“He’s still drinking,” Alchiq frowned.
“Yes, he is,” Chucai said. We both failed. He brushed that thought aside as readily-and with the same indifference-as if he was brushing dust from his sleeve. The past is dead; there is only the future of the empire to consider. “Do you recall the penalty for breaking your exile?”
“I do.”
“Then why have you returned?”
“The Khagan is in danger. I–I had to warn him.”
“You could have sent a messenger.”
“Would you have believed a messenger?”
Chucai offered Alchiq a withering smile as his answer.
“That is why I came,” Alchiq said, a fervent finality in his voice. “My duty was clear.”
And so are your eyes, Chucai noted, and the irony of Alchiq finding salvation in exile was not lost on him.
The Darkhat had met the Khagan with a great deal of noisy ceremony when the caravan reached the Kherlen River, two arban of identically clad warriors on splendid horses thundering across the water. Only one of the Darkhat spoke, offering greetings to the Khagan; the rest had sat like imposing statues on their horses, staring into the distance as if they could see the enormity of the empire’s history laid out in the caravan’s wake.
They were meant to be imposing, and Gansukh had noticed the effect their stoic intensity had on a number of the younger Torguud. When the Darkhat had arrived, they had galloped toward the Khagan’s ger without pause, as if they expected the Torguud to get out of their way. The Khagan’s Imperial Guard had moved aside for the oncoming riders, and-just like that-the Khagan’s men had already ceded the mental advantage to the newcomers. Without even realizing it, they had accepted a presumed subordination.
After the Khagan departed for the grave of Genghis Khan with a retinue of his own men and half of the Darkhat riders, Gansukh had had an opportunity to watch the remaining Darkhat as they preceded the caravan to its final destination.
The caravan was being taken to a valley on the southern slope of Burqan-qaldun. It was not-as he had inaccurately assumed-the location of the Sacred Grove that the shaman had spoke of back in Karakorum, but a long meadow that would provide sufficient open ground for the many ger as well as pasture for the horses and running water. The grove itself was closer to the mountain, through a vale of rock and-according to the vague nonanswer offered by one of the Darkhat when Gansukh had inquired-beyond a waterfall and a field of singing rushes.
All very mysterious, intentionally off-putting so as to maintain an air of secrecy and mysticism. Gansukh was a humble steppe warrior-sure to be mentally constricted by long-extant clan superstitions that would keep him docile and respectful. So that he wouldn’t question what his eyes were telling him; so that he wouldn’t allow his curiosity to ask too many questions.
The Darkhat armor was worn-not from use, but from age. Their horses, while sure-footed and well-groomed, were no longer young stallions. Gansukh was fairly certain his pony could outlast any of the larger Darkhat horses in a long-distance race. While all of the Darkhat carried bows, nearly a quarter of them had quivers that were only half full. And the men themselves? None of them were his age, and, in a less formal setting, he probably would have referred to more than half of them as grandfather.
He ruminated on these details during the remainder of the day, and as the caravan slowly trundled down a gentle slope toward the sunlit meadows of their camp, Gansukh was struck by an odd discrepancy. No one was waiting for them.
It was not a significant social failure. The Khagan had not yet rejoined them, and such pomp was typically reserved for his eyes, but Gansukh found himself wondering why there had not been more riders waiting for them in the valley. Typically, when receiving visitors, an ordu chief would send out his best warriors as escort, and he would greet them himself when they arrived at their destination.
There are no more Darkhat, he realized. The two arban that had met the Khagan at the river were all the Darkhat fighting men. The clan was dying out.
He tried to dismiss this conclusion as the caravan came to a halt and began the lengthy process of settling into camp. Once he had removed his saddle and gear from his horse and performed the remedial tasks of brushing and feeding it, he joined the other men who were clearing the field for the ger. The busy work would keep his hands and mind occupied, so that he would not dwell overlong on the conclusion he had reached.
It wasn’t just the Darkhat clan he kept thinking about; it was the empire as a whole.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Ferenc’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, making him look like a younger Monferrato. “Father Rodrigo!” he gasped, grabbing Ocyrhoe’s arm and pointing excitedly.
Too far away to tell, she signed on his arm, reluctant to believe the evidence of her ears.
Ferenc and Ocyrhoe paused at the edge of a crowd of at least a thousand people, no longer milling and murmuring, but transfixed, all eyes trained on a small man dressed like a priest, standing halfway up a huge mound of rubble, head bowed as if in prayer. Ocyrhoe could not see his face clearly, but he held out something that flashed and gleamed-something brilliant, golden, almost hypnotic in the steady sunlight. The cattlelike lowing sounds had subsided into a profound quiet. Ocyrhoe was used to the city and its busy, noisy throngs, but she was not used to so large a group falling mute all at once, unified in utter silence.
The three adults-Lena, Cardinal Monferrato, and the soldier, Helmuth-came up behind. The Cardinal was breathing heavily through his mouth.
After a long break, the priest on the mound lifted his head and resumed his harangue. His voice rang out clearly over the onlookers and echoed from the far walls.
Ocyrhoe had seen many prophesiers in many marketplaces, but never before had she seen one of them attract this kind of attention. And his words! She shook her head, still unwilling to believe what she was hearing. He was preaching violence.
Ferenc shook his head and exclaimed out loud, “It is Father Rodrigo!” Around them, outliers glared in disapproval and lifted hushing fingers. Oblivious, Ferenc spoke to Helmuth, the one man who could understand his native tongue. “That is the man we have come to Rome to save!”
Helmuth frowned. “We did not come to Rome to save anyone,” he said. “We came to bring Cardinal Monferrato to vote for the Pope.”
Ignoring him, Ferenc turned back to Ocyrhoe. Tell me what Father Rodrigo’s saying, he signed.
Ask Helmuth, she begged off. Too many words. She couldn’t tell Ferenc what the priest was saying.
The Cardinal was staring open-mouthed at the man on the rubble pile. “Who is that?” he demanded. “How is it this boy knows him?”
Ocyrhoe wondered how best to explain. After a deep breath, she began. “It is Father Rodrigo Bendrito, a Roman priest who once lived near Ferenc’s home. Ferenc and Father Rodrigo traveled together to Rome, and then Father Rodrigo was put into seclusion with the Cardinals in the Septizodium. As he is not in the Septizodium, that could mean the others are no longer imprisoned there, either.”