Dei stroked his thin beard. “If my khuda Yesugei wants his son so much,” he said, “then of course I must let him go.” Bortai opened her mouth to protest; her voice caught in her throat.
“I don't want to leave,” Temujin said in an oddly toneless voice, “but if my father wants me, then I must go to him.”
“But the boy will come back,” Dei said. “After he's seen his father, Yesugei can be at peace about him. I ask you to let him return as soon as possible.”
“Yes,” Munglik replied. “As soon as possible.”
Bortai did not believe it. Why wouldn't the man say when? Ten days, a month, a year? Soon could mean any of those.
“I'll miss you,” Anchar said to the other boy.
“So will I,” Bortai said softly. Temujin did not reply.
“Well,” Shotan said, “at least we can feed you and give you a place to sleep before you leave.”
“I'm grateful,” Munglik said, “but I promised the Bahadur that I would leave as soon as I saw his son and spoke to you. It's still light outside, and we can cover some ground before we sleep.”
Bortai's heart sank. She would not even have one last night in Temujin's company.
Dei motioned to her betrothed. “Better collect your things, boy.”
“I'll be back,” Temujin said as he stood up. “Father will send me here again when I tell him of the kindness you've shown me.” He went to the bed where he and Anchar slept, put his few belongings into his pack, then reached for his bowcase and quiver.
Bortai watched numbly as her mother gave Munglik a small pouch of curds, a skin of kumiss, and a piece of meat. “Take this,” Shotan said. “If the boy's father misses him so much, then you shouldn't delay.”
The men stood up. Temujin went to Anchar and embraced him. “I'm leaving my bones with you,” he said. “I'll win them back when I return.” Bortai rose unsteadily to her feet as Temujin took her hands. “I'll come back,” he said, searching her face, as though worried that she might not believe him. “Promise you'll wait.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He knows something's wrong, she thought; he knows there's more to this than his father missing him.
Temujin turned away. Dei led Munglik and the boy to the doorway and murmured a few words to them before giving Temujin a last embrace. Munglik lifted the flap, and then the two were gone.
I won't cry, Bortai told herself.
Dei paced by the doorway. “Odd,” her father murmured at last, “that Yesugei would send for him so soon. I wouldn't have thought he was one who gave in to such feelings so easily, and his comrade Munglik seemed very unhappy about making his request.”
“Maybe it's his mother who aches for him,” Shotan said, “but when she hears about Bortai, and how well we've treated the boy, she'll rest easier.”
“Something's wrong,” Bortai burst out. “I just know it, and Temujin did, too—I saw it.”
“That may be,” Dei said. “I had the same feeling myself, but there's nothing we can do about it. Have some faith in your dream, daughter—some faith in your betrothed.”
Bortai bolted towards the door and ran from the yurt.
Bortai found her saddle and reins inside the small tent near the enclosure where Dei's horses were kept. Some children were there, watching the horses. “Temujin's going home,” one of the girls called out. “Maybe he doesn't want to marry Bortai now.”
“Shut up, Ghoa,” Bortai muttered.
“He didn't stay long,” Ghoa said. “Maybe—”
Bortai shoved past the children, nearly knocking Ghoa to the ground. The men had finished milking the mares. Bortai whistled for her bay gelding; a man led the horse to her.
She saddled her bay, tightened the girths, then mounted. Temujin and Munglik were already two small figures on the plain, riding at a gallop. The men with the horses grinned at her. “Is this some new kind of courtship,” one man said, “a girl riding out to seize her betrothed and drag him back?” The others laughed.
She dug in her heels and set off after Temujin. The wind was picking up; it blew towards her, slowing her pace. She urged the horse on. The distance closed between her and the two riders. Munglik was leaning towards the boy as their horses slowed to a walk and then halted. Temujin suddenly slumped forward in his saddle; the man's hand gripped the boy's shoulder.
Bortai slowed to a trot. “Temujin!” she cried when she was closer to them. The boy looked towards her; she was startled to see tears on his face.
