The small whirlwind of dust finally began to gather in strength. It grew from as tall as a man’s knee to almost reaching mid-thigh. A faint, damp smell curled from within it, the slightest breath of life. But the triumph was short-lived. Within less than a minute, the whirlwind collapsed back down to the ground, nothing more than a pile of dirt. The medallion also fell to the earth, sending up a puff of dust.
“Hell and harlots,” Jonas Edgeworth barked, surveying the failed test, “I almost had it that time.” He picked up the medallion and glared over at Henry Lamb, who was sitting on a folding camp stool, next to the fire but far enough away so the wood smoke wouldn’t scent Lamb’s clothing. Edgeworth continued, spitting in the dust. “I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m doing wrong.”
Lamb scarcely spared Edgeworth a glance as he packed the bowl of his pipe with his favorite, custom-blended tobacco that came straight from a tiny shop on Jermyn Street. Inhaling the scent of the tobacco, Lamb wished that he was back at his club, relaxing over a pipe and paper, and far away from the primitive backwaters of Outer Mongolia. Partnered with the loutish Jonas Edgeworth, Lamb would have to endure for the sake of the Heirs and England. Lamb, Edgeworth, and the Mongol Tsend had voyaged from England to China on a steamship hired by the Heirs, a long trip made longer by the boorish company.
“Try again,” Lamb suggested, barely containing his annoyance. “And this time, don’t rush the chant. You spit it out as if you were speeding through school lessons. But, before you do,” he added, waving a piece of paper, “I’ve received a letter through the Transportive Fire. Very good news from headquarters.”
“What is it?”
“Our team in Africa was successful. The Heirs are now in possession of the Primal Source.” Lamb waited for Edgeworth’s jubilation at the news.
Edgeworth stared blankly.
Holy God, how could this dolt be part of the Edgeworth family?
“The Primal Source is the first Source,” Lamb explained. “When mankind was born and formed civilization, it created magic, it created Sources. From the Primal Source, all magic arises. The power it contains cannot be grasped by the mortal mind. And now the Heirs have it. Trouble is,” he added with a grumble, “we don’t know how to use it.”
“So get some of our frightful sorcerers to have a go at it.”
“They are working on unlocking the Primal Source as we speak.” Lamb cast a critical eye at Edgeworth. “Which means that you need to return to your own work.”
Edgeworth scowled, and went back to his task, cursing under his breath, and not a few of those curses were meant for Lamb himself. Ah, well. It didn’t matter if he and Edgeworth wouldn’t be punting down the Thames together when they returned to England. Lamb actually would not be overly distressed if, for some reason, Edgeworth met with a tragic but heroic death while pursuing the Mongolian Source. Edgeworth’s father would be furious, however, and Lamb was determined to avoid the wrath of Joseph Edgeworth. So, he would have to keep young Jonas safe as they worked to obtain the Mongolian Source.
Lamb had used the True Hammer of Thor to stop Thalia Burgess and her escorts. When that had failed, Lamb realized there was a better use of the girl and her friends. She and that annoyingly steadfast Yorkshire soldier were actually doing the most difficult part: locating the Source. And, judging by the speed and directness of their southerly route, they were very close. Which meant that the Heirs were also close. The Sumatran Obfuscation Charm was short-lived, but it allowed Lamb, Edgeworth, and Tsend to ride just three miles behind the Burgess girl and her group without detection. Any closer, and the magic wouldn’t function. Lamb wasn’t worried. On horseback, he could breach those three miles within minutes. Knowing that Thalia Burgess had no idea how close he was, how easily he could reach out and take her, hurt her, and her soldier powerless to stop it, gave Lamb a delicious, dark shiver of pleasure.
“How does this work?” asked the giant Mongol. He pointed at the small round mirror, resting on its stand. Within the mirror, tiny images of the Burgess girl and her retinue of two flickered in and out. Lamb was annoyed. He had made a mistake in not killing the soldier back in Southampton, little knowing that the base-born ruffian would take it upon himself to complete Morris’s work. Now, Lamb had to pay for his own lack of judgment, which was nearly intolerable and shortened his temper considerably.
The Mongol, Tsend, reached out with a huge, meaty paw and snatched the mirror up to look more closely.
