CHAPTER 29:
HOMECOMING
Four days after crossing the river, they found Benjamin. The trader, along with four horses, the same number of oxen, two wagons, and a couple of drovers, was sitting beside a fire, idly plucking the single string of a zither as if he had neither a care in the world nor a place to be. His drovers had spotted the five of them when they had crested the hill, and it had taken another half hour for their horses to amble down into the valley and reach the camp.
“Ah, my friends,” the Khazar trader said as Raphael stopped his horse and dismounted. “So fortunate to see you again.” He stood, beaming, and crushed Raphael in a tight embrace that made Raphael’s knees tremble. He clapped Raphael on both shoulders, as if to ensure that the knight would remain standing, and then moved on to Percival, Yasper, and Gawain in turn. He did not hug Evren, nor did Evren seem to mind.
Benjamin was a stocky man who, due to his predilection for wearing copious layers of rich silks and fine cotton, could be mistaken for being fat. When the company had first made his acquaintance, he had come across as a humorless trader who only had time and eye for making a profit, but once the trader had taken a liking to the company, they had discovered an entirely different side to Benjamin’s personality.
“You did not say unexpected,” Raphael noted when Benjamin finished greeting the tired company.
The trader smiled roguishly. “Why would I use such a word?” he said. “That would be so very rude of me, would it not? Guests such as yourselves are never unexpected, especially when I have been instructed very clearly to keep an eye out for your tardy arrival.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“Aye,” Benjamin nodded. “They are at my village. They have been there for almost a week.” Some of the humor left his glowing face. “The Binder—Cnán—is not well. She needs a real physician. Alas, my skills are—pffft!—of very little consequence.”
“Cnán?” Yasper exploded, shoving past Percival. “What happened to her?”
“A blow to the head,” Yasper explained. “One of those ugly Mongol swords, I believe. It bled a lot, at first, according to Vera, and it wasn’t that deep, but she…she is reluctant to come back to us.”
“We need to keep riding,” Yasper said, turning back toward his horse. “Raphael. You must come with me. We have to help her.”
Raphael didn’t move, having already made a prognosis about Cnán based on Benjamin’s lack of immediate concern. “You said Vera. Is she healthy? And who else?”
“The woman is like a piece of iron,” Benjamin said. “She cannot easily be broken. Feronantus suffered a great deal during the winter, and a week of rest has done much to restore his spirit, but he is old, Raphael. This journey has aged him, and he knows that it will be his last. He is tired.”
“Aren’t we all?” Gawain muttered.
Benjamin glanced at the longbowman, and seemed to realize that Gawain had not been part of the company on their journey north.
“Who else?” Raphael prompted, not wanting be drawn into a lengthy recitation of the members of their company who had fallen.
“There’s a boy, Haakon. He, too, has been aged by this journey, but not in the same way. He is a man, certainly, but in some ways, he has suffered more than I, and I am old enough to be his father.”
“And a Chinese woman? Lian?”
Benjamin shook his head. “Those are all who are waiting for you. I do not know of this woman you speak of. You will have to ask your friends when you see them.”
“And we should go and see them now,” Yasper reminded them.
“How far?” Raphael asked, more for Yasper’s sake than his own.
“A day’s ride,” Benjamin said. “Not that far.”
“But too far to go tonight.”
“Judging by the state of your clothing and your horses, yes.” Benjamin shook his head. “Come. I have brought food and wine. Let us fill your bellies and provide you with some comfort tonight. Tomorrow we will reunite with your friends.” He glanced at Yasper. “They are not going anywhere,” he said. “They will wait for you.”
“Very well,” Raphael said. “We will dine with you tonight and rest.” His knees wobbled again, as if the very idea threatened to bring about collapse. He looked at the others and realized that he was not the only one who relished the idea of a decent meal. He smiled at Percival and Yasper.
They had been traveling nonstop for nearly three months. For the first time, he realized, they were no longer looking over their shoulders. They were looking ahead, eager to see those they loved.
Hours later, his belly full and his head swimming with wine, Raphael lay on his back and stared up at the night sky, letting himself drift with the tide of wine moving about in his head. It had been several weeks since the blazing birth and death of Yasper’s phoenix and they had been riding hard the entire time. When he let his eyes drift closed, which took little effort, he easily imagined that the back and forth motion he felt was the rolling motion of an exhausted horse, pushed near the limit of its endurance.
