by Megan Bannen
He looks up at the sky in prayer. “If you find yourself in a life-or-death situation, you may need to stab your opponent in the heart. But the heart is hard to get to. There’s bone over the heart.”
Here, Khalaf pounds his breastbone with the flattened palm of his hand, resulting in a solid, reassuring thud. I’m giddily tempted to thump him on the chest as well.
“You’ll need to go under the breastbone with an upward jab. Here.”
He takes his palm and hits the area of his torso underneath the arch of his rib cage. This time, it makes a slapping sound. He reaches for my hand that holds the dagger and wraps his fingers around mine.
His skin against my skin is very distracting.
“So, you would draw your arm back—no, bend at the elbow, like this.”
He moves my arm into place, which means he has to step in close to me. I inwardly chastise myself for enjoying this so much.
“Use the momentum of your whole body, not just your arm,” he continues, “and stab upward right here.”
He brings my armed hand up quickly, stopping the blade just short of its target. Panicked that I’m about to stab him for real, I drop the dagger. It clunks on the dusty ground between us, and we’re left to just stand there staring at each other, our faces scant inches apart.
My mind empties. Any thoughts of khans and empires vanish. The only idea I can cling to at this moment is the fact that I want to kiss him or he to kiss me or both of us to kiss each other.
He looks away as he picks up the dagger and dusts it off on his sleeve.
“I wasn’t going to let you stab me,” he informs me.
“That was cutting it a little too close, in my opinion.”
He presents the weapon to me over his arm. I reach for it reluctantly, and I’m surprised when his hand doesn’t let go. Instead, his face deadly serious, he takes my newly armed hand in both of his, and I am robbed of what little air I had left in my lungs. Every time he touches me, I feel like I’ll detonate, an explosion of wanting and not having.
“Promise me you’ll use this if you have to,” he says.
“My lord—”
“Khalaf.”
I don’t think I can say his name without saying I love you in the same breath. The feeling wraps itself around the very word itself.
He leans in. “Promise me.”
His voice gets me. Every. Single. Time.
“I promise,” I say, and I mean it. I do. I promise.
I step back, escaping from his touch and his eyes. “Where do I put this thing?”
“Wrap it in your belt, and be very careful how you sit.” He grins at me.
“Yes, my lord.” I find a fold inside my belt to house the dagger. Focusing on the dagger is much safer than focusing on that grin.
“Khalaf,” he corrects me for the millionth time. “And thank you for not wanting to kill me.”
A strangled giggle escapes me. Honestly, my parents should have named me Irony instead of Illustrious Capital City.
22
“CHARITY? YOU BEGGED?” TIMUR ASKS.
“As you see.” Khalaf dumps a cup of mare’s milk curds and some kind of jerky on a blanket next to the brazier.
We fell in with a Mongol horde called the Barlas near Turpan two weeks ago and have followed them north and east away from the trade routes and onto the steppes, where not a single tree breaks the grassy landscape.
There are Mongols, and then there are Mongols. The Barlas, like the Kipchaks, are the real deal, with homes made of white felt. They cover themselves in mutton fat during the winter months not, as I originally thought, because they think it’s pretty and smells nice (which it doesn’t) but because if they didn’t, they’d freeze on the spot in the brutal wind of the steppes. My family thought they were so much better than these people, but now that I’m clinging to life in the paupers’ ger of a Mongol encampment, I’m starting to understand how a bunch of nomads managed to conquer the world. If this landscape can’t kill them, nothing can.
The Barlas have met up with Qaidu’s horde just as our meager funds are running out. Overnight, a city of pale felt domes has popped up on the green steppes, laid out in a perfect grid with the door of each ger facing south to keep out the harsh northern winds. We’re trying to figure out how to move past the clan’s suspicious glares so we can present ourselves to Qaidu. Khalaf’s begging probably doesn’t further our cause, but I don’t care. I’m hungry.
“This is unacceptable,” says Timur.
“So is starving.” Khalaf tears off a chunk of dried meat and hands it to me. I’m not as picky as Timur. I start to gnaw on it with my back teeth. Starving will do that to a girl.