“What are you doing out here, girl?” Munglik shouted. Pale streaks marked his dirty brown face; the man had been crying, too.
“I wanted to say farewell.” She reined in her horse.
“Then say it quickly. We have a long ride ahead of us.”
Temujin sat up straight and wiped the tears from his face. “I don't want to leave,” he said, “but I have to. I felt it even back in your father's tent, that I had to go with Munglik.”
“I know.” She glanced from him to the man. “You wouldn't be crying just because the Bahadur misses his son.”
Munglik said, “I can tell you nothing.”
“I knew something was wrong when I saw you. My father did, too. You lied to us.”
“He didn't lie,” Temujin said. “My father did ask for me.”
Munglik motioned with one hand. “Say farewell, Temujin. We must ride on.”
“I'll keep on your trail,” Bortai said, “until you tell me the truth, so you'd better say it now.”
“I'll tell you.” Temujin leaned towards her. “But you can't tell anyone else. Your father will learn the truth later, and you have to pretend you don't know it until then. Can you do this?”
“I can for you,” she replied.
“Swear it.”
“My promise lives here.” She put her hand over her heart. “May I be cursed if I forget it.” “Temujin—” Munglik began.
“I have to trust Bortai,” the boy said. “If I can't trust her now, what kind of wife will she be later?” He clutched at her wrist. “Munglik came here because my father is dying. Tatars poisoned his food when he stopped at one of their camps—that's what Munglik says. A spear was in front of his tent when Munglik left to fetch me. You see why he couldn't say this to your father.”
She swallowed. “You would be safer here. Father would never harm you.”
“I can't think of safety now. My mother needs me. I must prepare to lead my people.”
Yesugei was dying. She could hardly imagine it when she recalled how alive the man had been, how his songs and laughter had filled her father's dwelling. Temujin might already be the head of his clan.
“You see what this means,” Temujin continued. “I don't know when I can return. You may have to wait a long time.”
“I promise to wait. I couldn't forget you now, Temujin. I rode here because I wanted you to know that.”
“I'll come for you, Bortai—I swear it to you, and if you've been given to someone else, I'll steal you back.”
Her eyes stung. “I'll pray for you,” she said, “and make an offering to your father's spirit.”
“Do it in secret until your father knows about mine. Farewell, Bortai.”
“Farewell.”
She stared after them as they rode away, then turned back towards her camp. Her parents would expect her to be sad at parting from him, but she would pretend that it was not for long. She would act as if she expected his return soon, and when her father finally learned the truth, she would have to feign surprise. Her only solace was knowing that Temujin trusted her with this burden, and his promise that he would reclaim her.
There was enough distance to the camp left, she realized, for her to weep.
19
Hoelun studied the shadowed faces of the men sitting in her tent. There was old Baghaji, who had fought with her husband for the Kereit Khan. Charakha was next to Dobon; Targhutai Kiriltugh and Todogen Girte sat to the right of Temujin. She gazed past them at the others, old men who had foll
owed her husband's father and younger ones who had sworn oaths to Yesugei.
“We mourn for your father, young Noyan,” Targhutai murmured to her son.
Todogen nodded. “The cursed Tatars wounded us deeply with the evil they did to the Bahadur.”
Temujin watched them coldly. Hoelun lifted her head. The two Taychiut brothers were speaking for the others; that worried her.
“The Tatars will regret what they did,” Temujin said softly. “You will soon have a chance to avenge my father.”
Todogen shifted on his cushion. “We long to do so, but that will be hard without a leader.”
“You have one now,” Temujin said. “My father often listened to my mother's words. She will lead us until I'm a man, and I'll have the same wise counsel she gave my father.”
“Forgive me, Temujin Noyan,” Targhutai said, “but a woman and a boy cannot lead us in battle.”
“My uncle Daritai can lead his men,” the boy said, “and you may command my Taychiut cousins. I'll ride with you to war and learn from you what my father would have taught me.”
