Spirits

  A soft gust of wind stirred the assassin’s robe as his corpse lay in the middle of the field. Yesugei squinted at the dead man as Targyn raised his lantern higher over the body.

  In the darkness of night, six cold corpses broke the swaying silhouette of the steppe grasses. Flies had already gathered, and their buzzing made Yesugei wrinkle his nose as he leaned in closer.

  The assassins’ eyes lost their yellow hue, fading into mundane brown and black in death. Yesugei would have thought the glowing eyes a strange trick of the light, but Kaveh and Sergen had the same.

  He peeled back a leather mask to reveal a rough-shaved, but ordinary human face. The corpse’s tanned skin and high cheekbones reminded him of Sergen, and as he inspected the others, the resemblance became undeniable.

  “These killers are Ormanli,” muttered Yesugei as he stood up, looking over the dead assassins. Each one of them bore similar features, and had glass beads in their hair. “Sergen, did you know these killers?”

  The shaman sat cross-legged, studying the bloodless, mutilated bodies in silence. At length, he stood and replied, “Nonsense. I left the Mother Woods a long time ago.”

  “But-” Kaveh placed one hand on Sergen’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “We still have questions.”

  Yesugei stepped closer, one hand on the pommel of his sword. “Your people are solitary and shy, are they not? My father said you were the first to leave the Mother Woods in a decade. What would drive six of your folk to cross two thousand miles and practice blood magic on Quanli land?”

  Sergen scowled, pushing Kaveh’s hand away. His bloody antler-knife glinted silver in the moonlight as it dangled from his belt. “I don’t like your tone, boy. You question my loyalty? I’ve served Aqtai-khan before you lot were all born.”

  The shaman’s eyes pierced daggers into Targyn and Kenes as they slowly drew in front of Kaveh. “If you really think I sold you out to these cursed men, then by all means, come and take my head. But it’ll be the stupidest mistake you’ll ever make.”

  “Cursed?” The word sounded strange to Yesugei. “You mean their golden eyes?”

  “Yes, cursed,” sighed Sergen. “My people faced something like this long ago - a sickness of the mind, spread by monsters that tainted the Sleeping Lands.”

  “Monsters? You expect us to believe that?” Targyn scoffed, one hand straying to the long dagger at his belt. “You’d say anything to save your wretched skin. Naizabai-khan was a sworn blood brother to the Great Khan even before you crawled out from the woods - look how that turned out. Treachery surrounds our khan everywhere - and you look mighty suspicious in my eyes, Ormanli...”

  But something in Sergen’s demeanor gave Yesugei pause. The shaman’s sudden seriousness since seeing the sigil unsettled him. Magic dwelled in their world—the sun-worshippers in the west, the elves of the south, and the northern forest-dwellers who danced in animal furs and howled at the moon—yet it had always seemed distant. But curses and monsters? Sergen spoke as if staking his life on the truth.

  What if he is right? Yesugei wondered.

  “Tell me more about this curse,” Yesugei blurted. Targyn, Kenes, and even Kaveh turned to look at him in surprise. Yesugei knew his half-brother had his doubts, but he also knew that Kav trusted his senses, and knew Yesugei to be the more reasonable between them for years. Clearing his throat, he pressed on. “What creatures? Explain. What do the bodies and these killers mean?”

  “These bodies…” Sergen began, his hand reaching into his braided hair adorned with faded charms and crystals. Buried deep within one braid, he pulled out a strange black gem that seemed to swallow the orange glow of Targyn’s lantern. “They’re tied to an old heretical ritual by kin of the Ormanli to invoke evil spirits. The wise men said the spirits emerged from black crystals like these during a time of war between two tribes, awakened by suffering and blood.

  “They made golden-eyed slaves of our people, until the gods heard our suffering and drove the spirits to the Sleeping Lands, where no mortal could live. Our shamans told us these crystals could protect us from their curses and rot. That’s why the eldest son of each family carries one, braided into his hair, to fight the spirits should they return.”

  Yesugei beheld the black gem Sergen held, swirling darkness commanding his gaze. His thumb drifted over the black crystal eyes that were set into the horse’s head that decorated the pommel of his sword. It was a gift from his father when he had become a man. The gems were so small he had never given them much thought - believing them to be onyx or dark agate. But he now studied the dark eyes closer, truly looking at them for the first time, and within them he saw the same void-like darkness.