The fiery eruption in the depression had terrified the Mongols. Raphael did not know if they had seen the same flaming shape that he had, but whatever they had seen had been enough to send them fleeing in terror. He and Percival had collected Yasper and Gawain—Evren had joined them an hour later, astride a stiff-legged Mongol pony—and they had managed to point their frightened horses west. The mounts had been eager to run, and the small company had not held them back. The fire in the hole was taller than it had been before, and Yasper’s trenches were also filled with flame, tendrils of fire radiating out from the central pyre. Unchecked, the fires would spread across the steppe, albeit slowly due to the patches of bare ground and the still damp brush. If it snowed or rained in the next few days, most of the little fires would be extinguished.
Yasper thought the central fire, however, would burn for years. A legacy of my visit, the alchemist had said, and the idea disturbed Raphael enough that he had not mentioned it again.
They had found the scattered dead of the Mongol ambush of their friends, but no sign of either Alchiq or Gansukh, a minor detail that kept Raphael glancing over his shoulder for the following weeks.
Even now, drifting off to a wine-disturbed slumber, he fretted about posting a guard, about having someone keep watch for the ghosts of the east that he feared were still haunting them.
They picked up the winding track of a narrow stream, and Raphael recognized the trail that ran beside it. The stream wound around a hill covered with spruce and fir and then meandered across a flat plain. The residents of Benjamin’s village tended fields of wheat and rye that lay on either side of the stream, and there were several orchards and a vineyard of some hardy grape that could be convinced to thrive in this climate. Beyond the fields, several dozen huts and houses of various sizes were arranged around a dusty square. The rabbi’s house was near Benjamin’s estate, a manor house that seemed overly ostentatious in comparison with the houses around it, but to Raphael’s world-weary eye, it was respectably restrained.
A handful of children, too young to work in the fields but old enough to roam freely, met them as they forded the stream. Benjamin called them all by name and sent them off to let the village know of his return and of the fact that he had brought guests. By the time the company reached the village square, everyone in the village knew of their arrival.
Including Vera, Haakon, and Feronantus.
Raphael embraced Feronantus stiffly and clasped Haakon’s forearm in the traditional style of greeting among the Shield-Brethren before he remembered that the boy had not been through the initiation at Petraathen. Somewhat embarrassed, he stumbled into an embrace with Vera, who covered for his gaffe by squeezing him tightly. He held her close, inhaling the scent of her. Her hair was shorter than it had been several weeks ago, and he could easily touch the back of her neck. “I missed you,” he said softly, his words falling into the hollow of her throat.
She nodded, resting her hand on his cheek.
“Where’s Cnán?” Yasper asked, a note of panic in his voice.
“She’s resting,” Vera said, disengaging herself from Raphael. The Shield-Maiden offered the alchemist a thin smile, which did little to assuage Yasper’s concern. “I can take you to her, if you like.”
“I would,” Yasper said, fidgeting.
“She could use your skills,” Vera said, turning her gaze back to Raphael.
“I will be there shortly,” Raphael said.
As Vera and Yasper left for Benjamin’s manor, the trader said a few words to his team of drovers and the men flicked their switches at the teams of oxen hauling the wagons. Benjamin called on several of the older children to assist with the horses. Everyone moved very efficiently—it was a routine they all knew very well—and within moments, the square was empty of horses and oxen and wagons.
“Well,” Benjamin said, throwing his arms wide and indicating the village, “here we are. Everyone is together again. You are not pursued by a maddened horde of Mongols, and I hear that Batu Khan and the other Khans have discovered a pressing reason to return to the East. That is good news for Christendom, and excellent news for those of us who make our living moving goods along the Silk Road. It is a joyous time, yes?”
“It is,” Percival said when it became clear neither Feronantus nor Raphael were going to say anything. “I suppose you would like to have some manner of celebration.”
“Of course,” the trader said. “In fact, I should go attend to that immediately.” He glanced at Gawain and Evren and waved them along. “Come, you two. Let us open a bottle of wine and find soft pillows to put under our asses. We have done enough work for the day. I will send a boy out with water for these four. I suspect they will be talking awhile yet.”
After the trader had departed with Gawain and Evren, Feronantus squinted up at the warm sun. “Did you find Graymane?” he asked.
“No,” Raphael said. “And neither did you.”
“He attacked us, along with the other one. What was his name?” The last was directed at Haakon.
“Gansukh,” Haakon said.
