“Temujin.”
It took Chucai a moment to realize that the shaman had said something coherent. Temujin. The name by which Genghis Khan had been known before he had become the great leader who had united the clans. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “Temujin.”
“Temujin went into the mountains,” the shaman croaked. “Genghis Khan returned.”
“With the banner?” Chucai asked, trying to interpret what the shaman was telling him.
“The womb of the spirits,” the shaman said. “The belly of Eternal Heaven.”
“Is that where the banner came from? Is there a spirit in it?”
The shaman wheezed and cackled, a nasty barking sound that was strange enough to spook the gelding, which raised its head and snorted noisily at the laughing pile of blankets. “There are spirits everywhere, bearded master,” the shaman explained when the stream of laughter dried up. “If you shatter a rock, do you shatter the spirit too, or does it live in every shard? When you cut down a stalk of grain, does the spirit pass into every seed?”
“I do not know,” Chucai said.
“If you cut off the head, does the body die?”
“Yes,” Chucai admitted. He smoothed down his beard. “I had hoped to learn more about the Spirit Banner, wise one. I have not come to engage in riddles.”
The shaman opened his other eye and stared fixedly at Chucai. “I am talking about the banner,” he croaked. “You are not listening.” A bony finger jabbed forth from the robes. “Why does the body die?” the shaman asked again. “Why? Is it because the spirit has abandoned it?”
“I suspect it has more to do with the head being separated from the body,” Chucai replied, reluctant to play the shaman’s game.
“But you could sew the head and body back together,” the shaman said.
“It’s—” Chucai shook his head and sighed. “I confess the mystery of death is beyond my knowledge.”
“It is not death you should concern yourself with,” the shaman snorted. “Life, bearded master. That is what you should be worrying about. Life.”
“Is the banner alive? Is that what you are telling me in this maddening fashion?”
“The banner is a piece of wood,” the shaman snapped, his voice suddenly harsh and dry. “It is the spirit that is alive.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Raphael’s Book
Cnán started awake as Feronantus prodded her gently with his boot. She lurched upright, feeling the sky wheel around her, and she slapped her hands against the ground in an attempt to right herself. Blinking heavily, she tried to recall the last few moments of the previous night, yet there was nothing in her head but a hideous yowling sound. She tried to lick her lips, and found her tongue too dry to provide any moisture.
The sky was shifting away from black, bands of purple and blue sliding into one another, each one lighter than the last, until they became a roseate glow over her left shoulder. A few bright stars still twinkled in defiance of the coming dawn—laughter light from the heavens.
She raised her arms, no longer assailed by the vertigo of being suddenly awoken, and shook the sleep from her frame. She had not drunk as much as some of the others, but her mouth still felt like it was coated with sand. She peered at the misshapen lumps of the other members of the company as Feronantus moved among them, prodding and poking with his boot as he went. There was a great deal of groaning and complaining that rose in the old knight’s wake.
“Up, you lazy dogs,” Feronantus barked. “You lie about like indolent princes, waiting for me to wipe your asses and prechew your food for you.”
“Ach,” Yasper swore, cradling his head in his hands. “That sounds revolting.”
“Which?” Raphael asked.
“The latter,” Yasper shuddered. He put a hand over one eye, tilted his head to the side, and opened and closed his mouth several times. “I should not have slept on my side,” he groaned.
“I’m glad you did,” Eleázar said. “Every time you rolled over, you started to make a horrible choking noise.”
“I did not,” the alchemist said.
“You did,” Vera noted. “I had a wolfhound once that made a noise like that when he was choking on a rabbit bone.”
Yasper popped his lips a few times. “What happened to him?” he asked when his efforts appeared to have little effect on his internal condition.
Vera stretched until something moved into its proper place in her back. “He ate one rabbit too many.”
Cnán, who had been counting bodies, came up one short, and shifted her attention to the horses. “Where’s Istvan?” she asked, discerning a similar shortness in the number of horses.
“Scouting,” Feronantus replied. He rocked R?dwulf with his foot. The Englishman hadn’t reacted to more subtle attempts to wake him.