“Careful with that, idiot,” Lamb snapped as he jumped to his feet. He strode over and plucked the mirror from Tsend’s hand, then carefully returned it to its brass stand while the Mongol growled. “I cannot very well rush down to Algiers and get another thousand-year-old enchanted mirror.” He wiped the reflective surface with an embroidered handkerchief, removing traces of the Mongol’s grimy fingerprints.
Tsend looked unimpressed. He did not value age or rarity, only costliness and size. Which was good, since it was the lure of heaps of money that secured not only the Mongol’s information, but his loyalty. Though, Lamb corrected himself as he eyed Tsend’s brutish hands and the knife at his belt, his “loyalty” only went as far as the strings of his coin purse.
“How does it work?” Tsend repeated.
“Birds are very susceptible as well as sensitive to magic,” Lamb explained. “So I can easily control one using a binding and viewing spell. I just find a bird and tell it to follow the Burgess girl, then I see what it sees through the mirror. A simple enough process.”
A curse from where Edgeworth stood let Lamb know that his partner still had not succeeded. Edgeworth was still young and, despite his impressive lineage within the Heirs, largely untested. If the situation with Edgeworth’s inexperience grew dire, Lamb would step in. Until then, he would let Jonas Edgeworth fume and cuss like some Billingsgate fishmonger, though Lamb’s refined sensibilities shuddered with distaste to hear such language. How had Joseph Edgeworth, one of the most influential and revered members of the Heirs, sired this boor?
Speaking of boors, Lamb cast a suspicious eye toward Tsend. The Mongol had worked on a steamship that took him to Southampton. From other sailors he learned that the Heirs paid good money for reliable information about magic. Tsend approached the Heirs, claiming that he could lead them to a powerful Source in his home country. For a price. Lamb wondered how long he would have the Mongol’s loyalty, or if the faintest whiff of money could draw Tsend away to another camp. Not the Blades. Those imbeciles considered themselves too superior to use financial inducements. But there were other organizations, other countries and nations who sought the Sources, and it would not be difficult for Tsend to locate them and sell the Source, and possibly members of the Heirs, to the highest bidder.
Those other organizations—France’s Les privilégiés, or that German cabal, to name just two—would all kill to have the Mongolian Source. But Lamb would kill to make sure they didn’t, and that it belonged to Britain alone.
“The thing we are looking for,” Tsend said, lumbering over to where Lamb sat, “it will also help us control birds?”
Lamb mentally rolled his eyes. The Mongol had come to the Heirs with the knowledge of a riddle, but no idea its exact meaning or value. Tsend had assumed it possessed some worth, because he’d had to beat it out of a shaman. The shaman had finally yielded the riddle, and only then because Tsend promised to kill him quickly. Unfortunately for the shaman, Tsend hadn’t kept that promise. Or so the Mongol had boasted at the Heirs’ London headquarters.
It didn’t take long for the Heirs to figure out what the Mongolian Source could achieve, however. Once they did, Lamb and Edgeworth were dispatched immediately. Failure wasn’t permitted, not with such a powerful Source at stake.
“What we are after has a far greater power.” Lamb drew on the stem of his pipe, taking the fragrant, wonderfully English smoke into his mouth. God, he loved his country! It had the best of everything—land, food, language, monarchy—and the finest, most intelligent minds all working toward a single goal: ensuring that Britain’s empire would expand until there wasn’t a single nation that wasn’t under her flag. He honestly could not fathom why anyone, particularly anyone who happened to be English, would ever knowingly and deliberately hinder the work of the Heirs of Albion. Every Briton stood to benefit from their nation’s global advancement, though the ruling class—Lamb’s class—benefited more than most. But, infuriatingly, not everyone seemed to share the goals of the Heirs.
The Blades of the Rose were dangerous subversives, anarchists, probably reformers. They sought to destroy the foundation of British culture and its civilizing influence all over the world. A strange and motley collection of men from all walks of life. Worse, they even allowed women in their ranks, taking them from the sacred protection of home and husband, and imperiling their lives on fools’ pursuits. And Lamb would not allow himself to think of Catullus Graves and his whole blighted family. A shame, really, since they had the finest minds in the world, and, but for the singular problem of their skin’s pigment, the Heirs would have tried to lure them away from the Blades long ago. It was grotesque, maddening.
