One evening during the Khuriltai, Zhenjin and his vassals walked the dark, biting streets of Kharakhorin, looking for all the world like typical tourists. The street life here was a stark ghost of the bustling thoroughfares of DaDu or Xanadu, which teemed with master craftsmen and the vibrant steam of street food. In Kharakhorin, there were no musicians to sweeten the air; it was bitterly cold, and the lanterns were few and far between. Every subject of Ariq seemed focused on a single, grim purpose: the breeding and care of the war-horse. To the south, the jagged spine of the Himalayas rose like a wall of ice against the stars.

  "What lies beyond those mountain ranges?" Cheongsun asked, pulling his cloak tighter.

  "Little kingdoms that face the sea," Zhenjin replied, his mind drifting to the humid air of Annam. "We will all go there one day. We shall take a junk to Tawalesi to learn the secrets of the waves and the wind. Urduja will show us the way."

  "Yes, I will, Khazan Zhenjin!" Urduja chimed in, her eyes dancing. "We shall set sail tonight! We could leave all of this behind!"

  She and Zhenjin exchanged a conspiratorial smile, but as they walked on, the conversation turned heavy.

  "There is no getting away from this for me, little one," Zhenjin admitted, his voice thick with regret. "I am trapped." For a fleeting moment, a great urge washed over him—to shed his office and the suffocating expectations of leadership.

  "I have never seen so many Temple Monks in my entire life," Huaizong observed, nodding toward the shadows. "They are trouble-makers. They preach of peace, but they are clearly preparing for war."

  "I have not seen a single member of my father's Kheshig, nor even M?ngke’s," Zhenjin noted.

  "Hiding with the herders," said Kheshtar Yang.

  "The Temple Monks here are armed to the teeth," Huaizong added. "It is a fight waiting to happen."

  "In this place, there are only two paths," Zhenjin mused. "You either breed horses in the dirt, or you enter a temple and prepare for blood. There is nothing else. It is easy for a man to get bored here, and bored men seek conflict." He looked around the desolate intersection. "And where is the Falconer Dogan? Is he dead? Hiding?"

  "Hiding in the high steppes with the herders and your father’s loyalists," Yang confirmed.

  "My impulse is to think Kaidu offends them," Zhenjin grumbled. "The Telparthin looked like a gaudy dance hall, and that throne in the middle... it’s an insult. The Telperüün is Genghis’ war room."

  "It is fashionable now to have a king," Mahintha argued. "Otherwise, the clans simply devour each other. After all, isn't Khubilai Khan a king?"

  "The Khan is the Emperor of Xina," Zhenjin stated firmly. "Without an Emperor, Xina will not run. It requires a central government to decide everything. Without an Emperor, we will not have grain."

  "Lan was a kingdom long before Khubilai was an Emperor," Mahintha countered. "Is that just a fashion trend?"

  "An Emperor is a king above a king," Urduja interjected, looking worried.

  "Above king, above king, above king!" Mahintha added playfully, breaking the tension. The vassals laughed, though Mahintha’s voice softened. "Lan's future is no longer in my hands. Perhaps it never was."

  "You are the son of Prince Klaputra," Zhenjin countered.

  "I am not so certain of that," Mahintha confessed. "When the war broke out, my mother did not stay to fight. She fled. I was born on the very night Khubilai spared Huaizong's life in the harem. She thought she would burn. She could have determined the outcome of that war if she had placed her wealth behind a man, but she trusted no one—not Prince Klaputra, nor General Ng."

  "You just want to keep your brewery," Huaizong teased.

  "Well, yes," Mahintha stated with conviction. "Mother told me a brewer is more popular than a king. A baker is more popular than a king. Power perverts the soul, but beyond power and wealth, we still need beer and bread."

  "Hear, hear!" the Vassal Heirs cheered. "Wise words!"

  "Kharakhorin doesn't need an emperor," Kheshtar Yang noted. "It has never had one."

  "Until now," Huaizong finished.

  "Kaidu just wants to squeeze coin from his brothers," Mahintha argued. "And Ariq wants to crown Kaidu, not Ulaan, as the Khan of Kharakhorin."

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  "Ulaan is the better leader! The better horseman!" the Tawalesi girls and Uddiawan chorused.

  "The better planner, the better accountant, the better person," Mahintha added.

  "Ariq is old-fashioned," Zhenjin said. "He believes only men should rule."

  They stopped at a small, plain eatery at the intersection. The heirs ordered cups of hot tea and kumis. The cups were chipped and the seats were rough wood. The Kharaks, it seemed did not value refinery.

  Khublai’s Kheshig are relaxing with the Toluid herders.

  "The four Khans return soon. I’m glad to be home. I miss the open steppes. Living within walls is stifling.” Arghun complains

  ”We will be returning to those palace walls in a few days”. Says Subotai. “It’s not all that bad.”

  ”Khublai has sold his soul to those five temple masters.” Arghun asserts

  “Grain is important”. Bhatu-khan says.

  ”Yes but so is our continuance”. Arghun argues. “The grain will fall into Xinese hands. Khublai has forgotten the Kharaks way”.

  ”Zhenjin is Kharak.” Temur rebuts.

