The walls of the grotto were a palimpsest of writing, marks made with charcoal and chalk that had been erased, overwritten, and amended. Shoved into cracks in the rocks were strands of hair—both human and horse—braided and knotted in the secret code known to the Binders. Rankalba. Finger talk. To the casual viewer, the scene would appear like a shrine to animal spirits, an altar of offerings to forgotten pagan gods; indeed, some of the drawings on the walls were representations of animals and hunters, lending credence to the illusion of the grotto’s primitive function. But there were messages in the hunting scenes too. The beasts were marked with cryptic patterns of dots and squiggles that could easily be mistaken for decorative markings, but the sequences were an abbreviated version of the finger talk, much like how the Roman armies communicated back and forth about troop movements in a manner that their enemies could not decipher.
Raphael examined each of the leavings with great interest. “Are they all messages?” he asked, his voice still raw and rough from his illness.
“Aye,” Cnán said. “Some of them are quite old and meaningless now, but they haven’t been taken down.”
“Why not?” Raphael asked.
“A Binder would never remove a message left by another. When the one who left the message returns, she may remove it if she so decides. In some ways, it allows us to keep track of one another.” She touched a strand of black hair that was knotted in several clumps. “This one, for example, says that there is snow in the Zuungar Gap,” she said. Her fingers moved expertly, tying an intricate knot just below the last set. “I’ve just added a note that the passage is very difficult.”
She moved on, pointing out a row of horse-shaped drawings. “These are notations about caravans on the Silk Road. Do you see the tiny marks held within each horse?” She tapped each horse in turn as she deciphered the marks. “Silk, silver, cedar, rice, salt, furs, and horses.”
“Someone is moving horses along the Silk Road?” Raphael said.
“Aye,” Cnán said. “But…” She looked at Vera.
“What?” Raphael asked, glancing back and forth between the two of them.
“Our rescuers, Gawain and Bruno,” Cnán said. “They’re mercenaries. You should examine the horses in the paddock when you get a chance. There are more than a group of sellswords should have, which is good for us if we can convince them to sell us some.”
“But the bigger question is where did they get them?” Vera said.
“Do you think someone might be looking for them?” Raphael asked.
“The Seljuks patrol constantly,” Cnán said. “We’ve managed to convince them to let Haakon patrol too. Ostensibly, they’re all keeping an eye out for Mongols, but the boy suspects they’re watching for someone else. They’re in no rush to leave the rock, and it makes sense to wait until winter truly breaks, but a true merchant would be more interested in getting them to a market, like Samarkand.”
Raphael nodded absently, the various Binder messages still distracting him. “What about this one?” he asked, pointing to a scrawl of tiny marks like the tracks of small birds.
Cnán cleared her throat. “That one says the Khagan is dead.”
“Aye,” Raphael said. “That is true. We were there. Why did you write this message?”
“I didn’t,” Cnán said. “Someone else left it. It also says that a kuraltai has been called. The other Khans are returning to Karakorum. The Silk Road will be crowded. Every merchant between Samarkand and Constantinople will be traveling to Karakorum. As will every provincial tribe. The steppes will be crawling with riders.”
“Does the message say how the Khagan died?” Raphael asked, a frown creasing his forehead.
Cnán deciphered the third line of the message. “A hunting accident,” she translated.
“But no mention of us?”
Cnán shook her head. “Just that he died while hunting in the sacred lands of the Mongols, near where his father brought the clans together.”
“A not undignified end,” Vera said.
Raphael glanced at her with a raised eyebrow.
“And then there is this one,” Cnán said, pointing out the last of the markers that she wanted Raphael to see. “It says there is strife in the north,” she said. “The Teutonic Knights are crusading against Novgorod and Rus.”
“Anything from Kiev?” Raphael asked.
Cnán shook her head. “There is no mention of Kiev, but I would not worry too much about a lack of news. It usually means nothing has changed.”
Raphael leaned against the rock wall and looked at the two women. “Why have you brought me here to see all of this? You could have simply told me while we were sitting around the fire; you could tell everyone.”
