Lords of Grass and Thunder (2 page)

COMING HOME

Chapter One

Four kings with crowns of silver
Rode out of the east
Their steeds more gold than sunlight—
Dragons breathing fire.

Q
UTULA DIDN’T REMEMBER it that way, and there hadn’t been a lot of time to forget. They were riding west at last, across the barren landscape of the mountain plateau of the Cloud Country. Going home. Behind them lay the battle that had united the grasslands and the Shan Empire to free the Cloud Country, called Thebin by its people, and save them all from the end of the world. Or so the prophets had said. So he was very clear on what had happened. “The kings rode horses,” he objected. “And only one of the dragons was golden.”

“Close enough for poetry,” Bekter assured him. “But I’m done for now. The air is too thin for making up songs.” He settled his poorly tuned lute at his back and puffed out the cheeks of his broad flat face as if he were storing nuts for the winter. He was short for his kind, the runt in childhood, but he’d grown round with the promise of a strong, deep chest as he entered manhood. His coarse black hair fell in thick braids to the collars of the long-sleeved coat he wore.

Qutula, who was more finely built than his brother, with high cheekbones sharp in a wolflike, pointed face, grunted in halfhearted agreement. “That’s why they call it the roof of the world. Be glad no one expects you to fight today.” He wished Bekter would carry himself more like the son of a khan and less like a demented squirrel, but complaining hadn’t gotten him anywhere in all the time they’d been brothers. For the most part, the khan’s court put up with it because, for some reason that he never could figure, people seemed to like Bekter’s songs.

“How long, do you think, before we reach the grasslands at this pace?”

Qutula had run a silk cord through a fragment of jade he’d picked up as a token of battle, and he worried his fingers over the spiral incised on it as he considered the question. War had brought them to the Cloud Country at a pitched gallop. Now they made their way home at a leisurely pace to spare both animals and men. “Two weeks, maybe three,” he finally decided. “Longer for some.” Their army spread out through many li on either side so the horses could forage on the sparse grass. Each squad would reach camp in its own time.

“It can’t be soon enough for me,” the demented squirrel grumbled through his blown-out cheeks. “I’ve had enough of exalted realms.”

Bekter cast a backward glance at the mountains, gleaming silver at their tops like the old crowned heads of ancient kings. Qutula’s thoughts, however, lingered on different heights. Prince Tayyichiut rode ahead with the khan, so he spoke his mind more freely than he otherwise might.

“Too exalted for the likes of us, it seems, whom no one calls princes.” He stroked the spiral rune on the jade at his throat, his gaze fixed on their father’s back. Not even Bekter could miss the hidden meanings tangled in his words. Their father the khan had never married their mother, nor had he seen fit to recognize his sons in front of the clans.

With his personal guard and advisers around him, Mergen-Khan led the gathered army of the Qubal clans down from the mountains that surrounded the Golden City of the Cloud Country. Their cousin, Prince Tayyichiut, took the honored position at his side, a place he had earned as a hero and as his uncle’s heir. Victory had confirmed Mergen in the title of khan of the Qubal people, lately conferred on him at the death of his royal brother, Chimbai-Khan. But Prince Tayy, who had journeyed with foreign gods and fought at the side of dragons, had won the hearts of their allies.

Qutula and, in a lesser way, Bekter beside him had entered the fray as untested boys as well, and they likewise returned as blooded warriors. Their father would surely acknowledge them, he’d thought, now that they had proved their worth on the battlefield.

At battle’s end, the khan had returned to his encampment outside the high mud wall of Kungol, the Golden City of the Cloud Country, to honor the service of his armies. In the traditional ceremony of their fathers, he would welcome as officers those noble youths with the blood of their first campaign still fresh on their swords.

At the door of the command tent, servants had raised the khan’s dais, which remained empty while the army gathered in the parade ground before it. Those advisers and generals who had traveled to battle with the army ranged themselves on either side of a wide grassy lane that led through the camp, past the army, to the foot of the dais.

Anticipation created a stir of voices, but gradually the nervous talk died down. When the field had fallen silent, Mergen-Khan took his place on the dais. In his half-armor, chased and gleaming, and the silver cap of his office, he dazzled the eye like a god in the light of Great Sun. The new khan had led the clans in their first victory under his rule and they showed their approval with a thunder of jubilant cheers from every side. Mergen waited until the storm of sound had rolled over him and subsided, then he raised his hands in the air.

“Soldiers, warriors, generals, I honor you! Dead, wounded, I honor you! Living and blooded, I honor you! Your ancestors will sing your praises in the underworld, and the skies will roll with your names in the thunder!”

The crowd roared again. The ceremony, when the young warriors would present their weapons to the khan in victory, had begun. It should have been the greatest moment in Qutula’s life, but memory turned to dust in his mouth.

“Youths went into battle on this land, men come before me now with the blood of the vanquished on their swords!” the khan had declared, and commanded, “Welcome the new warriors among you!”

Again cheers filled the air. That didn’t matter to Qutula, of course. Only Mergen mattered, and what he would say to his sons. First in line, however, their cousin Prince Tayyichiut strode forward until he stood just below the dais. Bowing his head, he offered his weapon to his uncle. Of course, Mergen accepted his service. With a kiss on each cheek he welcomed his nephew into the company of men and invited him to take his place once again on the dais.

A little farther back in the line of young officers, Qutula held himself rigidly erect, his chest thrown out in the proud stance of a hero. Beside him, Bekter fidgeted anxiously.

“Do you suppose he will say something? I need to remember everything so I can put it all in a song.‘The Great Khan Welcomes his Sons,’ I will call it, or ‘The Great Khan Rewards his Armies,’ if not . . .”