“Did you even bother to ask after Qaidu?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Timur demands.
“I look like a scarecrow.”
“You are a prince. When do you intend to start acting like one?”
Khalaf tosses the remainder of the meat onto the blanket. “Are you serious? Do you really think either one of us is ever going to sit on a throne again? Look at us.” He holds up the remnants of his tunic and shakes it at his father. “We’re seeking asylum. Period.”
“You need to keep your head on straight, boy.”
“There’s a word for this, Father—” says Khalaf.
“We are going to meet with Qaidu.”
“—and that word is ‘denial.’”
“And we are going to raise an army,” Timur insists.
“How are we going to fund that army? Tell me that. We can’t even afford to feed ourselves.”
Timur opens his mouth and promptly shuts it again. Angry veins slowly pop out on his neck and forehead.
Khalaf rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands for the millionth time since we left Sarai. “Look, tomorrow I’ll try to get an audience with Qaidu. I could make myself useful as a warrior in his army, work my way up the ranks.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Dying is also unacceptable!” Khalaf shouts.
Khalaf.
Shouting.
It feels like shattering glass, like porcelain pieces breaking apart on a clean-swept wooden floor.
He storms out of the ger. I hurry after him, but I don’t get very far. The rigidity of his spine makes it clear he needs a moment alone, so I’m left to listen to the dried grass of late summer crunching beneath his feet as he stomps away.
Timur pokes his head out of the door that Khalaf didn’t bother to shut behind him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Khalaf doesn’t even bother to turn around. “To think. To pray,” he calls into the air. “At least God listens to me.”
I watch him trudge off toward the forest line at the foot of the Tian Mountains.
“Oh, well done, my lord,” I snipe at Timur.
“Shut up, girl.”
I don’t bother to glower at the old goat. I keep my eyes on Khalaf until he disappears into the trees. I know he just needs to blow off steam, but it seems to me that father and son are so at odds at this point that something has to give. I can’t quash the feeling that one or the other of them is on the precipice of doing something rash, and that our fortunes are about to change, and not for the better.
An hour passes.
Timur lies by the brazier. I think he wants me to believe that he’s sleeping, that he’s not worried, that his pride is more important than his feelings. I don’t know why he should care what I think, and it’s a vain attempt anyway. I can see right through him. He’s a ball of regret and anxiety.
We don’t speak.
I scrub cups that don’t need scrubbing with old broth, and I lead the camels to pasture in some grass, even though they were just fine where they were. One of them spits in my hair.
Stupid camel.
I’m wiping camel spit off my head with my sleeve when I see Khalaf. He steps out of the trees like a miracle, holding a large object up on his arm. His turban is off and his hair hangs loose. I squint at him,
wondering what on earth he’s carrying. It looks enormous from this distance.
He must see me, because he beckons me to him with his free hand. It’s not until we close the distance between us by half that I see he’s got his turban wrapped around his left arm, and on that arm perches a falcon.
“Look at her,” he calls to me, and the bird’s head swings toward his voice. “Isn’t she incredible?”
He’s glowing like a party boat on the West Lake as he holds up the bird for my inspection. The falcon’s breast bulges powerfully under a downy field of snow-white feathers dappled with brown and fawn. Her beak curves downward in a glossy black hook. But this is no run-of-the-mill falcon. There’s a gold chain around her neck that bulges with diamonds and topazes and rubies, and her jeweled jesses glint in the sunlight. She turns her head so that one enormous eye can stare me down.
“Where did you find her?” I marvel. “How?”
“I prayed,” he tells me. “And when I finished my prayers, there she was on the branch just above me. I wrapped my turban around my arm and held it up, and she came right to me.”
He doesn’t look at the bird, only at me. His eyes are rimmed by dark, stubby lashes. He’s so close. I stop breathing.
“What is it? What’s going on?” Timur says from the doorway of our ger.
I think I might hate that man.