“Everyone will have an opinion,” Cnán said.
“An opinion about what?”
“About what our course should be,” Cnán said. “Getting out of the reach of the Mongol Empire and across the Heavenly Mountains was a goal that we all agreed upon. Now, though, we are free to choose our own roads, are we not? Or are you still beholden to the one who left us?”
“Feronantus?” Raphael shook his head. “I was never beholden to him.”
“Percival thinks otherwise,” Cnán said.
“What? When did he tell you this?”
“During one of your feverish bouts. He grows tired of waiting. There is something burning in his mind.”
Raphael pushed himself away from the wall and stalked about the tiny space. It was a little like being trapped in a cage with a wild animal.
“What about you?” he asked Vera as he paced.
“I would know of the fate of my sisters,” Vera said. She nodded at the wall markings. “There is villainy afoot with the Western Church that it would send knights to conquer lands so recently devastated by the Mongol horde.”
“There is no news of Kiev, which is far from the northern borders,” Raphael said. “We don’t even know the reason the Teutonic Knights are massing. It may not be for the reasons you mention. It might be Danish invaders.”
“It might not be either,” Vera said. “Knights, blessed by the Church, have crusaded in the north before. Rome tolerates the Eastern Church, but only slightly more so than it does repentant heathens.”
“See?” Cnán said. “Different opinions. Can you imagine if we asked everyone what they wanted? Feronantus provided us with a reason to band together. We had a common goal under him, but where is he now? What are we to do?”
“I don’t know,” Raphael said simply.
“You should decide soon,” Cnán said. “We can’t stay here forever. Even though this land is not under direct Mongol rule, they do ride here. While the rock is out of the way for most caravans, it is still a landmark that traders use.”
“Very well,” Raphael said, holding up his hands. “I understand your concern.” He clasped his hands together and sighed, raising his face toward the open sky.
“Do you want to ride after Feronantus?” Vera asked quietly as Raphael’s silence stretched.
“Yes,” Raphael said, and then shook his head. “No. I don’t know.”
“Where might he go?” Cnán asked.
“West, I presume,” Raphael said. “Will he go back to Petraathen? Týrshammar? I don’t know. I don’t even know why he stole the Spirit Banner.” He looked at Cnán. “You’re the one who knows these peoples,” he said. “What is the banner to them? What purpose could stealing it serve? Will it affect the outcome of the kuraltai?”
Cnán rubbed her arms. “It’s just a banner. You’ve seen them. All of the clans carry them. That one belonged to Ögedei’s father—Genghis Khan—and he supposedly received it from monks who lived on Burqan-qaldun. The mountain is a sacred place, remember? Borte Chino—she was the Doe—and Qo’ai Maral lay down together in the shadow of Burqan-qaldun, and Borte Chino grew heavy with child. Tengri watched over her until she could give birth to all the peoples that would become the Mongol clans.”
“Like Adam and Even in
the West,” Raphael said. An idea seemed to occur to him. “Was there a tree? Was there a specific tree that Borte Chino lay beneath? Or ate the leaves from? Or something like that?”
Cnán shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know the stories all that well.”
“Do you think there is a connection?” Vera asked. “If that story is like a story in the West, others might be similar too.”
“Perhaps,” Raphael said.
“Stories?” Cnán asked. “What stories?”
“Ragnarök,” Raphael said heavily. “The battle between the giants and the gods at the end of time. It’s one of the Northmen stories. I’m sure Haakon heard it growing up, and I’m sure Feronantus heard it too, during his time at Týrshammar. The King of the Northmen gods is named Odin, and one of his other names is All-Father. Odin tests himself by hanging from Yggdrasil, the World Tree, and he receives special wisdom from his sacrifice.”
“Do you remember the Kinyen we had, out on the steppes?” Vera said. “Do you remember what Istvan said that night while under the influence of his devilish free-buttons?” When Cnán shook her head, Vera continued. “He spoke of a staff, and he called out to All-Father.”
