Fortunately, before his mother could call attention to his state, the last heap of bedding stirred. “Can I stop pretending to snore yet?” came Bekter’s plaint from beneath the blankets.
“Oh, get up, fools!” Sechule grumbled at them as she put the breakfast pot on the firebox to boil with porridge made fresh yesterday. “I don’t know why I put up with either of you!”
Bekter rolled out of bed and stretched, answering through a yawn: “Because a mother will always rule in her son’s tent, but a second wife must learn to bow her head to a husband’s first, and to his grown children?” Not even this more even-tempered brother deluded himself about his mother’s affection.
“Or maybe it’s because your beloved children are your only tie to the khan.” Qutula followed his brother more slowly to his feet. The hours spent waiting for his dark lady had tired him, but the reminder of her scent on his clothes drove the sleep from his thoughts.
“You do me an injustice!” In protest, Sechule rattled around making more clatter than necessary gathering bowls and spoons. “I want only what is rightfully yours.”
“But do you want it for us, or for yourself? If you expect to live in the silver palace of the khan, it will be on the coattails of your sons.”
“You are too harsh, Qutula! I don’t know what makes you so cruel.” Sechule had put on a simple sleeveless shift before throwing her lover out and she hugged it more tightly around her, as if she needed to defend herself against her son’s words.
“I’ve done all I can to put you in front of your father. It should be you beside him on the dais, not the old khan’s orphan. But I can’t win Mergen’s approval for you. You have to do that for yourself if you want to gain your place as heir and take your father’s rank when he dies.”
She made it seem that it was her sons’ fault she had lost the eye of the khan, but Qutula guessed she’d never had his ear. Still, she’d succeeded in placing him close to the khan as she claimed. He only had to find a way to reach Mergen’s heart. Then his father’s death could come sooner rather than later. His lady had said that she wouldn’t love a patricide, but he thought she might be persuaded when he took his place at the head of the clans.
Bekter was frowning over his porridge, however. “The khan is fit and likely to enjoy a good long reign if the spirits favor him. Which, as his son, I devoutly pray they do.”
“I know. You are a good son.” Sechule petted his brother’s head with absent fondness, but Qutula thought she wasn’t pleased with Bekter’s goodness.
She proved his suspicions when she added, with a wistful sigh, “Life would have been simpler for all of us if the old khan’s offspring had fallen with the rest of his line.” Died, she meant. “But instead, look at him! Parading around as if he were Mergen’s own son, while the true heirs of the khan’s body are forced to serve him. Prince Tayyichiut should be serving you!”
Qutula couldn’t argue with that. Hadn’t, when he’d renewed his promise in the night to kill the prince. Only he hadn’t lied about how closely Prince Tayyichiut was watched. It wasn’t enough just to kill his cousin; he had to make sure no trail led back to his own tent. Of course, there was a reason that the symbol for two women under the same tent roof represented war. If he were to have any hope for a peaceful life with his dark lady as khaness, it wouldn’t hurt to have suspicion fall on his mother. He didn’t want to distress Bekter, but he didn’t see any other way.
“However we would like our fates to fall, the khan awaits us now,” he said, giving nothing away of his plans.
“The games.” Bekter set his dish aside and rose to leave, noting with a frown, however, “You need your breakfast. How will you defeat the prince’s Nirun if you don’t eat?”
“Duty will sustain me in the name of the Durluken!” Qutula smiled for his mother to make a joke of it as he swept his arm in a grand flourish to accompany the words. “Will you attend the games this morning to cheer the team of your sons to victory?”
“Of course I will.” Sechule gave Bekter a kiss, first on the right cheek, then on the left. “You are both such dutiful sons. If your father only saw your true worth, he couldn’t help but love you.”