  “Yes, you see it now, don’t you?” Sergen said, watching Yesugei closely. “Aqtai-khan gave trinkets to all his true-born children to ward off the curse. He bought them from my people at no small price when you and Kaveh were still boys. I told him the same stories I’m telling you now, and he listened.”

  Kaveh shifted his spear and pulled a white silk square from his breast pocket, its edges studded with tiny black gems. It was a gift from his mother before her death. Yesugei searched his mind, thinking of his other siblings: his oldest brother Nariman and his gilded lamellar armor, his sister Gulsezim and her broad silk sash—had all their gifts contained these dark crystals? He’d never noticed until now.

  His thoughts were interrupted as Kaveh clapped a reassuring hand on Kenes’ armored shoulder, setting the keshik at ease.

  “We can stand around and accuse one another of things all night long-” Kaveh paused to yawn as he scratched underneath his felt cap and pocketed the silk square once more. “But I’d much rather we do all the accusing and magic-talk sitting around a nice, warm fire in a yurt - wouldn’t you?”

  “Aye, I’d be up for that,” said Sergen. “And if you’re going to gut me, I’d at least like a last drink. I’d say I earned it today, didn’t I?”

  Targyn grumbled but stepped away, followed by Kenes and Kaveh as they summoned their exhausted horses for the ride back to camp. Yesugei mounted his own steed, nodding at the relieved shaman, and the group rode back to camp in silence, crossing hurriedly as the steppe began to freeze beneath the dark skies. Targyn’s lantern bobbed as he led the way to a modest yurt decorated with furs topped by the Qarakesek sigil. Inside, Yesugei sank onto the carpeted floor with a tired sigh while Kenes started a fire, its crackling glow quickly filling the yurt with warmth.

  Yesugei’s stomach growled. Bracing on his injured arm, he winced t the sharp pain that flared with each movement. He pulled out a wrapped hunk of cheese and dried meat, eating slowly as the salt burned his tongue. A sip of arkhi from Sergen’s wineskin dulled the taste, and he tossed it back to its owner.

  “In moderation,” warned Yesugei. “I want you in shape to ride and explain more at first light.”

  Sergen grinned before taking a hearty swig. Yesugei briefly considered questioning him about the creatures and curses but found his eyes growing heavy in the fire’s warmth and the comfort of his bedroll. Half-hearing the keshiks and Kaveh decide on the night’s watch, he noticed Targyn leave with his bow and lantern for the first shift.

  Settling into his bedroll, Yesugei watched Kaveh examine his silk handkerchief. His mind drew to his sword, and he pulled it closer to look at it once more. He found himself strangely drawn in by the little black pools of darkness that were embedded in the horse’s eyes - the way the darkness seemed to write and twist behind the sheer, carefully-cut crystal face.

  As his eyelids grew unbearably heavy, Yesugei let himself fall away into a deep slumber, letting the sheathed sword rest by his side close at hand. Before his eyes closed, he cast one final look at the crystals’ unsettling beauty, and the shifting darkness within.

  A face…?

  For a moment, the nomad princeling could have sworn he saw the twisting darkness form into a feminine visage. And then the heavy cloak of sleep cast itself across Yesugei, and he remembered nothing else.

  ***

  The next morning, Yesugei awoke to the sound of sizzling meat and the smell of garlic, lard, and spices. Kenes passed a thick slice of red sausage to Kaveh’s plate. Yesugei rubbed his eyes and saw Kenes, Targyn, and Kaveh sitting around the fire while Sergen knelt outside, muttering prayers to the ground.

  “Shit, he woke up,” Kaveh said between bites of sausage.

  “Eating without your brother?” Yesugei said, shaking his head as he reached into the pan and fished out a slice. “Have you no respect for your elders, Kav?”

  Juicy heat and the taste of garlic filled his mouth with every bite. Targyn poured tea into a porcelain cup and handed it to him. The comfort of the moment lingered, and even the ache in his arm seemed to fade.

  But as with all things, the peace was not to last. When the morning light fully hit the Hungry Steppe the ground saddled their horses and continued on their way. They gave a wide berth to the cursed road, and Sergen led them ahead, spying the westward road for any Quanli patrols or caravans.

  Hours went by in that confounding game - two princes of the royal blood, skulking like outlaws through their own father’s empire! Yesugei gritted his teeth, but went on nonetheless by Sergen’s guidance - the ills of the last day set him on edge, and he did not wish to tempt fate by running into a band of Quanli riders on the open road. As they went on further west, the flat lands gave way to gentle earthen slopes and stony ridges, with many small streams snaking their way through the land.