“Istvan often spoke of things that weren’t real,” Cnán said, feeling like she was pointing out something they already knew.
“Aye, that he did,” Vera agreed. “But herein lies the particular madness which is so dangerous: what does it matter if he spoke of real things or not, if others found them real?”
“I don’t follow you,” Cnán said. “They’re still not real. It doesn’t matter what others think.”
“Do you remember when Tonerre, Percival’s war horse, was wounded in that fight with the Mongols?” Raphael asked.
“Aye,” Cnán said cautiously. The Frank had taken his horse into the woods and given it a merciful death. She had watched him do it, and had seen what had happened to Percival afterward. She suspected the change that had come over Percival in the wake of killing Tonerre was what Raphael was talking about. “He had a vision,” she said. “It’s been haunting him ever since.”
Raphael nodded. “The Shield-Brethren have a history of receiving visions from the Virgin. Some look upon these visitations as proof of love from the Divine; some see them as a curse, an unavoidable injury that we must sustain in return for the rewards offered by the path we take. I have seen great horror laid upon men who have been touched by the hand of the Virgin. I do not…” He shook his head and changed the subject. “Throughout our history, some of my brothers have received strange gifts. It has happened enough that some think such grace is the ultimate affirmation of our devotion.” He hesitated before plunging on. “Some may even see the expression of such grace where it is not.”
“You mean they imagine that they’ve had a vision when they actually haven’t?”
Raphael nodded.
“But I thought you just said Percival had a vision?”
“I did. And he did.”
“Then who are you talking about? Who didn’t have a vision?”
“Istvan,” Raphael said. “He was hallucinating due to the mushrooms. Whatever visions he saw were inspired by his own fevers. He was babbling, talking nonsense, and therefore his words could not—should not—be construed as divinely inspired.”
Cnán rubbed the side of her nose. “I feel like I am being lectured by a scholar who has spent too many years studying scrolls written by Confucius. Everything you say is plain enough, but I think I must not be as well versed in your tongue as I imagined.”
Raphael passed a hand over his eyes and sighed. “I am sorry, Cnán. Perhaps I have been pondering this for so long that I neglect to remember that others have not been party to my thoughts as long as I. It is not just a matter of speaking to your question, but also of your understanding my answer and not simply accepting it as a truism simply due to the fact that the answer came out of my mouth. Therein lies the crux of my current crisis, in fact. Everything I say may be true or false, but only I know whether each statement is such. You interpret my words as either true or false based on who you are and what you know. Do you see?”
“Do I see what? Are you asking me if that is a true or false statement?”
Raphael smiled. “There. Yes, you do understand.”
“I’m not so sure that I do.”
“Percival had a vision. You and I agree that that statement is true, yes? Because we both saw the transformation that came over him as the Virgin’s grace touched him. Correct?”
“Yes,” Cnán said. “I would agree with you.”
“Istvan might have had a vision, but it was a figment of his own broken mind. Do you agree?”
“I would agree with that as well, but I confess I do not entirely see the same distinction you do.”
“I fear that Feronantus believes Istvan’s vision was divinely inspired. Now, if we had not witnessed Istvan’s vision and Feronantus came to us and said, ‘Istvan has had a vision,’ would that statement be true or false?”
Cnán hesitated. “It would be true,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I have no reason to believe Feronantus would lie.”
“Exactly. When we first undertook this perilous journey, why did we do so? Because Feronantus said we needed to. It was our sacred duty to avert the destruction of Christendom and killing the Khagan was the only way possible. We took that statement as truth and acted on it. And yet, when the time came, Feronantus left us. He took a symbol of the Mongol Empire and rode off. What truth can we discern from his actions?”
“We could ask him if we ever see him again,” Cnán said. “Beyond that, you’re talking in circles. The Khagan had to die. That was the way to save Christendom. You did that. You and the Shield-Brethren. What Feronantus did after doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” Raphael said. “You asked me if I was still beholden to him. Well, he is the master of the Rock, an elder of my order. I am bound to serve him, and in which case, I should chase after him and offer any aid I can give him. But if he has lost his way…” He trailed off with a shrug.
