Claire Delacroix

For all my wonderful friends at RWA Ontario. Thanks.

Maragha—in modern Azerbaijan—February 1265

C
hinkai’s body was as cold as the dawn.

Thierry gritted his teeth at the volume of spilled blood, knowing that he would never grow used to the killing.

The wan fingers of light straining above the horizon did naught to warm the air, though their meager illumination showed Thierry the pallor of the old warrior’s skin. Chinkai had been dead for some hours, mayhap since the previous eve. Too late, Thierry recalled that the grizzled warrior had left the khan’s funeral celebrations and not returned.

That Chinkai’s death was not a natural one was beyond doubt. No mistaking was there the viciousness of the slash across the throat that had ended his life, nor the copious quantity of dried blood staining his
kalat.
Indeed, it seemed the old warrior’s eyes were still glazed with shock at the suddenness of his own demise.

Thierry swallowed carefully and forced himself to touch the older man’s wizened flesh. ‘Twas cold as stone.

Indeed, he had expected naught else, but still his bile rose. He lifted his gaze and scanned the silent camp, seeking some clue of what had transpired but knowing all the while he would find none. Just Chinkai, dead and alone on the grassy plain.

But one thing had Chinkai and Thierry in common and Thierry could not evict the thought from his mind. Thierry eyed the corpse as though willing it to confirm or deny his fears.

Both had aspired to be khan.

Had Chinkai died for his ambition?

The old khan was dead and opportunity was ripe for the selection of a new khan. But three candidates were there within the tribe. The third, Abaqa, was the son of the old khan. Though this assured him naught, Abaqa was known to be ambitious.

Now Chinkai drew breath no longer and Thierry could not help but wonder how ambitious Abaqa truly was.

Thierry jumped at the muffled sound of a footfall, only to meet the bright gaze of Abaqa. He stiffened warily despite himself and hoped naught of his thoughts showed in his expression.

Was he to join Chinkai this very morn?

“Too much drinking for our old comrade?” Abaqa inquired cheerfully. Thierry met the speculation in the other man’s eyes and knew Abaqa saw more than his words revealed.

“Hardly that,” Thierry replied tightly. “His throat has been slit.”

“Ah.” Abaqa jammed his thumbs into his belt as he paused beside the pair. Thierry was forced to look up from where he squatted to hold the other man’s gaze. “Mayhap a squabble over a woman,” Abaqa suggested with calm disinterest.

“I should think not,” Thierry said dismissively. Abaqa’s brows rose.

“Mayhap you
should
think so,” he said silkily.

It seemed he had guessed aright. Thierry let his gaze drop to Chinkai and willed his heart to slow.

‘Twas evident he was being threatened, though Thierry would know clearly how or why. Should Abaqa be behind Chinkai’s death, Thierry would hear the threat fall in full from the man’s lips. He straightened slowly and braced his own hands on his hips, savoring his height advantage over Abaqa.

“Indeed?” he asked stonily.

“Indeed,” Abaqa affirmed. His dark eyes narrowed as he assessed Thierry. “‘Twould seem to be unhealthy to not share my opinion these days.”

“Your sire is but dead three days and no guarantee have you of the khanate,” Thierry observed with forced calm. Abaqa’s brows arched high.

“Nay?” he asked with feigned surprise. “Tell me not that you, too, believe the best-qualified man will hold the position.”

“Always has it been thus,” Thierry argued, but Abaqa laughed cynically.

“Nay,” he whispered with evident delight. “Always has it been the
survivor
who became khan and none other.” His eyes widened slightly as he watched Thierry absorb the assertion, then he stepped back and glanced to the fallen man with open disgust. “Fool,” Abaqa muttered deprecatingly, the single word telling Thierry to be on his guard.

Thierry had best take to sleeping with an eye open.

Unexpectedly those bright eyes swiveled to lock with Thierry’s regard once more, though this time the hint of a mocking smile played on Abaqa’s lips. “No one else need see this but you,” he whispered. A chill tripped down Thierry’s spine but he refused to look away.

“Chinkai’s absence is not likely to go unnoticed,” he commented. Abaqa’s smile broadened.

“My sire will be buried in the full Mongol tradition,” Abaqa reminded him. “Who will know if one human sacrifice is a little more cold than the others?”

