“Sochigil,” he went on, “was only his second wife. Taking her under my protection would be enough, and leave me free to devote more of my attention to you.”
“No.”
His hand fell on her shoulder. “Perhaps I asked too soon, but there's no gain in waiting. I know you still mourn, but—”
Hoelun shook off his hand and slowly got to her feet. There was no sorrow in his dark eyes now, only anticipation of what might be his. His broad, crafty face repelled her; how little there was in him of the man she had lost.
She said, “I won't marry you, Daritai.”
“Life can be hard without a man.”
“Munglik promised to look after me, and I have my sons. I need no husband. I couldn't look at you without thinking of your brother.” She knew she should fall silent, let him think that only love for Yesugei kept her from accepting him, but was unable to hold back her words. “I couldn't live with you knowing you'll never be the man he was. You want to pretend you are, but it seems all the courage and strength of your father went to my husband and sons, and none to you.”
Daritai was very still; a muscle near his mouth twitched. Be wise, Hoelun's inner voice whispered. You may need this man's help sometime; you've already gone too far.
“You should have agreed to stand with me,” she said, “and I could have respected you. But I won't tie myself to a man who thinks only of claiming what his brother had.”
He jumped to his feet and seized her by the arms, then shook her so hard that her head-dress wobbled. “You'll be sorry, Hoelun.”
“Sorry? You've shown me what you are. I've lost nothing.”
He pushed her away. She staggered, then righted herself. “You need allies,” he said. “You're making a mistake if you think you can lead until Temujin is grown.”
“I have no doubts.”
He moved towards her; she braced herself for a blow, but his arm fell. “I must try to keep you from harming your own interests,” he said. “I owe that much to my brother's widow and his children. When you're past your grief, you'll see who your true friends are.”
He gazed at her in silence, then left. Temulun's whimpers rose to a wail. Hoelun knelt by the cradle, loosened the baby's straps, and lifted her to her breast.
She felt her loss keenly as she sat down on the bed to suckle her daughter. Her body shook as she wept. Yesugei would never again stride into this yurt demanding food and drink while his sons clustered around him. He would never look at her with doubtful yet respectful eyes as she offered her advice. He would never pull her down to this bed and move his body against hers.
She looked up as the door flap was lifted; Temujin came inside. Hoelun wiped her face with one arm.
“My uncle shouldn't have spoken that way to you,” he muttered.
She closed her garments and laid Temulun on the bed. “It's not right to listen in secret, Temujin.”
“A dog was poking at the back of your tent. I chased him away before he could damage the felt. I can't help what I happen to overhear.”
“You were never so quick to bother with the dogs before.”
“Bortai was teaching me not to fear them.” He came to her and sat down, resting his arm against the bed. “You'd like her, Mother. I didn't tell you before, but she rode after Munglik and me, and wouldn't leave us until I told her why I had to go. She swore not to speak of it, and I knew I could trust her promise. She'll be as good a wife to me as you were to Father.”
“I was foolish just now, my son. I gave your uncle reasons not to help us.”
The boy shook his head. “You spoke the truth about him. Don't be afraid. When I lead, Daritai will follow me, as he followed Father.”
His words heartened her, even if they were only those of a trusting child. “Your uncle might be right about one thing,” she said. “We may not be ready for a campaign against the Tatars.”
“No, Mother. If we fought and lost, you and I would be no worse off, and if we won, there wouldn't be talk of other leaders. It would have been worth the risk for us.”
She touched his hand lightly; he did not sound like a child now. “You may get a chance at some fighting against the Merkits.”
“And if I went with our men, I'd have to watch my back. Putting me out of the way in the middle of a battle would decide things.” He paused. “We can trust few now. Munglik told me about Father's last words, how he said that my brothers and I would have to avenge him.” Temujin lifted his head and gazed at her with his father's eyes. “I won't forget those who failed us.”
She pulled him to her, wishing that she could restore the childhood he had lost so soon.
