He gave her an avuncular laugh. “You have an unexpected feistiness I rather like.” He sobered. “However, as much as I know you would find delight in me admitting that I am, like yourself, nothing more than a rat from the streets, albeit in finer clothing, put aside this ferocity. It’s getting in the way of our discourse. Where does this power come from?”
She did not entirely trust his motives but, in the back of her mind-in much the same way she sensed the presence of Lena or her sisters-she knew her answers were providing a way. To what and how she had no idea, but she only knew her path was not yet set. “My only thoughts are… far-fetched, Your Majesty,” she said.
“To hell with orthodoxy. Tell me what you think.”
Using her two hands to illustrate her point, Ocyrhoe said, “The man is nothing alone, and the cup is nothing alone, but when the man works with the cup”-here she brought her hands-palms up-together, interweaving her fingers-“it is as if there is a…” She searched for the right word, and found one, floating there in her head as if it were waiting for her to latch onto it. As if whispered from someone else’s lips directly into her ear. “An alchemical change. They become more than the sum of their parts.”
Frederick sat back in his chair, his expression both piqued and hooded. “An interesting word choice, my young friend. Not the sort of explanation I would expect from a poorly dressed street rat.” His lips quirked around a smile. “Take no offense, please,” he said, anticipating her reaction. “Given the overbearing reach of the Church within Rome’s walls, it is surprising to find someone who knows of the concepts of al-kimia.”
He pronounced the word differently than she had, and instinctively she knew he was referencing an older tradition, much like the cloth merchants in the market would assess the quality of each other’s wares with cryptic references to the source of the materials. There was a light dancing in his eyes now, a flame of mirth that he was trying very hard to tamp down.
“It would seem remarkable how similarly our minds work, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Clapping his hands together between his knees, he leaned forward. “Answer me this, then: why is not everyone affected by it? That is the part I cannot make sense of.”
“I think it has to do with any given person’s nature,” Ocyrhoe said. She suddenly felt shy. Answering the catechism of his first few questions had been awkward, but not entirely uncomfortable; now, something had changed in his demeanor, and his questions had a new intensity. He actually wanted to know her opinion, and she found the onus of providing useful information intimidating. “Perhaps in these days of such upheaval, when there is no Pope, when there are terrifying stories of invaders from the east, there are some people who wish to have an apparent savior appear, and so given the chance to believe they have seen one, they will believe.” She raised her shoulders. “Others do not.”
“I agree with that, but I cannot imagine anyone alive right now not wishing for some kind of savior to appear,” Frederick argued. “I wish it myself, and I’m the most dedicated atheist alive.”
“It… it isn’t about faith,” Ocyrhoe offered. “Consider this: Ferenc is absolutely devoted to Father Rodrigo; he loves him dearly, and he would believe anything the priest told him. But was Ferenc entranced by the cup? Even when Father Rodrigo brandished it?”
Frederick shook his head.
“Maybe, to him, it is just a cup. Maybe, it hasn’t occurred to him that such an object would be anything other than what it appears to be,” Ocyrhoe offered.
Frederick grimaced thoughtfully, looking at her, nodding slowly. “That is it,” he said conclusively. “Thank you. Such pure and clear understanding.” He sighed, and looked away from her for a long moment, staring out into the avenue where the life of the tent city continued to stream past. “Such maddening cleverness,” he said quietly, speaking not of Ocyrhoe but of someone else who was not present.
But who had been. Recently, Ocyrhoe suspected.
Eventually he turned back to look at her. “Given all this, then, would you take the cup away from the priest?”
Ocyrhoe frowned. “I already told you I will not steal it, not for the Church and not for the Crown. I don’t see how this conversation changes that.”
He held up a finger to his lip. “Soft, girl. Listen to me. I am not ordering you as a ruler. I am suggesting that you do this as a favor to the boy and to the priest himself. No good will come of that poor madman wandering through the wilderness, occasionally turning heads. He will inspire enough people that they may be moved to take action and raise arms against the Mongols. But-”
She raised her hand to protest, but he reached across the table and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her toward him. His pale blue eyes flared almost green.
