“Never forget,” Temujin said, “that I hold your lives in my hands.” He looked around at his men. “There may be some wisdom in what this wretched creature has said. When those boys are men, I can make an army of them. Because of that, and only because it pleases me to do so, I'll let them live.”
The men seemed relieved. They might have regretted the cruel command, but Yisui knew they would have carried it out. “I am grateful,” she whispered.
“I'm not showing mercy for your sake. Get up, Yisui.” Her legs shook as she got to her feet; he dragged her towards the tent by one arm, away from the others.
“I am sorry,” Yisui said.
“Never speak to me that way in front of my men. When I've given an order, you won't protest it.” He lowered his voice. “Once I give a command, it must be obeyed without question. I'll forgive you this time, but don't test my patience again. I'll allow you only this mistake.” He put his hands around her neck; she thought of how easily he could wring it. “Prepare yourself for the feast.”
Shaded by a canopy, the Khan sat between Yisui and Yisugen as they feasted. His closest comrades among his generals sat in a row at his right. On Yisui's left, the Tatar women who had been given to the generals chattered among themselves as others brought them kumiss.
Yisui glanced at her sister. Yisugen's face was drawn; Yisui shuddered at how close they had both come to disaster. Yisugen was his hostage and she too would pay for any offence of Yisui's; that was the truth of their position, however he disguised it with gifts and kind words. The Khan offered her a piece of meat from the end of his knife. He had forgiven her, but his mercy seemed as cold as his blade.
Very well, she thought; I won't fail him again.
She looked towards the camp. Others had ridden there to join the feast; several men sat under a lone tree, playing stringed instruments. An easier mood had replaced the feast's earlier formality. Some men wrestled, while others stumbled from fire to fire, stopping to eat and drink by the cauldrons and spits. A group of men were walking in the Khan's direction; another trailed them, his head down. Yisui was reaching for her goblet when the man looked up.
Tabudai, she thought wildly. She caught her breath, feeling the blood drain from her face. He had seen her. Yisui's hand trembled as she grasped her goblet; she forced herself to look away.
“You're pale,” Temujin said then.
“It's nothing.” Her hand was shaking so much that she nearly spilled the kumiss.
“I heard you sigh, Yisui. Is anything troubling you?”
Her throat locked. His face blurred; she was afraid she might faint.
“You've seen something.” He looked towards the men approaching them, then jumped to his feet. “Borchu! Mukhali!” The two Noyans leaped up and came towards him. “Someone there has frightened my Yisui. Tell every man near us to stand only with those in his own clan.”
The two went off to give the order. Tabudai halted and gazed steadily at the Khan. Yisui looked at her sister; Yisugen's eyes were wide with fright. Groups of men were separating and lining up with others; Tabudai came closer, still alone.
What could have brought him here? But she knew. Tabudai had finally found his courage.
Temujin walked towards her husband and stopped a few paces from him. “You stand by yourself,” the Khan said. “Where is your clan?”
“I have no clan here,” Tabudai replied. “My clan no longer lives because of you.” Borchu and Mukhali moved towards him, hands on their hilts.
“Who are you?” Temujin said.
“I am Tabudai, son of the Tatar chief Ghunan—it cost your men many lives to take his. I am the husband of Yisui, daughter of Yeke Cheren. I came to this camp only to see those who rode against us, and to take some of their food. Among so many, I was certain one lone soldier wouldn't be noticed.” Tabudai gazed past the Khan at Yisui. “When I saw my wife, I wanted only to look upon her face again, and recall the happiness we had for so short a time. I see she's done well for herself.”
He had wanted her to see him, to know that he had dared to enter the camp of his enemies. He could do nothing against the Khan now; surely Temujin would spare him.
“No,” Temujin said. “I don't think you came here simply to share our feast. You came to spy and see what you could steal. You meant to lead others back here to raid us.”
“I'm alone,” Tabudai said, “and I'm not a spy.”
“You are an enemy. I gave an order that every male Tatar taller than a linch-pin would die, and you easily exceed that height.” The Khan motioned violently with one arm. “Take his head!”