Todogen glanced at his companions. “It may not be wise to ride against the Tatars this autumn. We're not used to being without your father's leadership, and that gives our enemies an advantage.”
“But we would have the advantage of surprise,” Temujin said. “They won't expect an army to face them so soon after his passing.”
“You'd have all our allies fight them?” Todogen asked.
“This will be war,” Temujin answered, “not just a raid.”
Hoelun gazed at her son, feeling pride in his steady and commanding tone. He reminded her of his father, yet he had a coldness and calm that her husband had rarely possessed.
“My father will haunt us,” the boy continued, “if those who took his life remain unpunished.”
“They will be punished, Temujin,” Targhutai said, “but surely we're more likely to have our revenge when this wound is not so fresh.”
They won't fight, Hoelun thought. She saw what the two Taychiuts were thinking. A victory soon would hearten her husband's followers and make them more willing to accept her leadership. But if they did not fight this year, their doubts about her would grow. Targhutai and Todogen were thinking of their own ambitions.
“My wounds are healing,” Hoelun said, “but leaving my husband unavenged will open them again. I won't have his enemies think that they robbed us of all courage, even if I must ride into battle bearing his standard myself.”
“Listen to the Bahadur's widow,” Charakha said. “Surely we can show as much courage. Will you allow this woman to shame you?” Hoelun turned towards him gratefully; Charakha was still loyal.
Targhutai's eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, Ujin,” he said, “but sometimes there's wisdom in caution.”
“The Ujin shows more faith in us than we show in ourselves,” Charakha shouted. “She sees victory, while you talk of defeat.”
A familiar voice suddenly called out from beyond the entrance. “Daritai Odchigin wishes to enter the dwelling of his sister Hoelun.”
“You may enter,” she said. Her husband's brother and several of his men had arrived last night, but the Odchigin had not yet spoken to her.
Daritai came through the doorway, greeted the other men, then went to her. “I'm filled with sorrow,” he said. “The river that once flowed in me is dry. You should have sent for me at once.”
Temujin stood up; his uncle embraced him. “My brother's spirit still lives in you,” Daritai continued. “I would have entered this camp last night, but didn't want to disturb your sleep, since I was told you had only just returned here yourself.”
Hoelun narrowed her eyes. She had not slept well since the funeral. She had been outside to see Todogen and Targhutai ride out to where Daritai was camped with his men, and wondered what the Taychiuts had told him.
Temujin let go of his uncle. “I'm pleased that you're here. We'll need your help in planning our campaign, and I want you at my side tonight when we meet with more of my father's comrades.”
“Since the Odchigin is here,” Targhutai said, “perhaps you and your son wish to talk with him, Ujin.” He stared at Daritai, then looked away.
“You may leave us.” Hoelun waved a hand. “Please consider what's been said here until we meet later.” The men got up, backed towards the doorway, and went outside.
“I am betrothed now, uncle,” Temujin said.
“So I was told.” Daritai sat down next to his nephew. “I'm sorry your happiness was marred by such grief. We must see that you aren't parted from the girl for too long.”
“She promised to wait,” Temujin said. “I'll claim her when I take my father's place.” His voice was steady, betraying no doubt. Hoelun wondered if he realized how uncertain their future was. He was still a child after all, with a child's certainty and faith in those around him.
“Temujin,” Hoelun said, “I have much to say to your uncle. Tell Khokakhchin to prepare lamb for the Odchigin.”
The boy got up, bowed to Daritai, then left them. “A pity about the betrothal,” Daritai said. “I hope he hasn't grown too attached to the girl. Her father may feel that, with my brother gone, he's no longer bound by that promise.”
“Temujin hasn't told me much about her, but insists she'll still be his wife.”
Daritai shrugged. “How clear and simple things look when one is a boy.”
“My son can't be a boy any longer.” She rose, took a horn and jug from the wall, handed them to him, and settled herself next to Temulun's cradle.