Lamb made himself take a calming puff from his pipe. As it always did, the smoke helped soothe the temper within him that, he knew, at most foul could grow blacker and more vicious than anything Edgeworth could produce.
“This thing we chase,” Tsend persisted, “what sort of power will it have? Can it bring us wealth?”
“Better.”
“What is better than money?”
“Power. The same power that let Genghis Khan rule almost the entire known world. From China to Arabia, all the way to Hungary, the Mongol army destroyed any who opposed them and brought every nation to heel, and he used a Source to do it.”
Tsend frowned, trying to understand things beyond his limited comprehension. “What does the Source of the Great Khan do?”
“It might make a small army great in size and devastation,” Lamb speculated. “A hundred men may have the strength of a thousand. A single regiment could conquer and destroy nations.” Lamb could not contain his excitement just theorizing about the prospect. “The British Army is the best in the world, but we only have so many soldiers. Once I seize the Source, Britain will be able to conquer and control the globe, starting here, in Outer Mongolia, where Genghis Khan’s rise to power began. We continue to Russia, finally crushing that gadfly, and move out from there.”
“Will this Source be so powerful?”
“It must,” Lamb said fiercely. “Back in England, the Heirs have the Primal Source. It takes the power of all Sources and heightens it, so that every Source is imbued with a thousand times more strength. Including the one we search for here, in Mongolia.” He did not add that unlocking the Primal Source was still a mystery, but it did not matter. The power would be Britain’s, would belong to the Heirs and to Lamb himself.
Almost giddy, Lamb began to pace. “Every country, every nation will become a British colony. And not merely in Asia and Africa, but in Europe and the Americas, too. No more France. No more United States.” The British lion would reign supreme, as it was always meant to do. With Lamb and the Heirs of Albion commanding it all. In such a world, the Blades of the Rose would be annihilated, completely and utterly.
“Will I get to kill that Englishman with the girl?” Tsend asked, unconcerned with global domination. “He shot at me, and I want him dead.”
“My good man,” Lamb said, happily puffing on his pipe, “when we find that soldier, you may grind him into an unrecognizable paste with my blessing.” He wouldn’t make the same mistake again where the soldier was concerned. Lamb had a few plans for Thalia Burgess before she was also disposed of, though he kept those ideas to himself.
A shout of glee broke into Lamb’s thoughts. He and Tsend both looked over to a triumphant Edgeworth, who yelled over his shoulder, “I’ve done it! Come and see, Lamb!”
Both Lamb and the Mongol walked toward Edgeworth, who waved his hands at his creation. “Very good, Edgeworth,” Lamb said. The lad wasn’t entirely a simpleton.
For once, even Tsend looked awed as they all stared at what Edgeworth had summoned. The smell of earth was strong. And beneath that, the living fire of magic.
Gabriel couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Even though he had scouted and thoroughly investigated a wide swath of land all around them, something prickled along the back of his neck and down his arms, as if unseen eyes followed their progress across the rolling steppes. He trusted his instincts too well to simply ignore the feeling, but hadn’t evidence to back it up. There was no way to prove it, no way to dismiss it. Something was wrong, though, and it angered him, not knowing what or why, or how he could protect Thalia from this invisible threat.
Perhaps a gun couldn’t do the job against magic, but it never hurt to have a little insurance. Gabriel now rode with his rifle across his lap, ready to be used. The closer he, Thalia, and Batu got to the Source, the greater the chance that the Heirs would try something. And when they did, Gabriel would be ready for them. He almost wished that the Heirs would launch an attack, just so it would end the waiting and uncertainty. He could finally act, instead of biding his time. But ever since the storm caused by the True Hammer of Thor, the Heirs of Albion had remained quiet. Gabriel didn’t trust that silence.
But there was one silence he could end. Glancing over at Thalia, her dark hair like a silk standard fluttering behind her, he urged his horse beside hers, until they were riding side-by-side.
“If I could,” he said to her, “I’d go back in time and butcher that Russian. Or hunt him down now.”
She looked over with a flash of surprise. Thalia shook her head at herself. “I should have known you knew I was within earshot.” Her shoulders drew down as she sighed, no longer holding up a burden of tension. “That’s good. I was tired of pretending. And,” she added, with a small smile, “thank you, for your bloodthirstiness on my behalf.”