Yisui clutched at her robe. The Khan glanced towards her; she did not dare to speak. Tabudai gracefully swept off his hat and knelt, stretching his neck. Borchu's sword found him first, gashing the back of his neck deeply; Mukhali's sword swept down after it. The body toppled forward slowly, spilling blood; the head dropped at the Khan's feet.
Yisugen expected her sister to scream, to weep, to run from the gathering, but Yisui sat there, her face pale but otherwise composed. She said nothing as the body and head were carried away. When Temujin sat down with them again, Yisui took the bits of meat he offered, stuffing herself until the blood from the food stained her mouth. More kumiss was poured, and Yisui drank until her face was flushed from the drink. When the Khan rose to dance with his men, Yisui clapped her hands and shrieked in a wild, high-pitched laugh.
Yisugen, numb with shock, endured the feast. The sounds of song and merriment swirled around her, whipping at her ears. She did not dare to leave until evening, when others were finally staggering towards their horses or weaving their way to the nearest yurts. By then, Yisui was so drunk that Yisugen had to help her to her feet and lead her to a row of bushes where they could relieve themselves. Yisui lowered her trousers, squatted, urinated, stood up unsteadily, then leaned forward to retch as Yisugen held her by the shoulders.
They stumbled back to Yisui's tent. Yisugen guided her to the back and settled her on the bed, then sat down next to her. “Shall I stay?” she asked. Yisui said nothing. Yisugen pressed her face against Yisui's shoulder and wept.
“Stop,” Yisui said in a toneless voice. “The Khan won't want to see you crying.”
“I don't care!” Yisugen coughed and wiped at her eyes. “I brought you to this. How can you ever forgive me?”
“Stop it, Yisugen. If he sees you like this, he'll punish us both.”
Yisugen wrung her hands. Her sister was right. They had to put this death behind them, banish it with all the other ghosts.
She got up and paced. Yisui sat on the bed, staring at the hearth's glow. Yisugen dropped fuel on the fire, afraid to return to her own tent. The Khan might go there; she did not want to be alone with him.
She waited by the hearth until drunken shouts told her the Khan was outside. The steps creaked; he called out to the night guard, then came through the entrance.
He passed Yisugen without a glance and went to the bed. “You did well, Yisui,” he said. “No pleas for mercy, no protesting at my order.” He sat down. “He should have known I'd never let him leave alive.”
Yisui lifted her head. “I won't mourn him,” she said. “He wanted to die. He found enough courage to come here, and it must have pleased him to die bravely in front of me.”
Temujin's hands balled into fists. “I'll enjoy you more now, knowing he's dead.”
“He chose his death,” Yisui said. “I can remember him now as a man who dared to face you.”
The Khan shook her. “You're not to think of him at all.”
“Of course, my husband. I must obey you.”
Yisugen stood up and moved towards the doorway. “You'll stay with us,” he shouted. She went to the bed and undressed as the Khan helped her sister out of her clothes. Yisugen got into bed and curled up on the eastern side, wanting to be as far from him as possible.
She expected him to turn to Yisui. Instead, he reached for her, not bothering to caress her. He forced her legs apart
and took her from the back, bruising her breasts as he gripped her. Yisugen endured him, feeling his hot breath against her ear as he gasped. When he withdrew, she turned her back to him and covered herself with the blanket.
Her sister and the Khan were silent and still. Yisugen slept, dreaming of a feast and men who stepped forward to offer their heads to the Khan and then danced, tossing their own heads above their torsos. She fled from the feast and awoke.
At first, she thought she was alone, and then the bed moved under her; she heard a wail like the sound of a woman mourning. Yisugen peered over the blanket. He was sitting on the other side of the bed, the light from the hearth flickering over the left side of his body. A small hand clutched at his shoulder, drawing blood; Yisui's knees were on either side of his hips, and as the hand clawed at him again, the wail rose, becoming a snarl. He fell back; the bed shook as Yisui, still kneeling, moved up and down on top of him, driving him into herself, clawing at him like a cat. Yisui threw back her head and shrieked, her cry as piercing as a sword.
