It was no easy task for Temujin to approach strangers with Arslan at his side. Even when he strapped his bow to his saddle and rode up with his hands in the air, they were met with drawn arrows and the frightened eyes of children. Temujin dismounted to speak to the tribeless as he found them, though more than one galloped away as soon as he and Arslan were spotted. Some he directed north, promising them a welcome in his name. He did not know if they believed him. It was a frustrating business, but a fearless old woman finally nodded at the name and sent them east.

Temujin found no peace for his spirit in riding lands he had known as a child. He also asked for news of the Wolves, to avoid them. Eeluk was still somewhere in the area and it would not do for Temujin to come across a hunting party unprepared. There would be a reckoning between them, he knew, but not until he had gathered enough warriors to tear through the gers of the Wolves like a summer storm.

When they sighted the vast camp of the Olkhun’ut after another month of riding, Temujin reined in, overcome with memory. He could see the dust of outriders as they came out, buzzing like wasps around the edges of the tribe.

“Keep your hand away from your sword when they come,” he murmured to Arslan.

The swordsmith suppressed a grimace at the unnecessary advice, sitting like stone.

Temujin’s pony tried to munch a patch of brown grass, and he slapped it on the neck, keeping the reins tight. He remembered his father as clearly as if he were there with him and he kept a tight hold on his emotion, showing a cold face of which Yesugei would have approved.

Arslan felt the change in the younger man, seeing the tension in his shoulders and the way he sat his horse. A man’s past was always full of pain, he thought, deliberately relaxing as he waited for the yelling warriors to finish their display of bravery.

“What if they refuse to give her up?” Arslan asked.

Temujin turned his yellow eyes on the swordsmith, and Arslan felt a strange emotion under that cold stare. Who was the boy to disturb him in such a way?

“I will not leave without her,” Temujin said. “I will not be turned away without a death.”

Arslan nodded, troubled. He could still remember being eighteen, but the recklessness of those years was long behind him. He had grown in skill since his youth, and he had yet to meet a man who could beat him with a sword or a bow, though he assumed such a man existed. What he could not do was follow Temujin into his coldness, to the sheer indifference to death that was only possible for the very young. He had a son, after all.

Arslan showed nothing of his internal struggle, but by the time the Olkhun’ut warriors were on them, he had emptied his mind and was perfectly still.

The riders screamed and whooped as they galloped close with bows drawn and arrows fitted to the strings. The display was meant to impress, but neither Arslan nor Temujin paid it any heed. Arslan saw one of the riders check and yank on the reins as he caught sight of Temujin’s face. The sharp movement almost brought his pony to its knees, and the warrior’s face grew tight with astonishment.

“It is you,” the rider said.

Temujin nodded. “I have come for my wife, Koke. I told you I would.”

Arslan watched as the Olkhun’ut warrior hawked his throat clear of phlegm and spat on the ground. Pressure from his heels brought his gelding close enough for him to reach out. Temujin looked on impassively as Koke raised his arm as if to strike him, his face working in pale rage.

Arslan moved, kicking his pony into range. His sword licked out so that its razor tip sat snugly under Koke’s throat, resting there. The other warriors roared in anger, milling around them. They bent their bows ready to fire and Arslan ignored them as if they were not there. He waited until Koke’s eyes flickered toward him, seeing the sick fear there.

“You do not touch the khan,” Arslan said softly. He used his peripheral vision to watch the other men, seeing how one bow bent farther than the others. Death was close enough to feel on the breeze, and the day seemed to grow still.

“Speak carefully, Koke,” Temujin said, smiling. “If your men shoot, you will be dead before we are.”

Arslan saw that Temujin had noted the bending bow, and wondered again at his calm.

Koke was like a statue, though his gelding shifted nervously. He took a tighter grip on the reins rather than have his throat cut by a sudden jerk of his mount.

“If you kill me, you will be cut to pieces,” he said in a whisper.

Temujin grinned at him. “That is true,” he replied, offering no further help. Though he smiled, he felt a cold lump of anger surface deep inside. He had no patience for the ritual humiliation of strangers, not from these people.

“Remove the sword,” Koke said.

To his credit, his voice was calm, but Temujin could see sweat appear on his forehead, despite the wind. Coming close to death would do that for a man, he thought. He wondered why he felt no fear himself, but there was not a trace of it in him. A vague memory of wings beating his face came back to him, and he had a sense of being detached from the moment, untouched by danger. Perhaps his father’s spirit watched him still, he thought.

“Welcome me to your camp,” Temujin said.

Koke’s gaze jumped back from Arslan to the young man he had known from so long before. He was in an impossible position, Temujin knew. Either he had to back down and be humiliated, or he would die.

Temujin waited, uncaring. He glanced around him at the other men, spending a long moment looking at the warrior who had drawn an arrow back to his ear. The man was ready to loose and Temujin raised his chin in a small jerk, showing he knew.

“You are welcome in the camp,” Koke whispered.

“Louder,” Temujin said.

“You are welcome,” Koke said again, through gritted teeth.

“Excellent,” Temujin replied. He turned in the saddle to the man who still waited with a drawn bow.

“If you loose that arrow, I will pull it out and shove it down your throat,” he told him. The man blinked and Temujin stared until the needle-sharp point was lowered almost sheepishly. He heard Koke’s gasp behind him as Arslan removed the blade, and he took a deep breath, finding to his surprise that he was enjoying himself.

“Ride in with us then, Koke,” he said, clapping his cousin on the back. “I have come for my wife.”

There was no question of entering the camp without visiting the khan of the Olkhun’ut. With a pang of memory, Temujin remembered Yesugei’s games of status with Sansar, as one khan to another. He kept his head high, but he felt no shame as Koke led him to Sansar’s ger in the center of the camp. Despite his successes against the Tartars, he was not Sansar’s equal, as his father had been. At best, he was a war leader, a raider barely approaching the level where he could be received. If he had lacked even that status, Temujin knew that only his father’s memory would have granted him an audience and perhaps not even then.

He and Arslan dismounted and allowed their ponies to be taken away, their bows with them. Koke had grown into a man in the years since they had last met, and Temujin was interested to see how the khan’s bondsmen accepted his cousin’s right to enter the ger after just a few murmured words. Koke had come up in the world, Temujin realized. He wondered what service he had performed for the khan of the Olkhun’ut.

When Koke did not return, Temujin was struck by a memory and chuckled suddenly, startling Arslan from his silent tension.

“They always make me wait, these people,” Temujin said. “But I have patience, do I not, Arslan? I bear their insults with great humility.” His eyes glittered with something other than amusement, and Arslan only bowed his head. The cool control he had seen in Temujin was under strain in that camp. Though he showed no sign if it, Arslan considered there was a chance of them both being killed through a rash word.