When it came his turn for a motherly kiss, she looked at Qutula with so intense a gaze that he knew she meant more than the simple duty a son owes his mother. Kill him for me, that gaze said, kill the prince and your father will learn to love you. He answered her silent command with a little bow and a lift of his chin, agreeing to their silent pact. She didn’t know he already planned murder as a gift to his lover, but the snake that coiled in ink upon his breast recognized the vow for her alone, and rewarded him with the now-familiar tingle that stole through his body at her approval.
PART TWO
SONS OF LIGHT
Chapter Ten
“LIKEAN ARMY RODE HIS hunters after the bright shining one—hey! Watch where you’re going, there!”
“Excuse me!” Eluneke bounced off the chest of a warrior who parted the crowd like a walking mountain. Flustered, she smoothed the simple day dress of a maiden she wore. The warrior gave her a sharp frown but quickly passed on. Free of his hostile gaze, she rubbed absently at her forehead. He hadn’t bothered to ask if she’d been hurt by their sudden collision.
Eluneke had followed the flow of people to the great parade field in front of the ger-tent palace of the khan. Most days it was just an empty patch of churned-up grass where the young played jidu for practice and the warriors took it in turns to hone their own skills under the watchful eye of the khan. For the games, merchants had spread their wares on blankets and sat with their backs against the white felt tents of the high-ranked clans that marked out the dimensions of the playing field. The crowd, hemmed in between the blankets full of wares on the outside of the field and the warriors who paraded within it, buffeted her as she tried to find a spot where she could see the competitions.
“Beads, little one?” an old crone wheedled. “An amulet to attract a young suitor, perhaps?” From her seat on a greasy blue blanket she offered a charm on her upraised palm.
Eluneke dismissed the charm at once; Toragana did much better ones and she was learning the skill herself. But her fingers itched to touch the turquoise bead the size of a nut that nestled in the folds of the blanket.
The old crone followed her gaze and cackled appreciatively at the end of it. “For a richer purse than yours, my girl, but I’ll tell your fortune for a copper penny!”
She’d had quite enough of thinking about her future, and each new strand seemed only to tangle the weave even more. Professional courtesy demanded a polite reply, however, so she answered, “Not today, thank you!” before plunging back into the throng.
“I know where you’re headed even without the knuck lebones!” the old crone called after her, laughing.
No mystery there, Eluneke agreed as she made her way toward the games at the center of the field. She turned sideways, trying the childhood trick of sliding through the crowd, but it didn’t work anymore. Her breasts got in the way. Womanhood hadn’t stolen her best weapon, however; with a last jab of a sharp elbow in an anonymous rib cage she reached the front, where all the girls of marriageable age had gathered. Swaying like butterflies in their bright silk dresses, they had come to watch their potential husbands contest in mock battle.
An orphan and the apprentice to a shaman, Eluneke had no such finery. She didn’t mind, though; the leather robes of her office awaited the completion of her initiation. As for her husband, fate or a shaman’s calling had seen to that. Fine clothes would little serve her in the difficult task ahead—keeping him alive.
She had come out among strangers, but that was all right, too. The girls from her own clan would have asked her which of the young warriors would be their husbands, how many children they would have, would they be rich. If she answered as they wished, they’d run away laughing, as the company of an apprentice shamaness meant nothing to them. If she told the truth, some would leave weeping and others
would leave mad. The rest would just leave, declaring their good mood ruined while they hid their secret smiles at having better luck ahead than their companions. She had more important concerns to worry about today, like finding out who her not-quite-dead-yet husband was.
Luck, or the spirits that drew a young shaman like a child on leading reins, had brought her to a place not far from the ger-tent palace of the khan. Sunlight flashed off the silver embroidery and Eluneke stared, amazed, at the scrollwork and the patterns of leaves and vines and wildflowers that covered every inch of the white felt. She had never attended a festival so grand, nor ever seen the palace or the khan, though she had heard enough in stories to recognize them now.
