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  "Perhaps," Jad conceded as he climbed back up the bank. "Still, I don't see anything useful in it." The rest of the group got up and followed.

  They rode back to the khahan's camp with little conversation. The midday sun beat heavily on the corpses covering the battlefield. The stench grew stronger. Koja never before realized that war left behind such death and decay. He knew that some men died in the battle and others often suffered hideous wounds, but the aftermath was always something forgotten, ignored. Nobody ever told of the horses' screams or the bloated bodies of the unburied that covered the ground.

  The group reached the camp without any interruption, detouring only a few times to avoid some packs of jackals that refused to flee from their approach. As they wound their way back through the warriors' tents, the men came out to greet them. The troopers stood quietly with their heads downcast as the prince passed. At first, the men seemed mournful for the loss of Jad's father, their khahan. Watching them line the way, the priest could sense an uneasiness among the men. The mourners fixed their gaze on Jad, as if waiting for him to do something.

  From the back of the crowd, a man suddenly broke into an anguished chant, improvising a lament to the fallen khahan.

  "The winds of heaven are not balanced.

  The body of birth is not eternal.

  "Who drinks the sacred water of life?

  In our short lives, let us enjoy.

  "The winds of heaven are beyond touch.

  The lives of men are not eternal.

  "Who drinks the sacred water of life?

  In our short lives, let us enjoy."

  The singer's voice cracked as his lyric soared and trembled. Quickly the other men took up the chant, repeating the singsong verses, embellishing on them. Voices broke above the mass to carry the words higher.

  The song spread ahead of the prince, greeting him at every turn on the way to the khahan's tent. It seemed that every trooper turned out along their march. Khans knelt in respect as the prince rode by. Men, even the horribly wounded, struggled to get to the front of the press, where they could make themselves seen. Koja watched as a crippled trooper, his foot lost in yesterday's battle, was carried forward by his companions, his pallet hoisted over their heads. It seemed to take all his effort to sing the simple lyric, but sing he did, hoarsely bawling out the words.

  A surging mass of men followed them up the hill to the khahan's tent. As their numbers grew, the tension increased. "Let us see the khahan!" someone screamed. "Let us see his body!" There was a grumbling swell underneath the song as more and more men called out to see the khahan's bier.

  "Guards, keep them out!" Jad shouted over the noise as he entered Yamun's compound. The dayguards dashed forward, forming a triple line around the gate. Their weapons glinted in the sun, a bristling line of sword points. Officers on horseback shouted commands, their steeds prancing behind the line. The menacing black forms of the dayguards pushed forward, forcing the crowd back. Jad and the rest of his party disappeared into Yamun's tent, Sechen at the rear.

  Koja hurried to check the khahan. Yamun was still alive and breathing, a victory for the day. The blankets were soaked in sweat and his color was still like that of the ice high in the mountains of Khazari. Hastily, Koja stripped off the coverlets and demanded new ones. A quiverbearer hastened to fulfill the request.

  Jad came to the sickbed and watched for a moment, saying nothing. The khahan was asleep, and there was little the prince could do. Satisfied that Koja was attending to Yamun, he turned back to Goyuk. The old khan had just finished offering a prayer to the small felt idols that hung over the door. Reaching into a bucket of kumiss by the sill, Goyuk dipped his fingers in the brew and sprinkled it on each idol. He kowtowed to the little red cloth figures and then turned to join the others.

  "You should remember the old ways, Jadaran Khan," chided Goyuk. "Teylas be angry with you." He pointed to the doorway, leaving no doubt what he wanted the prince to do. Jad held his tongue. Although Goyuk was presumptuous to speak that way to him, the prince knew that the old man was right. Obediently, he knelt down at the door and offered up his prayer, going through all the motions to make the ablution. Outside the doorway, he could hear the muffled chanting of the men. Jad wondered how long they would be satisfied to wait.

  Goyuk beamed a toothless smile as Jad finished the ritual. "You are a good son. Maybe you make a good khahan, too."

  The suggestion caught the prince by surprise. "My father isn't dead yet," he snapped. The weight and pressure of the day were catching up with him, and Goyuk's intimation only added to his rage and frustration.

  "No, no, of course not," Goyuk quickly agreed. "But the time may come."

