Lords of Grass and Thunder by Curt Benjamin Page A

plate.
    Their own cadre would guess that he served his lord in gratitude for his life. After a time, who would suspect him of dosing the very food he tasted for his prince? A servant filled the kumiss bowls and handed Tayy’s to Qutula, who took the first sip before passing it on. The tattoo on his breast warmed under his clothes as his resolve hardened.
    “Your guardsman serves you well, Prince.” Mergen gave a nod over his own bowl of strong kumiss. He smacked his lips in appreciation for the pungent sour taste of the fermented mare’s milk. Unless one knew him very well, he wouldn’t notice the tension in the line of his jaw.
    “Yes, he does,” Tayy agreed around another bite of his pie. They were all too polite—and too superstitious—to mention that Mergen’s solicitude hadn’t saved Chimbai.
    They talked in casual nothings as they ate, but presently Bekter pushed his empty dish away, a signal that he was ready to sing.
    “Have you made up a song for us yet about the wondrous bear and the great battle to defeat it?” Mergen asked, half mockingly.
    “Not in its finished form,” Bekter protested, “But I can play a bit of it for your pleasure, my lord khan.”
    “Then do so.” Mergen gave permission with a nod and a rueful smile. “I suppose I’ll never know the real events of this afternoon’s adventure, but we’ll have the poet’s version to entertain us, at least.”
    Prince Tayy made a great show of indignation. “Would you doubt your heir?” he asked. “Or mistrust the truths of your singer of tales?”
    “Mistrust? No, never.” Mergen-Khan protested in his turn with a sardonic smile. “I trust you all completely—to regale the court with the most outrageous and boastful lies they have heard since your elders told their own tales at your age.” Which might have drawn more wide-eyed protests from the prince, but Bekter had wiped his greasy hands on his coats and, with a bow to the court, he settled himself on a low stool in front of the dais.
    Bekter had explained to Qutula on other occasions that he preferred to steal the march on those who would criticize his fledgling efforts with the same standards they applied to a mature, completed work. So it didn’t surprise him that his brother gave them a warning as he picked up his lute.
    “I have only begun to craft this song, so don’t expect too much of it,” he said, “When I’ve had more time to polish it, the tale will shine like a fine jewel in the history I propose, to celebrate the heroes of the Qubal people.”
    Cradling the lute on his bent knee, Bekter offered a last modest word of introduction. “I hope even this poor egg of a tale conveys a little of the excitement of the hunt and the prowess of the hunter. And the terror of the bear, of course, in whose life we will soon share at this feast.”
    It seemed to Qutula that the bear had shown very little sign of terror, even with Jumal’s spear sticking out of its shoulder. But his brother had begun his song, and so he listened for his own part in the saga.
     
    “The prince rode out, whom all men call the Son of Light, Bright shining in his armor, with silver on his toes, Strong of arm from fighting many wars.”
     
    Bekter may have claimed the song was hastily constructed, but the word he’d used for the Son of Light—Nirun—had more renderings than a riddle. By saying it in the first line, his brother had clearly intended not only to describe Prince Tayyichiut, but to name him so that all the generations who followed would remember him for a hero. The gathered chieftains and clan elders must have known and felt the same shiver that had gone up Qutula’s back. They sat, enraptured, as if Bekter’s song was a Shannish rocket going off in an eruption of brilliant color before their eyes.
    Qutula darted a glance to the place where Bolghai usually sat, wondering what the khan’s shaman made of this poetic naming, but the space by the dais remained empty. Half mad as he