Resplendent in silks beneath his ceremonial armor, and with the quilted-silk-and-silver headdress of the khanate upon his head, the khan sat on the back of a sleek white horse caparisoned as richly as her master. On his left hand the mother of the khan and grandmother of the prince his nephew sat astride her own great steed. Adorned in patterned silks of orange and yellow decorated everywhere with chains of silver ornaments and beads, the khaness Lady Bortu viewed the gathered warriors from beneath a massive headdress of silver horns draped everywhere with strings of precious gems. Eluneke didn’t see anyone who might be the prince among the dignitaries, clan chieftains, and nobles who gathered to either side. He would, no doubt, participate in the games, but generals flanked the khan and his lady mother on either side, and Bolghai himself sat a cream-colored donkey among the highborn waiting eagerly for the games to begin.
A little apart from the royal party stood an aging warrior in the armor of a strange ulus. Not a prisoner, since he held a post of some honor. Doubtless an emissary of some ally from the war, he pretended not to notice the guardsmen in their blue coats who created a wall of their bodies between him and the royal party. His keen eyes seemed to take in everything around him, however, including the girl watching him from the crowd. Not wishing to draw attention to herself, Eluneke quickly shifted her gaze to the guardsmen.
Only the best young men of highest family would guard the palace itself. Her soon-to-be-dead husband might hold such rank, so she carefully examined each of the warriors in blue. None of them bore the face drifting like a vapor across the death’s-head skull that had ridden past her door. The spirits were making her work for her reward. She would finish her training then, and when she had the skill to save him, they would find each other.
Scuffing the wooden sole of her boot in the turned earth, she couldn’t completely suppress her disappointment. Still, the day was clear and the many bright banners of the clans floated proudly on the breeze above the heads of the gathered armies arrayed on the playing field. Harnesses creaked and horses snorted impatiently. Great Sun glinted off shields and helmets and turned the silver embroidery of the ger-tent palace to liquid fire.
The khan nudged his mount with his knee and the mare took two careful steps forward. Next to Eluneke, a woman in brilliant silks and with many amulets in her hair ornaments caught her breath.
“He is . . .” Eluneke began, ready to offer her own praise of the magnificent khan.
The look in the woman’s eyes turned the words to stone in her mouth. She couldn’t tell how old the woman was, exactly, but her expression left no doubt that her gasp was a very private communication. Hunger and longing, and bitter anger lived uneasily together in that glance. Eluneke had seen pale semblances of the same emotions before, in the faces of men and women both who had come to Toragana looking for love charms, or to be free of love, or for amulets to cause the death of a fickle lover.
Toragana offered them soothing tea and listened quietly to their tales of disappointment and longing. She would send them away with a mild prescription for heart’s ease, or a harmless charm and then set Eluneke to scrubbing every cup and airing the cushions, lest the spirits who drove these poor souls should come to rest in the shaman’s own tent. So she took a step back, careful to keep her expression open and friendly but giving the woman’s spirits the space they needed. The woman didn’t notice. Her attention had locked on the khan and she scarcely breathed as he began to speak.
Mergen looked out over the gathered crowd, proud of his people and the youths who had gathered for the contests. Bekter had determined to sit out the matches, preferring to make tales rather than to star in them. Already his song about Prince Tayy and the bear had spread through the camp. Tinglut-Khan’s messenger had the tale on his lips when he petitioned the khan for permission to take back to his own camp a report of the games held to celebrate the event. With some misgiving, for the man was no stripling but a seasoned spy, Mergen had granted the request, while setting him under the watchful eye of his general, Yesugei, and the palace guard.
The wrestling matches, in which Qutula and Prince Tayy would compete, would come later in the morning, however. To open the games, Mergen introduced his army. He had strung his bow for the purpose, and he raised it over his head in salute.
“Now we celebrate the glorious moment of your warriors’ great return!” he announced. Throughout the crowd his criers repeated his words so that all might hear them. “They have filled the foreign gods and the rightful kings who serve them with wonder while striking terror in the hearts of their demon enemies!”