20
Hoelun lay in her bed, unable to move. Temulun's wails rose to a shriek. “Mother.” A hand touched her face. Temujin leaned over her, then moved away from the bed. “Khasar,” he said, “watch the others. I'll be back soon.”
Hoelun closed her eyes. An evil spirit pressed in around her, closing her off from everything outside. She no longer had the strength to fight it. The spirit had hovered near her during the meeting with the men. Now it was inside her, numbing all feeling.
The spirit had spoken to her with Daritai's voice, and Targhutai's. Listen to us, it whispered. Your husband is gone: the beautiful gem lies in shards, the herd is without its stallion and needs another to lead it.
Only Munglik and Charakha had spoken for her before the others silenced them. The men would swear no oath to her and her son. She could not stand against them. Easier to let Daritai seize the leadership of his clan and allow Targhutai and Todogen to lead the Taychiuts. Daritai had left this camp, but it was not too late for her to follow him.
Temulun was screaming. “You see how Mother is,” Hoelun heard Temujin say.
“Take your brothers outside and watch the sheep.” That was Khokakhchin's voice.
Hoelun lay still. Temulun's cries soon subsided. “Are you awake?” Khokakhchin asked.
She opened her eyes. Khokakhchin held her daughter, feeding her with a skin of sheep's milk. “Temujin came for me,” the old woman said, “but perhaps I should have brought a shaman.”
“No,” Hoelun managed to say.
“Then your affliction isn't so great.” Khokakhchin tied Temulun to the cradle, then pulled the covering from Hoelun. “Poor child.” The servant held her up and began to dress her in her shirt and long tunic. “How tired you look.” She secured Hoelun's braids under her birch head-dress, then bent to help her on with her boots. “The camp will buzz with talk if you keep to yourself. They'll say that Hoelun Ujin shows herself to be as weak as they feared, but that will relieve you of some burdens.”
“No,” Hoelun said. “I can't shrug off my burdens so easily.” The dark fog inside her was lifting; the evil spirit was not so powerful after all.
“I've served you all these years,” Khokakhchin said, “and was grateful for a kind mistress. I've never needed to say much to you, but wish to be frank with you now. You've been so concerned with your appeals to the men that you have neglected their wives. What have you shown them since your husband left us? Only a widow lost in grief and thinking of revenge, a woman who might bring them what they fear most — the deaths of husbands and sons in a futile battle, and captivity or worse for them.”
Hoelun said, “We could have won that war.”
“The men don't think so, and women believe men about such things.” The servant paused. “Draw some strength from Etugen, the Earth that renews Herself after Tengri's storms have passed. You have to appeal to the women now, and show them that there's more to fear if we don't stand with you and your son. They must see that you're able to lead, but also that you share their concerns. Women fear the uncertainty that comes when men are without a leader. If they believe you can prevent that, they'll plead your cause to their husbands.”
Hoelun lowered her eyes. “You're wiser than I knew.”
The old woman shook herself. “Wise? If she lives long enough, even a foolish woman can learn some wisdom. Y
ou want power, Hoelun Ujin, yet fail to make use of the power women hold. You didn't have to when your husband was alive, but you must now. I've seen other chiefs die and their followers fight among themselves, I've seen sons of chiefs flee from those who once served their fathers. You must act soon.”
The women would need to see determination, but also a mother concerned for all their children. She could not slight their husbands' courage, but had to make them believe she was able to lead the men.
The spring sacrifice to the spirits of the ancestors was approaching. That occasion might be useful to her. When the women gathered for the feast, she could remind them of their obligations to her.
Hoelun took Khokakhchin's hands. “Everything you've said, old woman, I should have seen for myself.”
“You're still young, Ujin,” Khokakhchin replied. “Young women think of serving their men and then of caring for their sons. They think men will always be their shields.”
“Thank you for telling me this, Khokakhchin-eke.”
“Ujin, you don't have to call me—”
“Yes. You are Mother Khokakhchin to me now.” Another ally, she thought. She had so few.