  The prince let himself relax slightly, accepting Goyuk's explanation. "If it comes to that, I hope I'll have your support. There are many things I don't know, much I need to learn. You've always served father well, and I'd like you to do the same for me."

  "Of course," said the old man, following Jad back to the sickbed.

  "Lama, how is the khahan?"

  Koja frowned. "The sweating may have driven the poison out of his blood."

  Jad nodded impassively. "Are you certain?" he pressed.

  Koja bit at his lip, then replied honestly. "No, Prince Jadaran. I think that he will live. I cannot promise that he will live."

  Jad walked to the yurt's door and beckoned Koja to his side. The prince pulled open a corner of the door flap as Koja joined him. "Hear the men, lama?" he asked, putting his hand on Koja's shoulder. "They fought for him. If his assassins were alive, that crowd would rip them apart with their hands and then feed the guts to the jackals. If he dies in your care, I could not stop them."

  "I still cannot promise you anything," Koja insisted. He stepped away from the door and looked Jad firmly in the eye. "I do not want to fail."

  "Nor do I," echoed Jad. He looked back out the doorway and coldly murmured, "I wish I could give them the ones behind all this. Especially Bayalun."

  "This you cannot do," consoled Goyuk, his sharp ears picking up Jad's softly spoken words from across the tent.

  Jad let the tent flap drop. "Why not? Her wizard struck down my father," he argued. "The men would believe me."

  "You have no proof she do this," Goyuk said, tapping the carpet where he sat to emphasize his point. "Think like your father. She has many relatives, many friends. You must have proof, not suspicions. Besides, the wizards and shamans protect her."

  "Then what do I do?" Jad cried in frustration. "I need proof before I can act, but this viper works freely against us. I need to find Yamun's killer!"

  "Wait, Jad. Be like the tiger hunting for the deer. Whoever it is will make a mistake. It will happen soon," Goyuk advised. "Ambition will cause them to blunder. We must wait until that happens."

  "How long can we keep the army together, just waiting? We need to do something." Jad squatted beside Goyuk, looking to the old khan for guidance.

  It was Koja, however, who spoke, from the side of Yamun's sickbed. "A funeral. If the khahan is supposed to be dead, there must be a funeral."

  Jad glared over at the lama. "What good will that do, priest? It will only remind them the khahan is dead."

  Koja stood and moved to where the two men sat. "It will keep the khans busy-and keep them following your orders. And it may give your father time to get well."

  Jad stopped and considered Koja's words. He glanced to Goyuk, and the old khan nodded in agreement.

  "If you give orders for the funeral," Koja continued, "the khans still listen to your words. They will grow used to following your commands. It will keep them from grumbling and give the men an outlet for their pain."

  Jad, chin sunk to his chest, watched Koja while the priest explained his plan. As he finished, the prince raised his head and spoke. "You are much more than a simple lama. I see why father has seen fit to name you his anda."

  11

  Reunion

  Bayalun stood in front of her yurt with Chanar at her si
de. Surrounding both of them were Bayalun's guards. The troopers stood tensely alert as the khadun read from an ancient scrap of yellow paper. Chanar peeked at it over her shoulder. He could read-a little anyway-and wasn't about to miss a chance to show off his meager skill to Bayalun. To his dismay, what he saw was unintelligible, a strange and twisted script. Worse still for his pride, Bayalun read from the unrolled sheet with ease, her tongue tripping over the tortured phrases.

  As she spoke, a gloom settled over them and the colors leached away from everything. Chanar tensed with fear as the world went gray-the white robes of the guards, Bayalun's black hair, the red silks of his own shirt, even the orange glow of the fire. Then, there was nothing.

  Abruptly, there was something. Solid ground slammed up under his feet, wiping away the brief feeling of floating. Chanar staggered, but several of the guards stumbled and fell. Bayalun managed to remain on her feet with ease. At any rate, they had arrived in Yamun's camp.

  And apparently they were not welcome.

  The men of Yamun's Kashik who surrounded them held drawn swords ready. The guards were a grizzled group, seasoned campaigners wearing dirty black kalats stained with blood. They watched the newcomers with hard stares. Black beards and braids were thick and foul with grease.

