“I'll be a chief someday,” Temujin said, “but maybe the spirits will favour another. If he's brave and strong enough, I'd follow him.”
“I wonder if you could follow anyone, Temujin.” She would have laughed at any other boy talking this way, but his soft voice did not sound like a bragging boy's.
“Temujin!” Yesugei bellowed from the back of the yurt. “Show our host how well you can recite the tale of the ancestors, the Tawny Doe and the Blue-Grey Wolf.”
Bortai straightened. Her own name meant blue-grey, and Temujin's eyes were as tawny and golden as the hide of the ancestral doe must have been; maybe Yesugei meant to turn the discussion to her.
Bortai lay in her bed, unable to sleep. After several stories and songs, everyone had gone to bed with no talk of a marriage.
She peered over her blanket. The guests were asleep, stretched out against cushions near the hearth. A shadowy form crept towards the doorway; she waited until her father had gone outside, then got up and pulled on her boots.
The dogs growled softly as she stepped outside. She found her father outside the camping circle, his back to her as he urinated. She hung back until he had fastened his trousers, then hurried to him.
“Father,” she whispered. Dei grunted. “Father, the eyes of the falcon in my dream — they were Temujin's eyes. It meant he was coming here for me—I'm sure of it.”
“You made up your mind fast enough.”
“It's true, it has to be true.”
“We've done what we can, girl. The Bahadur would offer enough for you, but we don't want him to think we're too anxious. We must wait.”
13
Bortai was awake before the others. She tugged at the clothes in which she had slept, pulled on her boots, and crept to the hearth to check the fire.
His father will ask, she told herself; he has to ask. But perhaps this Bahadur was more ambitious for his son; he might look elsewhere instead of asking for a minor chief's daughter.
She heard a yawn. Temujin sat up and looked at her; she tried to smile. “Good morning, Bortai,” he said softly.
“Good morning, Temujin.”
Yesugei stirred and shook himself as he rose unsteadily to his feet. He mumbled a greeting, then went outside with his son.
Bortai stared at the hearth until her family was awake. Shotan frowned at her as she peered into the kettle; Dei and Anchar left the tent to relieve themselves.
The broth was simmering when the men and boys returned. Maybe Yesugei had already spoken to her father. Bortai searched Dei's face, but his eyes were slits and the lines around his mouth deepened as he scowled; he usually looked that way after drinking too much. He said nothing as he sat down, and Yesugei did not seem in the mood for talk.
Bortai forced herself to sip some broth. Temujin and Anchar whispered to each other, but she could not hear what they were saying. She was suddenly angry with her father for telling Yesugei about the dream, and at Shotan for speaking of Bortai the night before as though her daughter were a horse she hoped to trade.
“You've treated me well, Dei Sechen,” Yesugei said at last. His skin was ruddier and less sallow, now that he had drunk some kumiss with his broth.
“But you deserve a feast,” Dei replied; he also looked a bit more alert. “My brothers will want to talk with you, and your horses can rest while they graze with ours.”
“That sounds most pleasant,” Yesugei murmured, “but I've been away from my own camp too long already - first among my Kereit allies, and now here.”
Bortai peered at Temujin from under her long lashes. He caught her eye, then looked up at Yesugei. “A few more days won't matter,” the boy said.
“They will if we have a journey to the Olkhunuguds ahead of us.”
Temujin's eyes narrowed; he pressed his lips together. Bortai's heart fluttered.
“I could leave,” Yesugei continued, “and come back another time, but that would serve no purpose. Maybe we've circled this ground enough.” He shifted on his cushion. “You have a daughter, and I have a son. She's as beautiful a girl as I've seen, and the fire in her eyes matches that in the eyes of my son. I've seen enough of her to know she would make Temujin a good wife, and he seems to have a liking for her. Brother Dei, will you consent to their marriage?”
Bortai's cheeks burned; her heart leaped. Temujin was watching her father, his eyes wide, his body tense.