  “We can find some cover there,” Sergen said as the day grew short, pointing out to a small hill surrounded by a smattering of trees, and topped by a rocky outcrop. “And some more answers, besides.”

  “Speak plainly, shaman,” Yesugei muttered. “You still owe me for saving your hide last night.”

  Sergen turned his horse about, and pointed with his whip at the hill’s rocky crown. Yesugei squinted against the falling sun, and saw a small scrap of red fabric twisting in the breeze between two of the weathered stone pillars. As the shaman led them closer to the hill he saw that hidden within the rocky outcrop, nestled between the rocks, was a small nook covered by a roof made of branches. Many colored scraps of fabric hung at the threshold of the Ormanli shrine, woven with worn beads that clacked softly in the wind.

  “Your father came to this very shrine once, before the battle at Ongainur,” Sergen spoke as he dismounted from his horse. The others followed suit - Targyn and Kenes began unloading their camp supplies once more as they scouted for a place to rest, while Kaveh went on with Yesugei and Sergen. “He had searched for answers of his own - a sign from the heavens whether he would triumph against Naizabai before the battle.”

  “And he sought it out here?” Kaveh smirked. “In this little shack at the edge of the steppe? I call it more of an outhouse than a shrine.”

  Sergen’s eyes flashed with anger, and for the first time Yesugei felt something stir about the shaman - it was a feeling like seeing a snake coiling to strike. Yesugei placed a hand on the shaman’s shoulder, and the moment passed - Sergen scowled, stepped past Kaveh, and paused at the threshold of the shrine, as if listening. After a moment, he turned to look at the two princes, judging them with a renewed keenness in his eyes that set Yesugei on edge. An invitation.

  Kaveh shrugged his shoulders and walked off, shaking his head. “I've had enough of this business with spirits - I’ll help guard the camp. Don’t let that doddering fool pull you into his web, brother.”

  Yesugei looked back to Sergen. Then he set aside his bow and sword, and stepped into the waiting shrine.

  The inside of the ramshackle shrine was dark, lit only by what dim light of the fading day filtered through the criss-crossed branches of the roof. The standing stones on either end formed a dim, twisting corridor barely wide enough to accommodate one man, and within the pockmarked walls Yesugei saw small charms and stones painted with Ormanli runes. A strange hush fell upon the world within the shrine - all noise from the outside world bled away until Yesugei was suddenly aware of the sound of his own heart, each pump like a beat upon a prayer drum. He crept deeper into the shrine, treading as softly as he could upon the weathered stone floor.

  The gloom grew heavier as he went in - he saw vaguely aware of the slope in the ground, drawing him deeper into the earth. Above his head, he saw the silhouettes of hanging skulls against the fading light - the skulls of bulls, wolves, and horses. The light played strange tricks on him in the darkness, it seemed to him that there were small pinpricks of light inside the hollowed eyes, and that the skulls were peering down at him. But for judgement, or guidance?

  Yesugei did not know how far he had gone, only that eventually, he reached the end of the corridor. Waiting for him there was a weathered altar protruding from a sheer rock face, and hanging from the rock face was a strange banner, tattered and worn by the elements. The dye had all but faded from the worn cloth, but the princeling’s eyes could just barely make out the symbol of a winged serpent - a local spirit perhaps. Ormanli scripture faded to time lined both sides of the hanging banner, but the Khormchak manner of praying was simpler.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Yesugei went to his knees before the hanging banner, and the judging eyes that looked down on him. “Gods of the Blue Sky, great spirits of the land. I bow before you, grant me wisdom. Grant me Sight.”

  His body felt light - impossibly light - and then he was falling…falling away from himself. His vision remained, pulling itself free from the mortal form as he rose higher and higher, grasping for the threads of light that shone through the roof of the shrine until he was riding with the wind, rising high above the stone spire atop the hill.

  The Sight was something that all the blood of Aqtai-khan possessed - a talent taught by the Ormanli shamans with whom their ancestors had bonded and trained in the olden days. Not all of Aqtai’s sons were equal in their skill; his eldest son Nariman was the greatest, one to rival even true Ormanli shamans, while Kaveh only managed to make himself dizzy and nauseous in his attempts.

  For Yesugei, his Sight served well enough. At first, he could see little - mists and clouds were his world, and only the barest of shadows made themselves apparent. Clouds of his own mind - he forced himself to remember himself, remember his task. Give me wisdom…let me See.