  “He is Xinese. He has no interest in war.” Arghun insists

  “He is a an incredible wrestler. The best we have”. Temur

  “Hmph, He is a ladies man. Wants to rescue damsels in distress from Shaivite priests and their Fire God”, avers Arghun

  “ I don’t like the suttee either. I don’t want any Steppe wife subjected to such a horrible fate. I like Zhenjin. I think Chinggis would be proud of his handsome grandson” says another one of the herders

  “I did not like that exchange with Kaedo. I saw how unhappy it made Chabi”. Observed Jochi.

  ”I don’t trust Doquz. All women are snakes. And that foreign Queen Dusshela she’s dangerous but I dislike the five temple monks the most. They have corrupted Khublai. No Kharaks ever had a harem. That’s demeaning of the woman. Polygamy is one thing and a man may fall in love a few times in his life but an entire city of women dedicated to one man…..it’s unnatural”. Arghun asserts

  “We need grain”. Repeats Bhatu-Khan.

  ”Tenger has trapped Khublai in some kind of Taoist black and white magic?” Jochi presumes

  “Or is it Khublai who has cast a spell on Tenger. Ever seen Tenger looking adoringly at Khublai? He is a eunuch”. Subotai reminds everyone in the room

  ”Really? Those things happen within palace walls.” Asks one of the Toluid herders

  “Yes in Xanadu. These things are unkhannic..” Arghun

  “Hulagu is losing ground. He can’t move forward. A stalemate.” “the steppes are changing. The herders feel it. The world is changing” Subotai

  “but I don’t want it to.” Arghun mutters

  —————————-

  Gitarji and her party reached the port of Madjajanga, spending only a single night at an inn. Zalir moved with a desperate urgency, requisitioning a pair of balangays at the docks and scrounging for supplies to take on board.

  Secretly, Zalir met with Guvercin, a falconer from Central Asia. Zalir greeted the informant with a tight, silent embrace. "Any news, you old gossip?" they whispered, speaking in the secret language of birds.

  "No news but yours," Guvercin replied. "Is it true? Was King Hayam murdered?"

  "Yes," Zalir replied grimly. "Vedic Magic."

  "Durjana is a military man. Why would he resort to that?"

  "We have enemies," Zalir explained. "The Gascari no longer burn their widows, but Durjana has wealthy Shaivite friends. He didn't want a bloody military takeover; it would be unpopular. Blaming the old religion was easier. We seek sanctuary—the protection of Khazan Zhenjin. We sail for Dhaka, then Darjeeling, and then the Imperial Highway."

  Guvercin lowered his voice. "The Falconer Dogan is at the Khuriltai of Ariq. Shall I send word?"

  Zalir shook his head, his gaze distant. "No. I wish to see the man in person first. I can judge our situation better when I meet the Great Khan. I intend to return as soon as possible. I have a score to settle."

  "Will you not sail to Sunda?" Guvercin asked. "You were there. You have friends and brothers there."

  "I was born there, and I escaped from there," Zalir said. "But it is true—I dream of going back. All Austronesians dream of being a united people, even if the sea has torn us apart. We are cousins—the Medang, the Tawalesi, and the Gascari. But Queen Shima is old, and the Batang Hari is but a toddler. Her court is a nest of spies—Prophets, Shaivites, Buddhists, and even Messianists. The Batang Hari may not survive the religious infighting. I feel safer with the Khan. Zhenjin has given others sanctuary before."

  "Yes," Guvercin smirked. "The Khan's harem is bursting with widows... some of them very rich widows."

  "This is the Madjapahit Royal House," Zalir corrected him sternly. "Zhenjin will not turn down Tribhuwana Wijayatunggadewi. She is a direct relation of the Putri Rani Shima herself."

  "I will watch for any vessels trailing you," Guvercin promised. He handed Zalir a cage of messenger birds. "Release the first on your third day at sea. Another every week after. And release this little khalapati the moment you arrive safely."

  They embraced one last time—a solemn farewell between two falconers. "Take care, brother," Guvercin murmured. "I shall send you birds."

  Zalir managed to secure two balangays. The Queens loyal soldiers arrived on foot, tired from their trek through Malaygascars treacherous forests. Without rest, the Madjapahits boarded immediately. And Zalir’ secured his Queen and her family on board. Zalir, despite his mixed blood, possessed the ancient Austronesian soul; he found his sea legs the moment he stepped onto the deck.

  But suddenly, without warning, the pier erupted into chaos. The mercenaries of Durjana charged from the shadows.

  "For the brotherhood!" the Queen’s soldiers cheered, meeting the steel with their own. "Sail! Sail!" the captain of the first balangay roared, ordering all hands on deck. "Save the Queen!"

  Gitarji’s balangay caught the wind and surged toward deeper water, but the second vessel was pinned. Seeing the mercenaries swarming the docks, the brave soldiers of the Queen set the second balangay on fire, turning it into a wall of flame to ensure it was unusable to the pursuers.

  Zalir watched from the rail of the lead ship as his men were cut down on the burning pier. But Gitarji was in open waters now. They were Austronesian; the sea was their sanctuary. They had escaped.

  Above them, Terbang circled the distinctive crab-claw sail before descending to perch on Zalir’s forearm. Zalir’s leather gauntlet, encrusted with gold and precious stones, caught the flickering orange light of the fires behind them. Terbang’s feathers—a tapestry of grey, brown, blue and black—ruffled in the salt air as the ship sailed toward the horizon.