“I’m not speaking tripe, Thalia,” he said. “I’d slowly kill that vodka-steeped bastard if it was possible. Stomach wounds are good. Takes a long time to die from them.”
She stared at him for a moment. “I believe you,” she said at last. “And, maybe it’s wrong to revel in your thirst for vengeance, but it’s a better gift than a bouquet of posies.”
“You want his guts tied up with pretty ribbons, I’ll do it for you.”
“Such a lovely gift.” But she didn’t look too bothered by his imagined grisly offering. “Although, you might want to save such ribboned presents for your future bride.”
“Something’s wrong with your eyesight. You keep seeing a bride where there isn’t one.”
“I’m no shamaness, but I can see into your future based on the plan you made. And it included returning to England and finding a wife.”
He swore roundly—his natural compulsion whenever he was frustrated. “I hadn’t a bloody idea what I wanted to do with myself after I left the army.”
“So you went to England without any plan?”
“Not exactly. Do you remember the night we spent in the cave? After the storm from Thor’s Hammer?” When she nodded, he continued. “I burned something that night, and you asked what it was.”
“You said it wasn’t important.”
“It was a letter.”
“A love letter?”
Gabriel snorted. “Hardly. From an old friend, promising me a job and the possibility of a bride. If I wanted it.”
“And did you? Do you?”
“Now…” Gabriel felt the sun on his face, the wind tugging at his clothing and breathing life into his whole self. He was alive. Here and now. “I burned it that night because the rain had turned it to useless pulp. Now I think it was for another reason. I don’t know what tomorrow brings. Soldiering taught me that. But I know that a job behind a desk, an ivory doll for a wife who knows only embroidery and babies—such things aren’t for me.”
“Ah,” she said, and couldn’t quite hide the hope and happiness in her voice. “That makes things…very different.” Thalia quieted, turning her thoughts inward, as if trying to reach an important conclusion. If only he could climb inside that clever brain of hers and know what she was thinking. Then she seemed to come back to herself, away from larger schemes. “But we cannot make any kind of plan with certainty, not while we search for the Source, and the Heirs are out there, somewhere, trying to claim it for themselves.”
“Certainty is for milksops.”
She smiled, and he felt it plain throughout his whole body. “We are definitely not milksops, are we, Captain?”
“No, ma’am, we aren’t.” She didn’t object or pull away when he brought his horse up beside hers, then took her hand. A slim woman’s hand, but definitely strong and able. With just the touch of her skin to his, heat roared through his body. He had the urge to take her sweet fingers in his mouth, lick them, or guide them to where he needed touching most. Instead, he made himself what he never thought he could be: a gallant. He kissed her hand. But he wasn’t completely transformed into some cavalier. Her eyes widened as he pressed his mouth to her palm, then she flushed as his tongue came out quickly to lap at the sensitive skin.
Gabriel made himself release her hand and put a little distance between their horses, otherwise, he’d drag her right off her saddle and give in to what his body and heart demanded—claiming her for his own.
Fate was a contrary bitch, bringing him to Thalia when every day meant facing mortal peril. Gabriel had never known another woman like her. It wasn’t his own possible death that bothered him—though he wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of his final muster, not when being alive was pretty damned pleasant—so much as knowing that she was in danger. Well, he’d just have to stay twice as vigilant.
Yet she had sharp eyes, too. “There it is,” Thalia said, pointing ahead into the broad plain. Her voice came out a bit breathless, which gratified him even if he wasn’t satisfied. “It’s beautiful.”
As Catullus Graves’s distance-viewing device had shown, there were almost a hundred acres covered with small red flowers, with a large encampment of gers in the midst of them. The flowers weren’t of themselves extraordinary, but in the entire time Gabriel had been in Mongolia, he had seen only small sprinklings of these flowers, and never in this abundance. A soldier wouldn’t note them outside of what they might indicate about the season, the quality of the land, or whether there was water for horses nearby, and that’s what his mind went to first. But then, at Thalia’s comment, he did see the flowers for their bright beauty, a carpet of flame that dazzled between the lush green grasses and the blue sky.
There wasn’t much time for poetic fancy, though. “Do these nomads follow the flowers, or the other way around?” he asked.
“We’re going to find out,” Thalia said. “However, we cannot simply stop and examine the flowers without first paying our respects to the tribe. That would be suspicious and rude.”