  To the west, the sun was falling beneath the horizon to shroud the land in darkness. Then…it halted. The sun began to rise once more, rising from the west to its zenith, then falling in the east. It went on rising and falling, moving, spinning - days passed into night faster and faster, and the world below seemed to roll and shift. He felt he was on the cusp of losing himself - but then he saw the passage of riders, small as ants so far below. They were a large band - some forty strong - and nestled in the midst of the marching column was a horse-drawn palanquin. The man inside was barely a shadow - hidden by the curtains - but unmistakable in his nature.

  His world shrank - the visions came to him in flashes, bright living images. The smell of sweat and horseflesh, arkhi and blood. The walls of a city rose up before him - the lightning sigil of the Quanli tribe shone proudly atop a horsehair banner.

  The sun hung low when the Qarakesek stood before the walls of Bayan, thick with the grime of a long road in the open steppe.

  A threat left the lips of a keshik, eyes burning with arrogance and indignation, his sword drawn and pointed to the sky. "Open the gates at once! The blood-sworn of Aqtai-khan demand it!"

  The threat fell upon deaf ears - the Quanli guards that stood atop the walls did not move, an answer in itself. Yesugei felt the rage building in his chest as though he were there. We should climb his walls and cut that pig's throat, came the thought, unbidden. The smell of blood was in the air...but nothing came to pass. A younger Ormanli keshik from the ranks spoke softly, and his comrade glared at him but did not strike.

  The tension fell away like mist under the sun. The riders went on, leaving the city of the Quanli in the dust, and Yesugei’s Sight followed after them, drawn by a force he did not fully understand. Westward they rode into hills that grew darker with shadow. The air seemed heavier, the sun’s light dimmed. Then came the smell - the acrid stench of blood and sweat, of smoke and charred earth.

  The flashes grew more vivid. He saw a fire sputtering in the wind, the sharp edge of a blade. A woman’s scream cut through the night, followed by silence. The shadow grew deeper, pressing against his mind, and he felt his Sight faltering, unraveling.

  Then, it was over. He screamed back down and into himself, and he was kneeling once more. He fell flat on his face before the altar, and for a long while he lay there, feeling the cold stone floor against his burning face, lying as if struck by lightning. His heart thundered in his chest - the smell of blood and fire lingered on his nostrils, and the scream still rang in his ears.

  Eventually he forced himself onto his back, staring up at the lifeless cloth. A low breeze whistled through the corridor as Yesugei rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered out from the shrine, one hand upon the stone wall to guide him. The first breath of fresh air was sweet as a kiss. Then he felt the ground trembling, and the sweetness turned to ashes in his mouth. The thunder of distant hooves, drawing closer.

  Kaveh caught him by the shoulders, his eyes wild. “Riders!” he said hurriedly. “Approaching from the north! They know we’re here, brother.”

  Yesugei saw Targyn and Kenes preparing for a stand, grabbing their horses and leading them up the rocky slope. Yesugei assessed the terrain. To flee the hill would leave them vulnerable in the open, so a stand was all they would hope for. The stony ridge would serve them well; the slope would shield them from arrows, and riders would need to dismount or risk having their horses killed on the ascent. If the battle worsened they could retreat to the shrine, where numbers meant little in such close confines.

  Sergen arrived, dragging his steed. “A dozen of them, with Naizabai-khan’s banner!”

  Yesugei spotted the horsemen in the distance, a riders armored in metal and leather and guiding extra horses laden with supplies. The riders' leader bore the silver lightning sigil of the Quanli, thrust proudly up into the sky.

  Less than six years ago, that banner had been raised in battle. Yesugei himself bore witness to the Quanli battle standard - he drew his first blood against Quanli, and took a hoard of silver for himself from the tent of their slain noyan in the last year of the war between Naizabai and his father.

  Let us hope this story ends differently from the White Pinch, thought Yesugei. He cast a glance over to the rest of his companions.

  Targyn and Kenes remained still, their eyes hardened. Kaveh gripped his spear and fiddled with a small wicker shield. Yesugei gave him a reassuring nod. Behind them, Sergen knelt, his fingers twisting along a small charm as he began to chant a prayer in a harsh Ormanli tongue. From his pack the shaman drew a wide, round drum of stretched deer hide.

  “Better take a shield, shaman!” Targyn yelled as he pulled an arrow from his quiver. “Never known drums to be much damn good against arrows and lances!”