Dei stroked his thin beard. “I could wait for you to ask again,” he said, “but I wouldn't be praised for delaying, and no one would think badly of me for agreeing now. It isn't a girl's fate, especially one with my daughter's beauty, to grow old in her father's tent. I'll gladly give my daughter to your son.”
Bortai swallowed hard. Her heart was beating so loudly that she was certain the others must hear it.
“But they are still children,” Dei went on. “Brother Yesugei, will you leave your son with us? Bortai and Temujin can grow closer before they wed, and my son would benefit from having a companion who would be like a brother.”
Yesugei looked down at Temujin. “I wanted to ask you that myself, since I meant all along to leave my son with his betrothed and her family. Much as I'll miss him, I will look forward to the day he and your daughter are wed.”
“I'm glad you asked for Bortai, Father,” Temujin said. “If you hadn't, I would have asked for her myself.”
Yesugei laughed. “I know.” He clapped Dei on the shoulder. “I should warn you of one thing—keep back your dogs while Temujin's with you. My son's fearless with anything else, but he's afraid of dogs.”
Temujin reddened. Bortai would not have believed anything could frighten him. Anchar snickered. “Afraid of dogs?”
“You were scared enough yourself when one bit you,” Bortai said quickly. “Don't worry, Temujin. I'll show you how to make them afraid of you.”
He lifted his chin. “I won't let them frighten me.”
“Shotan, you'll kill a sheep today,” Dei said, “and this camp will have a betrothal feast.” Bortai trembled as her father thrust her hand into the boy's warm palm.
14
The mountain called Chegcher loomed to the north, its eastern slope darkening as the sun dropped lower in the west. Below the mountain, twenty yurts sat in a circle; plumes of pale smoke climbed from the roofs towards the sky.
Yesugei slowed to a trot; his spare horse whinnied softly. The people had gathered near a pit where meat was roasting. Many of them wore the bright red silk sashes he had seen in Tatar camps.
He could ride on, but they might wonder why he had not stopped, and it was unlikely that any of them would recognize him. These Tatars would not expect Yesugei the Brave to stop there and claim the hospitality all owed to any stranger. He could rest for a little while before moving on across the yellow steppe towards his own lands.
The hide that was Dei's parting gift lay across the back of his spare horse; Yesugei had given the other horses to the Onggirat chief as a token. He was pleased that Temujin's betrothal was settled, and the bride-price agreed upon. Hoelun, he thought, must have been much like Bortai as a child. Beauty was desirable in a wife, but he had also noted the strength in the girl's small frame, the health that lent a peach-coloured glow to her high golden-skinned cheeks, the liveliness and intelligence in her large, almond-shaped brown eyes, and the calluses on her hands that marked a willingness to work. He had read what was in Temujin's heart the moment his son first saw the girl, and Dei Sechen's dream was an omen he could not ignore.
He was satisfied, although he would miss Temujin. He loved his son's bravery and quickness, even his stubbornness and pride. Temujin had been six when he made his first kill; Yesugei still recalled the intense pleasure he had felt when anointing his son's bowstring finger with fat and blood from the fallen oryx. A few years would pass before the boy was wed, but Temujin would not have to dwell with the Onggirats all that time. He would return to fetch the boy next spring, and Temujin could pay another long visit to Dei before the wedding.
> Hoelun would be happy to hear his news. His spirits rose; arranging for their son's marriage had reawakened his old feelings for her. It would have surprised her to know how much he longed for her at this moment. Being inside her, feeling the warmth and tightness of her sheath, was still the most comforting sensation he knew. Yet lately it passed too quickly for him, and, he was sure, for her. He promised himself to greet her more warmly when he returned, to rediscover the body that had given him so much joy and to share that pleasure with her again. The coming campaign would take him away from her soon enough.
He felt a pang; the joys of battle no longer seemed so enticing. He almost wished that the battles were past and that he could grow old at Hoelun's side.
His mouth twisted; he felt shame at allowing himself to indulge in such thoughts. Dei the Wise and the Onggirat chieftains might buy some peace with their daughters, but Yesugei and his sons would have to win it in other ways.
