“My lord khan, I am sorry. I was led to understand you might be ill or dying.”
To his surprise, Ogedai smiled mirthlessly. “Or indeed both, Alkhun. Well, you have seen me. Now get out.”
The officer moved with great speed to leave the room. Ogedai stared at his chancellor. He did not yet look at Sorhatani, though he had risen at her voice.
“Leave me, Yao Shu,” Ogedai said.
His chancellor bowed deeply, then tightened his hold on Sorhatani’s arm as he began to guide her out.
“My lord khan!” she cried out.
“Enough!” Yao Shu snapped, yanking her. If he had released his grip, she would have fallen, but instead she swung around, helpless and furious.
“Take your hands away,” she hissed at him. “Ogedai! How can you see me attacked and do nothing? Did I not stand with you on the night of knives, in this very palace? My husband would have answered this insult. Where is he now? Ogedai!”
She was in the doorway when the khan replied.
“You are dismissed, Yao Shu. Let her approach.”
“My lord,” he began, “she—”
“Let her approach.”
Sorhatani shot a look of pure venom at the chancellor as she rubbed her arm and stood straight. Yao Shu bowed again and left the room without looking back, his face cold and emotionless. The door clanged softly behind him and she breathed slowly, hiding her delight. She was in. It had been close and even dangerous, but she had won through to the khan, alone.
Ogedai watched her come. He felt guilt, but he met her eyes. Before she could speak again, footsteps sounded, and a clinking of glass and metal. Sorhatani paused at the sight of the khan’s manservant Baras’aghur carrying a tray into the room.
“I have a visitor, Baras,” Ogedai murmured.
The servant stared at Sorhatani with open hostility.
“The khan is not well. You should come back another time.”
He spoke with the confidence of a trusted man, his service to the khan beyond dispute. Sorhatani smiled at him, wondering if he had taken on a more motherly role during the khan’s illness. He certainly seemed happy fussing around Ogedai.
When she did not move, Baras’aghur tightened his lips and set the tray down by his master with a gentle clinking. Then he faced her.
“The khan is not well enough for visitors,” he insisted, a little too loudly.
Sorhatani saw his growing indignation, so she spoke louder still. “Thank you for the tea, Baras’aghur. I will serve the khan in your place. You do remember your place?”
The servant spluttered for a moment, looking to Ogedai. When the khan said nothing, Baras’aghur bowed with icy dislike and left the room. Sorhatani added a sprinkling of brown salt to the steaming golden liquid, salt that was so precious for life. Finally she added milk from a tiny jug, its surface smooth in her hands. Her fingers were quick and sure.
“Serve me,” Ogedai said.
Gracefully she knelt before him and held out the cup, bowing her head.
“I am yours to command, my lord khan,” she said.
She shivered slightly at the touch of his hands as he took it from her. He was like ice in that room where the wind blew constantly. From under lowered eyelids, she could see his face was mottled and dark, as if there were bruises deep within. Up close, his feet were veined like marble. His eyes were pale yellow as they regarded her. He sipped the tea, the plume of steam whipped away in the breeze.
Sorhatani settled herself, kneeling at his feet and looking up into his face.
“Thank you for sending me my son,” she said. “It was a comfort to me to hear the worst from him.”
Ogedai looked away from her. He changed the cup from one hand to another as its heat burned his frozen flesh. He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was, kneeling with her back so straight and the wind snatching at her hair. It looked like a living thing and he watched in silence, mesmerized. Since his return to Karakorum, he had not spoken of Tolui’s death. He could feel Sorhatani edging toward the subject, and he shrank back physically on the low couch, cradling the cup as his only warmth. He could not explain the lassitude and weakness that beset his days. Months fled from him without his notice, and the challenges of the khanate went unanswered. He could not rouse himself from the dim dawns and sunsets. He waited for death and cursed its slowness in coming.