“Gansukh,” Feronantus echoed. “Haakon stabbed that one.”
“We found the place where it happened,” Raphael said. “But we saw no sign of Gansukh. Nor Lian.”
Haakon stared at the ground, a light flush coloring his cheek and forehead.
“Am I missing something?” Raphael asked, and when neither man answered him, he moved on. “Do you still have it?” he asked Feronantus.
“Aye,” the old man said.
“Are you going to tell me why you took it?” Raphael demanded. “Why you abandoned us? Why you made us follow you to the heart of the Mongol empire and then left us there?” His voice rose in volume until he was shouting the last few words.
“I…I have seen—” Feronantus started.
Before he could stop himself, Raphael stepped forward and punched Feronantus hard in the mouth. Feronantus’s head snapped to the side, and a spatter of blood marred his lips. He raised a hand to his mouth and found the blood with his fingers. He raised his gaze to Raphael and seemed about to say something, but whether he was going to finish his previous sentence or say something else entirely, Raphael didn’t want to hear any of it.
“Go to hell,” Raphael snarled, and before the fury in his heart could vanish and he had to face what he had just done, he stalked off, heading after Vera and Yasper.
“What happened to your hand?” Vera asked a few minutes later as he carefully ran his fingers through Cnán’s hair.
“It’s nothing,” Raphael said.
Cnán was lying on her back on a small bed, her head resting on a soft pillow. Daylight was streaming in through the unshuttered window, and Raphael thought it might have been the same room where he had held his vigil for Vera after she and her sisters had been attacked by the Mongols. Cnán was aware of her visitors—her eyes tracked them as they clustered around the bed—but she did not speak. Her hair had been cut back, and Raphael wondered if Vera had done the same in an effort to elicit a reaction from Cnán.
“Who did you hit?” Vera asked, opting for a more direct question.
“No one,” Raphael lied. He immediately recanted. “Feronantus.”
Yasper let out a hiccup of dry laughter.
“Do you feel better?” Vera asked, not displaying the same level of amusement.
“No,” Raphael said.
“Do you think he feels better?”
“No.”
“Are you going to do it again?”
“No, probably not. Look”—he left off probing Cnán’s head and turned to Vera—“I’m trying to work.”
“Good,” Vera said. “You have some skill there, at least, in contrast with your lack of respect for authority.”
Raphael swallowed his words and returned his attention to Cnán. Vera stood up from the chair in which she had been sitting and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll talk with him,” she said softly.
He offered her a grunt in reply; her fingers tightened briefly and then she left. The room was quiet for a few moments, save for the faint sound of Cnán’s breathing.
“I…I like Vera,” Yasper offered in an effort to dismiss the tension still filling the sunlit chamber.
“Aye,” Raphael said. “I do too.”
At the end of the vineyard lay a tiny arbor of fruit trees arranged in an arc. Several benches made from rough-hewn spruce logs provided seating, and the view was across the stream and the wheat fields beyond. The fruit trees, when they were in full bloom, would screen the benches from the village, but as the trees had only started to bud, Raphael easily spotted both Feronantus and Vera sitting on the benches. He wandered past the pair and stood in front of the benches so that their pastoral view was marred by his presence.
“There’s nothing wrong with Cnán,” he said. “The wound was not that deep, and it was cleaned well after it happened. Her hair will grow back, although, unlike Samson, I do not think that is the source of her lack of spirit.” He crossed his arms, felt awkward being so imperious in his bearing, and dropped them, which felt no better. “Yasper won’t leave her side, which may be the best medicine for her right now.”
“Having someone keeping a vigil can make all the difference,” Vera said.
“Yasper once spent five months tending to the heating of a single alchemical experiment,” Raphael said. “I am certain he will remain at her side as long as necessary. Seeing such dedication in our company for another is admirable.”
Feronantus shifted on his bench but did not respond to Raphael’s comment. As the silence among the three of them lengthened, Raphael felt a scream building in him—a wailing cry that reminded him of the angry shriek of the firebird.
“When did you have your vision?” he asked Feronantus abruptly.
“I did not say…” Feronantus stopped and regarded his hands for a few moments. “Understanding came to me a few weeks ago,” he continued. “Maybe more than a month.”
“After you crossed the mountains?” Raphael asked, though he was thinking, After you left us.
“Aye.”
“Percival had several visions while we were journeying east, and it was during one of them that Alchiq Graymane was able to surprise Finn. Did you ever give any credence to Percival’s visions?”
