The Storm of Heaven (14 page)

The young man with golden hair rose, his face breaking into a smile. Jusuf pushed through the crowd the last few feet, feeling the fierce, strong grip of his brother on his arm.

"Jusuf!" Dahvos was shouting, grinning, clasping his brother to him. Jusuf wrapped his arms around his little brother, feeling the warmth of his body, the strength in his arms. Tears were wet on his face, but he did not care.

"Hello, Dahvos. You live, I see."

Sahul coughed blood onto the ground, feeling the earth under his hands shake with the thunder of hooves. Somewhere on the field of battle, a cavalry charge was going home. He staggered up, a long knife in his hand. His helmet was missing, smashed off by the blow of a Persian war mace. Blood streamed into his eyes. Horses and men rushed by him in the swirl of battle. His horse was gone, as was the small round shield that had been strapped to his upper arm.

A Persian in half-armor spurred towards him, cutting overhand with a long, straight sword. Sahul ducked aside, slashing at the horse's legs. He missed, but the tip of the Persian sword caught in his shoulder. The
diquan
disappeared into the fray. Sahul jumped at the next horse that thundered by, but missed the saddle horn and was knocked down hard. Gasping for breath, he caught a glimpse of a spear flashing in the sun, then there was a stunning blow to his stomach.

Jusuf shouted, seeing him fall, then furiously attacked, trying to cut his way to the King's side. The spear rose up, thin red blood sluicing off the leaf-shaped blade. Jusuf's saber cut into the Persian's neck. Then he stood over the body lying on the ground.

A cry went up in the hall, and Dahvos led it, springing up onto the feasting table.

"Look you, see who comes among us! See my brother, he is safe a-home!"

The hall quieted for a moment, then Dahvos dragged Jusuf up onto the table. A plate of roasted grouse went flying, but Dahvos raised his brother's arm high.

"See the prodigal returned! Now, there may be feasting and celebration!"

The roof shook with the cheer that rose, and Jusuf blushed red, seeing the bright and smiling faces of his people all around him, their cups raised to him. A skirl of pipes and drums cut through the tumult and Dahvos shouted in delight.

"Ho, my brother, join me!"

Jusuf laughed too, and between them they danced the Rider's Homecoming on the tabletops. Before long, the whole of the building shook with the chanting and the thunder of tables rattling.

"Wait just a moment," said Aunt Rebekah, raising a small brown hand. Jusuf, as was befitting a son of the house, paused in his story. "You've said a great deal about all these doings with tunnels and tombs and battles, but you've not said anything about my girl."

Jusuf repressed a smile, for he could see desperate worry in his aunt's small, bright eyes. Rebekah was the youngest of his father's wives, the last taken by old Cis. The dynastic business of the house of Asena, with each
khagan
having, perhaps, more than one wife, was complicated. To make things simpler, each mother was referred to as "Aunt"; each brother of a different mother, "Uncle." Sahul and Basir were the sons of Gea, who had died when Jusuf was very young. She had fallen into the Rha while hunting for winter geese that had frozen to the ice. Nami was the mother of Jusuf and Dahvos, while young Rebekah had only borne one living child before Cis had been killed in an ambush by the Bulgars.

"Ah, our wayward sister, she of the shining face and long hair, that impudent brat, Shirin."

Rebekah, who had been quite a beauty herself in her youth, glared hard at Jusuf.

"Yes, my little bird! Now, quit your lovesick maundering on about the white thighs of this Roman woman and tell me—did you get word of her down there in the southlands? Is she well? I have heard from this braggart"—now Rebekah clouted Dahvos on the head, and sharply too—"that her husband, the boy Khusro, is dead. What has become of her?"

Jusuf raised an eyebrow at Dahvos in surprise. Rebekah was very angry and quite beside herself with worry. Then Jusuf clapped a hand against his forehead in dismay.

"Aunt, forgive me! I forgot that Dahvos went
north
with the army! He has not heard of all that transpired in Ctesiphon... no one has!"

Jusuf stood. The inner circle of the family had gathered to hear of his journey and the latest news from Rhomanoi lands. They sat in a companionable circle in the comfort of one of the old yurts in the citadel. It was piled thick with rugs and lit by small lanterns. He bowed deeply to all of them, knowing beautiful young Shirin was the best loved of all the children. The thought that she might be friendless and alone, even dead or captive, must have weighed heavy on them.