“But,” he repeated in a low, intense voice, “and this is the most important but that you are going to hear in your young life, so listen to me. But he will not raise enough of a force to be effective against the invaders. If the Grail were truly some kind of holy relic, and the entire population of Europe really was moved to rise up against the Mongols, that would be one thing. But the fucking thing does not have that power. It is an illusion. The number who will be moved will be just large enough to convince themselves they are strong, but they’ll be wrong, and they’ll be slaughtered, and their families will be bereft. That is what will happen if Rodrigo keeps hold of that goddamned cup. The man and the cup must be sundered. It is the kindest thing that you can do for him. And for scores or maybe hundreds of families whose paths he is about to cross. Take the cup away from him.”
He stared into her eyes, and she saw sweat forming on his brow. He was barely controlling his breath. She realized, with shamed amazement, that he was speaking not as a conniver or controller, but as a ruler concerned about the well-being of those he ruled. A ruler who feared he, himself, was not strong enough to perform this task.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly frightened. “I will.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
An Audience with the Khan
A Mongol, knocked into a cook fire during the initial surge of horsemen, had lived long enough to run-shirt and hair on fire-into the rows of tents. Rutger assumed he had died from the burns, but before he had expired, the flames had leaped from him to several tents. The fire was spreading, and a haze of ash and embers was starting to fill the air. A storm of glittering snow.
The battle had moved away from him, and he took advantage of the respite to catch his breath. His lungs ached from battlefield exertion, and he gulped air as best he could. There was no time to rest, even for a moment. Even with the Livonians bolstering their numbers, they were still outnumbered. As long as they could keep the Mongols off balance and disorganized, they stood a chance. They had to keep fighting.
Off to his left, Rutger caught sight of Kristaps, who had lost his horse and now fought on foot. He fought with a relentless energy, his Great Sword of War rising and falling with methodical precision. Rutger felt a pang of envy at the other man’s strength, but he pushed that thought away. He was under no illusion about his age or his health.
The front line was not a place for him any longer.
Ahead of him, four knights-three Shield-Brethren and a Livonian-staggered out of the smoke. Arrows followed them, and one of the Shield-Brethren fell. A howling group of Mongols came next, swords and spears eager for blood. Trailing behind the war party was an enormously fat Mongol with a blood-spattered cudgel.
“Behind you!” Rutger shouted, waving his sword and starting to run toward the three men, but his lungs seized. He stumbled, gasping for breath. Not now, he pleaded, let me finish. His throat convulsing, his body shaking as it tried to draw in enough air, he could only watch as two groups smashed into one another.
Rutger was still catching his breath when a number of Shield-Brethren rushed past him to join the frenzied melee. He recognized one-the initiate, Maks-and he wondered why the young man was here and not protecting the boy, Hans.
The panic holding his chest eased, and his lungs inflated in a rush. His vision both darkening and lightening, Rutger felt his strength return, and he moved more quickly to aid his brothers. He slew two Mongols as the battle surged around him, welcoming him back to the fray, before he had a chance to take stock of that state of the melee.
He was in the midst of a straining mass of bodies, sword ringing against sword, spear thrusting into maille and cloth, men on the ground grappling with daggers and bare hands. He caught sight of the fat Mongol, Ashiq Temur, and he struggled to move in that direction.
His attention was suddenly interrupted by a screaming Mongol who came at him from the side. Forced to react, Rutger pivoted backward, twisting his midsection just out of range as he rotated his sword to a high guard and snapped his hips back, bringing his sword edge down in a cut at the Mongol’s head. The Mongol intercepted the stroke, and wheeled his curved sword around Rutger’s blade.