Qutula unbent only enough to jab his brother in the ribs. “Be quiet! Think of my dignity if you have none of your own. Can’t you at least try to stand up straight?”

“I’m nervous.”

The line moved forward. Bekter settled into his own shambling dignity and soon they stood before their father the khan. He would acknowledge them as his blanket sons, Qutula thought, and then they would be invited to join the prince on the dais. Soon they would supplant the heir. Prince Tayyichiut would find himself among the guardsmen, keeping watch over Qutula’s sleep.

“Qutula. Bekter.” Mergen-Khan held out his hands, palms up to receive their tribute.

Bowing deeply, each son placed his sword on their father’s outstretched palms.

“A grateful people acknowledge your might at arms. For courage in battle, and for the loyalty you have shown your clans and your khan, I name you Captain Qutula, and you Captain Bekter.”

Mergen returned their weapons. The ritual formulation accepted their service and promoted them in the name of the khanate. With a gesture at Tayy on his right hand, he added, “Your prince prizes your company among his own picked guard. May you serve him faithfully after me and take your enemy with you when you die.” He gave no sign that they were his sons.

Not acknowledged, and the reference to their cousin struck Qutula as a rebuke. For a moment the shock of the insult froze his hands so that he almost dropped his sword between them. “I am your son,” he whispered so that just the two of them could hear.

Mergen had dandled him on a less-royal knee when Qutula was a child. He had favored them while his own brother Chimbai-Khan had lived, urging Qutula and Bekter to the fore among the young warriors in training who had surrounded the young Prince Tayyichiut. It had seemed only natural that Mergen-Khan must recognize his blanket-sons now, when they had shown in battle that they were brave and honorable men.

Mergen, however, returned him a solemn frown. “As defenders of the prince you will share in many honors, good warrior,” he said, making no mention of the relationship between them except, “I trust you as I would myself to defend the prince and the Qubal ulus.”

“Always,” Qutula answered, “I am but a spear in my father’s hand.”

Still, Mergen-Khan had not acknowledged him. Qutula’s heart constricted in his chest when he thought about it. Bekter, however, had shown no hurt from the encounter—not even now, when they could speak with little danger of being overheard in the jangle and plod of an army on the move.

“I saw the dragons with my own eyes!” Enthusiasm spilled out of Bekter’s mouth in spite of his lack of breath to speak the words. He had gone on talking while Qutula worried his past like a stone in his boot. “I didn’t believe in dragons, to tell the truth. Then I saw this huge green monster gouge a scar deep as a lake into the land with one clawed foot. When he breathed fire, the snow from the mountains melted, filling the new lake with water. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were fish in it already.”

“And thus are the heavenly creatures of our imagination reduced to public works,” Qutula responded sharply. “And the Golden City of Kungol itself turns into mud.”

“It was glorious from a distance, even if the tales did prove false,” Bekter defended his enthusiasm. Seeing the effect of sunlight on the peculiar yellow plaster that covered all the buildings, travelers had brought back stories of a city made of gold hidden in the mountains. Like most caravan tales, the truth fell short of the telling. Until the Uulgar raiders had invaded the Cloud Country, Kungol had stood as the last great stopping place for caravans on the trade routes to the West. The so-called Golden City lay at the crossroad of the high passes through the Thousand Peaks Mountains, no more hidden than it was made of gold.

Bekter shrugged off reality like a bird shaking dust off its feathers. “I’m a poet,” he explained. “It’s my job to put the wonder back in, and you can’t get any more wonderful than a skyful of dragons.”

Qutula scorned the tales and all their spectacle, and he gave his brother’s conversation only half his attention. The better part of his thoughts continued to circle round his father, who had rejected his claim in front of the whole court.

“Like kings, the wonders of the world seem marvelous from a distance,” he said, and added, “Seen eye to eye, we find them only clay, no more exalted than ourselves.”

Even Bekter could not ignore the bitterness of this complaint. He finally seemed to understand they weren’t talking about dragons or cities made of gold, but of their own lives.

“Given time, our father will see the value of his sons,” he answered mildly. “He seemed interested when I asked his permission to compose a history of his reign, at least. If we find ways to show ourselves faithful to his cause, he’ll have to recognize us.”

“So you believe.” The worm of discontent gnawed at Qutula’s heart. “It seems more likely he will choose a fresh young wife as different from our mother as spring is from winter, and build his legacy on sons born above the firebox.” Closer to the khan in rank, he meant. Their mother had no claim to nobility.

Better to make history than to record it, he concluded. They would need to act soon, before Mergen made legitimate heirs of his own and the brothers lost even the cursory attention of their royal father. Qutula kept those thoughts to himself. His eyes, however, strayed to the prince who rode beside the khan in Qutula’s place.

P
rince Tayyichiut, heir to the khanate of the Qubal people, looked back along the road they had traveled with a little shiver. In the language of the clans, Thebin was called the Cloud Country. It had lived up to its name. Even in summer the morning dew spun cobwebs of ice on the sparse grass. At noon Great Sun shed a pale cold light on the mountains, but little warmth touched the army crawling home across the high plateau. He had hoped to catch a last glimmer of the Golden City falling away at the slow pace of their homebound horses, as if to remind himself that his adventures had been real. But the city had disappeared into the folds of the landscape.

The war was over. His mind still shone with the wonders he had seen in the Golden City high in those mountains; like the ferryman, however, marvels demand a fee. He had run away looking for adventures and to save his own life from the conspiracies that seethed around the firebox in the ger-tent palace of the khan. In the aftermath of battle he returned in body to the clans. His heart, however, remained apart from the friends who had been his companions for all of his life.