The Mongoliad Book Three

“What’s the bad news?” Feronantus asked.

 

Cnán offered him a rolled scroll, and went to sit on the rough-hewn bench that Eleázar and R?dwulf had constructed the other morning in an effort to stave off boredom. Stiffly, she began to unwind the dirty wraps wound around her lower legs. “He’s not there,” she said.

 

“Who?” Percival asked.

 

“Where?” R?dwulf asked at the same time.

 

Feronantus started to unroll the scroll, and waved Raphael over to help him. Together they unwound the long piece of cloth and revealed the map Cnán had acquired. It was beautifully done in watercolor, with the intricate markings that Raphael knew were Chinese. Delicately drawn white and pink blossoms scaled up one side of the map, and nestled in a bramble at the top were three long-beaked birds with red streaks on their wings.

 

“?gedei is not in Karakorum,” Cnán explained as she pulled off her boots and wiggled her toes. “He left over a week ago, heading north into the mountains.”

 

Raphael peered at the map, trying to figure out locations from the few geographical details that were present. He thought he found the Orkhun River, the one that lay a few hundred paces to the west of their current location, and along its bank was Karakorum. He tapped the map, and Feronantus nodded, concurring with his guess. He ran his finger toward the end he held, the top of the map, trying to make sense of the lines and markings.

 

“Is that where his winter palace is?” Feronantus asked.

 

Cnán shook her head. “He’s not going to his winter palace. Not yet. He’s off on a pilgrimage.” She finished flexing her toes and looked over at Feronantus with a tiny smile. “The good news is that he didn’t take all of his Imperial Guard with him.”

 

“Oooh,” Yasper sighed, holding out the lacquer box. “You have got to try these.” He went back to licking his fingers.

 

 

 

 

 

After delivering a short version of her scouting trip to Karakorum, Cnán announced she was going to take a nap. She had slept little in the last few days, and not at all since dawn the day before, and it had taken all of her willpower to keep her eyes open long enough to find the Shield-Brethren camp. She knew the cornucopia of salted meats, dried and ripe fruit, and sugared confections would keep the rest of the company occupied for a few hours while she slept.

 

Plus there were two small casks of ale. With any other group, she suspected her news would be desultory to the company’s morale (in which case the ale would bolster sunken spirits); however, she suspected the Brethren would find her report uplifting and welcome the ale as a surprising bounty.

 

The sun had fled the sky by the time she woke, and she was drawn to the light of the crackling fire that Eleázar had built in the stone-ringed pit. One of the casks had been opened, and judging from the merriment she heard in a few voices, its contents had been drunk.

 

“Ho, the Great Provider awakens,” Eleázar chortled as she approached the group gathered around the fire. He passed her a bowl of dried figs and a piece of salted deer meat. She accepted both, her stomach grumbling with eagerness for sustenance.

 

Yasper and Raphael were arguing over the ingredients used in the sugar cakes she had brought. She smiled to herself as she listened to their speculations, which grew more and more fanciful. She had not had sweets like this since she was a child, and it had been a childish indulgence on her part when she had run across the baker in Karakorum’s extensive market. The glaze contained spices she had tasted nowhere else but in China, and they reminded her of a tiny period of her life when she had been innocent and happy.

 

It made her happy now to hear people she would consider friends arguing so vociferously—and with such joy—over the flavors hidden within tiny seedpods, roots, and flowers. This argument suggested the world was not altogether a bleak place, that there were ways in which even those most bereft of home could find family.

 

“It is cassia, I tell you,” Raphael was arguing. “I have had it before, in the Levant. It has a taste that is neither bitter nor sweet, and somewhat dry. The spiciness comes from this pink strand, a piece of a root is my guess, sliced very thinly.”

 

Istvan cackled with laughter, drawing everyone’s attention. The Hungarian stared into the fire, not seeing anything but the shivering dance of the flames. “Sliced very thinly,” he whispered.

 

“Is he—?” Cnán leaned over toward Vera, keeping her voice quiet enough that only the Shield-Maiden could hear her.

 

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