“I don’t know the first thing about Mongol customs,” Gabriel admitted.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Just follow my lead.”
Since his promotion to captain, he hadn’t much experience being directed by anybody else, and certainly never by a woman. Even so, he was out of his element here in Mongolia, and had enough brains rattling around inside his skull to understand it was best to let Thalia take charge. For now.
As they rode into the encampment, they were met with naked stares of curiosity from the people who lived there. Men tending herds of livestock and horses watched them from the backs of their saddles, while women stopped in the middle of their chores to gape. And a flock of children chased after them like ducklings, jostling and peeping amongst themselves. Almost everyone was looking at Gabriel, not at Thalia or Batu. Their interest didn’t unsettle Gabriel too much. He was familiar with being the first white man locals had ever seen. Some soldiers never got used to it, or felt that the color of their skin somehow made them better than a country’s natives, but Gabriel wasn’t one of them. So he returned everyone’s stares with a polite nod.
“This is the chieftain’s ger,” Thalia said as they neared the largest tent. “We shall speak with him first.”
Riding up, they were met by a barking dog, who danced his guard in front of the ger, and Thalia called out, “Nokhoi khor!” A little girl darted out and grabbed the dog by its neck, but that didn’t stop the animal from continuing to bark. As Thalia, Gabriel, and Batu dismounted, a boy came from behind the tent and took hold of the horses’ reins. He and Thalia spoke for a moment before she gestured for their party to go inside.
It took some moments for Gabriel’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. The only light came from an opening at the top of the tent. At first he was reduced to using his ears, listening to Thalia exchange pleasantries with a man, the sounds of someone preparing a meal, two children playing on the floor. But then the haze that filmed Gabriel’s sight disappeared, and he looked around. He hadn’t been inside a ger since he’d left Urga, and was curious what he’d find. And he was surprised, but for a different reason than he’d originally believed.
“Yes,” Thalia said softly at his side, sensing his question. “It looks the same. All gers are arranged exactly the same way as one another. The stove is at the center, while the door must always face south.” She made a small movement toward the left side of the tent, where a woman was stirring a fragrant kettle of milk. “That is the women’s side, where food is prepared and the children sleep. The right is where men sit.” Sure enough, a man stood on the right-hand side near some saddles, ready to greet the visitors. Everything else, from beds to red-painted cupboards, to the shrine that decorated the north part of the ger, was just as Gabriel had seen in Urga. “It is an ancient custom that is never broken,” Thalia explained. “And this way,” she added, “you always feel as if you are home.”
Having spent the last fifteen years in tents and barracks, none of them remarkable, comfortable, or at all homey, the idea that a man could find his home anywhere and with anyone strangely pleased Gabriel.
The man Thalia had been speaking with started to talk to Gabriel, but he could only shake his head in response. Thalia immediately stepped in and began to talk, while Batu quietly provided an ongoing translation.
“He is my cousin from England, and speaks no Mongol.”
“You are welcome to my home, cousins,” the man said, with Batu translating. Gabriel noticed that his del was slightly finer than everyone else’s, with silk trim along the cuffs and hem. The chieftain.
Not content with playing mute, Gabriel repeated what he had heard Thalia call out earlier. “Nokhoi khor,” he said, with a small bow.
The chieftain looked puzzled, while Thalia suppressed a smile, and the children giggled. “You just told him to hold his dog,” she whispered.
“I’ll shut my gob, then,” Gabriel muttered as he felt his face grow hot. So much for international diplomacy. He’d stick to shooting and scouting from here on.
More pleasantries were exchanged, including questions about livestock fattening, horses, and family members, in that order. After this, Gabriel was waved toward the northern part of the tent, which, Thalia murmured, was the seat of honor. He sat on the ground, with Thalia to his right and Batu on his left. While small talk was made, the chieftain approached Gabriel and pulled a silken pouch from his del while also going down on one knee. The chieftain touched his right elbow with his left hand as he pulled a small bottle from the pouch and held it out to Gabriel expectantly.
“A customary snuff exchange,” Thalia said when Gabriel looked at her. “All men do this when they greet one another.”
