The shaman began his rituals and his dancing and drumming. And then went off into the spirit-worlds.
A little field mouse, striped and inquisitive, peered from the slumped man's shirt. Bortai found herself wanting to laugh during what was a very solemn rite.
At length the shaman surfaced again. "I have made you whole, Kildai Khan," he said. "You suffered a very powerful magical attack. Someone wanted you dead, young Khan. You will need some protections. I shall see to it."
"I told you I never fell!" exclaimed Kildai. "I was pushed off by a big hand."
The shaman nodded. "A hand from the north, young Khan."
He raised an eyebrow at Bortai. "It is acceptable to laugh at Kreediqui, my mouse. He does not mind. And he is very curious."
"I think," said Kildai, decisively, "That we need you to come back to the great camp of the clan, Shaman. I ask this the Khan of my people."
The old Shaman gave her brother a wintery smile. "And how do you feel about marriage, young Khan?"
Kildai's forehead wrinkled. "I think I would like to avoid it for a while. I have people trying to arrange one for me already." He looked warily at the shaman, expecting the next arrangement.
The old man gave a little snort of laughter. "That was what I fell out with your father and his brother about, finally. Arranging marriages. It might be useful for the clans, but it's not always good for the people. I get to see the results. Besides the children, I saw the sickness caused by the conflicts of souls. Some souls do not bind well together, and a marriage must be a melding of souls if it is to be a healthy place to raise young warriors."
Kildai frowned. "That makes sense."
"That was what your mother thought. Your father thought it caused problems if women chose their own bridegrooms," said the shaman, gathering his possessions. Some were prosaic like little bottles and a tools. Others were decidedly odd. Stones. Some wing pinions. Small bones. A tooth.
"Oh," Bortai could see that her little brother was out of his depth here. So was she, a little. "But there is always the challenge for the bridegroom. Princess Khutulun did that. It must always be acceptable. And father always let me choose . . ." She'd turned down a number of suitors. And fought with seven. She had of course beaten all of them.
"The rules for his own daughter were different. It is often like that." His tone said Kaltegg did not approve.
"That is true, I suppose," admitted Bortai.
Kaltegg smiled. "There is a spiritual selectivity to these things. Just as there is in the creation of a Shaman. You can train and try . . . but the tengrie choose who they will work with. It is not arranged. Not at the final point."
PART VII
January, 1541 A.D.
Chapter 63
"Are they too stupid to learn!?" Emeric snapped angrily. "Instead of taking a valuable lesson from Vajdahunyad, I have reports here of towns and villages daring to refuse my men entry. Turning billeted troops out in the dead of winter. And not paying their taxes!"
Elizabeth looked bored. "They can always be brought to heel, Emeric. Do not concern yourself with small people. The boyars have been loyal."
"Most of them, yes," said Emeric sourly. "But the Székelers are going to be landless peasants by summer. They're really going to understand the meaning of losing their so-called 'privileges'."
"Without Vlad they will fall apart. They'll be glad enough to come cowed and licking your boots then."
"With or without Vlad they will fall apart. Or I will rend them in pieces, come spring. I have ordered a mobilization. I'll have forty thousand men here, before the spring."
"He will be gone before spring and you can just send them all home again."
"Not before I've taught those towns a very painful and direct lesson for daring to oppose me. I'll have more men on pikes than Vlad's Grandfather did. Every village, every hamlet will get a very pointed reminder. At the moment we can't do too much because of the snow. Anyway, we have the devil finding even the male peasantry now. They're deserting their boyars in droves."
Elizabeth shrugged. "A few women and children should do it. They seem to get that message."
* * *
Jagiellon looked at the sweating Nogay.
It was, in magical terms, a great effort to achieve such a materialization.
Normally it could only be done if both the participants were magically skilled. But this Golden Horde general was totally unskilled. Jagiellon had yet to decide whether it was going to be worth sending him back. Of course, Nogay's body was actually still in a ger in the territory of the Golden Horde. But what the spirit does not know, it can do little about. Nogay thought that he was here. Whether the Black Brain let him return would depend on what the man had to offer.
"Gatu Orkhan prepares to raid north. It is late in the season for a major campaign. They will not expect him."
"And this benefits me how, Nogay? I have provided you with much gold for an army and a complaisant khan, who would turn them loose as I wished on the Bulgars and Constantinople."
The Horde had enjoyed several years of relative peace, and abundance, after a long period of civil wars during which Lithuania had devoured much of the northern territories of the Horde. Once their lands had stretched as far east as the Kirgiz Steppe and south to the Caucasus on the other side of the Black Sea. Capture and subversion had brought Lithuania lands and vassal states right down to Odessa. Some of the old parts of the Golden Horde lands had been cut off, and reverted to small khanates. That suited Jagiellon, since those could be devoured at will.
In part, Jagiellon had intervened in the politics of Golden Horde simply because that would stop them raiding his shipyards and pressing north. The murder of Gatu's rival for the khanship had failed. But even the failed assassination of the more obvious heir apparent Kildai had given the grand duke of Lithuania months of peace to continue building. The fleet was nearing readiness.
