Warrior (27 page)

Thalia’s pulse raced, and she felt Gabriel’s steady fingers intertwine with hers as the Source finally revealed its secrets.

Within the Clouds

Gabriel hadn’t thought, but had instinctively taken Thalia’s hand in his own. When the world fell apart and reshaped into something new, the only thing that felt right and balanced was her. He needed the touch of her skin, having her close and under his protection, as a warm vapor shaped itself into a thick cloud within the tent. Gabriel didn’t know what the hell the cloud was, what it might be capable of doing—good or ill—and had to be sure he could safeguard Thalia.

He waited, tensed, as shapes congealed within the mist. Gabriel’s other hand hovered over his revolver, just in case. Maybe a bullet couldn’t stop a magical steam creature, but it might, and he’d be ready.

Instead of a beast or something sinister, the figures revealed themselves to be people. They sharpened into focus, as did the world around them, until it was like watching a stage play hovering over the ground. The crowd watching the display shouted out as one, and even Gabriel had to swallow an oath. The figures in the clouds were the tribe themselves. Gabriel recognized several of the faces, including those of the chieftain and his wife. And, Great Gideon, Gabriel himself and Thalia, as they had competed in the nadaam and taken a meal with Bold’s family. Bizarre, to see himself manifested within the steam.

Everyone in the tribe appeared to be going about his or her normal life, performing chores, tending to the animals. And cooking. Oyuun gasped nearby as she watched herself in the mists, filling the tea kettle. Yet, these ordinary tasks were odd because—

“Everything is going backward,” Thalia murmured beside him.

“Like a zoetrope spinning in reverse,” Gabriel answered.

And in that strange pattern, the ordinary life of the tribe played out topsy-turvy, the sun setting and rising, west to east, and odder still, foals disappearing back inside their dams, tall grasses retreating as seeds into the earth, thaws turning to snow. Yet, through it all, the shadow play kept returning to the kettle as Oyuun and then many other women, old dames growing young, boiled water inside it as their families moved across the steppes. Always, the bright carpet of red flowers surrounded them, wherever they camped.

“My grandmother,” Bold exclaimed as one of the cloud women brewed tea. Then she disappeared and more women took her place. Whole generations, hundreds of years, passed in a moment. Even the kettle itself grew slightly less battered. The unceasing rhythms of life, even in reverse, made Gabriel feel humbled and small, knowing how brief his own time on this earth was in comparison to the bigger world. He gripped Thalia’s hand more tightly.

Then there was a shift within the clouds. The kettle left the tribe and was now carried backward in a horseman’s pack. A soldier, judging by his armaments. But he carried no firearms, only a blade and bow. It seemed to be far back in the past, possibly more than five hundred years. He sped through the steppes, through territory which seemed recognizable to Gabriel, and quickly he realized why. A thriving city appeared in a familiar valley.

“It’s Karakorum,” Thalia breathed.

“Except alive.”

The ruin was now the center of a flourishing Mongol Empire, and the whole stone tortoises supported pillars to mark the limits of the city. Carts, merchants, scholars, ambassadors, traders, and holy people from all over the known world streamed into Karakorum, and the riches on display made Gabriel’s eyes sting. Even the wealth of the gilded palaces in India could not compare to the piles of gold, jewels, and silks that flowed like a swollen river. And included in that opulence was the humble kettle, carried in by the soldier, where it found its home within one of the vast storehouses of treasure and plunder.

But it didn’t stay within the warehouse for long. Along with tapestries, polished blocks of jade, and scroll paintings, the kettle was placed into a cart and taken backward with a great army heading southeast. Even an old soldier like Gabriel could not stop the whistle of appreciation to see the size of this army, a huge column of riders and horses, stretching to the horizon and beyond. The ease and comfort of the men in their saddles marked them as the finest horsemen Gabriel had ever seen—and he’d been witness to incredible feats of horsemanship over the years. The vision within the mist moved along the enormous army, until it reached a single armored man, trailed by generals and guards, at the head of the troops. A man with ruthless intelligence glinting in his dark eyes as he surveyed the lands around him, missing nothing, assessing everything for his empire. Gabriel’s heart seized. The man’s power was a palpable thing, certain.