The two Taychiut Khatuns sat in the back of Orbey's yurt, with cushions propped around them. Sokhatai's face was thinner and her yellow skin sagged below the hollows in her cheeks; weak as she looked, she still clung to life. Orbey's face was pinched and small under her bocca, but her black eyes were alert.
Hoelun bowed. “I greet you, Honoured Ladies.”
“Greetings, Hoelun Ujin,” Orbey replied. “We're always honoured to have a visit from you—there are so few.”
Hoelun sat down in front of the bed and the old woman handed her a horn of kumiss. “Only my grief kept me from seeking your company earlier.” She drew up one knee, careful to maintain her polite posture. “I come to you now to speak of our spring sacrifice.”
“Perhaps,” Orbey Khatun murmured, “you mean to preside over the sacrifice yourself.”
“I won't deprive you of that honour. You may ask the shamans to set the day and time, and invite those women who must take part. I wish only to aid you in conducting the rite.”
Orbey's mouth worked. “I see. If we make the offering together, the other women would see that we support you.”
“Surely you see,” Hoelun said, “that since I must lead until my son can take his place, that I must also take precedence among the women. We will chant the prayers together, and serve the meat of the offering to the ancestors together.” Be grateful I offer you that much, she thought.
Sokhatai sank back against the cushions; Orbey was silent. “I must lead,” Hoelun continued, “if we're ever to punish those who so treacherously betrayed both our husbands. I must have your support if I'm to guide the people here. I wish no evil to come to these mothers and children, as it will if we fall out now.”
Orbey leaned forward. “I can't see what we would gain by following you and waiting for Temujin to become a man.”
“He'll prove he's worthy to lead—I promise you that. I know what he is.”
“Every mother has praise for her sons. I admired mine as much, and now they're gone. Pray that you don't have too long a life, Ujin, or live to lose your sons.”
Hoelun got to her feet. “We will make the sacrifice together. I shall await your invitation.” She bowed from the waist.
Orbey lowered her head. “The sacrifice will be performed.”
Hoelun leaned towards the hearth. Throughout the day, ever since leaving Orbey's yurt, she had sensed a change in the camp. The other women were avoiding her, perhaps wondering what the Khatuns had told her and if the two old dowagers would support her now.
Munglik stretched his hands towards the fire. Except for Temujin, who sat with them, the other children were asleep; Khokakhchin lay under a blanket at the side of Hoelun's bed. The old woman had asked to stay in this tent, and Hoelun felt safer with her there.
“Shall I get you more to drink?” Hoelun asked.
Munglik shook his head. “Keep what you have.” He paused. “I'll ride out to hunt tomorrow. I may be gone for several days, and the game I track may take me near Tatar lands.”
Hoelun glanced at him sharply. “So you intend to hunt there.”
“Not for men—only for their trails. We should find out if they're moving closer to our territory. My father will look out for you while I'm away.”
“Will others ride with you?” she asked.
“I'll go alone. Someone has to do some scouting. Others are too ready to forget our enemies now.” He chewed on the ends of his moustache. “Hoelun, I promised to watch over you. Maybe you should appeal to Targhutai to lead now.”
She sighed. “So even you have been listening to him.”
“I'm thinking of you. The men would swear an oath to him. Let him have what he wants, with the understanding that Temujin will lead us later.”
“They won't let me live long enough to lead,” Temujin said.
“My son is right,” Hoelun said. “If I give in now, Targhutai will see weakness. My only chance is to win others to my side, and force him to stand with them.”
“I must support you, whatever you do.” The young man stood up. “And now I must go, before my wife grows impatient with me.”
Temujin stared at the doorway after the Khongkhotat was gone. “Munglik calls himself our friend,” he said, “but I wonder how long he'll remain one.”
“He loved your father.”
“I know, but Father's gone, and Munglik must think of his people. Maybe he thinks his clan would be better off with a Taychiut chief.”
“Please,” she whispered. “Let's not doubt one of the few friends we have left.”
