The Mongoliad: Book One

CHAPTER 19: MY FATHER’S LEGACY

Lian found Gansukh in the garden, stripped to his light pants, practicing his swordplay against a hapless tree. Such practice was technically not allowed in the Khagan’s garden, but Lian had sensed the young man’s fury as soon as she heard the sound of metal against bark. The gardeners were equally sensitive, and they were scarce from this corner of the garden. Cut leaves and branches were strewn all over the ground, and with each flashing stroke of the blade, another flew off. He stopped when he saw her coming, planted the tip of his sword against the short grass, and leaned on it, panting and sweaty.

“I have heard…stories…from some of the servants,” she said.

He grunted wordlessly and turned back to the tree, intending his brusque attitude to be read as a dismissal.

“I heard it was a woman,” she said.

He stood still, sword in hand. “Did they tell you what happened to her?” he asked.

She shook her head and took a few steps closer. She could almost touch his naked back. “No,” she said, which wasn’t entirely true. The servants had been reluctant to speak clearly about what had happened in the throne room, which spoke quite plainly about what had happened.

With sudden rage, he jabbed his sword into the heart of the tree. His fury startled Lian, made her jump back like a frightened animal. “What am I doing here?” he said, whirling on her. His face was distorted by his anger and confusion.

Lian chose her words with care. “You were sent by the Khagan’s brother, to help the empire.”

“How?” Gansukh demanded. “By becoming a lapdog of the Khagan’s court? Am I supposed to be more like…like him?”

“Munokhoi?” Lian shook her head. “No. You are nothing like him.”

Gansukh yanked his sword free of the tree and, somewhat ruefully, ran his fingers along the edge, checking for nicks. “What am I, then?” he mused quietly. “Chucai admonishes me for being a hunter. Am I supposed to set aside everything that I have done, that I have learned, so that I may be more likable to the Khagan? How does that help the empire?”

Lian approached him and placed a hand on his bare shoulder. He almost shuddered at the touch, as if he had been expecting her to attack him. His muscles were tense, his bare skin hot beneath her hand.

He completed his examination of his sword. “If the Khagan is all-seeing and wise, then why does he not see Munokhoi for the sheep-killing dog he is?” he wondered. “And Master Chucai. He taught the Khagan’s father so much, and the Khagan does not…” Gansukh abruptly stopped, and when he glanced back at Lian, he couldn’t hold her gaze. She sensed he was holding something back.

“What?” She tried to draw him out.

He shook his head, and she didn’t press it further. The trust between them was still too tenuous. She couldn’t afford to lose it. Not now…

“It’s all wrong.” He made a sweeping gesture, indicating the palace. “I was sent here to help the Khagan find his strength, but no one here thinks it is missing. Instead of being a strong warrior, I am being taught how to bow and crawl on my belly for his amusement. When a threat against him is exposed, it is simply silenced as if it never existed. This whole place is an illusion, and I am the only one who can see it for what it truly is. What can I do?”

She slid her hand down his arm, stood beside him, and grasped his hand tightly. When he looked at her, when he squeezed her hand, she fought hard to keep her face expressionless, to keep the flush from rising in her cheeks. So lost, she thought. So earnest, but without knowing which way to go.

“What you know is right,” she heard herself say, and she was quietly surprised to realize she meant every word.

The sun had crossed the sky and begun to slip behind the mountains by the time Gansukh managed to talk his way into the Khagan’s private quarters. He had spent the day tracking down all the Khagan’s personal advisors—other than Master Chucai, whom he carefully avoided—and he had even gone to several Torguud noyon before, finally, one of his wives— Mukha—agreed to speak to the Khagan on his behalf. She had confided to him that his humor was “most black,” which Gansukh took to be her euphemism for “drinking heavily.” As he approached the portal to the Khagan’s sitting room, he noticed the lanterns in this corridor smelled like oranges rather than the musty smell of beef tallow so prevalent in the rest of the palace.

The touch of a woman, he thought, reflecting again on the feel of Lian’s hands on his body earlier that day.

The black-cloaked guards at the Khagan’s door nodded with tight-lipped smiles, signaling that they had been warned of his arrival, while simultaneously giving him a look that said, Better you than us. They shut the door quickly behind Gansukh, just in case he tried to change his mind.

The room was long and dim, lit by only a few lanterns. Most of the light came from the balcony, where Ögedei Khan stood, a broad-shouldered silhouette against the darkening sky. The night wind—the last breath of a vanishing sun—slithered through the room, rustling silk curtains and making the candles in the lanterns dance. Bands of flaming red clouds streaked the indigo sky, and as Gansukh approached, he could see the stark line of the mountains along the horizon, their tips outlined in orange fire. Soon that light would die too, and the world would plunge into darkness again.

Gansukh tried not to think about what course of events had begun at this time only a day before. He lowered himself to one knee and cleared his throat. “Oh Khan of Khans, master of the world, long have I…I have…” This flowery language did not come naturally to him, but he thought it best to pay proper respect to the Khagan before even embarking on the bulk of the questions he had. A most black humor, he thought, and faltered.

Ögedei turned from the balcony. There was a cup in his hand, and his gait was unsteady as he came into the room. “Ah, young pony,” he rumbled. “You have been looking for me.”

Gansukh nodded. “I am in need of some…guidance.”

“Get up and come over here, then.” The Khagan sipped from his cup. “I do not need a statue.” He waved a hand toward the open balcony. “I have one down there already. Have you seen it?”

