Chapter 28
Borji rode into the enemy camp with his spine straight. Surrounded by men that weren’t his own, facing men that could kill him.
The journey had taken two days of riding through rain and mud, of watching the horizon for signs of pursuit, of sitting on the edge of madness, waiting for someone to drive a blade through his spine.
Orda Naiman's camp sprawled across the valley.
Ten thousand men, at least—tents stretching to the horizon, cookfires sending smoke spiralling into the thunderous sky, and the sounds of an army preparing for war.
Borji had seen military camps before. He had never seen one this size, this organised.
Warlords were notorious for their discipline; their men were beasts for a reason, he could only imagine what the Valthorne looked like in full glory.
They were met at the perimeter by a contingent of guards who searched them without dignity, took their weapons and led them through the camp without a single word.
The command tent was big enough to house twenty horses—brown felt stretched over a framework of poles, its entrance flanked by warriors with scarred faces. Inside, carpets and cushions spread out along the sides and a low table was placed in the middle with maps and papers.
But the man who awaited them was not Orda Naiman.
He was taller than Borji, with the broad shoulders and scarred knuckles of a lifelong warrior. His hair was grey and cropped close to his skull, and his eyes were the colour of the winter sky. He wore no ornament, no mark of rank, nothing to distinguish him from any other soldier in the camp.
And yet when he looked at Borji, something in his eyes made Borji's blood run cold.
"First Prince of the Borjigin." The man's voice was as rough as gravel. "I am General Altansarnai, commander of Orda Naiman's forces. Your arrival was anticipated."
Borji inclined his head. "General. I come on behalf of my father, the Igwe, to discuss the terms of your—"
"I know why you're here." Altansarnai cut him off. "You should sit; we have much to discuss, and you have far to ride back."
Borji sat. The guards were directed to a separate tent, out of earshot.
Altansarnai wasted no time on pleasantries.
"Your father is dead." The words fell.
Borji’s mind blanked. “What?”
"We received word this morning. Your kingdom is in chaos, your succession uncertain, and you sit here pretending to negotiate from a position of strength."
"My father—"
"Is dead," Altansarnai repeated. "Eagles fly faster than horses can run. Don’t bother guessing who our informant is; all you should know is we have men in your kingdom, closer to you than you think. You have nothing to offer us. No authority to negotiate."
Borji found his voice. "Then why meet with me at all?"
Altansarnai smiled, barely.
"Because you still have one thing we want."
He waited, letting the silence stretch, letting Borji understand.
"Name it."
"The Great Khan of Ukhel." Altansarnai's eyes gleamed. "Ragnar Valthorne. We want his head."
Borji went still.
"Orda Naiman and the Valthorne have... history," Altansarnai explained. "The Khan has eluded us for years. But now he walks into our reach, and you will deliver him."
"We cannot—"
"You can." Altansarnai cut him off. "You will.
In exchange for his head, we withdraw peacefully.
Your people live. Your kingdom survives.
You might even manage to hold it together long enough to claim your father's throne.
" He paused. "Refuse, and we take everything.
Your city. Your people. Your precious river, which we have already proven we can use. "
Borji's mind raced. As far as he was concerned, Ragnar Valthorne could not be touched. Not while his sister was still alive.
But ten thousand men waited at the border, and the Igwe was dead. Should he return empty-handed, wouldn’t the throne fall out of his hands?
"I need to speak with my council," Borji said finally. "This decision cannot be made lightly."
Altansarnai nodded, as though expecting this outcome. "You have five days. Return with an answer or your city crumbles in ashes."
Borji stood to bow and take his leave. His heart had already grown cold; they were asking for the impossible.
Was Ragnar Valthorne a man anyone could handle?
Much less now that Azul stood behind him.
Such a thing was impossible; they would simply need a new plan.
As he walked toward the tent's entrance, his eyes landed on a familiar face.
A man, standing at the edge of the command tent's interior, half-hidden in shadows. Familiar. So familiar that Borji's heart stopped for the second time in as many minutes.
The man's eyes met his.
And in that instant, Borji knew.
Run.
Before he could move, a sword punched through his back.
The pain was beyond anything he had known—blinding, stealing breath, thought and will. He looked down at the blade protruding from his chest, at his own blood spreading across his robes, at hands that reached up uselessly to push it away.
The sword withdrew.
Borji fell to his knees. His body was failing; his vision darkened at the edges as his mind clung to consciousness by the barest thread.
General Altansarnai walked around to face him, looking down with contempt.
"Did it truly not occur to you that negotiations are meaningless because you have already been betrayed by your own?" he asked. "If we have men on the inside, what makes you think we won’t conquer you fools regardless?”
"At least, thanks to you, we could seal our alliance." Altansarnai crouched, bringing his face level with Borji's. "Your death will only fuel the unrest in your court. When the chaos reaches its peak, we will walk in and take everything."
Borji's eyes found the familiar man—the one who had recognised him, who had been recognised in return. His lips moved again, and this time, sound emerged.
"Who... did she... nominate?"
Chukwuemeka stepped forward into the light.
"That is not your place to know," he said quietly.
Borji remained still, the scent of blood heightening his senses. His eyes flashed a deadly blue. And then, a terrible grin graced his features.
“I see.”
As expected. He thought. Idiots.
The Dowager paced through the palace corridors covered in white from head to toe—the colour of Borjigin mourning. Her face was hidden behind a veil, her steps soft yet firm, her maids flanking her, faces hidden beneath simpler, less expensive fabric.
The guards at the Igwe's door stepped aside without a word.