“The prince has found a falcon, my lord,” I tell him as I step away from Khalaf. The words tumbling out of my mouth seem disconnected, as if such a collection of awkward sounds could not possibly belong in the same realm as Khalaf and his falcon.
“Can you see her, Father?” he asks excitedly.
“Of course I can see her. I’m standing right here.”
“This is an omen, a good omen. God has sent us His blessing. Don’t you see?”
Timur strokes his beard, but he doesn’t seem to be looking at the bird, which is odd since she’s so magnificent that I’m finding it hard to tear my eyes away from her. The jesses strapped around her legs glitter with lapis lazuli and rubies. Her talons hug Khalaf’s arm in a way that makes me a little fearful. She’s breathtaking. Every aspect of her being has been honed to hunt and kill, and somehow it makes her beautiful beyond words.
“Call it an omen if you want,” says Timur. “All I care about is the fact that this bird is our ticket into Qaidu’s ger.”
“I think you’re right. Even if she doesn’t belong to Qaidu, she’ll be valuable to him.”
Timur wastes no time and starts to limp off toward the center of Qaidu’s camp.
“Ready?” Khalaf asks me.
“Am I going?”
“Of course.”
I’m not ready—I’m never ready—but I follow Timur anyway as Khalaf strides beside me with the falcon steady on his arm. It’s like walking next to the sun.
We draw the attention of the watch, who approach on horseback, one of whom sees Khalaf and exclaims, “That’s Qaidu’s falcon! He has every available hunter out looking for this bird. There would have been hell to pay if we didn’t find her. You’ve done us a huge favor, sir.”
The man dismounts and rushes forward to take the bird, but he backs off when the falcon flaps her wings in distress. Khalaf holds her steady. The guard sighs with disappointment and tells Khalaf, “You’d better come along, then.” He swings back up onto his horse, and our little kingdom of three follows the guard through the grid of gers.
News of the falcon moves faster than we do, and by the time our ever-growing crowd reaches Qaidu’s great tent at the center of the encampment, the khan himself comes out to greet Khalaf with a wide smile spread across his face. Qaidu is the quintessential Mongol: stocky, short-legged, hard-muscled. His tent is large but not particularly extravagant, and he is rather spare himself, a man whose strength and intelligence are his only adornments.
“My glove,” he calls to no one in particular, but the glove appears all the same. He slips it on, holds out his arm, and takes the bird from her savior, gazing at her with the kind of soft fondness most girls dream of and never receive. I suppose a falcon is more useful than a girl, though, in the eyes of most men.
“To whom do I owe my thanks?” Qaidu asks.
Khalaf looks to his father, who nods his head. He stands a little straighter and suddenly he’s a prince again, sliding back into his destined role as easily as one might step over a puddle. And if Khalaf is a prince again, that turns me back into something I don’t want to be. Loneliness sinks its cold teeth into me as he openly declares his identity for the first time in months.
“I am Khalaf, son of Timur Khan and prince of the Kipchak Khanate.”
Qaidu raises his eyebrows and shifts his gaze from Khalaf to his disheveled father.
“Eternal Blue Sky,” he says.
“Not quite,” Timur answers drily, “but I appreciate the compliment, cousin.”
Qaidu bursts into a belly laugh and Timur laughs with him. They grasp hands and thump each other on the back so heartily, they sound like a pair of drums. I had no idea Timur was capable of genuine laughter. I glance at Khalaf, who appears to be as surprised as I am. When our eyes meet, he shrugs.
“Is this your daughter?” Qaidu asks Timur, gesturing to me. “I didn’t know you took a Song wife.”
I’m so stunned by the assumption that I nearly let my disgust flash across my face.
“She’s . . . ,” begins Khalaf. “Well, she’s . . .”
I look at him. He looks at me and turns his head away just as quickly.
“No, she’s no child of mine. The girl’s just a servant,” says Timur with no little asperity.
Servant? I guess I’m moving up in the world.
“Nice of her to stick with you,” says Qaidu.
“Exactly,” Khalaf says under his breath to his father.