As was the case in any fight, the ones who lived were the ones who had some skill, and as the battle wore on, Rutger found that the men he faced were showing more and more of it. The Mongol’s response to his parry was fast, and he had to snap his hilt up in order to keep the line closed. The Mongol’s blade slid down his with a hiss of metal grating across metal, and Rutger ducked as he sidestepped. He was now beneath his enemy’s blade and inside. With a quick pull, he freed his blade from the bind and slashed it across the Mongol’s torso, gutting the man. He stepped through, turning, and reversing his hands, finished his opponent off with a cut to the back of the neck.
He spotted Maks again, and he watched as the young warrior closed in on Ashiq Temur. The fat warrior caught the first stroke of the initiate’s sword on his cudgel as he tried to get closer to the young man. Maks kept his distance, lashing out with his sword as he darted out of the way of the fat Mongol’s club. His sword sliced across Ashiq Temur’s arm, leaving a red line that immediately started to run with blood. Keep your distance, Rutger thought, a grim smile on his lips.
But Maks had nowhere to go. He had been spun around in the fight and now his back was to a tent. Instead of waiting for Ashiq Temur’s attack, Maks moved first. But the fat Mongol was quicker than his bulk suggested. He got within Maks’s measure and swept his bulky arm down, pinning Maks’s sword against his body. Maks struggled a second too long, trying to pull his sword free, and he brought his hand up in a valiant-but hopeless-effort to shield his face from the Mongol’s cudgel.
Rutger saw Maks’s body jerk and spasm as his skull was shattered by Ashiq Temur’s club, and when the fat Mongol stepped back, the young initiate-his face a bloody, unrecognizable pulp-fell as if bonelessly to the ground.
Rutger’s chest threatened to seize again, and his blood pounded in his ears. Another boy gone, he thought. He heard his voice echoing in his head, screaming the Shield-Brethren battle cry.
The guards outside of Ongwhe’s tent saw them coming and hesitated, frightened by the bloody figures running toward them. Zug had his naginata, and at his side were Kim, Lakshaman, and one of the Rose Knights. The guards had been stuck at the Khan’s tent, unable to participate in the battle, forced to watch what little bit of the melee they could see. They were eager to fight-too eager, perhaps-and when the fight finally came to them, they reacted poorly.
A guard thrust his spear too soon at Zug and he sidestepped it easily. With a tiny flick of his hands he smashed the shaft aside with the heavy naginata and swiped the blade across the narrow gap between the top of the Mongol’s armor and the base of his throat. It was a tiny space, but with years of practice he had gotten very good at cutting it-straight across, side to side.
Nearby, a guard dropped to the ground, gurgling and clawing at the knife that sprouted from his throat. Two more guards charged him and he dropped down to one knee, pulling his weapon tight to his body. He kept the blade of the naginata pointed up, forcing the guards to go to either side of him or risk impaling themselves on his blade. The guards ran right into Kim and Lakshaman, who fell upon them in a frenzy of steel.
More guards poured out of the Khan’s tent, and Zug lost himself in the battle that followed. The skullmaker sang its song, and he felt a tiny spark of joy in his chest.
Finally, he was doing the right thing.
When the last guard fell, weeping as he tried to staunch the earnest flow of blood from a severed arm, Zug strode toward the Khan’s tent and thrust aside the heavy flaps.
The interior was surprisingly sparse for as large as it was. There were only a few tables and divans scattered on a sea of colorful rugs. On the far side, Onghwe Khan lounged on a long platform draped with silks and furs. A nearby table was covered with trays of food, and the Khan languidly held a silver goblet in one hand, seemingly unconcerned about the sudden appearance of armed men in his private tent. His body was draped with layers of colored silks, and though the lavish fabrics hid his frame, the enormous weight of his body could not be fully disguised.
He was completely unarmed and unprepared for the quartet’s entrance, yet he did not look remotely frightened. Unlike the whore hiding behind him, her eyes wide with abject terror.
There were still more guards as well. Zug’s eyes darted about the grand room, counting five armed men. They were approaching the front of the tent cautiously, their expressions running the gamut from fury to outright panic.
