When she reached the area where the Mongol tents stood in dense rows, there were more familiar faces. She insisted on being helped down from the horse, then followed word of mouth until she reached one particular tent.

  Perhaps the bleeding still had not stopped. Whether from excitement or shock, she felt no pain, but the wound on her chest throbbed wetly, making her feel sick. She pulled the collar of the cloak tighter, pressing it against the wound.

  It’s fine.

  I’m still me.

  Nothing has changed since before Norjin appeared.

  I investigate on my own. I decide on my own. I fight alone.

  Just as always.

  Even so—

  I want him.

  Zaya pushed aside the flap of the tent and stepped inside. Norjin was seated on a chair. She was in tatters herself, but he looked equally worn, exhaustion etched into his face. Still, he greeted her with that familiar, infuriatingly handsome smile.

  “Well now. I thought you’d be waiting obediently for me to come back.”

  He was alive. The usual banter.

  “For the man I love, I can be obedient too,” Zaya replied lightly. “That’s only natural, isn’t it?”

  Something about her words triggered him. In two strides Norjin was in front of her, gently lifting the hand she had pressed to her chest. He opened the cloak.

  The wound cut diagonally across her dark skin—running from the upper curve of her right breast toward her left ribs. Blood still welled faintly along it.

  Norjin’s vision went white. For a moment he nearly lost consciousness.

  Suppressing the nausea, he sat her down in his chair, dropped to his knees, and stripped the upper half of her deel from her shoulders.

  “What the hell is this.”

  “I let my guard down.”

  “I’ll get a physician—”

  “No.” Zaya grabbed him before he could stand. “You do it. Clean it. Stop the bleeding. You might need to stitch it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I want you to do it. I won’t let anyone else touch me.”

  Norjin shook his head once, then leaned out of the tent, barking orders for water and medicine.

  The wound ran dangerously close to her breast. Kneeling, Norjin carefully wiped away the dried blood with a damp felt cloth. Feeling his gaze on her bare chest, Zaya turned her face aside, heat rushing to her cheeks. It seemed the adrenaline had finally worn off.

  When he poured alcohol over the wound, her body went rigid as she bit down on the pain.

  Norjin prepared the needle.

  “Making me do this is torture,” he muttered. “You’ll pay dearly for it.”

  The needle pierced her skin.

  “Ow—!”

  Her body arched involuntarily.

  “Say something,” she begged. “Something to distract me.”

  “Be quiet.”

  The rare seriousness on his face was unbearably dear to her. Zaya slid her hand into his hair.

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  “Strong brows. Long lashes. Eyes like warm brown agate, thoughtful and sad.”

  Her finger traced his chin as she clenched her teeth.

  “Smooth, pale skin… I wonder what it feels like to run my hands over it.”

  “Stop,” Norjin growled.

  “Norjin,” she whispered. “How would you take me?”

  The final stitch passed through her skin.

  “Aah—!”

  Norjin exhaled sharply.

  “That’s a dangerous sound,” he said hoarsely. “I could listen to it every night.”

  She glared up at him.

  He cut the thread, pressed ointment-soaked felt to the wound, and wrapped cloth around her torso.

  “There. Done.”

  “Thank you.”

  Relief softened her into a smile—and suddenly his face was very close.

  “Say it again,” he murmured. “How I’d take you.”

  “Wha—”

  Norjin slid his left knee between her legs, wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her close. His lips brushed her cheek. His hand closed over her uninjured breast.

  Zaya twisted to escape, but he held her fast.

  “You provoked me,” he whispered against her ear, hot breath sending shivers down her spine. “I warned you the price would be high.”

  Her body jerked. She shoved him away and sprang to her feet.

  Norjin sighed quietly.

  “Stubborn,” he said. “For someone so sensitive.”

  Zaya hastily covered her chest.

  “If I wanted it, I’d already be doing it. I just don’t feel like it.”

  “What a crude thing to say,” he replied with a smile that didn’t soften his eyes. “It’s called making love. Exploring every inch of each other.”

  He stepped toward her, a predator’s smile on his lips.

  “Sinking myself deep inside you,” he said softly, “slowly, thoroughly, until you’re filled with nothing but me.”

  Her heart hammered. Heat surged through her body as she stepped back.

  Norjin picked up the cloak at his feet and tossed it to her.

  “Sit tight. I’ll find you something you can wear.”

  With a grin, he left the tent.

  “Honestly…”

  Zaya exhaled, draping the cloak over her shoulders as she sat. The place his fingers had touched still burned.

  Behind them, the Mongol armies gathered around the smoldering remains of Vladimir. Forces from Suzdal, from the Kipchak steppe where the Polovtsians had been wiped out, all converged. The princes were gaining victories, gaining experience.

  Batu divided the army. He sent his brother Orda, along with Güyük, M?ngke, and the other princes north toward Rostov. He himself would take the remaining forces toward Tver, to rendezvous on the Volga-Don plain. Boraqchin would follow with the rear guard.

  The western campaign was proceeding flawlessly.

  Yet the true test still lay ahead.

  Batu tightened his resolve.

  The sky over Kiev that day was piercingly clear, beautiful enough to suggest a fleeting spring. The bells of Saint Sophia Cathedral rang, calling the people together. Shops closed, work halted, and the streets filled with those walking toward the great church.

  The domes gleamed under the sun. From outside the cathedral looked squat and solid, but within, gold mosaics and radiant icons gazed down, recreating the world of God.

  Incense thickened the air. Chanting began, voices echoing until direction dissolved and people slipped into prayer.

  The bishop appeared in golden vestments, his mitre gleaming, icons swaying on his chest as if Mary and Christ themselves dwelled there.

  “My brothers and sisters,” he began.

  The crowd bowed, crossed themselves, fell into stillness.

  “We have heard rumors—that from the east, men bearing swords have begun to move once more. Whether these are exaggerations or shadows born of fear, we do not yet know. But the Lord knows what we fear—and what we refuse to see.

  “God often tests hearts before He tests swords. This land has known trials before, yet the Lord did not abandon it. Therefore, before we take up arms, we must prepare our souls.

  “Repent. Care for your neighbor. And wait for the Lord’s wisdom.

  “Not all has been revealed. But prayer is never time wasted.”

  A murmur spread. The word Tatar whispered from mouth to mouth.

  “The Lord does not sleep,” the bishop continued. “If we prepare, He will not abandon us.”

  The chanting resumed. Heads bowed again.

  Vasily prayed as well.

  “Please… let my son’s cold pass. Let the vegetables in the back garden grow well.”

  Beside him, Tosha bit down hard, struggling not to laugh.