“I do not know,” Chucai said.
“If you cut off the head, does the body die?”
“Yes,” Chucai admitted. He smoothed down his beard. “I had hoped to learn more about the Spirit Banner, wise one. I have not come to engage in riddles.”
The shaman opened his other eye and stared fixedly at Chucai. “I am talking about the banner,” he croaked. “You are not listening.” A bony finger jabbed forth from the robes. “Why does the body die?” the shaman asked again. “Why? Is it because the spirit has abandoned it?”
“I suspect it has more to do with the head being separated from the body,” Chucai replied, reluctant to play the shaman’s game.
“But you could sew the head and body back together,” the shaman said.
“It’s-” Chucai shook his head and sighed. “I confess the mystery of death is beyond my knowledge.”
“It is not death you should concern yourself with,” the shaman snorted. “Life, bearded master. That is what you should be worrying about. Life.”
“Is the banner alive? Is that what you are telling me in this maddening fashion?”
“The banner is a piece of wood,” the shaman snapped, his voice suddenly harsh and dry. “It is the spirit that is alive.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Cnan started awake as Feronantus prodded her gently with his boot. She lurched upright, feeling the sky wheel around her, and she slapped her hands against the ground in an attempt to right herself. Blinking heavily, she tried to recall the last few moments of the previous night, yet there was nothing in her head but a hideous yowling sound. She tried to lick her lips, and found her tongue too dry to provide any moisture.
The sky was shifting away from black, bands of purple and blue sliding into one another, each one lighter than the last, until they became a roseate glow over her left shoulder. A few bright stars still twinkled in defiance of the coming dawn-laughter light from the heavens.
She raised her arms, no longer assailed by the vertigo of being suddenly awoken, and shook the sleep from her frame. She had not drunk as much as some of the others, but her mouth still felt like it was coated with sand. She peered at the misshapen lumps of the other members of the company as Feronantus moved among them, prodding and poking with his boot as he went. There was a great deal of groaning and complaining that rose in the old knight’s wake.
“Up, you lazy dogs,” Feronantus barked. “You lie about like indolent princes, waiting for me to wipe your asses and prechew your food for you.”
“Ach,” Yasper swore, cradling his head in his hands. “That sounds revolting.”
“Which?” Raphael asked.
“The latter,” Yasper shuddered. He put a hand over one eye, tilted his head to the side, and opened and closed his mouth several times. “I should not have slept on my side,” he groaned.
“I’m glad you did,” Eleazar said. “Every time you rolled over, you started to make a horrible choking noise.”
“I did not,” the alchemist said.
“You did,” Vera noted. “I had a wolfhound once that made a noise like that when he was choking on a rabbit bone.”
Yasper popped his lips a few times. “What happened to him?” he asked when his efforts appeared to have little effect on his internal condition.
Vera stretched until something moved into its proper place in her back. “He ate one rabbit too many.”
Cnan, who had been counting bodies, came up one short, and shifted her attention to the horses. “Where’s Istvan?” she asked, discerning a similar shortness in the number of horses.
“Scouting,” Feronantus replied. He rocked R?dwulf with his foot. The Englishman hadn’t reacted to more subtle attempts to wake him.
“In his condition?” Vera asked.
Nimbly avoiding an angry swipe of R?dwulf ’s hand, Feronantus let the big archer’s body slump back against the ground. “His condition roused him before dawn. At which time, he and I had a discussion about Graymane and our route.” He glowered at the Shield-Maiden. “Unlike the rest of you, Istvan can handle his drink, and woke this morning with a clear head and a willing spirit. Which is why I gave him the easiest of the tasks that we will undertake today.”
The last elicited a groan from Yasper.
“What news of Graymane?” Raphael asked quietly, and Cnan recalled the circumstances under which they had found Istvan: ahead of them, bewildered, and lost in a haze of freebutton madness.
“He did not tarry at Saray-Juk. Whoever he is, he no longer concerns himself with trying to stop us. I doubt he understands our true mission, but we did not flee back to the West after our assault on his camp. He must suspect our goal lies in the East. He hopes to beat us there.”
Eleazar shook his head as he folded his blanket. “And raise the entire Mongol Empire against us,” he said.
“We’re doomed,” Yasper sighed.
“This changes nothing,” Feronantus reminded him. He swept his gaze across the whole company. “He does not know whom we mean to strike, or when, or where. He knows nothing of import, and the sheer… impossibility of what he suspects means it will take some time before he can convince anyone to listen to him. Even then, he must mobilize a response, and still find us. By then, it will be too late.”
“Aye,” Percival nodded. “We must be swift and true.”
“We will still meet Benjamin at the rock, and we may still travel with him along the trade route, but speed matters. More so than ever.” Feronantus nodded toward the cluster of hobbled horses. “This will be our last full camp. From here on, we must become like them. We must eat, sleep, and piss from the saddle. Kiss the ground, my brothers and sisters, for you will not rest upon its breast for some time.”
R?dwulf, who had propped himself up on one elbow, lay back down, his arms splayed out.
Feronantus looked down at the archer for a moment, and something akin to a smile tugged at the corner of his stern mouth. “Yasper,” he called. “We are in need of your potions.”
The alchemist, who had been routing around in his saddlebags, paused, his expression suddenly wary. “How so?” he asked.
“R?dwulf-” Feronantus prodded the archer gently with his foot-“will be bringing down several more deer this morning. The meat will need to be cured.”
“That-that’ll take a week,” Yasper complained. “Even if I had the supplies.”
“You have until first light tomorrow,” Feronantus countered. He shoved R?dwulf again. “Get your bow and knife. I suspect the Dutchman will find a way, but he’ll need as much of the day and night as your swiftest arrow can provide.”
R?dwulf grunted and rolled to his feet, his lackadaisical attitude vanishing like a wisp of smoke.
“Percival, Eleazar,” Feronantus continued, his voice the flat and hard tone of command. “Go with R?dwulf. He will need strong backs. Vera and Raphaeclass="underline" find their water source. Cnan-” he paused, and this time the smile did actually quirk his lips-“help the alchemist find his elusive salt.”
They rode in comfortable silence: Vera, as if she could read the multitude of thoughts whirling through his brain, led their effort to find the stream R?dwulf and Yasper had seen the other day; Raphael let his horse follow hers, while his mind churned. More than once his hand strayed to his saddlebag, where he kept his private journal.
The book was a treasure he had picked up some time ago when he had passed through Burgundy. He and several other Shield-Brethren had provided protection for a group of Cistercians returning to their abbey at Clairvaux, and while one of the brothers recovered from an arrow wound received on the journey, he had explored the abbey. The monks had been pleased to discover a like-minded soul in one of the martial orders, and the abbot had personally given him a tour of the abbey’s substantial library.