  Sergen ignored him, raising the drum to the sky, the pounding growing louder. The air became charged with a strange energy. Yesugei witnessed such a prayer before - the call of a shaman to the spirit realm. Bumps appeared on his skin as the prayer continued, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rose up as the skies began to darken.

  The riders approached with hoots and howls, drawing to a stop forty feet from the ridge. The steel blades of the Quanli glaives and swords - ugly and pitted from use - glinted in the dying light.

  The look of killers. Veterans. Yesugei thought as he silently took count and measure of the riders.

  Yesugei pulled his sword free from its sheath, and stood firm as he called out to the band. “You stand before Yesugei, son of-”

  “I know who you are, boy.” interrupted the Quanli leader. He came on alone - a thin man dressed head-to-toe in iron scales, his voice dripping with thinly-veiled poison. “Ninth son of Aqtai-khan. I saw you at the kurultai. And at the White Pinch before then.”

  So he was there. Visions of the battle flashed in Yesugei’s mind as he searched for a face, but all he could recall was the dust, sweltering heat, and the feeling of terror mixed with blood-rage during his first battle against the Quanli scouting party. Faces were blurred, melted into the uniform swirl of dark brown and crimson.

  “You know me, but I do not know your name, baghatur,” replied Yesugei. “Tell me who you are, so we can speak as equals. As men and warriors.”

  “You speak in the presence of B?rijan, ruler of Bayan, and commander of a myndyq.” One of the riders announced with a puff of his chest.

  B?rijan’s whip lashed out, biting the cheek of the rider who spoke out of turn. Yesugei studied the commander.

  “A myndyq…” he mused. “You must have done well to earn command of a thousand Quanli riders, B?rijan-noyan.”

  “I thank you for your praise, Yesugei-mirza.” B?rijan tilted his head downwards as a show of respect, but he didn’t bother to hide his distaste as he spat out the royal title.

  “What business do you have with the blood and blood-sworn of the Great Khan?”

  “Just a small matter, really,” said B?rijan with a wolfish smile that sent a chill down Yesugei’s spine. “My men were patrolling the road when we came across a foul incantation - bodies of Quanli women and children, and Ormanli in queer clothes - witches. And I heard of a band in our lands travelling off the main road with an Ormanli shaman, so I mean to have answers. Come down from that hill, and we may speak properly. As men and warriors.”

  “And what answers do you seek, noyan?” Yesugei called back. “I’m afraid your search ended before it had even started.” He gestured sharply to the west, toward the scene of carnage they had left behind. “We were ambushed by those same Ormanli heretics. We slew them all and left them to rot. We did your patrol a service, or would you rather we had let them live to strike at your kin again?”

  B?rijan sneered. “A convenient tale. If you slew the heretics, why did you not burn the bodies and leave proper markings? Why slip through the back trails like cowards if you’ve nothing to hide?”

  The riders murmured among themselves, hefting their weapons - their bitterness was real, at least. Under the Great Khan’s law, such butchery and blood magic were forbidden, and had not been seen in many years. Kaveh shifted uneasily behind his brother, the tip of his spear dipping slightly. Yesugei raised one hand to steady him, and kept his voice firm.

  “Because we have no time to waste on burial rites,” he replied, locking eyes with B?rijan. “We are on a mission from the Great Khan, and we move with haste. Besides, the heretics are dead, their magic is snuffed out, and the debt of blood is paid - what more would you ask of us?”

  B?rijan gestured with his horse whip towards Sergen. “The shaman, he will come with us. Our shamans in Bayan will see if his tongue tells the truth, or if there is the taint of blood magic on his soul.”

  Yesugei bristled. “We both know the shamans’ ‘tests’ of the soul are guesswork. What if we refuse?”

  A laugh came up from B?rijan and his men. A few of them clashed their arms together, filling the world with the sound of rattling iron. “We have you two to one, princeling. I needn’t ask.”

  Before Yesugei could reply, Targyn’s voice rang out from behind the rocks, low and calm. “Set one foot upon this hill, noyan, and it’ll be your last.”

  B?rijan’s head snapped toward the voice with a snarl. Targyn leaned out from cover, his bow creaking as he pulled back a black-feathered arrow. His face was an impassive mask, but his eyes had a cold certainty that Yesugei found unnerving. “Threaten the Great Khan’s shaman or his blood, and you threaten the Great Khan. Threaten the Great Khan, and it’s this arrow you’ll answer to.”

