?gedei glanced at his brothers and the guards, and made a snap decision. Tell him the truth. “Father, it was the best choice. It never crossed my mind to shoot one of the females. I should have. I’m sorry—”
Genghis waved off the apology. He sank down to the ground beside ?gedei. He pushed the skinning knife into the ground between them, and then he looked back across the bank at the other men. “Do you know what your brothers would have done?”
?gedei wasn’t sure of the right answer, but sensed Genghis was going to tell him the answer anyway, and so he stayed silent.
“They would have known I would take the buck and they would have chosen a doe.”
?gedei’s stomach knotted again, and suddenly he was the foolish stripling again. The one who had nearly shot one of his brothers, mistaking him for a deer. “We would have had more meat,” he said, the words burning in his throat.
“Yes, that’s right, ?gedei. We would have had more meat.”
?gedei stared at the animal in his lap. He wanted to shove it away. The thrill of the kill was fleeing, and all that remained was the sickening shame of his own inability to think beyond his own desires.
“You took the buck because you wanted it,” Genghis said. “You wanted the prize it offered. You didn’t defer to me or ask my permission, and you didn’t hesitate.”
?gedei looked at his father, but the Great Khan was still looking over the river, his eyes unfocused.
“You did,” his father said slowly, “exactly as I would have done.” He looked at ?gedei finally.
?gedei stared at his father, searching his face for some explanation of the sadness he heard in his father’s voice. He sensed everything around him—the hardness of the buck’s antlers in his hands; the water of the river flowing beside them; his breath, in the cold morning air, mingling with his father’s; the deep lines around his father’s eyes that had been drawn there by the sun and the weight of his position; the sudden emptiness in his stomach as his fear and panic vanished—and he knew there was more to his father’s words than a simple compliment. For a moment, it was just the two of them on the riverbank, and the rest of the world didn’t exist.
Father and son. More alike than not.
Genghis nodded, and the moment passed. He pushed himself up from the grass and undid the leather tethers at his belt for the skinning knife’s sheath.
“What are you doing?” ?gedei asked.
“It’s not my kill,” said Genghis. He looked down at ?gedei once more, and then turned on his heel and walked into the river.
?gedei looked at the knife in the ground. He recognized it as his grandfather’s. An object that predated him, predated even his father. He pulled the blade free of the wet earth. The metal glinted dully in the bright morning sunlight. It was a long blade, but weighted well, and it moved easily in his hand.
He pushed himself out from beneath the corpse of the deer and considered the animal’s bulk. Perhaps half the weight of a pony. It would take more than one trip to carry it back to camp, even after it had been parted. It would take the better part of the day to haul all the meat back to camp.
?gedei looked across the river. Genghis had reached the far side, and one of the guards had given the Great Khan his cloak. “Hey,” he shouted. “One of you. Stay with me and help carry back this meat.”
A long moment followed where the only sound was the river gurgling between them, and then Genghis threw back his head and laughed. He shooed Jochi and Chagatai off, sending them back toward the camp, and two of the guards followed. Genghis spoke to the remaining pair, and the one who had given the Great Khan his cloak nodded. The Great Khan looked back at ?gedei one last time and then left, a guard following him.
By the time the remaining guard made it across the water, ?gedei had gutted the deer and was peeling the skin back from its haunches, revealing the lean meat beneath.
CHAPTER 9:
THE MADNESS OF THE MUSHROOMS
At the morning camp, Feronantus took the news of Istvan’s nocturnal malfeasance with irritated resignation. He thanked Cnán, then walked off to the edge of a river, where Eleázar and Percival were idly trying to fish with a weir made of stripped and woven branches. They spoke for a few minutes, then gathered the rest of the group. Cnán watched the leader with no less interest than she had Istvan. She’d had trouble making sense of his name—which sounded vaguely Latin but wasn’t—until she had heard Taran addressing him as Ferhonanths. Then she had come to understand it as an old barbarian name—probably Gothic—that had been Latinized for use in polite company.
Feronantus motioned for the young Binder to join them. “Cnán has been scouting,” he said.
“Gone much of the time,” Roger said brusquely.
Feronantus took exception to his tone. “She returns often enough to keep us on course, and she sees to it we don’t cross paths with anyone who might distract us. But she brings us a problem I’ve been dreading since we gathered at the chapter house.”
He described what Cnán had seen on the lakeshore.