"Listen, then, and I will tell you what happened. But fear not, Rebekah, when last I saw your daughter, she was getting into a longboat—yes, like a coracle, but made of fitted planks—in the middle of the ocean! She was safe and happy."

"Humph!" Rebekah said, her eyes bare slits, still glowering. "And those children of hers by that southland prince who got his head knocked in? What of them?"

Jusuf hid a grin, for Rebekah doted on all children, hers most of all.

"They are well—though I have seen them more recently. They are in, if you can believe it, mighty Rome herself! Staying with a dear friend, in a palace, with ornamental pools and gardens and their own servants..."

Rebekah settled back, apparently mollified that her grandchildren were being lavished with the proper care. Jusuf took up the tale of himself and the Roman woman, Thyatis, in the streets of the Persian capital, Ctesiphon, itself.

"...and so I come home again, with the favor of the Emperor of the Romans and this news."

Jusuf sighed and drank deep from a cup of
kumis
that was at his side. His voice was hoarse from speaking through the night and into the dawn, relating all that he had seen and done. Like many of his people who had trained under the regime of the
ozan
priests, his memory was prodigious.

Seeing that he was done, his aunts nodded to one another and rose, stiffly, to file out of the yurt. They would take themselves to the steam baths by the river and discuss this matter among themselves. The men, being men, would just fall asleep somewhere. Jusuf wondered, as he rose and stretched, if his old rooms were still his.

Probably not,
he groused silently;
someone will have thrown all my things in a basket and put them away. Probably Rahel!
The very old woman, the wife of Great-uncle Yakov, was fond of cleaning up other people's business. Jusuf wondered if he would ever find his belongings. Probably not.

"Well," drawled Dahvos, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. "I see you skipped lightly over certain matters between you and this
duchess
while you were in Rome. But no matter, you can tell me the details later, after we've slept! I am glad Shirin is safe and happy."

Jusuf nodded, smiling. "How is it," he asked, "that she is able to find the finest match? This is twice now."

Dahvos nodded, but his face was shadowed with concern. "Yes... but we clasped hands with Chrosoes, too, and called him brother. He seemed a mighty king and faithful friend as well. You see how he ended!"

"He is dead?" Jusuf caught Dahvos' eye. He had not seen the king of kings fall. "This is not a rumor, circulated by the Romans to make trouble among the
diquans
? You are sure of it? What of Kavadh-Siroes, the Crown Prince?"

The younger man nodded, a shock of his long hair falling in front of his face.

"I am," he said, "the news spread like fire in dry grass. The Eastern Emperor Heraclius paraded Chrosoes' corpse before the whole of the city. No one has come forth to gainsay it. And that youth, Kavadh-Siroes? He is dead, too, and they say that the Western Emperor Galen killed the boy himself while Heraclius watched."

Frowning, Jusuf ducked under the low door and came out into the dim morning light. This corner of the citadel was planted with trees and brushy vines. Piles of cut wood and lattices of drying sable furs lay against the fieldstone walls. The skins on the yurt had good company. Dahvos followed and stood blinking, watching him.

"What is it? I see your thoughts; they are dark as carrion crows."

Jusuf shook his head and raised a hand.

"I was thinking of little Avrahan... Shirin's son, her son by Chrosoes." Jusuf turned, his face dark with worry.

Dahvos met his gaze, his limpid blue eyes puzzled. But then understanding flickered in them and he put a finger to his lips.

"Say it not, my brother..."

"Chrosoes' son," grated Jusuf. "His surviving eldest son. Our nephew, the silly little rabbit, is by blood
Shahanshah
of Persia, the rightful king of kings."

Dahvos made a sign to ward off ill luck. "But he is safe, and far from harm, and by your words,
no one knows he is alive!
"

"Rebekah knows," Jusuf said sharply, "and she can count who begat who as well as anyone. You've heard her in her cups—
My father ruled from the Chin capital to the Rhomanoi frontier, from the ice in the north to Persia in the south...
"

Shaking his head, Dahvos turned away, his nose in the air.

"Come on, I smell breakfast cooking. All those things can wait."