CHAPTER 9:
THE DREAMING GHOST
Illarion looked out over a strange and yet familiar city. He knew it wasn’t real—that what he saw had been destroyed by the Mongols and that he was caught in the grip of a dream—but he stared nonetheless. It was Volodymyr: on his left, the gray stone spires of the church where his children had been christened strained for the sky, a sky that was the color of his wife’s eyes; on his right, the staggered line of red and brown roofs that ran along the main boulevard between the city gates and the central keep. At night, the colors would vanish, and all that remained would be a trail of flickering lights along the boulevard, like flaming footprints left behind by the sun.
Illarion stood at the edge of the balcony, his hands gripping the wooden railing. Behind him was the main house of his estate, and even though he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go inside, he didn’t dare. He was afraid even to draw a single breath or blink out of fear that it would all disappear. Then, one by one, the torches along the boulevard would go out too, and he’d be left in utter darkness. Utter suffocating darkness.
Under the planks, before the riders came. Before the screaming started.
He had died that night, hadn’t he? What had risen up from beneath the sea of planks wasn’t Illarion Illarionovich, but a ghost—a vengeful phantom that knew not why it had been given shape or what it must do to find release. It wandered Rus, as empty and void of love and life as every field and village. Rus was dead, trampled beneath the hooves of the Mongol horses, a sea of black and brown that had swept across the land from the east to the west. Like the flood of night, in the wake of the sun. Like death, in the wake of life.
Her eyes had been the same color as the sky. When the thunder came, the pounding hooves of the horses as they were driven back and forth across the planks, darkness flowed out of the center of her eyes, an ever-widening pit that devoure
d everything until there was nothing left of the blue.
He gasped as he heard the tiny cry behind him. He squeezed his eyes shut, and his hands gripped the railing even tighter. He tried to will himself to wake up, to flee this strange place that was both the Volodymyr he knew and the Volodymyr he would never know. It was his son’s voice, happily giggling over something as inconsequential as sunlight glittering off a cloud of dust. He knew it wasn’t real; the sound of his son’s voice was only a mocking echo, a vestigial memory of something he had lost and would never have again.
Like his ear.
All that remained of his ear was a memory of the pain that had given birth to the phantom that he was. Floating in the bleak emptiness of his wife’s dead eyes, he had left the world behind; then, on the verge of finding her again, the pain had snatched him back. Jerked him back where there was nothing but death and blood and pain. The black-bone had taken his ear, sawed it off his head with a dull knife, and the Mongol had stood there, dumbly staring at him, as he rose from the dead.
He heard his son’s voice with his right ear. The phantom voice with the phantom ear. As he turned from the railing, he reached up and touched his ear, feeling its ridges and folds. It wasn’t a dream; his son wasn’t a dream.
But when he turned toward the house, the room was empty. When he wandered through the house, he found no one. The rooms were more sparsely furnished than he remembered, and instead of growing angry at what he had lost, he clung more fiercely to the insubstantiality of his past. None of this is real, he heard himself saying. I will wake soon.
His mind had other ideas, though, and he wandered for what seemed like hours through labyrinthine halls, larger in truth than his household had ever been. The rooms were windowless, lit with stinking tallow torches that created more shadows than light. He imagined familiar faces, both living and dead, and he saw images that he knew belonged to others. They weren’t his memories, but they were too vivid—too real—to be mere dream ghosts. He saw a fat man with a long stringy mustache, his body wrapped in eastern silks, lying in a hole that had been dug in the floor of one room. He saw a fire burning fiercely in a stone hearth, and flapping over the flames like a black bird was a banner made from strands of black horsehair. He saw a room filled with long planks of wood; before he turned away, he saw the tiny arm of his son reach up from beneath the planks, and between two planks, he saw a blue eye staring up at him.
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 8