Lords of Grass and Thunder by Curt Benjamin Page B

was, the old man seldom missed a meal. Where was he?
    It seemed, to Qutula’s dismay, that Bekter sat with his lute making prophecies in the missing shaman’s stead. And all the lines of his song rained blessings on the son of the khan who was dead, whose dynasty should have ended there, in favor of Mergen’s own sons. Whom the living khan still had not acknowledged. The fire in his breast needed nothing of his lady’s pleasure or chastisement for kindling. Where in Bekter’s tale was Qutula the brave, who had survived attack by the great black bear? Where, for that matter, were the silver toes of a prince on his own boots? The silver cap of a prince for his head? Caught up in the singing of praises for the false heir, however, Bekter refused to see or sing the worth of his own brother.
“Like an army rode his hunters after the bright shining one
Seeking meat for hungry soldiers and livers for their manhood
—each had many ladies!”
     
    Bekter had turned the lines from the grave business of naming a prince by his prowess to the ribald humor the court expected in a heroic song. The prince laughed, breaking the air of anticipation that had held the gathered company in its grip, though Qutula could see the court retainers shifting uneasily in their places. Some of the older courtiers had not yet shaken the sense of prophecy spoken in the first lines of the song. But here was the plainer meat of the tale; throughout the great felted palace, nobles and chieftains settled into the telling. More verses described the sweep across the grasslands in the lake formation, demonstrating the hunters’ mastery of warlike skills. Then the patient stalking of more common fare. Bekter added decorative mouth music to signal the approach of the bear.
“Spoor, longer than a hunter’s stride marked the trail Where trees, plucked twiglike by their roots, tumbled. What monster lay in wait upon that path?”
     
    The tale sounded rough in some parts. Bekter’s playing left much to be desired. But Qutula saw that his brother held the whole palace—court musicians with perfected skills as well as the chieftains and warriors—tethered to his words as the hunters fanned out in search of the monstrous creature. As always, the poet had added an oasis of comedy. Putting himself in the role of the buffoon, Bekter set his audience at its ease, only to whip them into a frenzy of anxiety as the hero engaged once again in life-threatening battle. Already the mythic bear had grown tall as the towers of the Golden City of legend. When Qutula threw his spear, it fell in the tale like a splinter pricking the hairy hide. Then the arrow of the prince, whom the song named Nirun—Son of Light—plunged through the mad red eye to bury its iron tip in the beast’s brain.
    As the great black bear faltered and died, the gathered company gasped a pent-up sigh of relief. All but Qutula, who ground his teeth in silent frustration. With a bashful grin, Bekter took his bows to uproarious applause from above the firebox and below. He had made Prince Tayyichiut a hero, dwelling on the prowess of the heir and galloping right over the little detail that the bear had nearly killed Mergen’s own son. If Mergen-Khan hadn’t been watching him with that narrow-eyed analytical stare, Qutula might even have believed they’d gotten away with it.
    “A bear of legendary stature,” Mergen praised the singer when Bekter had put down his lute. “And a hero to stand the test of many singings,” he added with a slap to Prince Tayyichiut’s shoulder.
    “I hope so, my lord.” Even his low bow could not hide the blush of pleasure on Bekter’s cheeks.
    Tayy matched the singer for the deep purple that rose on his cheeks, but he protested the praise lavished on his own part of the tale. “Not so much a hero,” he assured his uncle. “You know how tales grow in the telling.”
    “And yet, this mythical beast out of our singer’s imagination has left his liver behind for the