“I hope not. Otherwise our blades will be wet with your blood,” the Khan said, grinning. “We’ll go make camp, but before that, I would like to know how you understand our traditions well enough to call for a feast that did not insult us.” Straightening, John returned Zayaat’s smile. “A blood-bound brother who was a hankhu, an outcast prince of your people. His eyes have been open to the sky for six years, but his spirit remains with me.” “Your memory of him brings honor to his tribe,” Zayaat said, bowing his head to John.