Sorhatani could hardly believe the changes in Ogedai. He had left Karakorum full of life, constantly drunk and laughing. Fresh from the triumph of becoming khan, he had gone with his elite tumans to secure the Chin borders, thriving on a difficult task in the field. Recalling those days was like looking back on youth. The man who had returned had aged visibly, deep wrinkles appearing on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth. The pale eyes no longer reminded her of Genghis. There was no spark there, no sense of danger in the quiet gaze. It would not do.
“My husband was in good health,” she said suddenly. “He would have lived for many years, seen his sons grow into fine men. Perhaps he would have had other children, taken more wives. In time, he would have been a grandfather. I like to think of the joy he would have taken in those years.”
Ogedai shrank back as if she had attacked him, but she went on without hesitating, her voice firm and clear so that he could hear every word.
“He had a sense of duty that is too rare today, my lord khan. He believed the nation came before his health, his life. He believed in something greater than himself, or my happiness, or even the lives of his sons. Your father’s vision, my lord, that a nation can spring from the tribes of the plains, that they can find a place of their own in the world. That they deserve such a place.”
“I … I have said that he—” Ogedai began.
Sorhatani interrupted him and, for an instant, anger showed in his eyes before it faded.
“He threw his future into the wind, but not just for you, my lord. He loved you, but it was not just for love. It was also for his father’s will and dreams; do you understand?”
“Of course I understand,” Ogedai said wearily.
Sorhatani nodded, but went on. “He gave you life, a second father to you. But not just for you. For those who come after you, in his father’s line, for the nation to come, the warriors who are children yet, the children who will be born.”
He gestured with his hand, trying to fend off her words. “I am tired now, Sorhatani. Perhaps it would be best—”
“And how did you use this most precious gift?” Sorhatani whispered. “You send your wife away, you leave your chancellor to roam an empty palace. Your Guards are left to make trouble in the city on their own, untended. Two of them were hanged yesterday—did you know that? They murdered a butcher for a haunch of beef. Where is the breath of the khan on their necks, the sense that they are in the nation? Is it in this room, in this freezing wind, while you sit alone?”
“Sorhatani …”
“You will die here. They will find you stiff and cold. And Tolui’s gift will have been thrown away. Tell me then how I will justify what he did for you.”
His face twisted, and in astonishment she saw that he was struggling not to weep. This was not Genghis, who would have sprung up in rage at her words. This was a broken man before her.
“I should not have let him do it,” Ogedai said. “How long do I have? Months? Days? I cannot know.”
“What is this foolishness?” Sorhatani said, forgetting herself in her exasperation. “You will live for forty years and be feared and loved throughout a huge nation. A million children will be born with your name, in your honor, if you leave this room and this weakness behind you.”
“You don’t understand,” Ogedai said. Only two other men knew of the weakness that plagued him. If he told Sorhatani, he was risking its becoming common knowledge in the camps and tumans, yet they were alone and she knelt before him, her eyes wide in the gloom. He needed someone.
“My heart is weak,” he said, his voice just a breath. “I truly do not know how long I
have. I should not have let him sacrifice himself for me, but I was …” He stumbled over the words.
“Oh, my husband,” Sorhatani said to herself as she understood at last. A sudden upwelling of grief choked her. “Oh, my love.”
She looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears. “Did he know? Did Tolui know?”
“I think so,” Ogedai said, looking away.
He was not sure how to respond. He had learned that his shaman had discussed the weakness of his body with his brother and uncle, but he had not asked Tolui himself. Having surfaced from a dark river, choking and gasping back to life, Ogedai had grasped at anything offered to him. At that time, he would have done anything, just for a day in the light. Now, it was hard to remember that yearning for life, as if it had been someone else. The cold room with its billowing silk jarred somehow with the memories. He looked around him, blinking like one awakening from sleep.
“If he knew, it was an even greater sacrifice,” she said. “And even more reason why you must not waste another day of it. If he can see you now, Ogedai, will he consider he gave his life for something worthwhile? Or will he be ashamed of you?”