But the Khan was nonplussed. Zug returned his gaze to Onghwe’s round face, seeking some sign that the Khan remotely understood what was about to happen to him. How can he be so unaware of the danger? he thought. Is the Khan in the grip of some sort of pleasure drug? Is he insensate from wine? The Khan’s mouth opened slightly, his tongue darting out to run across his ruddy lips, and Zug felt only revulsion and fury at the years he had lost to this man.
The guards were approaching, and there was no more time for idle speculation. Zug stepped farther inside the tent, allowing the others to crowd past him. Kim wasted no time, leaping to attack the first man. The Flower Knight’s spear pierced the throat of his opponent with a well-aimed thrust; he folded the man in half with a powerful kick to the abdomen, and then proceeded to leap over the collapsing man to smash through the guard of a second Mongol, who screamed as Kim’s blade cut through his arm and lodged in his chest.
On Zug’s left, Lakshaman parried a spear thrust with his sword, cutting at the guard’s hands as the weapon went past him. The stroke took too long, and he didn’t get his sword around in time to block the thrust from a second man. He let out a low grunt as the spear point entered his right shoulder. As Zug watched, Lakshaman grabbed the shaft of the spear and wrenched the spear-wielding Mongol closer to him. He rammed his blade through the man, and as the Mongol died, he let go of his sword and pulled the spear out of his shoulder. A hard cast knocked the remaining guard off his feet, and only then did Lakshaman retrieve his sword.
The last guard hesitated, and Zug glanced at the young Rose Knight standing next to him. Zug tilted his head toward the Mongol, and the boy grinned as he darted forward to engage this last guard.
Zug turned his attention to the Khan, but Lakshaman was already moving. The scarred fighter bounded to the top of one table, jumped between two divans, and then took an immense leap toward the reclining Khan. His sword was raised high above his head, and he let out an animalistic scream as he brought his sword down in a mighty swing.
The whore screamed, her voice a thin echo of Lakshaman’s cry, and there followed a muffled thud that caught everyone’s attention as Lakshaman’s sword buried itself deep within the mass of pillows and furs.
But not the body of Onghwe Khan.
Zug felt his sweat go cold on his brow. He had never seen a man move so fast.
Onghwe was standing now, a plain sword in his hand as if had been summoned by some ar
cane magic. The girl was still screaming, her lungs not yet having run out of air. Lakshaman was frozen, the muscles of his arms and back standing out in plain relief. Onghwe’s face was no longer soft and his eyes were bright and fierce. He swung his arm, and Lakshaman’s head, expression of surprise and disbelief permanently frozen on the scarred man’s face, separated from his body and bounced across the rugs, leaving bloody blotches as it rolled.
Onghwe smiled, and Zug found himself staring at the face of a tiger who had just cornered its prey. “Over these many years, I have enjoyed watching you suffer,” Onghwe said, shaking Lakshaman’s blood from his blade. “Time and again, I thought you would lie down and die, but you were like an incredibly stupid and faithful dog. You never gave up. No matter how badly I abused you or beat you or pushed to the brink of madness, you never quit. You two are, without a doubt, the most impressive specimens I have ever captured.”
He smiled and beckoned Zug and Kim to approach. “Come to me, my most faithful dogs. Your new friend too. You have no idea how long I have been waiting for this moment.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Guiding the Empire
The first arrow pierced the man standing in front of Ogedei through the hollow of his throat. The arrow buried itself to its fletching, and to Ogedei it seemed as if the man had suddenly sprouted a white flower at the base of his neck. The hunter jerked, a spatter of blood erupting from his mouth, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he clawed frantically at the feathers and shaft sunk into his neck. The arrow, longer than any Ogedei had ever seen, protruded from the hunter’s back.
The second arrow punched through the skull of the man standing behind him, the broadhead point of the arrow sticking out of the man’s face below his left eye. This man was dead as he collapsed, his arms flopping forward as if attempting to embrace Ogedei as he fell.
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