  Only their scarred cheeks were free of the filth. Chanar recognized many and knew their names from previous battles. Watching them, the general moved slowly and carefully. These guards were poised to strike. It was clear in the way they stood, the way they held their swords, and the friendless look in their eyes.

  Bayalun's guards stood no less at the ready, their sword tips wavering in anticipation. Chanar slowly drew himself up. He was a khan, a prince of the Tuigan, not some thief. Looking his imposing best in a red robe and gold vest embroidered with blue dragons, Chanar glowered at the Kashik around him.

  "Let me pass! I bring the khadun of the Tuigan to see the body of her husband," Chanar shouted. His face was clouded and dark, and his eyes narrowed to hard, unfriendly slits. The battle-hardened, bloodthirsty old brawler in him rose to the fore. "Clear the way or die!" he bellowed, drawing his sword with a menacing flourish. The general's shoulders heaved as he pumped himself up with fury and courage.

  The Kashik shifted on the balls of their feet, preparing to meet his charge. They had their orders, and Chanar's threats were not about to make them falter.

  "General Chanar, you cannot teach asses courtesy," Bayalun said softly. The general glared at her for having the audacity to interfere at such a critical point. "Put away your sword. These ugly mules haven't the wit to be frightened. You-" She pointed at the largest guard with a flick of her finger. "Go and ask Yamun's son if the khadun must change his guards into the asses they truly are. Then he can bray out his orders to them." She smiled wickedly, an easy feat for her.

  The fellow, whom Chanar recognized as an old, tough sergeant named Jali-bukha, went dead white at Bayalun's words. Eyes wide open with fear, the sergeant nodded and quickly ran toward the khahan's yurt. Bayalun looked at Chanar with a triumphant smile. "It will not be long," she confidently predicted.

  With difficulty, Chanar swallowed his pride. He was one of Yamun's seven valiant men. He didn't need a woman to tell common warriors to get out of his way. Someday, he knew, there would come a time when her words and threats would no longer suffice. Then she would have to come to him for support.

  Behind his back, Mother Bayalun hid her contemptuous smile. The general believes he can do this alone, she thought. But, she reminded herself, the dear general is necessary. The wizards and some of the people might follow her, but the rest of the army would never accept Bayalun's commands. She needed General Chanar to keep Yamun's-her-empire intact.

  The sergeant reached the door of the khahan's yurt, less than one hundred yards away. Barely waiting to be announced, he threw open the tent flap and breathlessly stood in the doorway. Seeing the prince glaring at him for the intrusion, the sergeant flung himself to the ground. "Prince Jadaran, I bring a message," he declared while gasping for breath. "Eke Bayalun and General Chanar, they have just arrived!"

  "What?" the prince exclaimed. "Here?" He clenched his fists in frustration. With a curt wave, he dismissed the sergeant and then spun back to the others. "What are we going to do?" He whirled on Goyuk, expecting the advisor to instantly provide an answer.

  "Show them … in," came a weak voice from the other side of the tent. Astonished, Jad turned slowly toward the source. There, on his sickbed, was Yamun. Somehow, he had struggled up onto one elbow, raising his head enough to look at them. His face was hollow and pale. A tic quivered his cheek, a small sign of the massive effort he was expending. "Get me up," he whispered hoarsely. "I will meet with my… wife." Koja hurried to his side, quickly mounding pillows for Yamun to lean on.

  "Father, you're not strong enough!" Jad protested. "There must be something else we can do."

  "No. Bayalun must know I live. Otherwise, she will make trouble. And Chanar deserves to know the truth." His voice trailed off weakly. The khahan rested for a little before speaking again. "Go. Greet them. Give me some time, but don't tell them I live …. I will be ready."

  Jad stood still, uncertain if he should obey these orders. Koja looked up, firmly meeting Jad's gaze. "We will make sure Yamun is ready."

  "Let all who disobey you know this is by the word of the khahan." Yamun mumbled, reciting the formula. Even in his weak voice, there was no uncertainty.

  Resigned, Jad bowed to his father and turned to go.

  "And order the Kashik to double their guard," Yamun added as his son departed.

  Accompanied by the sergeant, Jad marched the short distance to where Bayalun and Chanar waited. The Kashik stepped aside to let the prince pass.