A name rose up from within the tent, passing like a torch amidst the tribe watching the steam clouds. “Khan,” the herdsmen murmured. “Genghis Khan.”

“Oh, my God,” Thalia gulped. “It really is him.”

Gabriel said nothing, stunned. He, Thalia, Batu, and the tribe were the first people to see the conqueror’s face in over six hundred years or more. There was no denying the man had the air of command about him, worn with complete assurance. And yet, the Khan was a man only. Not a myth, or a creature of magic, but flesh, as faulty and fragile as any other living thing.

Still, Genghis Khan knew warfare. And Gabriel witnessed its cruel machine as the kettle’s clouds showed smoking ruins turn into thriving towns, villages, and cities, the result in reverse of having the Khan’s army pitilessly subjugate and pillage with no concern for human life, only acquisition. Whatever settlement foolish enough to try to hold out against the Khan met with a gruesome, bloody end. Those who conceded defeat were spared, but those that defied him were destroyed utterly. The tribe, watching such scenes of slaughter, screamed and wept. Even Gabriel, who had witnessed things that would drive most men mad, felt his gorge rise to see men torn to pieces, women and children skewered, kings and ministers tortured to death. Thalia pressed her face into Gabriel’s shoulder as she shuddered. He stroked the back of her head, offering what comfort he could. It was made worse because it was going backward, and a mutilated corpse became, in a moment, a man fighting for his life.

“You must think me a coward, not to watch,” she gulped.

“I think you’re a good woman who hates death and suffering. No shame in that.” He was glad that he could still be troubled by such brutality. If it left him unmoved, that would disturb him.

Everywhere the Khan vanquished, he took. Not only treasure and goods, but people, too. Learned men and craftsmen were taken prisoner, added to the spoils. Yet the kettle continued on with the army, taken past the grassy steppes until the terrain grew barren and rocky, thirsty plains swept by the wind. A vast and pitiless desert.

“The Gobi,” said Thalia, who’d lifted her head from the shelter of Gabriel’s shoulder. Shining wet tracks marked her face, and he brushed away the moisture with gentle fingertips. “I’ve only visited the very edge with my father a few times.”

“A harsh place,” Gabriel replied.

“But beautiful, from what I saw.”

He had to agree that it was, in its desolate way. People lived there, too, tending short-legged camels and sheep. The isolated herdsmen were left undisturbed by the Khan, who passed them by. Through the hard desert rode the huge army, covering miles and miles, the porous border between Mongolia and China, until, appearing on the horizon, rose a craggy peak. At the top of the peak stood a thickly walled building with the distinctive sloped ceramic roofs of Chinese temples. The army was making its way, backward, toward the temple. A cold ember settled in Gabriel’s stomach. Monks and holy men would be no match for the Khan’s soldiers.

“Look away, Thalia,” he commanded her quietly.

She complied without a word of protest, pressing her closed eyes into the curve of his neck, so he had the strange double feeling of watching the army of Genghis Khan slaughter a temple full of Buddhist monks while Thalia’s warm breath fluttered over his skin. She smelled of grasses and sandalwood.

“They’ve gone now,” Gabriel said, after a time, “and the kettle stayed behind.”

Thalia raised her head to watch. “I wonder if the monks knew what the kettle was?”

“If they didn’t, they’re taking damned good care of a simple teapot.” It wasn’t used in daily routine, but was kept in a locked cabinet in the head monk’s chambers; the head monk held the key. Seconds earlier, a Mongol soldier had smashed that same cabinet as a monk tried to defend it.

Moments later, just before the killing blade stopped him, the monk stood before the cabinet, hands in the air. Bright energy glowed briefly. He’d been trying to cast a protective spell.

“Oh, God,” Thalia said, under her breath. “They did know it was magical.”

What, exactly, the powers of the kettle were wasn’t revealed, for it stayed safely hidden for still more generations. Until, one day, the cabinet was opened, and a monk took the kettle far into the depths of the temple, through courtyards and passageways. Then sparks and flame. A man, stripped to the waist, pounding metal into shape. The kettle was made and then unmade over the blacksmith’s anvil. A swirling ball of light was released as the kettle became raw material. Close at hand, a senior monk chanted, drawing magic from the fires of the forge. The kettle and its power was then unborn.

