Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  When she was closer, she halted, afraid the men might see the grass moving around her. The general took off his helmet for a moment to wipe his brow. His dark braids had a coppery tint; the metal flaps of his helmet were studded with gold. When the wind rose, she moved on, knowing the swaying grass would hide her movements, and took a deep breath. As she was about to stand, the Noyan's head whipped towards her. The bows of the men were in their hands in an instant; two of them moved in front of the general and took aim.

  “Don't shoot!” Yisugen cried desperately, flinging her hands above her head. Another man came towards her, grabbed her bowcase, and dragged her forward by one arm.

  “Take her knife,” the general said in a soft voice. “It would be a pity to kill her.”

  Yisugen's hastily formed plan fled from her mind. “Kill me, then!” she shouted as a man pulled the knife from her sash. “You've killed everyone else!” She collapsed on the ground, sobbing for all she had lost.

  A foot nudged her painfully in the side. “Let her weep,” the general said. She cried until she felt a hand on her shoulder, then looked up to meet a pair of pale brown eyes flecked with green and gold.

  “Drink this, child.” The Noyan knelt and handed her a leather bottle; she gulped the kumiss. “Where were you hiding?”

  “In the foothills,” she managed to say.

  “What brought you down?”

  “I have nowhere else to go.” She shoved the bottle at him and began to cry again. He slipped one arm around her, letting her rest against his breastplate. It was strange that he would be so kind when his people had shown such cruelty; perhaps he had obeyed his Khan's orders only out of duty.

  He smoothed back her hair, as if she were a small child, then said, “What is your name?”

  “Yisugen.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Daughter of Yeke Cheren.”

  One of the men laughed. “A beauty, and the chief's daughter, too—she'll make a nice prize for some man.”

  “I'm claiming this one for myself.” The pale-eyed man stood up and pulled her gently to her feet. “This war is over for you, Yisugen. You'll be taken back to my tent. Mourn for your people when you're alone, but show me no more tears.”

  He led her towards the horses, trailed by his men. Another man rode towards them, lifting his hand as he reined in his horse.

  “Your uncle has ridden to us,” the rider said. “He waits by your tent, demanding to speak to you.”

  “Demanding?” The general's voice was still soft, but Yisugen heard the hardness in it. “He can wait.”

  “Your half-brother is also there, as you asked.”

  “Very well, Borchu.” He pushed Yisugen forward. “See what crept down to us from the hills. If she pleases me, I may make a wife of her.”

  Yisugen's face burned as she glared at the man called Borchu; he grinned. “She looks worthy of you, Temujin.”

  She froze in horror. Temujin—their Khan. She looked up at him; his pale eyes danced with amusement. “You see how well you chose when you gave yourself up,” he said, then lifted her to a horse.

  The Khan had claimed her father's tent for his dwelling. Yisugen's mind raced as they approached the great tent. He had ridden against her people and made of them no more than the ashes of a fire. There could be no mercy in him.

  Yet he also had more power to find her sister than any man here. Had her mother's spirit seen this? Could she have meant to send her into the arms of her father's most hated enemy? Your father failed us, her mother had said; she had to seek safety wherever she could.

  The Khan greeted the men waiting by the tent before climbing the wooden steps to the entrance; she followed him. Inside, harnesses, saddles, and weapons lined the tent's western wall; on the eastern side, five captive Tatar women knelt and pressed their heads to the carpets.

  “Give this girl a woman's robe,” the Khan said, “and something to cover her hair.” He pushed Yisugen towards the women; one hurried to a trunk and pulled out a robe of blue silk. Her mother had worn that robe; a lump rose in her throat as the woman helped her into it, then put a white scarf over her head.

  The Khan walked towards her father's bed and sat down. A table had been placed near it; she noticed then that the table was a plank of wood tied to the backs of two bound men on their hands and knees. The Khan's men entered and settled themselves on cushions around the table.

  “Come here, Yisugen,” the Khan called out. She went to him and was about to sit at his feet when he reached up and pulled her to the bed. “Next to me.” She seated herself, averting her eyes from the table and the prisoners underneath. The women, their eyes wide with terror, set jugs and platters of meat on the plank; the men under it groaned softly.

  “Still alive,” the man named Borchu said. “We'll see how they do when we dance on their backs.” The others laughed.

  The Khan beckoned to a guard by the doorway. “I'll speak to my uncle and brother now.”

  Two men came inside, bowed from the waist, then lifted their heads. The younger one resembled the Khan, but had dark eyes; the older one scowled. The Khan was silent as he sprinkled a blessing, turning to throw a few drops towards the back of the tent. Yisugen saw then that the ongghons of her parents were gone and a carved wolf's head hung in their place.

  The two men in front of them waited; the older one fingered his grey moustache as the Khan offered bits of meat to his men from his knife.

  “You've forgotten your manners, nephew,” the older man said at last.

  “You forgot to obey,” the Khan replied.

  “My men and I took our share of blows. Now Jebe's taken all my spoils from me, and said he did so at your command. He took Altan's and Khuchar's as well. I came to you to demand them back.”