Qaidu claps Timur on the back again. “Well, come in, Timur. You and your son and even your servant shall dine with me tonight.”
Qaidu is an impressive man, far more genteel than I would have thought. I spent my childhood among people who spoke derisively of these illiterate Mongols, and I still find large social gatherings where men and women mingle freely distasteful. Even now, my instinct is to retreat behind a curtain where I can remain unseen. But Qaidu is both unpretentious and courteous, and I find myself having to readjust, rather uncomfortably, my assumptions about the free Mongols living on the steppes.
Khalaf and Timur sit in a place of honor beside their ally eating red-legged partridges as delicately as they can given the fact that their hands shake with hunger. Khalaf seems to be doing a fine job impressing the de facto khan of the Chagatai Khanate, because Qaidu inclines his head toward him and says, “Prince Khalaf, I’m glad that it’s you who found my falcon.”
Prince Khalaf. It’s as though Qaidu has lobbed the phrase directly at me where I watch on pins and needles from the women’s side of the tent, a reminder of who and what Khalaf is. I should never have let myself think of him in any other way.
You’d think that in a tent full of Mongols already tipsy on qumiz, one man’s voice would be drowned out in a sea of boisterous chatter, but Qaidu is the kind of leader who demands attention with little effort. Everyone watches him. Everyone listens. His slaves stand rigidly behind him like a wall reflecting his innate power.
“I’m glad to have returned her to her master,” Khalaf replies.
“It’s a miracle you made it here in one piece. I thought you were dead, you and your father. This business with Hulegu Il-Khan . . .” Qaidu shakes his head. “The il-khan pretends that he does nothing without the Great Khan holding his hand and egging him on, but he’d happily stab his brother in the back to get his hands on the throne of the empire. And the Great Khan, as he calls himself, can tell his ill-gotten empire whatever he likes; he can’t protect any of us worth a damn. His daughter is running the show these days, and who knows where her allegiance lies? She’s got a stranglehold on the trade routes now, I can tell you that. Makes it infinitely more difficult for
me to raid the caravans when she’s done such a damn good job securing the roads. Do you know she’s killed at least twelve princes with those riddles of hers? And those are just the ones we’ve heard about.”
“It’s hard to credit the intelligence of any man who would enter that contest,” Timur comments, needling Khalaf. I want to stand up and cheer. I can’t believe there was a time when I thought Khalaf’s going to Khanbalik might be a good idea.
“Do you know why Turandokht would support Hulegu Il-Khan’s actions against the Kipchak Khanate?” Khalaf asks Qaidu as he ignores his father. Timur clears his throat loudly.
“Has she?” says Qaidu.
“The il-khan’s men who caught up to us in Samarkand said they were there by her blessing.”
“It sounds as though your bride-to-be dislikes the wedding bower your father has constructed for her, Prince Khalaf,” Qaidu jokes. Timur smiles politely, and I’m oddly proud of him for not diving over his son to pummel his former ally.
Qaidu shakes his head again as his laughter dissipates. “The Il-Khanids and the Yuan Dynasty of the Great Khan are Mongols who have forgotten who they are, where they came from. They’d rather plant themselves beside their seeds than take their horses to the best pastures. They’d rather build cities of stone than camps of felt. And now the Kipchak Khanate is infested with Il-Khanid hordes raping their way through the countryside and taking over their trade routes.”
Khalaf sets his dinner back down in his dish. He looks green. “Is it as bad as all that, then?” he asks.
“If the reports we hear are true, yes. I don’t know what that fool Hulegu Il-Khan is playing at, but it seems ridiculous to destroy a kingdom that you plan to rule. It just goes to show you how far those so-called Mongols have strayed from the true path of Genghis Khan.”
“So we have your support?” Khalaf asks.
“I’ll ally myself with whoever and whatever brings the most fortunate alliance for the descendants of Ogodei Khan, who are the rightful rulers of the empire.”
Timur starts coughing loudly.
“Is your father unwell?” our host asks Khalaf.
“Nothing a bit of qumiz won’t cure. Have a drink, Father.”