn’t used to it. He watched Artai sew a glove. The river was so close, so close.

  Chan said, “This is just like the steppe, here.”

  “It’s the last western steppe.” Psin lowered himself onto the couch and lay back, his feet still on the floor. “I’m tired.”