Lords of Grass and Thunder (12 page)

Prince Tayy made a great show of indignation. “Would you doubt your heir?” he asked. “Or mistrust the truths of your singer of tales?”

“Mistrust? No, never.” Mergen-Khan protested in his turn with a sardonic smile. “I trust you all completely—to regale the court with the most outrageous and boastful lies they have heard since your elders told their own tales at your age.” Which might have drawn more wide-eyed protests from the prince, but Bekter had wiped his greasy hands on his coats and, with a bow to the court, he settled himself on a low stool in front of the dais.

Bekter had explained to Qutula on other occasions that he preferred to steal the march on those who would criticize his fledgling efforts with the same standards they applied to a mature, completed work. So it didn’t surprise him that his brother gave them a warning as he picked up his lute.

“I have only begun to craft this song, so don’t expect too much of it,” he said, “When I’ve had more time to polish it, the tale will shine like a fine jewel in the history I propose, to celebrate the heroes of the Qubal people.”

Cradling the lute on his bent knee, Bekter offered a last modest word of introduction. “I hope even this poor egg of a tale conveys a little of the excitement of the hunt and the prowess of the hunter. And the terror of the bear, of course, in whose life we will soon share at this feast.”

It seemed to Qutula that the bear had shown very little sign of terror, even with Jumal’s spear sticking out of its shoulder. But his brother had begun his song, and so he listened for his own part in the saga.

“The prince rode out, whom all men call the Son of Light, Bright shining in his armor, with silver on his toes, Strong of arm from fighting many wars.”

Bekter may have claimed the song was hastily constructed, but the word he’d used for the Son of Light—Nirun—had more renderings than a riddle. By saying it in the first line, his brother had clearly intended not only to describe Prince Tayyichiut, but to name him so that all the generations who followed would remember him for a hero. The gathered chieftains and clan elders must have known and felt the same shiver that had gone up Qutula’s back. They sat, enraptured, as if Bekter’s song was a Shannish rocket going off in an eruption of brilliant color before their eyes.

Qutula darted a glance to the place where Bolghai usually sat, wondering what the khan’s shaman made of this poetic naming, but the space by the dais remained empty. Half mad as he was, the old man seldom missed a meal. Where was he?

It seemed, to Qutula’s dismay, that Bekter sat with his lute making prophecies in the missing shaman’s stead. And all the lines of his song rained blessings on the son of the khan who was dead, whose dynasty should have ended there, in favor of Mergen’s own sons. Whom the living khan still had not acknowledged. The fire in his breast needed nothing of his lady’s pleasure or chastisement for kindling. Where in Bekter’s tale was Qutula the brave, who had survived attack by the great black bear? Where, for that matter, were the silver toes of a prince on his own boots? The silver cap of a prince for his head? Caught up in the singing of praises for the false heir, however, Bekter refused to see or sing the worth of his own brother.

“Like an army rode his hunters after the bright shining one

Seeking meat for hungry soldiers and livers for their manhood

—each had many ladies!”

Bekter had turned the lines from the grave business of naming a prince by his prowess to the ribald humor the court expected in a heroic song. The prince laughed, breaking the air of anticipation that had held the gathered company in its grip, though Qutula could see the court retainers shifting uneasily in their places. Some of the older courtiers had not yet shaken the sense of prophecy spoken in the first lines of the song. But here was the plainer meat of the tale; throughout the great felted palace, nobles and chieftains settled into the telling. More verses described the sweep across the grasslands in the lake formation, demonstrating the hunters’ mastery of warlike skills. Then the patient stalking of more common fare. Bekter added decorative mouth music to signal the approach of the bear.

“Spoor, longer than a hunter’s stride marked the trail Where trees, plucked twiglike by their roots, tumbled. What monster lay in wait upon that path?”