  "Greetings, Mother," Jad said with forced civility. There was little warmth in his voice, although nothing in his expression noted anything less than filial love. "You should have warned of your coming. A proper reception could've-well-been prepared." His smile was broad and utterly heartless.

  "I am sure your preparations would have been most complete," Bayalun parried. She did not even bother to pretend friendship to her stepson. "We did not want to put you to such trouble."

  Using her staff, Bayalun pushed her way past Jad and began marching toward the khahan's tent, ignoring everyone around her. She continued to talk, unconcerned whether Jad was following her or not. "In Quaraband, there are rumors that Yamun is slain. I came to investigate these. Now I see the mourning banner in front of my husband's tent. Why was I not informed?"

  The prince quick-stepped to fall in beside Bayalun, avoiding the backswing of her staff as he did so. "We had no one who could reach you quickly. We've sent a messenger." It was a part lie; he and Goyuk had carefully avoided letting the news travel beyond the camp.

  "What about Afrasib, my wizard? He could have reached me," the khadun asked warily.

  "I think not. He died in yesterday's battle, slain by the Khazari," Jad lied.

  The old sorceress stopped suddenly, taken aback by her stepson's announcement. "Afrasib is dead?" she asked in sad disbelief. "It is not possible."

  "Most certainly, he's dead. His body was brought back from the field of battle." Jad couched his words carefully this time.

  "I shall see his body later," Bayalun decided, brushing an errant gray hair from her face.

  As Bayalun came to the doorway, two more Kashik stepped in front of her, blocking the way with crossed swords. Irritated, the khadun poked at them with the gold head of her staff. Although they flinched as she thrust it forward, neither man moved.

  "Unless you want me to hurt these men," she snapped at the prince, "you should order them to move." She squinted at the guards with mock ferocity and wagged her staff under their noses.

  "They only want to protect you from evil spirits. There is death here," the prince explained, reminding her of the old taboos. "The yurt is ill-omened. Yamun's body lies inside." Jad carefully avoided making eye contact with his step
mother.

  "I have seen enough death that this will do me no harm," Bayalun informed her stepson. Taking up her staff, the khadun thrust it forward. The sleeve on her arm fell back, revealing the smooth, golden skin that belied her age. Bayalun pushed the guards aside and stooped through the doorframe.

  Jad waited for Chanar to enter, then brought up the rear, trying to suppress his panic. Had he stalled long enough?

  Was the khahan ready to receive them? He edged his hand to his sword, in case things went badly.

  Bayalun took only a single step through the door and stopped. Chanar, his head bowed to get through the door, bumped into the khadun and stepped back in surprise. Looking over Bayalun's shoulder, he lurched back farther in greater astonishment. Jad easily slid to the side, out of the way, his eyes goggling at Yamun's throne.

  Bayalun let out a sharp gasp of incredulity, and her staff almost slipped from her grasp. General Chanar simply gaped in shock. There, opposite them, was Yamun, alive and sitting on his throne. His legs were spread, his hands resting on his knees, his head held upright, chin jutting forward. He was dressed in his finest armor, a bribe the emperor of Shou Lung had sent a year ago. The metal gleamed in the dim light-a golden breastplate sculpted with muscles, a pair of flaring silver shoulder-guards, a skirt of the finest metal chain, and a helm of gem-encrusted brass and gold, tapered and fluted to a point. A pure white horsetail, braided with ribbons of red silk, hung down from the helmet's tip.

  Under all the trappings it was difficult, almost impossible, to see Yamun's face. The lamps were hung far and high from the khahan's seat, casting his features into darkness. His hands were covered with thick gauntlets.

  At the head of the men's seats, close to the khahan, sat Koja, cross-legged. The hollow-eyed priest studied the pair who had just entered with anxious curiosity. Beside him was Goyuk, still dressed in the filthy robes from yesterday's battle. The old khan had dug out his pipe and was carefully tamping it full of tobacco. He glanced toward Bayalun and Chanar, and then returned his attention to his pipe, scarcely giving them any notice. Behind the khahan were the nightguards. At their head stood Sechen, his arms hidden in the folds of his kalat. The guards stood stiffly erect, their eyes boring in on the visitors. They made no attempt to hide their hatred.