If a civil war was the best that Jagiellon could hope for, instead of another army of horsemen to turn on his foes, it was still better than the alternatives.
"Khan, we will win. We outnumber them and they have nowhere to run. They are trapped between us and Hungary."
"I will allow you some time to try this. Finally, the matter of the tarkhan Borshar."
"Yes, Khan?"
"He is skilled at killing. Use him, but circumspectly. Remember, as I have told you, he believes my sending come from his god. His mind is less than clear, much of the time. But I have gifted him with certain magics. I believe that may impress the primitives. Now go."
* * *
The demon now turned its attention to other matters. There were strange stirrings in a far-distant spirit realm. Those seemed to have ties to the northern regions from whence he once drew the shamans to service in the court of Jagiellon.
It had attempted to investigate. But so far there were just currents, and dark mist.
Chapter 64
Bortai found herself worried about the legend-horse she was riding. Yes, that had been her intention, when she'd told the story. It had indeed spread like wildfire, even crossing clan-lines. Unfortunately quite a lot of people had embroidered on to it. Fat Tulkun for a start. He enjoyed storytelling and could be led into it, very easily, with just a small amount of Kumiss. He was being given enough to float a boat. And more he drank, the more grandiose the story got, with more embellishments. The Mongol loved it. Tulkun could probably live out his days in the Lands of the Golden Horde as a successful storyteller, growing fatter with every Ger he visited.
He was the one who had furnished the details about Orkhan Tortoise. Must be a lost clan, he'd said with a twinkle, from far off Iceland. She was sure that he'd said it as a joke. The only trouble was most of the Golden Horde Mongol—even the clan-heads—were, as often as not, illiterate. Many of them had never seen the sea . . . So: naturally their language had changed after all this time. That was why he struggled to speak it in a way that Mongol could understand . . . It was living in the ice that ha
d made their hair so pale . . .
Of course he HAD to start that story after she had let a few people into the joke that Erik—Orkhan Tortoise, thought that she was just a soldier's daughter. She'd subtly pumped him as to what he thought her status was. The daughter of a warrior from the imperial guard? That was true, in a way. Her father had commanded that Khesig, before he became Orkhan. By now, it seemed, she would struggle to find a person in the entire Mongol nation who would not earnestly tell the foreign Orkhan that she was a humble Mongol maid. Some might even manage to keep a straight face. And they all thought it was ROMANTIC. It added a dimension to the story that brought all the women, even the ones whose clan had nothing to do with the Hawk, into an eager audience. She hadn't realized that she had had a reputation of being as unapproachable as the Princess Khutulun, before Khutulun had met and fought the Great Khan Ulaghchi—who was at that time a homeless, impoverished exile, traveling incognito as a wandering hire-warrior—and he had won her diamond-hard heart. She could see the parallels they drew. It wasn't true, of course. Erik was an outlander. Not a Mongol. How could they think he was a Mongol with his features and his fine white-blond hair?
It was gradually brought home to her that most of the women didn't care. And many of the respectable maidens would be very willing to drag him off to the nearest patch of woods, or just behind the family ger if there were no woods handy. A patch of snow would do. And he might need it, judging by some of the very leading questions being asked.
And Kildai, dear little brother, thought it absolutely, screamingly, funny. He had heard, from David, a fair amount of lore about Erik. It would seem her brother's horseboy friend, and closet advisor, knew a great deal about the man, and probably thought it just as funny, thought Bortai, savagely. "Well, brother," she snapped finally, "you are so full of big talk. You would be well served if it was true. If I ran off with some foreigner. What would you say then, eh?" Her suitors had all been arranged. But the clan—via its heritage from Princess Khutulun—believed in the right of refusal. So far she'd found little reason not to use it. Of course, being Bortai, she'd used the traditional way to get rid of the suitors. And unlike Khutulun, she'd found few men prepared to wager a hundred horses against her hand.
"I'd say it served both of you right." Then, as he occasionally did, her little brother surprised her with his own seriousness. "I think maybe Khan Ulaghchi had it wrong, Bortai. The Ilkhan still rules, and they allow intermarriage there. And let us be honest, it happened here too. Everyone claims that they're descended from Chinngis Khan himself. But half of them don't look any more Mongol that the Székely do. And look at David. He looks more like a Mongol than most Mongol do. But he isn't."
Bortai knew that was true. Some Golden Horde Mongols even had blond hair . . . Hair dye worked well. "But that is them. Not us. We DO know our ancestry. And I am not interested."
"That cuts both ways," said Kildai. "David says women everywhere try to get his attention. He doesn't even know that they're alive. David says he was in love with some Vinlander girl, and she got killed."
"Oh. Tell me about it? What else did he say?"
"I thought you weren't interested?"
"He is a good man. Very kind. A clever Orkhan. I can want to know about him without being interested . . . like that." Bortai felt unusually foolish. As if it was she who was fourteen and he who was twenty three.
"Then ask him about it."
"I will."
"Her name was Svanhild."
"What a strange name."
* * *
She had resolved to let Erik know that this foolishness had gone far enough. Or possibly just to avoid the orkhan Erik. Unfortunately, when they met the next day she managed to do neither. He smiled. Looked faintly concerned. "You are pale. Let me get you a seat. Something to drink?"