He was closer to the Tatar camp. The dogs chained near the yurts bayed at him. He smelled the odours of roast lamb. The Tatars around the cooking pit gazed up at him with the curious but distant look of people preparing to greet a stranger.
He would have a brief respite at least. Yesugei reined in his horse. “Are you at peace?” he called out.
“We are at peace,” a man replied. “And you?”
“I am, and my ride has made me thirsty.” Yesugei dismounted, held out his hands to show that he came in peace, then led his horses towards their fires.
15
“Father's back,” Khasar called out.
Hoelun looked up. “You didn't have to ride back here to tell me—”
“He's ill.” Khasar gulped air. “The men grazing the horses sent me. Dobon's riding back with him.”
Hoelun stood up. “Biliktu!” The girl peered out from the entrance to Hoelun's yurt. “Get jars and put this away.” Hoelun gestured at the curds she had set out on rocks to dry.
Biliktu glanced at the boys gathering near one wagon. “Ujin, what—”
“Just do as I say.” Hoelun hastened after her son towards the edge of the camp. Two riders were approaching from the east. Yesugei was slumped forward, his head against his horse's mane. Dobon sat behind him, leading another horse by the reins.
Hoelun drew Khasar to her. “Fetch Bughu,” she said. The boy hurried away. People were gathering outside the nearest camping circles. I mustn't fear, she told herself. Yesugei was strong; Bughu would drive the evil spirit from him.
Two men rushed to Yesugei's side and helped him from his horse. His face was sallow; he clutched at his stomach as the two men held him up. The people around Hoelun backed away as Dobon and the men holding Yesugei followed her towards her dwelling. “What happened to my husband?” she asked.
The men were silent as they walked between the fires outside her tent. “Poison,” Yesugei muttered. Hoelun shivered and made a sign against evil, then followed the men inside.
They dragged Yesugei to the back of the dwelling, lowered him to the bed, then pulled off his boots. Dobon moved towards her and said, “Yesugei spoke of poison while we were riding here. That's all I know.”
The two men by the bed stood up. “You've done enough,” Hoelun said. “Khasar's gone to get a shaman. I'll tend to my husband myself.”
The three left the yurt quickly. They think he's going to die, she thought; no one would willingly stay near a dying man.
She bent over Yesugei; he groaned as she took off his sheepskin coat.
“Poison,” he whispered. “After I left Temujin—”
She had nearly forgotten her oldest son. “Where did you leave him? What's this about poison?”
“He's in an Onggirat camp by the Urchun River. I betrothed him to the daughter of their chief.” He moaned as she slipped a pillow under his head. “On the way back, I stopped at a Tatar camp. They gave me drink and food before I rode on. I didn't think they would know me, but someone there must have—”
Fool, she thought, did you forget how many Tatars you've killed? She steadied herself. He had stopped there only to claim the hospitality owed to travellers; such treachery against a lone stranger was not common. The Tatars must have expected Yesugei to die before reaching his camp, so that no one would ever learn of their evil deed.
Sochigil entered, followed by Biliktu. “What is it?” the other wife asked. “Biliktu says our husband has been stricken—”
“The evil spirit will be driven away,” Hoelun said firmly. “Sochigil, look after my sons. Biliktu, take my daughter to Khokakhchin. I'll stay with my husband.”
Biliktu set down her jars of curds, then picked up the cradle holding Temulun. “It can't be,” the girl said.
“Leave me!”
The two departed. Hoelun touched Yesugei's forehead; his skin felt hot. She did not want her children near whatever evil spirit had taken possession of their father, or inside the tent where he might die.
Khasar entered with the shaman. Hoelun lifted her head. “Khasar, you'll stay in Sochigil-eke's tent with your brothers. Go, so that Bughu can tend to your father.”
“Mother—he'll be all right, won't he?”
“We must see what the spirits will for him.”
Her son walked slowly towards the doorway. When he was gone, the shaman leaned over the bed. “How long has this illness been with you?” Bughu asked.