75
“Peace,” Jamukha said.
Altan heaved his big body out of the saddle. Khuchar dismounted, then handed his reins to one of his men. Altan and Khuchar had asked to meet with Jamukha here, in the stretch of gravel-strewn desert beyond Mount Chegcher.
“Nilkha's inside,” Jamukha said as he led the two chiefs towards a small yurt; five of his own men and two of Nilkha's sat outside, honing their knives. Nilkha had been ranting earlier, lavishing curses on his father Toghril and Temujin in equal measure. Jamukha did not have much faith in Nilkha, or in Khuchar and Altan, but they were weapons he could use. Khutula's son and Temujin's cousin had sent an envoy to Jamukha in secret; it had been easy to bring Nilkha to agree to meet with them.
They entered the tent. Nilkha sat by the hearth, his hollow-cheeked face set in a scowl. “I greet you, Senggum,” Khuchar said to him.
“Greetings,” Nilkha muttered. “So now you've grown tired of the one you made your Khan.”
“We've had cause to regret that,” Altan said.
“We fought with him,” Khuchar said as he sat down. “We took our losses against the Tatars and then he robbed us of our spoils.” He took the jug Nilkha handed to him. “Daritai would have come with us, but feared alerting Temujin.”
“I'm told,” Jamukha said, “that Daritai is still banned from Temujin's councils.”
“Yes.” Khuchar gulped down some kumiss.
“Damn Temujin,” Nilkha said. “The dog dreams of displacing me when Father calls him his adoptive son.”
“I thought,” Altan said, “that Toghril's feelings towards Temujin were cooler. He did refuse those offers of marriage Temujin proposed.”
“Oh, I persuaded my father to refuse them.” Nilkha flexed his fingers; Jamukha saw that the Senggum was working himself up for more ranting. “Imagine the effrontery. Betrothing his daughter Khojin to my son Tusaga, as if his girl's such a prize, and wanting my daughter Chagur for his son Jochi.”
Altan laughed. “His so-called son.”
“My daughter would deserve no less than the place of honour in one of their tents. His would be fortunate to be left watching the doorway.”
“The girl's mother is recently dead,” Khuchar said, “taken in childbirth. The baby died, too. Trouble has come to my cousin's household this past winter, and maybe that's an omen.” Nilkha smiled at that. “Now it's said another wife of his is ailing.”
“Well,” Altan said, “we agreed to come here, and we're ready to act. We'll ride with you, Senggum, and with our old comrade Jamukha, but will the Ong-Khan join us?”
Nilkha fingered his moustache. “That may be difficult.”
Jamukha leaned forward. “You can persuade him,” he murmured. “You must. Temujin will claim the Kereit throne as soon as your father's flown to Heaven—he may not even wait that long. You can convince your father to fight. Just tell him that Genghis Khan is preparing to seize his throne.”
“It may be so,” Altan said. “Having his offers of a marriage and betrothal refused angered Temujin greatly. Many heard him say that those who don't yield to him deserve to be swept away.”
Jamukha was sure that the Senggum would bring the old man to act. Toghril's suspicions were easily aroused, especially when his throne was at stake.
“You'll let us know,” Khuchar said, “as soon as you bring him around, and you must be quick. The longer we wait, the more time Temujin has to discover our plot.”
Jamukha drew up one leg. A sound defeat of Temujin would be enough; he did not want the Kereits to have too overwhelming a victory. He could benefit only if both sides were weakened; the men who might choose to desert either the Mongols or the Kereits then would have to turn to him. He would find a way to turn the battle to his advantage.
76
Hoelun waited outside her tent with her husband. A rider had come to Munglik's camp that morning to tell them that Temujin would stop there for the night. Beyond her circle, Temujin and the ten men with him were passing between the two fires; with their spare horses, they had also brought other horses laden with packs. Gifts, she thought, doubting they were meant for her. Temujin usually sent others with his presents, choosing to honour his mother at a distance.
The evening wind rose; patches of snow still covered part of the pasture land. They had intended to move to spring grazing grounds soon, but a fire had scorched much of the land to the west. Many suspected it had been deliberately set by an enemy.