  “Demand?” The Khan's eyes narrowed. “No one demands anything of me. You heard my orders. Didn't I say that no one was to begin looting until the fighting was done, and that I'd see the spoils were shared equally after that? You disobeyed me, Daritai. You, Altan, and Khuchar were to give chase to the enemy instead of collecting your booty. For disobeying me, you'll have nothing.”

  Daritai's face whitened. “You'd treat your own uncle and your cousin so? You'll tell Altan, Khutula Khan's son, that he'll have nothing?”

  “My men will know that anyone who disobeys me will be punished. For disobeying me, you'll enjoy no spoils. For daring to object to my decision, you'll no longer be privileged to attend my councils.”

  “You'll be sorry for this, Temujin.”

  “I am sorry already.” He was speaking in the same soft voice; the steadiness of his tone made Yisugen shiver. “Now get out of my sight before I strip you of your rank as well.”

  Daritai wheeled around and strode from the ordu. The Khan gazed at the other man. “And you, Belgutei—your carelessness cost us many lives. When the Tatar prisoners heard what we intended for them, they had nothing to lose by putting up a fierce fight.”

  “I didn't think—”

  “It was your business to think, but instead you bragged to the captives about the sentence we had passed, and many of our men died because of that. You'll also be banished from our councils—you'll keep order in the camp while we deliberate, and will enter only when the meeting is over. Go, and be grateful I've left you your head.”

  Belgutei left them. The men feasted and drank; occasionally a few of them leaned on the table with their elbows, making the men under it groan even more. Most of their talk was of the war, the people they had slain, the loot that was now theirs.

  Borchu got to his feet at last. “The mares need milking,” he said, “and the night guard must be posted.” The other men stood up; Yisugen suddenly wanted them to stay.

  “Take that table away, too,” the Khan said. “I won't dance on it tonight.”

  “They'll be dead by morning,” another man said.

  “Then they'll have served us well, and have an honourable death for their reward.”

  The men removed the plank and dragged the
prisoners away. “Leave us,” the Khan said to the women; they scurried from the tent.

  Yisugen sat stiffly, afraid to move. He said, “This was your father's tent, wasn't it?”

  A whimper escaped her. “Yes.”

  “Perhaps I'll give it to you.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Don't look so unhappy, Yisugen. When you came out of hiding, what led you to me? You risked death by making your way to me—in another moment, my men's arrows would have found your heart.”

  She did not reply.

  “I know why you came to me. You were wise enough to know that, whatever the risk, your greatest safety lay there.”

  “I'm not wise,” she said bitterly. “I knew what your soldiers would do to me if they found me. I wanted only to find a Noyan who might take pity on me. If I had known who you were, I would have sent my arrows at you.”

  He chuckled. “What a child you are. Fear drove you into the foothills, and sent you back here, and now your childish pride makes you pretend you might have been braver.” His hand closed around her wrist. “Had the Tatars defeated me, they would have shown no mercy to my people. This battle had to come, or there would be no peace for us. Your people welcomed my father to a feast, then sinned against the guest they were required to honour by poisoning him.”

  “You've had your revenge,” she whispered.

  “I didn't do this only for revenge. Many who once fought against me now serve me, but the hatred between your people and mine ran too deep for anything except death to end it. If I had shown mercy here, and allowed my enemies to live, that hatred would have endured, and many more would have died later.”

  Another man would not have troubled to explain his deeds to her. She saw no pity and doubt in his eyes, only the grim contentment of a victor. “Tengri,” he said, “intends that I should rule, and make an ulus in these lands.”

  He believed it. No one could stand against a man who saw his own will and God's as the same. She felt the talons of a hawk close around her heart.

  “You may cling to your hatred and your childish resentments,” he said, “or you may lay them aside. It makes no difference to me. There's pleasure enough for a man in crushing the wife or daughter of his enemy in his arms, in knowing she has to submit even as she mourns her dead.”

  He tore the scarf from her head, then pushed her to her feet. “Take them off,” he said. She undressed quickly; he untied her tunic and pulled it from her. She scrambled into the bed, grabbing at the blanket. He was a looming shape outlined by the glow of the hearth fire behind him; he undressed slowly and climbed in with her.

  Yisugen tensed, swearing silently that she would not weep. One of his arms slid under her while his hand stroked her belly; her hands flew up and pushed against his chest.

  “Don't fight me,” he said. He forced her legs apart; his fingers probed her cleft, circling the nub and moving closer to the opening of her sheath. He might have guessed her secret, that she sometimes lay under her blanket and toyed with herself until her pleasure sent her soul soaring; her cheeks burned with shame. She let out a moan and he continued to stroke her until her nerves felt like fire. Her hips moved, and then he was suddenly upon her, his broad body pressing her against the bed as his shaft thrust inside her. The pain made her cry out; the promise of pleasure vanished, and his hands bruised her as he claimed another victory.

  Yisugen kept her eyes closed. The Khan stirred next to her. During the night, he had joined with her again, locking her hand around his member until it swelled, touching her until she quivered under him, her body as tightly strung as a bow when he finally guided himself into her.