And that brought back memories of his kindness when they had fled and he had rescued themon the edge of Illyria. She rubbed her eyes hastily. "I am fine."
"I haven't upset you . . . or offended you again have I? I am not very good at your language."
And that brought back his initial greeting and the offer of his ger to her. She really must make sure that he did not say that to any of the over-eager maidens. It could get him into all sorts of trouble. The thought of some of their probable reactions to this invitation brought a snort of laughter.
"That's better. I am more used to you laughing at me."
She rushed the ditch. "Orkhan Erik," she blurted. "Tell me about Svanhild?"
His face went bleak. More bleak than she'd ever seen it. "Manfred. He can't leave well enough alone . . ."
"N . . .no. It was David."
"Oh. He had it from Kari, I suppose. Kari was a Thordarsen retainer."
"I am sorry. I did not mean to offend . . ."
He smiled. It was a sad smile, but a smile none-the-less. "It's all right. I suppose . . . I suppose that it is just that everyone avoids mentioning her to me. You're the first person to do so, I think."
"Would you tell me? Tell me about her?"
He was silent for a while. And then he nodded. "Yes," he said. "Yes I think I would like to do that. I'm . . . scared to remember. But I am also afraid that I might forget. I loved her with all my heart," he said, quietly. "I would have died for her. I very nearly did. Benito saved me. Manfred kept me alive. And sometimes I wonder if they should have."
Bortai shook her head vehemently. "The Tengeri decide when it is your time. Besides SHE did not went you die. I know this." And it was true. She did.
She squatted down. Motioned to him to do the same. "Now. You will tell me. She would want the story told. I would want mine told. And she would not want you to be unhappy."
* * *
So Erik Hakkonsen talked. The language limited him, but he was a man who had always struggled to express emotion anyway. At first it was hard. A trickle of words, gently encouraged. And then it was like a torrent, as if a dam inside him that had wanted to burst for a year had finally given wat.
Then, when the last part had been told, Bortai said something which healed a wound inside him, that he thought would be open there forever. "Her spirit must run with the great horses across heaven. What more could any woman have desired: to have loved and been loved like that?"
"I wanted to give her so much more."
She looked at him sternly. She could be very imperious in her looks. "It is not what you wanted to give that is important. It is what she wanted to receive. You gave her that. Never doubt it."
Chapter 65
"I had the slut killed, of course. But it does downgrade Vlad's value. And increase his sister's."
Mindaug nodded politely, to disguise his true thoughts. Elizabeth Bartholdy was far too reliant on demonic power. Did she not realize that in magic symbolism was vital—but that it was superseded by actuality in spells of these sorts? It was true enough that virginity was symbolic of innocence and purity. But in a rite such as this, what mattered was the spiritual, not the physical, reality. A woman who had been drugged before being violated was still pure, whereas a woman with an intact hymen did not necessarily qualify.
There were those who went to their weddings with that hymen intact, and had no more innocence than a brothel-keeper. Elizabeth knew nothing of Vlad's sister except her age. And that too was no guarantee that she had been allowed to stay virginal in the magical sense. Look at Elizabeth herself. She had probably not been spiritually virginal since the age of five.
They walked across the chapel. It would be impossible to tell, without the most minute examination, that the cross had been broken and rejoined with a mixture of excreta and menstrual blood. But the pentacle on the floor was easily enough seen once the carpet was rolled back. A carpet was very unusual in a chapel, but no one asked why she had had it placed there.
There was a little inscription in Latin beneath the cross. Hard to read unless you came very close. Pater noster, qui erat in caelis. "Our father who was in heaven." Foolish to have such visible evidence
. But that was an intrinsic part of the worship and the magic of the path she had chosen to follow. To flaunt and taunt. To claim that one's survival was a demonstration of their master's power.
It was none of his business. If she wanted to take chances, that was her problem. Mindaug was merely here to help her set her trap. The altar would be well used, for the orgy of blood she needed. The dungeon was already filling with the material she had collected for it. It just lacked its prime victims.
The trap would remove much of the dragon's magical power. Make him—or the girl—an easy prey for her spells. Make the reversal and defilement she planned possible.
The count wondered if Elizabeth realized that it would affect her too, inside the circles. She would be as mortal as Vlad, when she went inside the area of containment, to the altar. Mindaug himself would certainly not take such a risk. The dragon was . . . dangerous.
* * *
Not since she had discovered the wyverns, had Dana had so much excitement. It wasn't entirely pleasant. Miu had returned from the north. Alone. With bad news for the tribe. They were in shock and mourning. And yet there was some good news—in the shape of a letter from her brother. Dana was beginning to wonder if words could wear out with reading. Her mother was certainly trying.
And then came a further surprise, in the shape of three scruffy looking men. The gypsies were suspicious. But Miu recognized the leader of the party as just what he claimed to be: one of Vlad's trusted sergeants. Emil respectfully informed Dana's mother that they had been sent to help guard them, and to provide escorts for them. Prince Vlad was deeply concerned about their safety.
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