“They were his visions,” Feronantus replied. “And if he had come to me and asked that we honor them, we would have…discussed them.”
“But you wouldn’t have turned back?”
“I can’t tell you what I might have done, Raphael. I do not look back on my past deeds. I only look forward.”
Raphael shook his head in disgust. How many of his brothers had been afflicted with this same madness? This pernicious desire, like that of a frightened child who seeks the approval of its father and mother, to be given purpose, to be rewarded with a sign that the right path had been chosen.
“I need for you to understand what I’ve seen,” Feronantus said.
“Why?” Raphael demanded. “It is your vision. If you won’t accept Percival’s, then why should I accept yours?”
Beside Feronantus, Vera stirred and shook her head slightly, trying to dissuade Raphael from his choice of words.
“I have not had a vision, Raphael,” Feronantus said plainly. “Not in the sense that plagues you so constantly. I am not like the boy you knew at Damietta. What was his name? Eptor? I do not suffer like he does. Nor do I become transfixed by the divine spirit like Percival, who does not even understand what has happened to him. I am not some poorly educated devout soldier who desperately yearns to be rewarded with some sign that his years spent killing men has earned him a place in a mystical pantheon. I have been a member of the order longer than you have been alive, Raphael of Acre. I was there, fighting for God and King, in the very streets you toddled through as a child. Some of the stains on the stones of the citadel wall may be from my blood. When I speak of seeing what is to come, I know what I speak is true because I have spent my entire life studying the patterns of the Vor.”
“The Vor?” Raphael sneered. “That is nothing more than oplo mysticism, cheap words to make the young men train harder. Men do not see what is to come, either in or out of combat. The Vor is a lie.”
“Like God?” Feronantus asked.
“I will strike you again if you utter another blasphemy like that,” Raphael said.
“How I can blaspheme against that which I have never given my heartfelt loyalty?” Feronantus asked. “If the Church truly knew who we are, they would brand us heretics. All of us, including you—your relationship with that most educated of emperors notwithstanding.” Feronantus let out a dry laugh. “Your heart stopped believing in God years ago, Raphael. It is the rest of you that has not yet let go.”
Raphael lunged at Feronantus with every intention of following through on his earlier threat, but Feronantus calmly pushed his fist aside with one hand and slapped Raphael hard across the cheek with the other. Raphael staggered, more shocked than hurt.
“I let you strike me once because you needed to expel that hurt you have been carrying for so long, but I am not an old fool who will suffer disrespect from those who should know better.” Feronantus’s eyes were bright and they bored into Raphael. “And if you do not take your hand off your knife, I will break his left arm,” he continued, his voice hardening even further. His eyes did not leave Raphael. “Not his right, because I am not a cruel man, but I will not hesitate to hurt him because that is the most efficient way to disarm both of you.”
Raphael finally realized Feronantus was not talking to him, and he turned his head slowly and looked over at Vera, who was still seated, but her right hand was hidden behind her back, where he knew she kept her sheathed knife. “Vera…”
“He’s right,” Vera said, bringing her hand out and setting it in her lap. “I would have stopped if he had hurt you.” She leaned forward, her mouth tightening, and Raphael saw in her eyes the same indomitable drive that he had seen that morning when they had ridden against the Khagan. “But I will turn that weakness in my heart into something else, Feronantus,” she said, her voice as cold and hard as his. “You have lost your advantage by recognizing it.”
“I know, Vera of Kiev,” Feronantus said with a sigh. “You do the Skjalddis proud. You need not fear my intentions. I give you my word that I will protect him from bodily harm. I will be his shield.”
“And I will be his sword,” she said softly. “Always.” She stood, making eye contact with Raphael and then staring at Feronantus until the old master of Tyrshammar looked up at her. “Decide,” she said, making sure that both of them understood what she was demanding of them, and then she left the arbor, heading back for the village.
“Decide what?” Raphael asked when she was gone.
“I mean to go north, with all due haste.” Feronantus levered himself off the bench and stood close to Raphael. “We know the Teutonics are marching on Rus, and Vera would have us aid her sisters if we can.”
“It’s more than that, isn’t it?” Raphael asked.
Feronantus was silent for a long moment. “There is something that must be done,” he said finally. “Things that have not been a part of the world for a very long time have been awakened. They must be set on the right path.”
“And that path lies in the north?”