The tale sounded rough in some parts. Bekter’s playing left much to be desired. But Qutula saw that his brother held the whole palace—court musicians with perfected skills as well as the chieftains and warriors—tethered to his words as the hunters fanned out in search of the monstrous creature. As always, the poet had added an oasis of comedy. Putting himself in the role of the buffoon, Bekter set his audience at its ease, only to whip them into a frenzy of anxiety as the hero engaged once again in life-threatening battle. Already the mythic bear had grown tall as the towers of the Golden City of legend. When Qutula threw his spear, it fell in the tale like a splinter pricking the hairy hide. Then the arrow of the prince, whom the song named Nirun—Son of Light—plunged through the mad red eye to bury its iron tip in the beast’s brain.

As the great black bear faltered and died, the gathered company gasped a pent-up sigh of relief. All but Qutula, who ground his teeth in silent frustration. With a bashful grin, Bekter took his bows to uproarious applause from above the firebox and below. He had made Prince Tayyichiut a hero, dwelling on the prowess of the heir and galloping right over the little detail that the bear had nearly killed Mergen’s own son. If Mergen-Khan hadn’t been watching him with that narrow-eyed analytical stare, Qutula might even have believed they’d gotten away with it.

“A bear of legendary stature,” Mergen praised the singer when Bekter had put down his lute. “And a hero to stand the test of many singings,” he added with a slap to Prince Tayyichiut’s shoulder.

“I hope so, my lord.” Even his low bow could not hide the blush of pleasure on Bekter’s cheeks.

Tayy matched the singer for the deep purple that rose on his cheeks, but he protested the praise lavished on his own part of the tale. “Not so much a hero,” he assured his uncle. “You know how tales grow in the telling.”

“And yet, this mythical beast out of our singer’s imagination has left his liver behind for the strong of heart to enjoy.”

Mergen gestured at the servants who had returned with the first crisp slivers of liver for the warriors. As he had with all the other morsels presented to the prince, Qutula took the sliver from Tayy’s plate and bit into the rich meat before passing it on.

His father the khan looked like he’d scented prey and was on the trail of the truth missing from the tale the hunting party had agreed upon. Fortunately, the honor of a khan would prevent him from questioning his heir’s guardsmen, some of whom might have crumbled under such an interrogation. He didn’t think his own peril would distress the khan, but the danger to Prince Tayy had been almost as great, and unnecessary. He might have kept his soldiers around him for protection. A khan as wise as Mergen always did that. Or, he might have crept away again, saving himself while the bear busied himself murdering Qutula. Neither course would have made the prince a hero sung in all the camps of the Qubal, however, and already he heard Bekter’s lines murmured among the guardsmen.

M
ergen smiled and led the gathered courtiers in their applause. The song would need polishing, of course, and he could not praise his blanket-son’s skill on the lute. But already the tale had captured the hearts of the court. Tomorrow the khan’s musicians would have mastered the melody and soon he would hear Bekter’s words throughout the camp. Mergen looked forward to acknowledging this clever son. He would show the clans that a khan—if only a former khan—could value the talent of a poet in one son every bit as much as he valued the prowess of a warrior in the other. Now, however, it was the warrior son who concerned him. Qutula had a dark and brooding look as he sampled his prince’s food and drank from his cup.

At present the service posed no real threat to the safety of either young man. Among his own people, Prince Tayyichiut had no enemies; the Qubal loved their hero-prince. Politically, the clans were at peace with their neighbors and the reputation they had gained in the recent wars would assure they remained so, at least until his young heir had gained enough experience to lead his people. The Tinglut already negotiated a closer relationship with the Qubal. More to the purpose, the Tinglut emissary lodged under the watchful eye of the army for the night. The only other strangers in the camp were prisoners brought back with them from the war. No foreign hand had access to the prince or his food.

Qutula wasn’t worried about someone poisoning the prince’s dinner. Mergen figured his son still brooded over his near brush with death that afternoon. The bear’s liver was large, testifying to a beast that would have towered over his son. Bekter’s song had exaggerated some facts and obscured others, but Mergen had stalked game in the woods himself, and could well imagine what had happened. It would have rankled that Qutula couldn’t take the bear on his own, and even more that having enraged it with a wound, he needed the help of his companions to avoid murder by claw and tooth. He required something to take his mind off his close call. For that matter, so did his father.