He would feign a sacrifice to cover his crime? Thierry was shocked that even Abaqa could be so callous. But one glimpse of the determination in the set of the other man’s chin told him that he was a fool to even doubt the other man’s intent.

“You cannot do this thing,” Thierry protested, knowing the futility of his objection even as he made it.

“Nay, I can and will have it done. I, however, will be occupied with becoming khan.” Abaqa paused dramatically and eyed Thierry. “Which is why you will do this,” he added quietly. “For your new khan. I trust you will make a good show.”

“You cannot know that you will be khan,” Thierry argued tightly. Abaqa leaned closer, his sharp scent invading Thierry’s nostrils with a vengeance.

“I
will
be khan,” Abaqa growled. “And you will kiss my boot, one way or the other. Just as Chinkai did. Do you understand our ways that much, outsider?” This last was delivered with an eloquent sneer.

Outsider. Despite all Thierry had done and all the years he had labored for the exaltation of the tribe. How many assaults had he led? How many successful forays had he planned? And all of it meant naught because of the taint of his mixed blood. Rage rose within Thierry that he should be so threatened at the very moment when all he had aspired to dangled within reach.

“Kubilai himself once told me that there could be no outsider with the legacy of Chinggis Khan’s blood running in his veins,” Thierry said. Abaqa laughed, and the brittle sound carried far in the chill morning air.

“That same lineage runs in my veins, as well you know,” he argued. His lip curled before he continued. “But ‘tis not thinned with western swill.”

The two men’s gazes locked and held for a charged moment. “Face the truth, Qaraq-Bäke,” Abaqa hissed. “The best man will be khan and that man will be me. You will kiss my boot or not live to tell the tale.”

Clearly unless Thierry was willing to adopt Abaqa’s tactics, the khanate would not be his. He dared not look to Chinkai, though the fallen warrior’s image was crystal clear in his mind.

He was not willing to pay that price. He could not slaughter Abaqa to ensure his own ascendancy.

At the same instant that Thierry realized he was not prepared to commit murder, he saw in Abaqa’s expression precisely the opposite. Abaqa would stop at naught to be khan. Thierry would be wise to mind his back, at least until Abaqa was certain of his ascendancy.

And until Thierry decided what path he would take from here.

“I will see to Chinkai,” Thierry conceded gruffly. Abaqa grinned anew, displaying his array of yellowed teeth.

“Always did my sire consider you to be an intelligent man,” he purred. “Mayhap he was right about something.” He winked evilly, then turned and positively danced back to the camp. Thierry watched the older man go as he struggled to rein in his anger. Little option did he have, in truth. His own pride to the contrary, his only real choice was to do Abaqa’s bidding.

At least for the time being.

He fought against the ground swell of disappointment that raged through him. So long he had labored for naught!

But Thierry had waited for his opportunity before and it seemed he would wait for it again. Time could only make his position stronger, and he was yet young. Even without his intervention, Abaqa could not live forever.

Thierry could afford to wait and work a little longer. He would continue. He would follow Abaqa’s bidding. He would form another plan. And one day, the fate that he coveted would be his alone. It was his destiny.

But on this morning there was Chinkai. The camp was stirring to life and Thierry gritted his teeth as he bent to bear Chinkai away. Only too well did he understand that failure in any task Abaqa granted him would be seen as a sign of disloyalty to the new khan.

And no intention had Thierry of granting Abaqa such an easy victory.

* * *

Far across the plains of Asia, a man awakened in the night, haunted by ghostly visions of unicorns. Angry unicorns whose manes were snarled and whose feet tore impatiently at the ground, they set his heart to furious pounding.

He tossed and turned and tore himself from sleep. The sound of his ragged breathing filled the room. He stared wide-eyed at the ceiling and fancied he still saw their blazing eyes.

He shivered despite himself. A dream. ‘Twas no more than a dream. Dagobert clutched the coverlet as he fought to slow his breathing in the calm of the house. His palms were damp. To his astonishment he realized that ‘twas heavy red samite that filled his hands, not the cotton coverlet he knew should be there.