Ogedai felt a stab of anger at her words.
“You dare to speak to me in such a way?” he demanded.
He had stopped blinking like a day-old lamb. The gaze he fixed on her had a touch of the old khan in it. Sorhatani welcomed it, though she still reeled at what she had heard. If Ogedai died, who would lead the nation? The answer followed on the question, without a pause. Chagatai would be back in Karakorum in just days, riding in triumph to accept the beneficent will of the sky father. She ground her teeth at the very thought of his pleasure.
“Get up,” she said. “Get up, my lord. If you do not have long, there is still much to do. You must not waste another day, another morning! Take hold of your life with both hands and crush it to you, my lord. You will not have another in this world.”
He began to speak and she reached out and pulled his head toward her, kissing him hard on the mouth. His breath and lips were cool with the scent of tea. When she released him, he lurched backwards, then came to his feet, staring incredulously at her.
“What was that?” he said. “I have enough wives, Sorhatani.”
“That was to see if you were still alive, my lord. My husband gave his life for these precious days, no matter how long or short they are. In his name, will you trust me?”
He was still dazed, she knew it. She had awoken some part of him, but the fog of despair, perhaps of the Chin drugs, was still weighing heavily, dulling his wits. Yet she saw a gleam of interest in his eyes as he looked at her kneeling before him. He summoned his will like a stick borne aloft on a flood, visible for an instant before vanishing into the depths.
“No, Sorhatani, I don’t trust you.”
She smiled. “That is to be expected, my lord. But you will learn I am on your side.”
She rose and closed the windows, shutting out the moaning wind at last.
“I will call your servants, lord. You will feel better when you have eaten proper food.”
He stared at her as she yelled for Baras’aghur, snapping instructions to the man in a torrent. Baras looked to Ogedai over her shoulder, but the khan just shrugged and acquiesced. It was a relief to have someone else who knew what he needed. The thought sparked another.
“I should have my wife and daughters brought back to the palace, Sorhatani. They are at the summer house on the Orkhon.”
Sorhatani considered for a moment.
“You are still unwell, my lord. I think I should wait a few days before restoring your family and servants. We will take it slowly.”
For a short time, she would be the only one with the ear of the khan. With his seal, she could have her son Mongke join Tsubodai on the great trek, where the future was being written. She was not ready to throw that influence away so quickly.
Ogedai nodded, unable to resist her.
EIGHTEEN
The ground was covered in autumn frost, and the horses snorted white mist as Mongke rode past yet another pair of Tsubodai’s scouts. He was already in awe of the general, but nothing had prepared him for taking ten thousand warriors through the man’s trail of destruction. From beyond the Volga River, for hundreds of miles west, towns and villages had been looted or destroyed. He had passed the site of three major battles, still marked with a host of birds and small animals made bold at the presence of so much rotting flesh. The odor seemed to have seeped into him, so that Mongke could smell it on every breeze.
He saw scouts galloping ahead of him for days before he caught sight of the main Mongol army. It had spent the summer in an encampment equal to Karakorum as it had been before the khan’s city was built. It was a host of white gers, a peaceful scene of morning fires and vast herds of horses in the distance. Mongke shook his head in silent wonder as he trotted closer.
His banners had been recognized, of course, but still Tsubodai sent a minghaan out to meet him before the tuman was in striking distance of the main camp. Mongke accepted the silent scrutiny of the orlok’s men. He recognized their officer and saw the man nod to himself. Mongke knew then that Tsubodai had sent a man who could confirm his identity by sight. He watched with fascination as the officer gestured to a companion, who raised a long brass tube to his lips. The note blared out and Mongke looked around in astonishment as it was answered to the left and right. Horses and men appeared less than a mile away on both sides. Tsubodai had sent out a flanking force to contain him, lying with their horses concealed in trees and behind a ridge of ground. It went some way to explain how the ice general had fought his way so far from home.
By the time they reached the main camp, a space had been cleared, a vast empty field with access to a small river. Mongke was nervous.