Lady Bortu seemed to feel the same. She drank from her own kumiss bowl and passed it to her grandson the prince with an indulgent smile, far too innocent in its apparent intent to take at face value. Qutula held a bland smile on his face as his grandmother praised her first son’s heir through her commentary on the song they had just heard. “An excellent tale,” she judged, “And an excellent hero, one who surely earns the loyalty of his followers.

“But,” she interposed with one gnarled finger raised before her, almost as if the question were an afterthought, “are the heir’s defenders themselves strong enough to stand against the thunder?”

Her words echoed a riddle that had more to do with loyalty than strength of arms. He wondered what she was up to. Qutula’s face had suffused with blood at the remark; Mergen had to take the heat out of the moment or risk losing his blanket-sons to blood feud with their own grandmother.

“There’s only one way to find out—we must have a competition of games tomorrow!” the khan declared, deliberately misunderstanding his mother’s meaning in his reply. He’d had, perhaps, a bit more kumiss than usual and so the gathered courtiers would blame his dulled wits on drunkenness and custom.

In times of peace, the games offered the young warriors a chance to learn each other’s skills. Their elders took the opportunity to look over the contestants as prospective husbands for the daughters who cheered their brothers on or, sometimes, wore their brothers’ clothes to enter the contests themselves.

In the aftermath of a war as they had lately fought, the games were a chance to celebrate victory and show off some of the very skills that had brought the warriors home. They also gave the horde a way to keep its skills sharp while releasing the tensions that grew between young men still nerved for battle. So the courtiers took up the call for the games while the “shussshh” of swords half raised from scabbards let him know the warriors who lined the walls were eager to demonstrate their worth as guardians of the khan.

Prince Tayyichiut quickly joined in the scheme. “We need two teams to test their strength against each other.”

His follower Jumal, who had carried the trophy of the day’s hunt, dropped to one knee with his hand to his heart. “I would be honored to serve my prince as first among the Nirun,” he said.

Mergen felt the chill of fate run up his spine, raising the hairs on his neck. Others among the prince’s followers quickly joined in the chant of “Nirun! Nirun!” The Sons of Light, that was, taking up Bekter’s song as they formed their army under the banner of the heir.

Another young soldier strode forward, whom Mergen recognized as Duwa, a childhood friend of his blanket-sons. Duwa had returned with the hunting party but had kept to his place among the lower ranks until now. Dropping to one knee as Jumal had done, he declaimed his own allegiance.

“And to oppose, in honorable mock combat, I put my spear and sword and the muscle of arm and shoulder at the service of the guardsman, Captain Qutula!”

Bekter, who had cozened another pie and a bowl of kumiss from one of the servant girls, looked up from his second dinner with shock and dismay. Mergen thought that Qutula would himself object, offering his sword to defend the heir’s honor in the games. Though his son looked surprised, however, the flesh firmed around his eyes and his jaw tightened with a challenge.

“Someone must, I suppose,” he said, carefully considering the matter as he spoke. “And what better way to show not only my willingness to serve my prince, but my strength of arms to do so, than by testing them against that very prince.”

The Lady Bortu’s riddle had clearly smarted. Tayy’s grandmother, she was, and Qutula’s, too, though like Mergen himself, she had never shown by any public word or action that she recognized his bastard children.

“And if Prince Tayyichiut should lead the Nirun, Sons of Light,” Qutula declared, “then we who oppose, even in mock battle, must be Durluken, the Sons of Darkness.”

To his son’s followers, he thought the name carried no weight to burden the soul. They were just the opposing team—the dark to the prince’s light and no more. But Qutula looked like something had settled in his soul; a missing piece of his understanding of himself had found its place, boot to stirrup.

That look slid over Mergen’s skin like the earth of a living grave. The clans didn’t bury their dead, except as the most dire punishment, to trap their souls with their bodies in the hell of the living grave. Mergen remembered a time when he’d threatened a man with that worst of all deaths— to slice him open crotch to gullet and bury him alive with his entrails in his hands. He felt like that was happening to him now, and didn’t know why, except that his son, whose birth remained buried from the world, proposed to ride in the morning under the banner of darkness.