He needed not to look to know ‘twas the banner of his house, the one he knew to be safely stored away. ‘Twas the one graced by the image of a single prancing unicorn that was inexplicably unfurled over the bed.

But look he did.

‘Twas that very one. His heart missed a beat and an unfamiliar panic uncoiled in his veins. What did it mean? Why had the dream come to him?

The wan moonlight played tricks with his sight, for the embroidered gems encircling the beast’s brow appeared as pearls in its otherworldly glow. Well did Dagobert know that Alienor had chosen the blood red floss of rubies for her work. He blinked, his heart raced, but the vision remained stubbornly unchanged.

He exhaled shakily and looked to his slumbering wife, noting how the moonlight traced the filigree of silver in her dark tresses cast across the pillows. The vestiges of his disturbing dream made him seek out the echo of his lost son’s features in her peaceful visage. When he found what he sought, he closed his eyes against the pain of recollection.

But one thing had he promised the boy and that one thing he had not done. How he hated a task unfulfilled. Was this dream a reminder of that failure?

Dagobert looked to his sleeping wife once more. For a moment he feared that she was as insubstantial as the capricious moonlight, the ghostly pearls, his lost son. He tentatively touched one fingertip to her cheek, half-afraid of what he might feel.

The warm satin of Alienor’s skin reassured him, as always it had. He released the breath trapped in his lungs and let his fingertips slide over her cheek in a slow caress as determination filled him anew.

So far they had come, so much they had lost, yet this one greatest treasure remained his. Dagobert smiled in relief and closed his eyes, willing his mind to supply the tang of salt air that had teased his nostrils in his dream.

That alone had been welcome. ‘Twas the smell of home. ‘Twas the smell of the wind vaulting over the high walls of his ancestral home of Montsalvat. Too long had he been without the bite of that wind against his skin.

Suddenly Dagobert knew with unerring conviction that his son yet lived and that he would find him at Montsalvat. That was, without doubt, the message his dream bore. His eyes flew open, though this time he saw naught but the ceiling itself arched above the bed.

There could he tell the boy of his heritage, he concluded with rising excitement. There alone could he complete the task that had been set before him. There alone could he happily pass from this world, should his time deign to come. Resolution flooded through him and he gathered Alienor close to his side, anticipation flickering to life within him.

Time ‘twas to go home. And should the ghosts of the past demand to be confronted, Dagobert would meet them at Montsalvat.

* * *

Back in Languedoc, far west of both Thierry and Dagobert, the rising sun gilded the azure of the Mediterranean and burnished the ramparts of a fortress perched high in the hills. In the stables of that fortress, name of Montsalvat, an old knight urged yet another goat kid into the world.

A good spring it was proving to be and milk in ample quantities would they have this year, he thought with pride. He turned the new arrival, showing the young goatherd how to clean the mucus from the creature’s nostrils before he noticed the deformity.

The beast had but one nub where a horn would grow.

Eustache’s breath caught in his throat at the sign, for it could be naught else. He reached out and touched the creature’s damp brow, ignoring the mother’s protesting bleat.

‘Twas time again. Twenty years had it been since a goat had been born thus at Montsalvat. Twenty years. He had almost begun to fear that he would not live to see the next attempt to regain the lost legacy.

But here was no mistaking the portent of this oddity. ‘Twas rare that the beast who graced the standard of the Pereilles came to life, and when it did so, especially here at the family’s home, all knew to be prepared.

Eustache let the thrill of anticipation ripple through him as he stroked the newborn’s brow. Time again to stake the ancient claim that had long been denied. He would indeed see the day.

His mind raced with possibilities, his excitement rising that he might yet again lay eyes on his old comrade, Dagobert de Pereille. And the son! A mere babe he had been when they had left these walls behind, but that had been twenty years past. The babe must by now be a man.

Would this be his time? Would he gain the prize and vindicate his family?

Eustache straightened and stood suddenly, his mind filling with the responsibilities before him. Aid would be needed, arms and men and supplies. As temporary master of Montsalvat, the provision of all fell to Eustache.

All his knighted life had he served the Pereille clan and he would not fail in this task. A list began to form in his mind even as he left the stables, but Eustache smiled as he stepped out into the first blush of the dawn. They would be relying upon him to be prepared. And Eustache knew well what had to be done.