In the East
Feronantus: Shield-Brethren knight master, the Old Man of the Rock
Percival: Shield-Brethren knight initiate
Raphael: Shield-Brethren knight initiate
Roger: Shield-Brethren knight initiate
Finn: Germanic hunter, Shield-Brethren companion
Yasper: Dutch alchemist, Shield-Brethren companion
Istvan: Hungarian horse-rider, Shield-Brethren companion
Cnán: Binder, Shield-Brethren guide
Eleázar: Matamoros, Shield-Brethren initiate
Taran: Irish gallowglass, Shield-Brethren knight initiate and oplo
R?dwulf: English longbowman, Shield-Brethren initiate
Illarion: Ruthenian noble, Shield-Brethren companion
Haakon: Shield-Brethren initiate
Vera: leader of the Shield-Maidens
Alena: Shield-Maiden
Benjamin: Jewish Khazar trader
Kristaps: the First Sword of Fellin, Livonian knight
Alchiq Graymane: Mongolian jaghun commander
?gedei Khan: Khagan of the Mongol Empire
Yelu Chucai: Kitayan advisor to the Khagan
Gansukh: Mongolian hunter, emissary of Chagatai Khan
Munokhoi: Torguud captain
Lian: Chinese slave and tutor
Toregene: ?gedei Khan’s First Wife
Jachin: ?gedei Khan’s Second Wife
1
Quod Perierat Requiram
ROME WAS NOT the first city Ferenc had ever seen. As a child, he had lived in Buda, where the clustered buildings were strewn like squat boulders along the banks of the slow-moving Danube. His memories, though, were but vague shapes in a fog compared to the reality laid out before his eyes.
Rome lay below them, wrapping itself around the River Tiber like a jealous lover. The light was strange here too. It was brighter and brisker than his memories of Buda, as if the sky over the city had cracked open and scattered celestial sparks upon the peaked rooftops, creating a dazzling spray of illumination.
Ferenc glanced at the priest slumped on the horse next to him. He was draped over his horse’s neck, his knuckles intertwined in the animal’s mane so tightly they were white. The light from the city was reflected in his eyes, making him look almost blind. A ropy strand of spit quivered in his tangled beard.
His fever was back. The disease had gone into hiding deep within the priest a week ago, and then he had insisted they ride farther and harder each day. Ferenc had tried to hold him back, knowing this relief from the burning infection was temporary. He had been right: this morning, it had returned. The skin around the wound on the man’s hip was still angry and red, even though the gash was closing. If it closed all the way, it would seal the fever inside, and he would never heal.
With a groan that made Ferenc shudder, the priest pushed himself upright. His right foot slipped from the stirrup. He grabbed at the horse’s mane to keep from falling, and the animal tossed its neck back, as if protesting his clumsiness. Father Rodrigo shook his head, and the spit flew from his beard. “Rome,” he croaked. “We made it.”
When he looked at Ferenc, his eyes were still filled with the wild, reflected light from the city below. The young hunter made the sign of the cross on his chest, as the priest had taught him, and whispered the holy words that would protect him from possession. His mother had taught him other charms against evil spirits—the warding eye, the sign of the forest—but he didn’t want to enrage the priest. He didn’t want the madness in the priest to know he was afraid.
Ferenc had come to realize the strength of the priest’s magic. Father Rodrigo had one sign he used for everything. He didn’t have to remember the prayers to the wind or the rain or the spirits living in the forests. He didn’t have to know the hymns to sing before and after a hunt. He didn’t have to memorize the glyphs and sigils used by mothers to protect their houses and children. The priest had one sign only—such a simple gesture, so easily taught to children, so easily remembered—and one god to call upon. Followers of such magic asked only for strength and guidance; why they needed either was left unspoken. God knows, the priest had assured Ferenc, God knows everything in your soul.
“Yes,” the priest said, crossing himself as Ferenc did. “Praise His mercy.” He returned his attention to the city. “He has carried us this far, and He will only need to sustain us a short while longer.”
The last few days had been filled with the same sort of fear that had chased them away from Mohi. An army lay around the hills of Rome, a discordant mass of unorganized men that had none of the terrifying precision of the Mongols but had been foreign occupiers nonetheless. The two companions had fallen into old routines—traveling by night, moving slowly across unmarked terrain, avoiding all contact—and only this morning had they sensed they were through the cordon of soldiers.
The priest swayed, and Ferenc again feared Father Rodrigo would fall. But he caught himself—somehow—with a hand across the neck of his horse and his head thrown back in a wild, wordless plea to Heaven.