“I don’t have any snuff. Just cheroots.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s custom, a sign of friendship.” She offered quiet guidance as Gabriel did what she instructed. “Take a pinch of the snuff using your thumb and forefinger, that’s right, now sniff it. Bless you,” she added when he sneezed. The chieftain laughed good naturedly. “Return the bottle to him, and mime handing him your own bottle. Yes, just like that.” Gabriel tried not to feel like a dolt as he pretended to give the Mongol chieftain a snuff bottle, but no one seemed to think it odd, and the entire ritual was enacted one more time in pantomime.
“What about you?” Gabriel asked Thalia.
“Only men.”
The ritual was repeated with Batu and the chieftain.
After this, the chieftain turned to Thalia, and, as he spoke, Batu continued to provide an ongoing translation. “We have heard of you. My brother has gone to Urga and made mention of the English Mongol and his daughter.” It did seem an apt way to describe Franklin and Thalia Burgess, since they weren’t one nationality or the other, but some kind of mix. It wasn’t rare for people living away from home to go native in one way or the other—sometimes the efforts were absurd, and sometimes the expatriates turned more native than the actual natives, as if trying to lose themselves in someone else’s culture. Somehow, Franklin Burgess had struck just the right balance, and his daughter was proof. Gabriel was beginning to wonder if he could ever get used to seeing an Englishwoman cinched into a corset or dragging a bustle behind her after seeing Thalia’s freedom of movement. And freedom of self. She was so different from the girls his comrades in arms used to moon over, those gentle creatures who were trained to serve, docile and obliging. What the hell had he been thinking, even to consider having a girl like that as his bride?
Batu interpreted Thalia’s answer into English, so Gabriel might follow the conversation. “You honor us,” she replied, but the chieftain waved away the compliment. A woman, whom Gabriel assumed was the chieftain’s wife, stepped forward with her eyes downcast. She held out a bowl of steaming tea to Gabriel, which he took and sipped from, before returning the bowl to her. She offered the same hospitality to Thalia and then Batu, before returning quietly to the women’s side of the ger.
Gabriel burned with questions about the flowers, but he knew that the polite rituals would have to be observed. Even so, he longed to leap up and run outside. It felt strange to be in a shelter again after living and sleeping in the outdoors. The monastery of Erdene Zuu had been but a small break in the routine. Inside again, Gabriel was becoming much too aware of Thalia’s nearness, the sweet soft femaleness of her; the sound of her voice, contained as it was by the felt walls of the ger, played low and hot in his belly.
“We are honored by your presence at our humble ail,” the chieftain said through Batu. “Whatever I have is yours, my sister.” A small child toddled up to him and began playing with the frogs that fastened the side of his del, and the chieftain accepted his baby’s mischief with good grace. “Have you joined us for our nadaam?”
“Forgive me, but are not the nadaam festivals held in July?” Thalia asked. She repeated the question in English for Gabriel’s benefit.
“Yes, but our tribe has a special custom. Each year, the strongest and bravest men from nearby ails come in the autumn to compete for a special honor.”
“What is this special honor?” she asked in Mongol and then English.
The chieftain, whom Batu told him was named Bold, called to his wife. The woman, named Oyuun, immediately left the tent. “I shall show you. It will take just a moment.”
“While we wait,” Thalia said, again in two languages, “I must remark on the flowers that surround your ail. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
Bold grinned. “I am so used to them that I never see them. I did not realize until I was nearly a man that not every ail had its own field of scarlet flowers throughout the year. They go where we go, even if we change settlements.”
“Does anyone know what makes them grow?”
The chieftain shrugged. “No one knows. They feed our livestock, no matter if the frost is very deep, so we do not delve too deeply into their mystery. The Buddhist priests cannot say, and the shamans will not. It may have something to do with the ruby.”
As Batu translated the word “ruby,” Gabriel’s senses sparked into awareness. Both he and Thalia exchanged glances.
“Here,” Bold said as Oyuun returned to the ger, a strapping young man following her. In an instant, Gabriel had sized the man up and knew he could be an impressive fighter. And better guard. In his hands, the man held a small red wooden chest covered with elaborate carvings, which someone had clearly labored over for a long time. Bold signaled to the man, and the chest was opened. It took all of Gabriel’s will to keep from cursing with astonishment when he saw what it held.