The gelding sprinted, hooves flashing over the grass, its head stretched out, legs pumping. Jusuf leaned low, his face split by a wild grin. The land rushed past as the young horse let on full speed. The Khazar let the wind flow, rejoicing in the feeling of the horse running under him.

"Hey-yup!" Dahvos, astride a black-and-white horse, galloped a dozen feet away. His long hair whipped in the air behind him as the two horses, going all out, reached the turn. A spear thrust into the earth blurred past, a kerchief snapping atop it. Jusuf urged his mount close around the marker, putting the heaving shoulder of the roan into his brother's path.

Dahvos let out another yell, his horsewhip snapping behind him. The black-and-white jolted forward, swerving to the outside. Jusuf and the roan were away, in the straight, and now the horse really started to run. Head down, letting the air whip over him, Jusuf urged the horse on. The wooden fence of the
agil
grew closer. The course from the corral by the river, up the hill, around to the spear and back again was two full Roman miles. Both horses burst up over the ridge overlooking the river. Below them, as they thundered down the slope, were the long docks of Itil, crowded with river barges and shallow-draft ships plying the waters of the
Mare Caspium
. On this side, the east, there were great stockyards built for the cattle cull. Now they were empty, filled only with weeds and short-grass.

The slope down to the
agil
was not too steep, just enough to let them build up a fierce speed as they came down into the final stretch along the riverbank. Scattered yellow flowers went past and Jusuf let out a yell as his roan began to pull away on the flat. Dahvos cracked his riding whip again, trying to get another length of speed out of the black-and-white.

It was not enough. Jusuf and the roan thundered into the corral in a cloud of dust. Whooping with joy, Jusuf swung down, catching the horse's bridle.

Dahvos cantered up, his black-and-white blowing and running with sweat. Two of the boys set to watch the horses ran up with towels and leather buckets of water. The younger Khazar swung down as well, catching a thrown rag. The sky was very blue and cloudless. Summer heat was beginning to come on, and soon it would be blisteringly hot. Jusuf stepped into the shade of a tent that was put up next to the
agil
by the watch-boys. There was
kumis
and wine and tea inside. He took up a cup and filled it with the tea, a strong green blend that came out of Tashkent on the caravan trade.

"A fine horse," he said to his brother as Dahvos entered the tent and flopped down.

"Indeed! What will you give me for it?" Dahvos grinned, but Jusuf shook his head.

"Nothing, wretch! It is fast in the sprint, but it was blowing hard at the end—no good for a long chase... pretty, though."

"True enough."

In the corral, the boys walked the horses until their heaving flanks and pounding hearts calmed. Jusuf squinted, seeing a rider approaching from the city, cantering up the path along the riverbank. He stepped out into the sun again, waving. The messenger arrived moments later, his young, beardless face grave.

"Lord Basir said to bring this to the Prince," said the lad, handing down a leather pouch. It was sealed with a clasp showing a doubled star. During the rule of the T'u-chüeh, a courier service had been established among all of the cities of that far-flung realm. Even after throwing off their yoke, the Khazars maintained the innovation. Old Cis and Sahul had spent a goodly sum establishing regular way posts throughout the Khazar realm where fresh horses and fodder could be found. Only government business went by dispatch rider, but when it did, it flew.

Jusuf snapped open the clasp and pulled out a sheet of parchment. It was covered with crabbed writing, in the Greek style favored among the merchant houses of Constantinople. Dahvos, peering over his brother's shoulder, made a groaning sound.

"Greek! The Lord of Heaven bless us, what a dreadful language... even the Persian yodeling is easier to learn."

"Quiet," Jusuf said absently, his attention focused on the letters. Dahvos' Greek was quite good, but Jusuf had enough of the written language to make out what was on the paper. It came from one of Anastasia's agents in the Eastern capital, relayed through from Tyre on the coast of Phoenicia. The Prince, reading, smiled grimly at the first fruit of the promises made to him by Emperor Galen and the Duchess in their last meeting. Though relations between the two Roman Empires had been good for the last fifty years or so, before that there had been intermittent warfare and continuing economic struggle between the two states. Galen was a farsighted man; it was not beyond him—and certainly not beyond the Duchess—to establish an alliance with the Khazar nation to counterbalance a resurgent Eastern Empire.