4.

  The stars hung thick—

  bright and countless, like a storm of sparks.

  On the dry Kypchak steppe, the air was so clear it seemed to cut. Each star burned sharp as a blade. Below, the sheep shimmered like a second sky, and above, the real sky blazed with colored fire—a great, slow-moving flock across the dark.

  By the fire in the center of the camp, Ehau sat whittling a piece of wood, his face half-lit by the flames. It was his turn to watch the fire tonight. Zaya listened to the night breathe. She had heard the tale a hundred times—the Caliph and the tribe's song-maiden—yet tonight it clung to her chest. The maiden had never returned. Did she live happily in the Caliph's harem? Did she ever see her lover again—the man with whom she had wept through that last night before she was taken? Zaya's thoughts drifted, unbidden, toward Taghlai.

  Taghlai's family had served Jochi since the days when he still lived in Karakorum as the Great Khan's eldest son. They had won honor in many campaigns, but it was in negotiation—not slaughter—that their strength had always shone. Taghlai had inherited that gift. He now handled most dealings with the Rus’ lands on Batu's behalf.

  As was expected of a grown man, he already had a wife and a child. Among the Mongols, that did not bar a man from taking another wife. His wife was of low birth for a first wife, small and sweet-faced, and she treated Zaya like a younger sister. Zaya often thought she could get along with her. More than that—she suspected she would rely on the woman entirely. She knew she was not made for keeping a household. She wanted to ride with Taghlai, hunt with him, chase off troublesome tribes with him, and sometimes join his envoys to the Rus’, to see foreign wonders and listen to his calm, clever voice working its quiet magic. And on those long journeys… the two of them curled together beneath a blanket—

  Zaya jerked to her feet.

  Across the fire, Ehau stared at her, startled. “It’s nothing!” she snapped, and marched toward the creek, her steps loud on purpose. She had remembered something she had never wanted to remember.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  She crouched by the creek, the cold water trembling with starlight. Her face still burned. She could not tell if it was truly red or only felt that way. She let out a long breath.

  That mistake.

  Years ago, she had slipped into Taghlai's envoy party, hoping no one would notice. They noticed immediately. But Taghlai had allowed her to stay, sending a rider back to Batu's orda to reassure Borokchin before she could panic.

  Suzdal had been nothing like Batu's orda. White stone cathedrals rising like snowdrifts. Deep forests. Snow that fell slowly, endlessly, as if the whole land were breathing. A red-cheeked foreign girl pressed an apple into her hands. Inside the cathedral, colored light poured through the tall glass windows, surrounding Zaya in a quiet rainbow. And the bells—clear, distant, ringing through the frozen air. A kind of beauty the steppe did not know. Taghlai had stood beside her, watching her reactions with amused warmth, explaining every unfamiliar sight.

  He loved this place. Zaya had seen it. And she alone had seen that Taghlai—the one softened by foreign snow and quiet bells. Her heart had lifted that night. Too high. And so—she had slipped under his blanket. Even now she could recall the pounding in her chest. The way he gently ran his fingers through her hair. The rasp of his beard against her cheek.

  Then the fear. Sudden and suffocating.

  He had felt it too. He had eased her away, without a word, and stepped out into the cold. Zaya had not slept. She had only cried until her eyes burned. The next morning, Taghlai was as warm and cheerful as ever. Zaya could not look at him. And even now, she still could not be herself in front of him.

  “What troubles you, Batu? This isn’t like you.”

  The old general Subutai spoke quietly, as if trying to settle a restless horse. The great kuriltai had gathered. The Westward Campaign—Chinggis Khan’s unfulfilled command—would be carried out. No one disputed that. But the West had been entrusted to the house of Jochi.

  We do not need help.

  We do not need oversight.

  Batu could see the answer forming anyway.

  Chagatai opposed him out of habit, whatever the matter. ?gedei pretended neutrality, though the flicker in his eyes—and in his son Güyük’s scowl—betrayed his desire to claim credit for the coming victories.

  The night had grown late. Shadows wavered on the felt walls of the great orda. The lamps hissed softly, golden light trembling over iron and silk. Batu knew all of this. He understood every current beneath their words.

  And still—

  He was a man who could not lower a fist once he had raised it. It was a trait that ran in his blood. And for that reason alone, he could not yield.