“This is our tribe’s glory and our prize,” Bold explained, pride weighting his voice, and Batu echoed the sentiment in his translation. The chieftain looked up at the man holding the chest as if asking permission, which was odd, since Bold was clearly the man in charge of the tribe. When he received a nod, Bold reached into the chest and pulled out its contents and held it up to the light.
Gabriel felt Thalia’s hand on his arm, as if she, too, were trying to restrain herself. Taking a quick glance at her, he saw a flush stain her cheeks, her eyes widened with amazement. Even though he was trying to remain calm, he probably looked the same way. Sometimes, a soldier’s training only went so far.
It was a ruby. Not an ordinary ruby, but one as large as a child’s hand, and a deep blood red that caught the light, shimmering and hypnotic. The stone was uncut, but even without polished surfaces, it was one of the most incredible objects Gabriel had ever seen. Surely it had to be worth hundreds of thousands of pounds, if such a thing could have a price.
“This is what the champion of the nadaam wins,” Bold continued through Batu. “For a year, he lives with our tribe and has the honor of guarding our ruby. Each year, he must defend his honor or yield it to a stronger, better champion. Unlike other nadaam festivals, ours is held as a tournament, so we may find the best man for the task.”
The man holding the chest said something to Bold, which Batu did not translate. And again, the chieftain seemed to obey the man, returning the ruby to the chest, where it lay on a blue silk pillow. At once, the man closed the chest and left the ger, looking about him with alert eyes. He would have made an excellent soldier.
Thalia spoke in Mongol, then said in English to Gabriel, “I told him I am awed by his ruby,” Thalia said.
“It is not mine,” answered Bold, Batu interpreting, “but belongs to our tribe. We have had it in our possession for many generations, and each is taught to revere and protect it.”
“Where does it come from?” Again, she spoke in two languages so Gabriel could follow.
Batu translated the chieftain’s response. “We do not know. There are stories, of course, but none that have been confirmed. Where it comes from does not matter. All that matters is keeping it safe.”
The toddler that had been sitting in Bold’s lap suddenly fell over and began to cry. As Oyuun and Bold picked up the boy and soothed him, Thalia turned to Gabriel.
“It must be the Source,” she said in English, quiet and urgent.
“You sure?”
“How could it not be?”
“It surely is the ruby of Genghis Khan,” Batu added.
“There is a legend,” Thalia said quickly, “that when Genghis Khan was born, he clutched in his hand a blood clot, and this was the secret to his power. Some have speculated that it wasn’t a blood clot at all, but a ruby.” She looked over to the door of the ger, where the ruby’s guardian had been minutes earlier. “This ruby. It must be what causes the flowers to follow the tribe and bloom all year.”
Before Gabriel could answer, the squalling child had been attended to, given a dumpling to keep him quiet, and Bold returned his attention to his guests.
Thalia spoke to the chieftain, but didn’t translate her words for Gabriel.
“She wants to compete in the nadaam, Gabriel guai,” Batu said, eyes wide.
“What?” asked Gabriel.
Bold said something in Mongol at the same time that sounded very much like, “You?”
Thalia turned to Gabriel. “How are you with a bow and arrow?” she asked in English.
“Never shot one,” he answered, thrown. “Guns only. A cannon, once.”
She pointed to herself as she spoke to Bold.
“Sister,” the chieftain said, Batu translating, “you cannot enter. You would have to live with our tribe for a year if you won. But, more importantly, our nadaam is for men only.”
Gabriel had gathered his scattered wits enough to growl, “The hell you’re competing. I don’t know what the damned tournament is, but you aren’t entering. I’ll do it.”
Thalia shot him an angry look, but he wouldn’t back down. He had already committed himself to protecting her, no matter what it cost him. And if there was physical danger, he damned well wouldn’t let her get involved. He might not have Catullus Graves’s brains, but Gabriel did have brawn in his favor.
Thalia began to speak to Bold, without repeating herself in English, so Gabriel had to rely on Batu to provide him with her words. “In England, it is quite common for women to be warriors.” She ignored Gabriel’s curse of dissent. “There is even the famous warrior queen, Boudica, who waged glorious war against the Romans.” To Gabriel, she hissed in English, “No orders from you, Captain. If we want to win the ruby, then I must compete.”