The thick clouds of steam shrank quickly, retreating into the kettle, until nothing was left of the history everyone had just seen but a lingering damp warmth.

For long moments, no one spoke. Not even a baby fussed.

Gabriel turned to Thalia. “Looks like we’re going to China,” he said.

“I will send my best horsemen and hunters with you,” Bold insisted. “We may no longer be soldiers in the khan’s army, but, if we have to protect the magic from wicked men, we can fight.”

A small council had gathered in Bold’s ger to discuss what should happen next. It was certain that after Tsend’s defeat at the nadaam, the Heirs would come soon. They still believed the Source was the ruby, would kill for it, but when they did learn that the ruby had no power, they would destroy everything and everyone in the search for the true Source. There was little time to spare. The kettle had belonged to the tribe for generations, but everyone had agreed that it needed to be returned to its place of origin, the Chinese temple on the other side of the Gobi, and safeguarded by those who had created it. The temple survived, or, at least, it had at the time the khan’s army left it. They had to take the chance that it still stood, hundreds of years later. There was no alternative.

Through Thalia, Gabriel said to Bold, “The men we had spoken of before, they’re dangerous, and they’ll be hunting the magic, to take it by any means necessary. Including killing. I can’t ask you to risk your men’s lives.”

Bold drew himself up proudly. “It is our decision to make. All of us would gladly sacrifice ourselves to defend our country, our families, those that we love.”

Gabriel understood. He glanced over at Thalia, her face serious and focused as the literal fate of nations was being decided. She showed no fear, no hesitation, only a burning desire to see the just thing done. If all Englishwomen were raised in Mongolia, they’d be formidable creatures. That wasn’t right. There was only one Thalia, and no nation could claim her as its exclusive handiwork. It was her uniqueness that made him all the more determined to see no harm come to her, no matter the cost to himself.

“Fine,” Gabriel said, his voice clipped. “Get your men together. We leave in an hour. Some must stay behind to protect the ail if the Heirs return.”

With a nod, Bold left the ger, taking the men who had gathered for the council with him. Gabriel could hear the chieftain, issuing orders as his tribesmen hastened to do their duty.

“Batu,” Thalia said, turning to him as he stood nearby, “you must ride for Urga immediately and let my father know everything that has come to pass.”

“Everything?” Batu repeated, looking from Thalia to Gabriel and back again. So, the man knew what had happened between them. Gabriel supposed it wasn’t that hard to figure out, given that every time he looked at Thalia he felt as though he’d drunk pots of wine. He probably had damned stars in his eyes, like some fool in a Walter Scott epic. But he didn’t feel like a fool. He felt…her.

“Everything about the Source,” Thalia said firmly. Still, a deeper blush stole into her cheeks as she spoke. “Tell him where we are going.”

Batu narrowed his eyes, but agreed. “I will pack my belongings now and be off at once.” He took a few steps, then stopped and held out his hand to Gabriel. “This is how it’s done?”

Gabriel swallowed his momentary surprise. He would have figured Batu would have tried to castrate him instead of shake his hand. “Yes,” he said, taking Batu’s hand and giving it a shake. “You’re a fine man, Batu. A fine soldier.”

“You, as well, Huntley guai,” was the solemn answer. “We would have been quite lost without you. I would have been dead many times over.” With a meaningful glance at Thalia, he added, “And I trust you to do what is right.”

“Batu!” Thalia yelped.

“I will try to do right,” Gabriel replied. “In everything.”

That seemed to satisfy the loyal servant. Releasing Gabriel’s hand, he turned to Thalia and quickly enfolded her in a tight embrace, which she returned. Batu said something in Mongolian, before saying in English, “Be safe, child.” His voice sounded thick.

“I will. And you, too,” Thalia said, and murmured something else in Mongolian. She held him close, this man she had known almost her whole life and who was to her as close, if not closer, than blood. He’d taught her to ride and helped her move past the silencing grief of her mother’s death, felt her injuries, and struggled to keep her from harm. Gabriel, jaded as he was, felt his own eyes grow wet to see the unconditional, fierce love between these two old friends.