Feronantus shook his head. “The path lies everywhere and nowhere, Raphael. The next step is in the north. All of us will be asked to make great sacrifices.”
“All of us? Who do you count in that group?”
“You.” Feronantus laid his hand upon Raphael’s shoulder. His grip was strong and his gaze did not waver. “I would have you and Vera see what I see, Raphael.”
“What of the others? Haakon? Yasper? Cnán?”
Feronantus smiled at him. “They’re safe, Raphael. You brought them back. I lost too many of our brothers, but you didn’t. You saved them.”
Gawain found the young Northerner wandering around in the stable. The trio of local boys who had been tasked with caring for their horses moved efficiently around the dawdling Northerner. Haakon was not the first to stand in the way while the boys mucked the stalls and fed the horses. “It’s a good place to hide,” Gawain said, and Haakon only glanced at him sheepishly.
“They’re leaving in the morning,” Gawain continued, jerking a thumb at the activity going on around them.
“Aye,” Haakon said with a sigh. “I’ve heard.”
“Are you going with them?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Haakon was perplexed by the question.
“I don’t know,” Gawain said. “Why are you hiding in here?”
“I’m not hiding.”
“No?” Gawain shrugged. “My mistake, then.” He gestured at the row of saddles arranged along the far wall. “I’ll just get what I came for and leave you to your…introspection.”
Haakon grunted, and Gawain wandered to the saddles where he busied himself. The straps were all tightly fastened and cinched to the right length. The leather had been cleaned and polished, and his saddlebags were in the common room he was sharing with Percival and Evren. There wasn’t anything he needed to attend to, nor was a concern for his saddle the reason he had come to the stable.
“What…where will you go?” Haakon asked.
Gawain hid his smile and turned around. “South. Ahmet had a cousin who owns a few boats in Antalya. Evren and I were thinking of telling the cousin about what happened to Ahmet. After that…”
“You would become a sellsword?”
Gawain shrugged. “Nothing much else for men like us. I’m not one to swear vows of poverty and chastity, and the rest get caught up in wars that mean nothing to me. It doesn’t sound like much of a life.” He wandered back to Haakon and pointed out the open doors of the stable at the fields in the distance. “You could marry one of the local girls—I’m sure Benjamin could arrange such a union —and become a farmer. Work the land until your hands are covered with calluses and your back is curved by the weight of the plow.”
“My father was a fisherman,” Haakon said. He raised his hands and showed them to Gawain. “Different set of calluses.”
“You don’t have your father’s hands,” Gawain said.
“Aye, I do not,” Haakon said. “His were never stained with as much blood as mine.”
Gawain shook his head. “We all have blood on our hands, Haakon. We knew it was going to happen as soon as we picked up our first swords. It was a choice we made. You can’t wash it off, boy. That’s what makes us men. It makes us who we are.”
“Do you know who the first man I ever killed was?” Haakon asked.
Gawain shook his head. “I didn’t know the name of the first man I ever killed. I’m not sure I even saw his face.”
“I did,” Haakon said. “I watched mine die. His name was ?gedei Khan, son of Genghis Khan. He was the Khagan of the Mongol empire.”
“Well, he’s a bit more memorable of a foe than some Danish marauder wearing a helmet,” Gawain said.
“You knew?”
“Aye, Bruno told me about your confession around the fire.”
Haakon was silent for a moment. He toyed with the handle of the knife shoved in his belt, and Gawain thought it was probably the blade the boy had taken from the Khagan. “Get rid of it,” he said gently.
“What?”
“The knife. It’s a trophy, and as long as you have it, you’re not going to be able to forget his face.”
“I’m never going to forget his face,” Haakon said.
“You will,” Gawain said. “It will happen. It just takes time.” He clapped Haakon on the shoulder. “Or a lot of wine. Come with me, young master. I will show you the rest of the world. Let us find a way for you to forget.”
Haakon thought about Gawain’s process, his fingers drumming on the hilt of the knife. Then, with a curt nod, he pulled the sheathed blade out of his belt and walked with stiff legs to the saddles. Standing before the one that belonged to Feronantus, Haakon pulled the blade from its sheath, dropping the leather cover on the ground, and Gawain wondered what the boy was going to do. Haakon hesitated for a moment, wrestling with some thoughts, and then he took several steps to his left and drove the point of the blade into the leather seat of a different saddle—the one belonging to Raphael. “I’m with you,” he said to Gawain as he walked away from the stuck blade.
1242
VELJA NOC