Knowing that it would be impossible to get answers from her, Gabriel looked at Batu. The servant looked just as appalled as Gabriel. After their talk, they had reached an armistice, and were united in their need to keep Thalia safe. “Tell me what else happens at these nadaams.”
“It is a celebration of the three manly arts,” Batu explained. “Horse racing, archery, and wrestling. Usually, children compete in the horse race, and women may enter the archery competition, but it must be different here. I should mention that there are no weight classes in the wrestling competition, as there are elsewhere.”
Wrestling? “You are not entering the tournament,” Gabriel repeated to Thalia. He looked to Batu for reinforcement.
“Your father would not allow it,” Batu added. “And he would be furious should I let anything happen to his only child.”
“I’m a grown woman, not a child,” Thalia said through gritted teeth. “He would also know that the Source must be protected at all costs.”
“Not if the price is your life,” Gabriel growled. “I’ll enter.”
“You can’t shoot a bow and arrow, and I can,” she fired back.
“You can’t wrestle a fully grown man and win,” he countered. “And sure as the devil, I won’t let you get hurt, which you would.”
They both glared at each other, with Bold looking on quizzically, until Batu cleared his throat. “If I may suggest, should Bold allow it, perhaps you could enter as a team,” he offered in English. When Gabriel and Thalia began to sputter their protests, Batu continued, “Alas, I am only a fair archer and even my younger brothers can beat me at wrestling, thus I should not enter. Either one of you might win the horse race, but only Thalia guai can win the archery, and only the captain can win the wrestling. So you must enter together. The captain will ride in the race and wrestle, while Thalia guai will shoot in the archery competition.”
Everyone was quiet as they mulled over this proposition. “Will that satisfy you?” Thalia finally asked Gabriel hotly.
“I’d rather you were ten bloody miles away from the damn tournament,” Gabriel grumbled. Anything to avoid the possibility that she might get hurt. Someone could fire wildly, or, hell, a nearby horse could get spooked by the hubbub and trample her. Who knew what might happen in the midst of a Mongol athletic contest?
“That isn’t an option.”
“Then yes, it’ll do.”
In rapid Mongolian, which Batu did not translate, Thalia made her case to the chieftain. Bold continued to look skeptical about the whole idea, perhaps even more so than when he thought Thalia would enter the competition alone. Gabriel could try to take the ruby from the man guarding the jewel, but it would be far better to get it without resorting to violence. He knew that the best way to get the ruby was to win it, and it steamed his pudding knowing that not only couldn’t he do it on his own, but that Thalia would have to be put in danger. He wished Batu could guarantee a win in archery, but the absolute certainty in Thalia’s eyes that she not only could win but would win convinced Gabriel that she was their best hope.
“Wait,” Gabriel said, breaking into Thalia’s appeal, “tell him this: it might seem strange to you. Go on, translate,” he urged, and Thalia reluctantly translated as he spoke. “A man and a woman competing together? Why shouldn’t I enter on my own? It’s because…,” he struggled to find the words, not used to or comfortable with talking eloquently. Finally, he said, looking at the chieftain, “She and I are like flint and gunpowder. Each are strong, but together, they’re explosive.”
Bold only frowned. So Gabriel kept talking. “We’re the bow and the string. Useless alone, but strong together. Or…uh…we’re the knife and the blade.” He stopped as the chieftain began to laugh as he nodded his head. Bold spoke first to Gabriel, then to Thalia, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.
“It appears that you and I are competing in the nadaam as a team,” Thalia said, turning to Gabriel.
“What did I say that convinced him?”
At this, Thalia’s own mouth quirked in a little, rueful smile. “None of it. But he found the idea of a man and woman working together so amusing, that he’s letting us enter. He thinks that the tribe could use a good laugh.”
Gabriel couldn’t help but chuckle, too. “My brief career as a diplomat—over before it started.”
“That’s all right, Captain,” she said warmly while giving his hand a squeeze. “I prefer you as a man of deeds.”
He grinned, thinking of the tournament. His blood hummed with excitement, relishing the prospect of real stand-up fighting. No hidden ambushes from underhanded enemies. No magic. Just straight man-against-man competition.
But not only man-against-man. There was a woman involved, too. Thalia. She’d never been in battle, but she was a warrior, just the same. The perfect woman to have at his side in the competition. Soon, they would fight together. And nothing felt more right.