“Show them the cold face,” he said quietly to himself.
As his tuman fell into the routines of the camp and began to set up gers with quick efficiency, Mongke dismounted. His ten thousand and the horses they brought needed land the size of a large town just to rest. Tsubodai had prepared for their arrival.
He turned sharply at a cry of pleasure to see his uncle Kachiun walking over the torn grass. He looked much older than when Mongke had last seen him, and he limped heavily. Mongke watched him with a guarded expression, but gripped his hand when Kachiun held it out.
“I have been waiting for days to see you,” Kachiun said. “Tsubodai will want to hear news of home this evening. You are invited to his ger as a guest. You will have fresh information.” He smiled at the young man his nephew had become. “I understand your mother has sources our scouts can’t match.”
Mongke tried to hide his confusion. Karakorum was three thousand miles to the east. It had taken him four months of hard travel to reach the general. There had been times over the previous month when Tsubodai was moving so fast he thought he would never catch up with him. If the general had not stopped for a season to refresh his herds and men, Mongke would still have been traveling. Yet Kachiun spoke as if Karakorum were just over the next valley.
“You are well informed, Uncle,” Mongke said after a pause. “I do have a number of letters from home.”
“Anything for me?”
“Yes, Uncle. I have letters from two of your wives as well as the khan.”
“Excellent, I’ll take those now then.”
Kachiun rubbed his hands together in anticipation, and Mongke suppressed a smile as he realized it was the main reason for his uncle’s coming to greet him in such a way. Perhaps they were not too busy to want fresh news of home. He crossed to his pony as it munched on ice-rimed grass, and he opened the saddlebags, pulling out a sheaf of greasy yellow parchments.
Kachiun looked around him as Mongke sorted through them.
“You would not have brought your father’s tuman to protect letters, Mongke. You are staying then?”
Mongke thought of the efforts his mother had made to have Ogedai assign her oldest son to this army. She bel
ieved that the future of the nation lay in the battle honors he could win there, that whoever returned from the sweep west would have a hand on the reins of fate. He wondered if she was correct.
“With the permission of Orlok Tsubodai, yes,” he said, handing over the letters marked for his uncle.
Kachiun smiled as he took them and clapped his nephew on the shoulder. “You are dusty and tired, I see. Rest and eat while your gers are constructed. I will see you tonight.”
Both Mongke and Kachiun looked up as another rider came trotting across the camp toward them.
Men covered the entire valley floor, the camp and its smoky fires stretching away as far as Mongke could see. With the constant need for water, food, wood, and toilet pits, and the thousand details of simply living, it was a place of constant bustle and movement. Children ran around, yelling and pretending to be warriors. Women watched them indulgently while they worked at a thousand different tasks. Real warriors trained or just stood guard over the herds.
Through them all, Tsubodai rode with his eyes fixed on Mongke, his pace brisk. He wore a new set of scale armor, clean and well oiled, so that it moved easily with him. His horse was copper-brown, almost red in the sunlight. The orlok looked neither left nor right as he rode.
It was an effort for Mongke to hold his gaze. He saw Tsubodai frown slightly, and then the general dug in his heels and increased his speed, bringing the pony up quickly so that it stood blowing and pawing the ground.
“You are welcome in my camp, General,” Tsubodai said, giving Mongke his official title with no hesitation.
Mongke bowed calmly. He was aware that he owned the rank solely because his mother seemed to have a hold on the khan. Yet his father’s sacrifice had raised the son, and that was only right. He had ridden in war against the Chin. He would do better with Tsubodai, he was certain.
As if in echo of his thoughts, Tsubodai looked over the tuman from Karakorum.
“I was sorry to hear of your father’s death,” Tsubodai said. “He was a fine man. We can certainly use you here.” The orlok was obviously pleased at the sight of so many additional warriors. It brought his tumans up to six, with almost as many again in his auxiliaries. Surely the sky father smiled on this campaign.
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