She entered alone.
The room was cold despite the heating stones in every corner. A bed dominated the space, its curtains drawn back, its occupant visible in the flickering light. Blood had splattered against the walls, the wood, and the paintings.
Her son lay in his bed.
Or what was left of him.
The top half of his body was gone, leaving bloodied, jagged-edged bite marks. The bones of his ribcage splintered outward, the flesh torn in ragged strips; there was no head to bury – it was gone.
The Dowager stood at the foot of the bed and looked at what remained.
And then she screamed.
Her voice carried through every room in that wing, her anguish causing the guards to bow their heads in shame.
The Dowager's precious tears dampened the sheets, mixing with the blood that stained everything.
She fell to her knees, tearing at her veil, at her hair, at her own face.
Her maids rushed in, trying to lift her, but she fought them off, crawling toward the bed, toward the ruin of her son.
"The Oracle warned us!" she shrieked. "She told us! A devil in our midst, and we did nothing! We let her walk among us, we let her poison our house, and now—" She broke down, sobbing. "Now my son is dead! My son! Torn apart by the very evil we sheltered!"
The Elders arrived, drawn by the noise. They found the Dowager on her knees, her white robes stained with her son's blood, her face a visage of grief and rage.
"Take her out," the Elder of Justice ordered. "This is no place for—"
"No!" The Dowager fought them, her strength surprising.
"You listen to me! The Oracle named a devil, and you did nothing!
The Udamili warned us, and you did nothing!
Now my son is dead, and still you hesitate?
" She pointed a shaking finger at the Elders, at the guards, at everyone and no one. "Execute the devil!"
The guards finally managed to lift her, carrying her from the room despite her struggles. Her screams echoed through the corridors long after she was gone.
But once the doors closed behind her, once the Elders' voices faded into murmurs, once she was alone with her maids in the privacy of her chambers, the Dowager's tears stopped.
Her face went cold.
She stood, straightening her ruined robes, wiping the blood from her hands with a cloth one of her maids provided.
"They will move now," she said, her voice utterly calm. "They have no choice."
Her maids nodded.
"See that the execution is carried out quickly.
Obiageli's restraints must be lifted before the Valthorne return or we will be in danger.
" Her eyes were flat, empty, the eyes of a woman who had just watched her son's corpse and felt nothing.
"If we fail to win this gamble, Orda Naiman will make the great Borjigin tributaries; that must not happen. "
She walked to the window, looking out at the storm that still raged over the palace.
"The game is nearly over," she murmured. "At last."
Azul sat cross-legged on her cushioned window ledge, Nkiru perched before her with her back bare, the aggravated red lines of her wounds finally fading to pink. Behind her, a discarded letter, one she had received earlier that day, with what seemed like a drawing of a viper inside.
"The priestesses of Letheva say the goddess manifests as a woman with seven arms," Azul read aloud, as she braided the girl's hair. "Each arm holds a different instrument of judgment—a scale, a sword, a measuring cord, a flame—"
"A flame?" Nkiru twisted to look back at her. "What's the flame for?"
"Purification. Or punishment? The text is ambiguous." Azul checked the heavy book by her side, hand reaching down to turn the page. "The Udamili Oracles interpret it differently. They say the seven arms represent the Seven Fates that await souls after death."
Nkiru shuddered, feeling the medicine glide down her skin. "Like the Seven Gates?"
Azul paused. "Yes, like the Seven Gates. Perhaps each gate is a place to punish people who committed certain crimes."
The girl scrunched her nose. "That’s not true; matron used to say the gates are the resting place of great men."
"Oh?"
They chatted, Azul reading out what she could from one of the many books she had gathered; since Nkiru had never been taught to read or write, this was the way to educate her.
"Akwaugo," Nkiru said after a moment. "Methuselah, was he truly human?"
"The Great King of Kings." Azul found the passage she was looking for and angled the book so Nkiru could see the crude illustration, a towering figure crowned in gold, surrounded by supplicants.
"Ruler of the known world, according to these accounts.
Lived nine hundred years. Had ninety wives and three hundred concubines. "
Nkiru's eyes went wide. "How could one man love so many women?"
"He didn't love them. He collected them.
" Azul's voice was dry. Nkiru still considered love a factor when it came to marriage.
"In all honesty, no one marries for love; you simply need someone who will never harm you, someone who always wishes for your good.
That way, even when he picks other wives, he will pick women he knows are easy for you to handle and get along with. "
Azul figured it was best to teach the girl practical lessons, rather than stuff her head with nonsense dreams that may destroy her.
She herself had loved a prince, one with no concubines, who she thought would, in turn, love her, and the son of a bitch killed her.
"But no matter," Azul continued, "worst comes to worst, you can always invoke your chi to come and kill a troublesome husband.
Your chi will always be with you and protect you.
" She wasn’t so heartless as to take all hope from a child.
Nkiru peered over her shoulder with sparkly eyes. "Like you?" she asked.
The Akwaugo paused, her eyes softening.
"Yes," she let herself say. "I will always be there to protect you."
Nkiru opened her eyes, her throat dry, lips cracked. She looked up through swollen eyes, each time she inhaled, her broken ribs pierced her lungs, sending pain through her body. She wished to be back there, in that room, with the Akwaugo.
But reality was far too cruel. The cold had bitten into her bones, yet she had no strength to shiver.
The man questioning her stood before her, but his face was shrouded in darkness.
“Are you willing to talk now?” He asked.
She took a breath, the cold and the pain were too much to bear.
Nkiru felt her head swim.
She nodded.