  The riders shifted uneasily, gripping their reins and weapons. The Quanli noyan glared in fury, but he hesitated as he eyed Targyn, Yesugei, and the others that peered over the lip of the ridge.

  “Someone must answer for this,” B?rijan snarled. “The Great Khan holds close ties with the wood-dwellers, and the dead are laid out in the ulus of the Quanli. Naizabai-khan will demand satisfaction.”

  “Then let him, come the kurultai,” said Yesugei. “He needn’t wait long - I hear the tribes have already begun to convene at Khurvan. But until then, it is not the place of a noyan to demand anything from the Great Khan or his sons.”

  “You forget your place,” spat B?rijan as he sharply turned his steed towards the ridge. “You dare to insult a noyan on the lands of his own people? The Great Khan or the Crown Prince might get away with such disrespect, but you are no Great Khan and no heir. Do not make me laugh with your talk, ninth son of Aqtai-khan.”

  Yesugei resisted the urge to draw his bow and put an arrow through the exposed throat of the Quanli commander, even as he paced slowly, enticingly just thirty feet before him. But it was all posture - if B?rijan had wanted to, he would have already commanded his men to storm the hill. Some of the Quanli were already beginning to turn back to Bayan.

  “Mark my words, Yesugei, son of Aqtai-khan,” B?rijan growled as he turned his steed north. “Someone will answer for this slaughter. If not the shaman, then perhaps you, or that fool Dagun.”

  Wait. Bayan. He is in command. Yesugei nearly stumbled over his words trying to get them out in time. “You were the one who turned our emissary away from the city?”

  B?rijan laughed. “Emissary? A piss-soaked drunkard is what your man is! Perhaps you and your shaman can join him in Tosont, drinking in the reek with bandits and whores for all care!”

  Yesugei’s mind spun as he considered B?rijan’s words. They had assumed Dagun would have wanted to travel quickly, efficiently, which meant a direct path from the capital city of Khurvan to the border. It never struck him until now that perhaps Sergen wasn’t the only one of his father’s subjects who liked easy travel. Tosont was a little ways off the main road, a small town with an inn and little else. If Dagun had stopped by there, the locals would surely have taken notice - the trail would be fresh once more.

  As B?rijan and his men began to leave, a grumble came from the heavens. A bright flash exploded from the darkened skies, followed by the deafening roar of thunder that seemed to shake the world. Yesugei jumped, and saw several Quanli horses startle, throwing their riders. B?rijan’s armor jingled loudly as he was bucked off from his dark steed, and landed on his back. Yesugei and the others allowed themselves a chuckle as they watched the chaos unfold, the Quanli swearing and cursing the spirits while their horses trampled and dirtied their tribal banner.

  The silver lightning sigil of the Quanli now looked nowhere near as impressive - thrown from its proud place in the sky by the rumble of very real lightning from the heavens.

  When the Quanli had fully dispersed and disappeared over the horizon, only then did Yesugei sheathe his sword and step back to the camp. The darkness was well and truly upon them by the time Kenes had erected their yurt, Targyn roused up a fire, and the trembling left Yesugei’s fingers.

  “You know he won’t let that slide, right?” said Kaveh as he sat down next to Yesugei, gently cradling a teapot. “I’d say we’d best give him a wide berth during the kurultai.”

  “The dog can yap all he wants,” Yesugei sneered. “Naizabai would shut him up himself - otherwise he’ll be the one to look a fool, letting such butchery happen in his lands.”

  Kaveh nodded, pouring out two cups of rich, dark tea.

  “To another great victory for the Qarakesek!” said Kaveh as he raised his cup to Yesugei, a wide smile on his face. “Won by the finest of Aqtai-khan’s blood - his tongue as barbed as his arrows!”

  The two of them laughed, then drank. Yesugei felt his heart stir as he savored the tea - he still drew breath, and now he had a path, a trail to Dagun, shaky and vague as it was. Tosont lay perhaps a day’s ride to the west - and there, Dagun was certain to have left a trail.

  But still, he could not find peace of mind. The remnants of his Sight lingered - the smell of fire and ash, burnt flesh. And the darkness, the suffocating, drowning darkness of the west from which he heard a woman scream. His Sight had never shown him visions so abstract, so dreamlike in their manner.

  He took another sip of tea and closed his eyes, chasing away the remnants of that terrible sight.

  Spirits, protect me.