“I can't believe he's gone.” Daritai flicked a few drops of mare's milk from his fingers, whispered a blessing, then drank. “No matter how far I camped from him, or how we argued, or how much time passed between our visits, I always felt his presence.” He sighed and bowed his head.
Temulun whimpered; Hoelun rocked the cradle. “My nephew spoke of a campaign.” The Odchigin gulped more kumiss. “Surely you know we can't fight one now.”
She had expected him to say that, while hoping he would not. “My husband's spirit will guide you.”
“We know how he fought, what commands he would give, but we're not used to fighting without him. We'd be at a disadvantage. We'll be able to win a decisive victory later.”
Todogen's words, and Targhutai's—so he had already come to an agreement with them. Daritai preferred to plot with the Taychiuts now while hoping for more later. Deeply as he sorrowed over his brother, one obstacle to his own ambitions was gone.
“You're wrong,” she said. “If the Tatars suspect we're weaker, they'll attack. Do you want a war carried to our grazing grounds?”
“Retreat is sometimes necessary, Hoelun. Wise as you are, you're still a woman, and you know little about fighting. My brother often made use of retreat to lure the enemy on until another wing of his force could flank them.”
“What would you have us do?” Hoelun asked.
“We might move our camps further west. If the Tatars attack, we'd be prepared to meet them, but I suspect they'd see our flight as a sign that we're uncertain. We're better off letting them think that for now. Our scouts can keep track of their movements, but they're likely to decide there's no need to waste men on us, and we'd have a chance to grow stronger before we meet them again. Let them be lulled into thinking they won a victory when they murdered my brother.”
“They may just think they can have an easy victory over us now. I can rally the men if you'll help me. We—”
“At the moment, I have enough to do fending off the Merkits north of my lands.” Daritai wiped at his moustache. “A war would cost us much, and the Tatars aren't our only enemies. The Merkits also have reasons to wish us ill.”
“There's something I haven't said to the men yet.” Hoelun paused. “Toghril Khan might ride with us. My husband was his anda—I can send a message to the Kereit Khan and demand that he avenge the death of the man who helped him win back his throne.”
Daritai frowned. “No, Ho
elun.”
“He owes something to me and to his anda's son.”
“Oh, he'll mourn, and have his shamans and his Christian priests say prayers for my brother. Gifts from him may wend their way to you. But he wouldn't fight with us when my brother was alive, and now he'll be waiting to see what he can gain. Don't force the issue. Our people will only see you as even more powerless when he refuses you.”
No one would stand with her. Daritai had been her last hope. The men might have fought if he had stood with her; Toghril Khan might have listened to a plea from Daritai.
“You disappoint me,” she said. “I thought you had your brother's spirit, but you care nothing for us.”
“I came here to show my concern for you.” He set the horn down. “You're right about one thing. Our people need a battle now. A few well-planned raids against Merkit camps would keep us honed. We should see that those wretches suffer a few wounds before we ride against the Tatars. Temujin must gain more experience in raids before he rides into war.”
“I see.” Perhaps he had also discussed this with Targhutai and Todogen.
He leaned closer to her; she smelled the sour odour of kumiss on his breath. “My brother,” he said, “would expect me to look after you now. I have two wives, but can easily take another. Become my wife, Hoelun.”
Her hand tightened on the cradle. She remembered how Daritai had wept over Nekun-taisi's death, and how quickly he had spoken to Yesugei of their obligation to their older brother's widow. Now he wanted to make another brother's wife his own.
“I'm not asking only out of duty,” he continued. “You're still much as you were when we found you. It would be a pity to leave you with an empty bed. Your children would have a father, and I could forget a little of my grief if I found some happiness with you.”
He would not only be claiming his brother's widow, but also Temujin's legacy. Such a marriage would make it easier for the Odchigin to claim leadership; he could secure his own position while pretending that he was acting for Temujin.
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