“I felt the pain here, two days after leaving a Tatar camp.” Yesugei motioned at his belly. “By the third day, I knew I'd been poisoned. Those Tatars did this to me. I stopped there to rest, and they gave me food and drink. Someone must have added poison to it.”
The shaman peered into Yesugei's eyes, then lifted his shift to feel his abdomen; Yesugei groaned. Bughu moved his hands over the ailing man's body and prodded him until he moaned at the shaman's touch.
“What can you do?” Hoelun said at last.
Bughu stood up and led her away from the bed. “If I had been with the Bahadur when he first felt this,” he whispered, “I could have given him a potion to purge him. Vomiting then might have saved him if it was poison that brought this about.”
“What do you mean? My husband said—”
“That he was poisoned. The Tatars have reason to hate him, and I know of slow-acting poisons that can bring this about. But I don't think your husband was poisoned. I've seen people in this state when poisoning was unlikely—even when they vomit right away, they aren't free of pain, as they would be if poison were the cause. They worsen, and one feels the viscera swelling on the belly's right side. That is what I felt now in the Bahadur.”
“And what can be done?” she said softly.
“Nothing, Ujin, except pray that the evil spirit leaves him. Otherwise, his pain will increase and his entrails rot.” Bughu spread his hands. “I've seen such evil spirits come upon the strong and the young. Sometimes there is no reason for it, but Yesugei stopped at a Tatar camp, and maybe one of his enemies was powerful enough to curse him in this way. Whether this is the result of poison or a curse, we can assume his enemies brought his suffering upon him.”
The sound of the shaman's high, soft voice repelled her. Bughu was only another carrion-eater, stalking an ailing man to see what morsels he might take for himself. The meaning of his words was clear. If Yesugei's followers believed him poisoned, desire for revenge on the Tatars might hold them together. But if an evil spirit was afflicting him, some might see it as a loss of Heaven's favour. People understood poisoning and curses, while the ways of spirits were harder to grasp. Her own position would be weaker if people doubted that Yesugei's illness was the work of Tatars.
“Thank you for what you have told me,” she murmured. “You'll be rewarded—that is, if you're silent about it.”
“I shall summon the other shamans, Ujin, but you must prepare for his passing. You should move him from this tent before—”
“Leave me.”
The shaman left. Hoelun stared helplessly at the bed where her husband lay. The camp seemed oddly sil
ent. At last she went to the entrance and looked outside, knowing what she would see.
Someone, perhaps Bughu, had stuck a spear into the ground just beyond the doorway; a piece of black felt dangled from the shaft. Everyone would know that this dwelling was to be shunned and that a dying man lay inside. She bowed her head and rolled down the flap.
Hoelun sat at Yesugei's side. Despite the spear, many of the men had come to the yurt to gaze at their ailing leader, but now they were alone. Bughu and two other shamans had come there in their wooden wolf masks, shaken their bags of bones, beaten their drums, and murmured their chants. She could hear them outside, still pleading with the evil spirit to free her husband.
Yesugei's moans were fainter; his skin burned when she touched him. He opened his eyes, but did not seem to see her. “I told you once that I would never love you,” she said. “I never thought I would say this to you, Yesugei, but I love you now. I want you to hear this, so that your spirit will stay here with me.”
“Ah.” She bent closer to him, but he said no more. A sweet sickly smell came from him, unlike the odours of sweat and leather that had become so familiar. His death had to be near, and if she was with him when he died, she would have to stay outside the camp until three full moons had come and gone.
A shadowy form entered the tent and crept past the hearth. “You shouldn't be here,” Hoelun said as the light flickered over Khokakhchin's lined brown face.
“So the shamans warned me,” her old servant replied, “but you may need me. Biliktu is watching the baby. If your husband rallies, he'll need nursing.” Khokakhchin made a sign. “If he doesn't, and you're put under a ban for staying with him, you'll need someone to look after you. I'll risk sharing the curse.”
Hoelun was moved. “You do more than you should, old woman.”
“You've been kind to me, Ujin. I might have grown old in a Tatar camp, lashed by my former mistress's tongue and my master's stick. Rest—I'll tend the Bahadur.”
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 8