  It was easier not to think, to ignore the small voice inside her, to forget what had passed. She had pleased him, and because she had, he might grant her what she wanted most. That was all that mattered; she had to put aside the shame and sorrow she felt at responding to him. She could not help those who were dead, but might still save the living.

  She rolled away from him and sat up, then covered her face.

  He said, “I told you not to weep.”

  Yisugen forced tears from her eyes, “I'm crying because I may have lost the one I love most.” She paused, trying to think of what to say next. “I have a sister named Yisui. She's a year older than I am, and all our lives, we swore we'd never be separated.” Yisugen's tears were flowing freely now, her longing threatening to overwhelm her. “Yisui was married just before our men rode out to fight. Her husband may have died in the battle, but she must be alive somewhere.” She shuddered. “I'd know if she weren't—we were too close for me not to feel it. Before her wedding, she promised me she'd bring her husband to take me as a second wife, so we could be together again. How can I do less for her, when there's no one to protect her?”

  “I see,” he said, “that you have much family feeling.”

  “You have the power to restore her to me,” Yisugen said, “and she'd be a good wife to you. People say we look much alike, but Yisui's more beautiful than I am, and much wiser. I'd love you if she were with me again, and she would love you, too.” She had to hope that Yisui's joy at their reunion would quiet any hatred she felt for the Khan.

  “So you wish me to take another wife,” he said. “If she's older than you, she should have a higher place than yours. Would you give up your own place to her?”

  “I would.” She reached for his hand. “I'd take a lower place just to have her at my side.”

  He pulled her down to him. “If she's like you, then I must find her. My men will look among all our prisoners, here and in other camps. If she's not found, I'll send men out to search for her. Such love between sisters touches me.”

  “And I beg you to spare any of my people you find during the search.”

  He grunted. “Very well—you may have their lives, too.” His hand moved between her thighs. “Now reward me for my generosity.”

  73

  Tabudai awoke with a cry. Yisui held him until he stopped trembling. He was remembering the battle again, the waves of enemy horsemen who could not be thrown back.

  “Steady,” she whispered. He pushed her away and lay down, curling up like a child. She thought of how bravely he had ridden to war; the battle had changed him.

  “I'm a coward,” he said.

  “You're not. The battle was lost, and you had to warn us. Men often retreat before turning to fight elsewhere.” She should not have said that; Tabudai had not been thinking of finding another place to fight when he ran.

  “I'm cursed,” he muttered. “Admit what I am, Yisui—I can't bear to hear you repeat your lies.”

  “They're not lies.” They had said all these words before during the days of hiding in the foothills, and her efforts to rally him only brought her beatings. He had been gentle the first time he came to her bed, brushing his lips against hers, calming her fears. Perhaps the gentleness was only a sign of his weakness.

  Yisui crept out from under the branches they had used to make a hut. The sky above the forest was growing light; her belly ached with hunger. Their only food for the past days had been berries and roots, and she would have to forage further from the shelter to find any today. Their one horse was tethered by the hut; soon they would have to open a vein and drink the gelding's blood to feed themselves if Tabudai refused to hunt. He would not let her out of his sight, as if fearing she might abandon him.

  He had left her mother and his own people to fend for themselves; he had not stopped to man the barricades they had set up in the lower hills. One man who had escaped had told them of the savage assault, of Mongols riding over the bodies of their dead comrades to reach the Tatars. Her mother had made it as far as the barricades and had rallied the people as if she were a chief herself. So the man who had escaped the carnage said, before he left her and Tabudai to make his way north; he had also seen her mother die. The Mongols would not have allowed her father and brothers to live. And Yisugen —

  Her sister could not be lost. Their souls were too closely linked; if Yisugen wer
e dead, she would die, too.

  The horse lifted its head and flicked its brown ears. Yisui heard only the twittering of birds. The Mongols would search this region soon; only yesterday, she had heard a distant voice call out, biting off words in the way the Mongols did.

  She knelt by the shelter. “Tabudai,” she said, “we must go north, to the forests. We'd have refuge there.” Her husband said nothing. “I'm going to the brook to fetch water, and then we must leave this place.”

  He crawled out of the hut. “How brave you are,” he said. “How you cling to any hope of saving your cowardly husband.”

  “I'm not brave. I shake with terror every time I hear a twig crack. And you're not cowardly. Some of our bravest ran from the enemy. Tabudai, you must—”

  His hand caught her on the side of the head; she blinked and swayed dizzily. “I should have let them kill me. Better to be dead than shamed by my wife.”

  “You shame yourself,” she whispered. “I have only you now, and you do nothing.” She stood up and adjusted the scarf around her head. “I'll get water.”

  She crept down the hill, then looked back; Tabudai was following her. She moved slowly, alert to any sound, until she heard the faint trickle of the water. The brook was only a tiny stream; soon it might dry up completely.

  As she bent down to fill her waterskin, a voice shouted below; she froze. Someone was coming up the hill. Tabudai thrashed his way up the slope; the noise he was making would draw the enemy. She thrust the skin under her sash and hurried after him. A horse below whinnied; she tripped over her long coat and fell, then struggled to her feet and climbed towards the hut. Through the spaces between the trees, she saw Tabudai free the horse and leap to the saddle. Before she could call out to him, he was gone.