The Khan had his share of sorrows without that fire. The loss of two wives, an insulting refusal of his offers of marriage from the Ong-Khan and his son—Temujin was assailed even in the wake of his triumph over his worst enemies.
Temujin strode towards her, leaving the horses to his men. He seemed unmarked by his bereavements; the brown, strong-boned face under his wide-brimmed fur hat was still handsome, and he moved with the grace of a younger man.
“Greetings, Mother.” He embraced her, then clasped her husband's hands. “I'm happy to see you, Munglik-echige.”
“Temujin!” Shigi Khutukhu ran towards them from behind a wagon. The Khan caught his foster brother in his arms. “Are we going to war soon? When can I fight with you?”
Munglik laughed. “Temujin's only just arrived, and already you're pestering him about that.”
“Be patient, brother,” Temujin said. “You'll have your chance to fight.”
Hoelun followed them into her large tent. By the time her son was settled in the place of honour, with Munglik at his right and Shigi Khutukhu at his feet, his men had arrived. The servants set out curds and game; Hoelun sprinkled the blessing, then went to Temujin and sat down at his left. A small beard had begun to sprout on her son's chin, but she saw no grey in it.
“I sorrowed,” she said, “to hear of your recent loss.” His wife Jeren had died only a month ago.
“I've mourned, but she was ailing for some time. Bortai and Khadagan now have another of my daughters to care for, but Alakha is too young to know that her mother's left us.” He reached for a jug as a servant brought them a platter of meat. “Much as I've grieved, I must look to the joys ahead. Yisui carries my child, and Khojin will be betrothed after all.”
Hoelun lifted her brows. “You found her another husband so soon?”
“The same husband, Mother. Nilkha sent an envoy telling me he's now ready to have his son betrothed to her, and to give his daughter to Jochi. He claims it was only the youth of his son and my daughter that kept him from giving his assent before.”
“I find that very surprising,” Hoelun said, “after what the Senggum told you before.”
“Bortai said the same thing,” Temujin said, “but Toghril must have finally seen the advantages to the match, and persuaded his son to agree. I'm riding to Nilkha's camp now—he's invited me to a feast to celebrate both betrothals.”
Hoelun glanced at her husband; even the usually placid Munglik was frowning. “My son,” he said, “I'm also suspicious. T
hey disdained you, and wounded you with insults, and now they suddenly agree? I find that hard to accept.”
Temujin tensed. “I want these marriages,” he said softly. “They'll bind us more closely to the Kereit Khan.”
“You must do as you like,” Hoelun said wearily. If her son had not listened to Bortai, he was hardly likely to heed her advice. “I suppose my stepson told you the omens were favourable.”
“Teb-Tenggeri has been on a mountain communing with spirits. I saw no reason to ask the bones about this, when Nilkha's only agreeing to what I wanted.”
Munglik leaned forward. “Temujin,” he said, “if you had consulted my son, I think he would have told you to be wary. The Senggum must know how much you wanted these marriages. What better way to lure you into a trap than to pretend to agree to them now?”
Temujin sneered. “Nilkha's a weakling. He wouldn't dare.”
“He might dare,” Munglik said, “if another has his ear. Temujin, I've served you faithfully ever since you were generous enough to give me your good mother as my wife. What have I ever said in your councils except that I'll obey any command you give me? Have I ever spoken against anything you were determined to do?”
“No,” Temujin replied.
“They mean to trap you,” Munglik continued. “I'm certain of it.”
Temujin scowled. “What would you have me do?”
“Tell Nilkha you cannot come.”
“And lose what I'm hoping for? What excuse do I give?”
“That it's springtime,” Munglik answered, “that your horses are too thin and you need to fatten them. If the Senggum is sincere, he'll ask if he can come to your camp to celebrate the betrothals, and you'll lose nothing. If he doesn't, you'll know what he intended for you.”
Temujin gazed at his men. “What do you say to this?”
Kiratai lifted his head. “That your stepfather may be wise,” he said. “The Kereits have shown themselves faithless before.”
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 43