Three days later, Norjin woke.

  Everything was hazy. Above him rose the ceiling of a conical tent. Bundles of medicinal herbs and leather pouches hung from the walls. The scent of the steppe filled the air. I’m back, Norjin thought—then his consciousness slipped away again.

  A week later, he woke clearly.

  This was not his tent. It was Zaya’s. He had been laid to rest in Zaya’s tent. Wrapped in a sense of safety, Norjin closed his eyes once more.

  He woke again to the presence of someone nearby. An old woman sat beside his bed. Zaya’s grandmother. Seeing that he was awake, she began preparing tea. It was not Mongol tea, but a clear brew with a refreshing fragrance.

  Norjin slowly pushed himself upright. The wound pulled, but the pain was manageable. The old woman handed him a bowl.

  “Drink slowly,” she said.

  Norjin took the bowl and sipped. Coolness spread through his mouth.

  “Where’s Zaya?”

  “She was summoned by Lord Batu.”

  Norjin hurriedly returned the bowl and tried to get out of bed. His strength failed him at once. Worse still, he realized he had once again been stripped completely naked.

  “You can’t get up yet,” the old woman scolded gently. “And where do you think you’re going like that?”

  As he opened his mouth to protest, the tent flap lifted and Zaya came in.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Clothes,” Norjin demanded.

  “No,” Zaya replied flatly. “I still have to change your bandages again and again. It’s a hassle.”

  “You looked,” Norjin shot her a glare.

  “Yes,” she said lightly. “Curious what my preferences are?”

  “Good grief,” Norjin groaned. “You’re a young woman—don’t you have any sense of shame?”

  Zaya crossed her arms and looked down at him.

  “Hah. I’ve grown up watching sheep and horses rut and breed. You really think seeing yours would shock me?

  Norjin stared at her for a heartbeat—then burst out laughing.

  “Hey—don’t put me in the same pen as a horse.”

  “Enough, you two,” the old woman cut in. “Zaya, what did you hear from Lord Batu?”

  Zaya’s expression sobered.

  “Dogon has returned. It seems the rebel tribes have been wiped out. It took some time, though.”

  “Oh,” Norjin replied indifferently. Dogon no longer held the slightest interest for him.

  The old woman draped a fur over Norjin’s shoulders.

  “There was no one left at the abandoned temple. And… about that sister of yours—”

  Norjin understood at once from Zaya’s tone.

  “You don’t have to say it,” he interrupted.

  “Sorry,” Zaya said, apologetic for bringing bad news.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “Zaya, are you there?”

  A low male voice sounded from outside the tent.

  “I am. Who is it?”

  Zaya stepped outside. Norjin tried to rise, struggling.

  “Don’t be reckless,” the old woman warned. “The stitches will tear.”

  Ignoring her, Norjin clenched his teeth, forced himself out of bed, and staggered toward the entrance. Wrapping the fur around his body, he pushed aside the flap, paused to catch his breath, then stepped outside.

  Near the fire, Zaya was standing and talking with a man. Their words didn’t carry clearly, but the man’s face was visible.

  Taghray.

  Norjin sank down at the tent entrance, folded his arms over his knees, and rested his chin on them, watching the two intently.

  Taghray noticed Norjin’s intense gaze. He lifted a hand briefly in greeting.

  Seeing this, Zaya turned around, spotted Norjin, and her eyes widened.

  “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be resting!”

  She hurried over and tried to help him stand. Norjin draped an arm over her shoulder and slowly rose.

  As he turned, he cast a hard look at Taghray. Taghray met his gaze, gave a wry smile, and walked away.

  Taghray’s workplace lay a short distance from Batu’s great tent, in an area where foot traffic naturally crossed. Small tents belonging to aides, interpreters, and negotiators clustered nearby.

  Entering his workspace and sitting at his desk, Taghray loosened the cords at the collar of his deel. Sloppy, perhaps, but he hated tightness around his neck.

  Taghray had the robust, well-developed upper body typical of a Mongol warrior, yet his angular jaw carried something faintly Western in its lines. When he smiled, a dimple appeared in his left cheek—but he rarely smiled. Instead, his brow was often furrowed, giving him a perpetually displeased look. A lock of hair fell onto his forehead, which he brushed aside irritably.

  As the official in charge of western affairs—particularly diplomacy, trade, and negotiations with Bulgar and the Rus—Taghray did not shave his head. He kept his hair short and tied back.

  Sorting through the stacked documents, he recalled the day Batu had informed him of the kurultai’s decision earlier that autumn.

  The great tent had been filled with the principal generals. There, Taghray was told that the order for the western campaign had been issued, and that the invasion would begin immediately after the snow melted the following year.

  War with the Rus, including Volga Bulgar, had been ongoing since the time of Batu’s grandfather, Genghis Khan. Skirmishes had never truly ceased, but after securing Bashkiria, the region had seen several years of uneasy calm.

  Given that history, it had been expected that the Great Khan’s unfinished plans would someday be set in motion. That day had come. Ogedei Khan was said to be mild-tempered and fond of mediation, but faced with his father’s final command, he could hardly refuse to act.

  “You are to depart at once and head for negotiations with Bulgar and the Rus states. These are the terms.”

  Batu handed him a document. Taghray scanned it swiftly. The demands were harsh, but initial offers were meant to be excessive. He nodded.

  “Understood. How far may I concede?”

  “Bring me results as quickly as possible. Ah—Boraqchin said she wants to see you later.”

  “Understood. And—”

  “I’m leaving it to you. You know this better than I do—far better.”

  Batu laughed.

  “General Subutai will be coming. And then—”

  Batu was no longer looking at him.

  Taghray bowed, left the great tent, and headed for Boraqchin’s tent.

  Zaya was there. Dogon too, seated at the table on the right, eating something—as usual.

  “Welcome back, Zaya.”

  A voice behind her. She coughed, nearly choking, and turned. Taghray stood there.

  Zaya had tried not to think about him the entire journey, but now he was right in front of her—tall, composed, wearing that familiar, effortless confidence.

  Her heartbeat thudded painfully. She turned her face away, pretending to examine the decorations along the tent wall.

  “Taghray worried about you every day,” Boraqchin said, casting him a sidelong glance. “He entrusted you with command, yet kept wondering whether you would return safely—whether word might come from the caravan. Every single day.”

  “I’m not a child anymore,” Zaya snapped, her ears burning red as she protested to her foster mother.Every day was an exaggeration. Taghray gave a small, strained smile.

  Boraqchin’s request was that he find land suitable for grazing and wintering during the western campaign. The entire ulus was already moving toward that grand undertaking.

  As Taghray turned to return to his workplace, he felt a gaze and glanced back. At the far end of the table where Dogon had been sitting stood a slender man in a deep indigo deel. He was young, pale, and clearly not of the Jochid ulus.

  “He came from Karakorum with a letter,” Boraqchin said, surrounded by maidservants as she continued her work.

  The man inclined his upper body in a slow, formal bow. His movements were precise, almost too refined for this place—marking him as a civil official, someone who would not linger long.

  Taghray returned the nod lightly and left Boraqchin’s tent. He needed to prepare for his journey to the Rus lands.