“Maybe Father should have done more to secure the loyalty of his men. I must see that I don't make the same mistake.”
Hoelun stood up and began to feed the fire. Munglik might find that the Tatars had moved closer to their lands. That danger would serve her at the moment; Targhutai and Todogen would have more to worry about than their petty ambitions. She almost hoped for war.
21
Hoelun said, “you can't go on this way.”
Sochigil sat by the hearth. Belgutei had come to Hoelun's yurt in the middle of the night, worried about his mother, muttering about bringing a shaman to lift the spell. Hoelun had told the other widow of her own fears, the despair she had felt and conquered, but Sochigil refused to respond.
“You aren't eating,” Hoelun continued. “You're growing too thin.”
“No food can fill the emptiness inside me.” Sochigil covered her face. “No one can comfort me.”
“Mother hasn't been sleeping well, either,” Belgutei murmured from his side of the tent. Sochigil's sons sat on their beds, arms wrapped around their legs. “I thought it would pass, but—”
“The others avoid my tent as if I were dying,” Sochigil said. “I almost wish I could.”
“Stop it.” Hoelun reached for Sochigil's hand. “You'll summon death if you talk that way.”
“People avoid you, too, Hoelun-eke,” Bekter said. “They whisper about you and keep secrets from you.”
Hoelun frowned at him. Bekter had his mother's dark eyes and his father's strong-boned face, but his usual sly, resentful expression distorted his features.
“Listen to me,” Hoelun said. “These people are uncertain. We have to show them that—” She heard a bark; the camp's dogs were howling more than usual. It was still dark outside, but it seemed that others were also awake. Horses neighed; the camp was as noisy as it usually was at dawn.
Suddenly afraid, she got up and hurried to the doorway, then ran outside. Beyond the back of Sochigil's tent, a procession of women, some in carts and others on horseback, moved across the moonlit plain.
Hoelun sagged against a wagon. The sacrifice, she thought. The Khatuns must have hidden this from her and anyone who was likely to tell her; the old women and the shamans had allied themselves against her.
She
circled the yurt slowly. They would expect her to back down, perhaps to turn to Daritai, and he would swear an oath to Targhutai before he offered one to Hoelun's son.
Sochigil looked up as Hoelun went inside. “They've gone to make the sacrifice without us,” Hoelun said.
The other woman gaped at her. Bekter jumped to his feet. “What now, Hoelun-eke?” he asked. “This is what you get for not listening to them.”
Hoelun slapped him hard; the boy stumbled back. “They'll regret this,” she whispered.
“What can we do?” Sochigil wailed.
“Stay inside with your sons today. I'll settle this.” Hoelun spun around and hurried through the entrance.
The sun was up by the time Hoelun went to the horses. The men there ignored her as she saddled one of her husband's grey geldings. She knew what the men were thinking; she had been marked as an outcast. She had warned her children not to leave her camping circle, to be on guard.
She rode west, following the women's trail. Amid the grass, the blue and white flowers of spring bloomed. She trembled with rage. Did Orbey and Sokhatai think they could exclude her from her rightful place? She thought of how they must have whispered to the other women, warning them to keep silent about the plans for this ceremony.
She lashed at her horse as it sped into a gallop. The women had gone only a short distance from the camp. On the horizon, to the south of a hill where an obo stood, a thin stream of smoke rose from a large yurt. An empty black pit scarred the ground near the tent; small bowls of food sat on the hillside near the obo's piles of stones. The sheep had already been sacrificed, then; the women would be feasting inside.
Hoelun tethered her horse near one of the carts. They had raised the tent and chanted their prayers without her. She walked swiftly to the entrance and threw back the flap.
The women inside fell silent. They sat in a circle; the two Khatuns were at the back, facing the entrance. The wives of the most important men were present, and Targhutai's wife sat at Orbey's left. Blackened bones lay in front of the Khatuns; a cracked shoulder-bone burned in the hearth.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 11