Gansukh had. It was hard to miss it. Especially when there was wine and honeyed drink and Blue Wolf knew what else pouring from the spouts. He rose, one hand straying to his sash, where he had tucked the tiny lacquered box. “The woman who tried to enter the palace last night,” he started. “Do you know what she was after?” Did you watch her being tortured? was the question he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

The Khagan’s face remained expressionless, giving Gansukh no sign he understood the subtext of what the young man was asking. “Secrets,” he slurred. “Chucai said she was a spy, gathering information. She ran off before she could learn anything useful.”

Gansukh swallowed heavily, forcing his stomach to hold still. “Did she tell you this or did Master Chucai?” he asked, still unable to speak plainly.

Ögedei drank from his cup as he wandered closer to Gansukh, staring intently at the young man’s face. “Master Chucai did,” he said.

Gansukh felt his knees tremble—a sudden terror colliding with an unwarranted joy in his guts. “You weren’t there,” he whispered.

Ögedei leaned toward Gansukh and put his finger to his slack lips. His breath stank of sour wine. “Shhh,” he whispered back. “I am rarely where I am supposed to be, and that’s a secret.” He laughed suddenly, spraying spittle on Gansukh’s face. “I know many secrets, young pony.” He clapped Gansukh on the shoulder. “Is that what you need to know? Is Chagatai concerned that I will become such a drunk that my lips cannot remain shut? That one of my enemies will send someone in to steal them while I sleep?”

“No,” Gansukh countered, flustered by the sudden change in Ögedei’s mood. “It’s Master Chucai—”

“Chucai.” Ögedei spit out the name like it was something caught in his throat. “He’s an old goat herder who thinks the hills are full of wolves.” He drew himself up to his full height and thrust out his chest. Some of the liquid in his cup slopped out, darkening his already stained sleeve. “I am not a goat.”

“No,” Gansukh replied. “Of course not.”

Something caught Ögedei’s attention and he beckoned Gansukh to follow him. He staggered out onto the balcony and pointed at the great war banner mounted at the edge of the balcony. It was a gigantic spear, much too long to be wielded easily from a horse; beneath the iron blade hung thick strands of black horsehair, the tails of an entire herd, and they streamed and twisted in the embrace of the night air.

“The Great Spirit Banner of Genghis Khan,” Ögedei said. “Do you know the story, young pony? My father’s spirit is still alive, inside that pole, making sure his empire expands until it covers all the lands.”

Gansukh nodded. “I’ve heard the story.”

“It’s just a story,” Ögedei slurred. He leaned against Gansukh, who staggered, trying to support the Khagan’s sudden weight. “It’s superstition,” Ögedei hissed. “There’s a secret…” He became entranced with his cup. When he drank, some of the wine spilled down his chin. “It’s older than my father,” Ögedei continued, oblivious to the wine dripping off his face. “He did not make it. It was given to him, long before he became Khagan. He never told me where…” Ögedei stared at the banner for a while before continuing.

“He told me how to listen to it, though. He told me how to see things in the way the hair moves. It’s more than a banner…I can look at it, and it tells me of battles I have never seen, battles that have not happened, and even some that I know never will. I can put my hands in the hair of a thousand horses and feel the rhythm of their movement. How to attack, how to feint, how to retreat—I can feel how every battle can be won.”

Gansukh gazed at the banner, trying to see what the Khagan saw, but all he saw was black horsehair vanishing into the approaching night. “My Khan, with all due respect, you are drunk.”

Ögedei’s attention snapped to Gansukh’s face and then to the cup in his hands. He drank greedily from it, as if there were answers to be found in its dregs. His eyes were even more glazed when he lowered the cup, and he stared out at the horizon, not seeing anything, not even the fact that the sun was gone and night had fallen. “You don’t understand, pony,” he said. “I am Khagan, and I do as I like. And the empire depends on that. My father’s empire. It must continue on. For the memory of all those who sacrificed themselves. For the memory of Tolui.” Tears started to form in the corners of Ögedei’s eyes.

“You don’t understand,” the Khagan shrieked suddenly, pushing Gansukh away. He threw his cup too, and Gansukh ducked, letting it sail past him and into the room. “None of you do. Not Chucai. Not Chagatai. Not any of my generals. None of you understand what is truly important. You all want to tell me what to do, but you don’t know. You don’t know what to do!”

Gansukh backed away, his hands held in front of him. “My Khan, I’m—” he started, but he was cut short by a tremendous wail that came howling out of Ögedei. He watched, startled, as the Khagan tore an ornamental cap off the balcony railing and hurled it into the night. When the Khagan whirled on him, Gansukh retreated quickly, but the Khagan’s interest only lay in the furniture and vases in the sitting room.

Gansukh continued to retreat toward the door, stunned by the transformation that had come over Ögedei Khan. He was no longer the leader of the Mongol Empire; he had become a gigantic infant, throwing a horrific temper tantrum. He threw vases across the room. He picked up furniture and dashed it against the floor, and when he couldn’t pick it up easily, he kicked and hit it. All the while, his body shook with great wracking sobs.

The door opened, and Gansukh, filled with both shame and revulsion, slipped out of the room. The guards closed the door and stood in front of it, their eyes forward, their postures saying quite plainly that they would never acknowledge any of the sounds coming through the portal. What happened behind them was a secret they would never reveal.

Gansukh’s hand slipped inside his deel, touching the tiny lacquered secret held therein. Ögedei’s voice chased him as he walked away from the Khagan’s private room, an echo that grew louder and louder in his head as the real sounds grew fainter: None of you understand what is truly important.