He would have played down the mystical part of the recent war, but Bolghai had recommended against it. As yet, no one had found the snake-demon who had taken the place of the true Lady Chaiujin in the tent of Chimbai-Khan. The demon-lady had escaped Mergen’s effort to have her executed, but the snake’s heart would burn with cold fury in her breast until she had taken deadly revenge. Until she was found, Bolghai warned, he must leaven even the sweetest moment of victory with the bitter warning that demons and spirits could strike at the heart of the khanate. Still, the people raised their voices in praise. If the fear of the unnatural shivered in their bones, they had the memory of honor and glory to warm them again.
“Fathers and mothers, honor your sons! Children, honor your fathers!”
A cheer rose up, deep-throated from among the gray haired in the crowd and lighter-voiced from the children who bounced in their saddles as they waited for the call to race.
“Wives, welcome your husbands back into your tents and give them comfort after their labors!”
Women who had tended the tents of their husbands during the war answered with their own welcoming warmth. Mergen turned his hand and, in acknowledgment of the welcome of their families, the army advanced their horses one step and clapped their spears on their shields, raising an answering din. At a signal unseen by the crowd, but well known to the khan, the rattling of spears ceased, and row by row the warriors rode in dignity from the playing field.
The games proper would start with the children so that the warriors might prepare with no unseemly haste for their own competitions. As the last of them filed out, Mergen let his glance wander over the bright colors of the departing banners and the brilliant silks of the crowd.
At his side, Yesugei held still as a rabbit at the point of the hunter’s arrow. Following his general’s line of sight, Mergen found himself staring into Sechule’s eyes. Once he had thought them beautiful, but now they burned in their orbs with a demon heat. No. If anything possessed Sechule, it was her obsession, not demons. Yesugei stirred in the saddle, his face frozen with the jealousy that he dared not reveal to his khan.
For her part, Sechule seemed not to notice the presence of the general as she held Mergen’s gaze with her own. Enough! He turned away, and could not believe what he saw. So close that she might reach out and touch his old mistress stood his daughter, Eluneke, in the plain clothes of the lowest ranks. What relief he might have drawn from the fact that her clothes bore no mark of her shamanic training was completely overturned by the presence at her side of the one woman in the camp who might have both the experience to see the khan’s eyes in that lowly face and the motivation to use that knowledge against him.
“Interesting,” Lady Bortu whis
pered at his side.
So, not the only one, though he hoped his mother meant his daughter no harm. Of the two, Sechule showed no interest in the girl fate had put within her grasp. She did not miss the loss of his eyes upon her, however, and began to follow the turn of his head. Mergen continued his sweep of the crowd, leading her gaze to the children waitng on horseback. Boys and girls together, some as young as six summers but none older than eleven, eagerly sat their mounts in a line held back by a silken cord.
Clan custom made no distinction between the sexes at this age, but he saw that some of the older girls carried themselves with a military erectness to their spines. Tales of the women warriors of Pontus had traveled back from the wars with the army. The female warrior Captain Kaydu, servant of Shan’s mortal goddess of war, had ridden in their very camp, commanding soldiers both male and female. Times change, he thought to himself with hope and sorrow. Soon, so must we. He didn’t let the crowd see his thoughts, but kept his face grave and kingly as he handed the general his bow in exchange for a pike attached to which fluttered a silk ribbon embroidered in the khan’s silver.
“To the victor the khan’s ribbon!” As Mergen exhorted the youthful riders, he raised the pike so that the wide ribbon snapped in the breeze above their heads.
With one voice the children cried out, “Victory!” and the crowd cheered its approval.
Sechule’s attention had returned to his face, he noted out of the corner of his eye. His daughter had moved a safer distance from the mother of her unknown brothers. He didn’t let his glance catch on her again, but turned with a smile to the children waiting with their hands clenched in the manes of their horses.
Lords of Grass and Thunder Page 11