Leaving the Ili Valley behind, the Mongol army scattered the Kipchak natives along the way—annihilating some, absorbing others into their ranks—and advanced toward Volga Bulgaria. By autumn of that year, they had reached its capital, Bilyar.

  The rolling sea of green grass gradually gave way to shorter, broken waves, until bare earth appeared beneath the horses’ hooves. Countless tracks crisscrossed the ground. This had been a place of traffic.

  A city was near.

  In the distance, low, elongated ridges of earth came into view. They looked less like walls than land itself pushed upward.

  Bilyar. The greatest city of Volga Bulgaria.

  Subutai halted the army and began reorganizing the troops for battle.

  Zaya selected three riders from her tribe and formed a small escort. Too large a group would provoke suspicion; too small, and they would not be able to protect Norjin. She entrusted the rest of her warriors to Ehau. They would not take part in the fighting here, instead riding on toward Ryazan.

  This escort was for Norjin, who had accepted Batu’s order to serve as envoy in Taghrai’s stead.

  When Batu told her of his intention to assign Norjin that role, Zaya had immediately declared that she would serve as his guard. Only after persuading Batu at length did she obtain his permission. Norjin, for his part, had looked displeased—but he had accepted it.

  Still, she had never imagined he would reject her advance.

  Thinking back on the previous night made her face burn with shame. At the time, she had even regretted volunteering as his guard. But when Norjin had ridden close to her in the Ili Valley, she had thought she would be all right.

  Norjin glanced back to check the escort. Zaya kicked her horse forward. Norjin did the same, and the two rode on.

  They would not take part in the fighting at Volga Bulgaria. They were heading for Ryazan.

  This would be Norjin’s first task as an envoy.

  Riding west, the grasslands eventually gave way to exposed earth. Wooden palisades layered one upon another came into view, along with watchtowers. Rounded roofs and crosses rose beyond them.

  Ryazan.

  The fields surrounding the city had already been harvested, leaving the ground bare and bleak. Norjin reined in his horse in the open space beyond bow range. A translator was sent ahead to announce their arrival.

  The gates remained closed, though more guards appeared along the walls.

  A reply would not come quickly.

  Norjin ordered the attendants who had caught up to prepare camp, then rode once around the city. Zaya followed behind him.

  Since that night when she had tried to seduce him, she had seemed subdued, keeping her gaze lowered, avoiding his eyes. During the march to Ryazan, Norjin could see her emotions wavering plainly.

  She had brought her long, on-and-off relationship with Taghrai to an end with her own hands. That was fine. But pressing forward without settling her feelings—that irritated him.

  He had given her nearly half a year. It was time for her to stop thinking about Taghrai. His patience, too, had limits.

  Norjin stopped his horse. Zaya stopped as well. He moved again; she followed. Suddenly, Norjin wheeled around and brought his horse alongside hers.

  “Zaya.”

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  She slowly raised her head to look at him.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  “Look at me. Keep your eyes on me alone.”

  Life returned to her gaze.

  Seeing that, Norjin said nothing more and spurred his horse back toward the camp.

  “Seriously…” Zaya muttered, and followed after him.

  That night, torches were lit along the palisades, but the city remained calm. There were no signs of preparation for battle.

  Taghrai had already conveyed news of the western campaign to Ryazan’s prince. Yet Norjin still did not know whether the city would submit or resist.

  The following day, Norjin’s party was granted entry into Ryazan. They passed through the gates into a city of low log houses and plank-built storehouses. Thin smoke rose from vents in the roofs. The residents rarely showed themselves.

  Dismounting, Norjin and the others followed a guard through the winding streets toward the prince’s residence, all the while feeling unseen eyes upon them. They entered a large wooden structure.

  Inside the log-built hall, a flood of color assaulted Norjin’s senses. Red and green pigments painted the walls and beams; tapestries hung everywhere; furs covered floors and chairs. The warmth inside contrasted sharply with the cold outside.

  One image drew his eye immediately: a painting lavishly worked in gold leaf, depicting a woman holding a child. He recognized her. It was the same woman from the stained glass of the octagonal tower where he had reunited with Mingying.

  Beneath the painting sat a man in a reddish-brown caftan, wearing a mantle trimmed with rich fur.

  Prince Yuri of Ryazan.

  A full beard of deep brown framed his face. High-ranking men stood at his sides, while armed guards lined the walls.

  Norjin removed his helmet and stepped forward. Zaya and the others remained slightly behind him. Yuri showed no expression. A translator stepped forward and began the formal address.

  “In the name of the great House of Jochi, I present myself as envoy Norjin, bearing the words of Batu Khan.”

  Norjin inclined his head slightly. Yuri lowered his chin in acknowledgment and gestured for him to continue.

  “I am here for your reply.”

  The translator rendered Norjin’s blunt words.

  Yuri interrupted. “These terms you speak of—what exactly were they?”

  The translator glanced at Norjin.

  Without shifting his gaze from Yuri, Norjin recited Batu’s conditions from memory.

  As the translator relayed each clause in Rus’, his voice began to tremble. Yuri’s face flushed red, then drained pale.

  At the final condition, Yuri suddenly grasped the hilt of his sword.

  Norjin stepped back instinctively—two paces.

  The translator took the blow meant for him, collapsing in a spray of blood. Yuri swung again.

  Metal rang as blades collided.

  “Zaya, stop!” Norjin shouted sharply.

  Guards along the wall leveled their weapons at her. Blood from the fallen translator pooled at Norjin’s boots.

  Zaya’s sword held Yuri’s fast. Her eyes burned. She did not advance—but she would not yield while Yuri’s blade remained raised.

  “This is pointless,” Norjin said in halting Rus’, his expression utterly blank.

  “Please, lower your sword.”

  Yuri withdrew his blade. The guards stepped back. Zaya, breathing hard, did not lower hers at once.

  “I have received your answer,” Norjin said, bowing slightly. “That is all.”

  He turned and walked toward the exit.

  Zaya retreated slowly, sword still raised. The guards maintained their distance.

  More guards waited in the antechamber, weapons ready. Norjin merely glanced at them and continued on. At his signal, the escort sheathed their swords.

  They exited the hall, mounted their horses, and rode hard out of the city.

  In Kiev, the city governor Vasily Ivanov was in his chamber, calculating the year’s grain yield.

  “The numbers are so small my eyes blur,” he muttered. “I’ll have to tell Tosha to write larger from now on.”

  The scribe stiffened, then relaxed, suppressing a smile. Vasily had a habit of speaking his thoughts aloud.

  A mud-streaked man burst into the room.

  “Governor! The Tatars have begun to move. Volga Bulgaria—when I left the city, it was already surrounded. By now, it is likely—”

  The scribe hurried to seat the messenger and offer him water.

  Vasily stared, speechless.