Sorkhatani kept her face still, managing not to betray the pain that lanced through her heart. “You do us great honour,” her father murmured. She would be his son's chief wife, while Ibakha would have a lower place among the Khan's wives; she supposed she should be happy about that. She knew where her duty lay; she would be a good wife to Tolui, and hoped there was something of his father in him. The Khan thought enough of her to give her to his son. You should have married me, she thought fiercely, then bowed her head.
84
Ibakha worked at a hide with a piece of bone. She had thought that, as the Khan's wife, with all her servants and slaves, she would have less to do. Yet by the time she questioned them about the sheep, the milk, food preparation, new panels for the third layer of felt she would soon have to add to her tent, and everything else, she often felt she had done their work as well as her own.
Bortai Khatun did not like to see the Khan's other wives idling. The Khan's chief wife was still handsome, in spite of her years; she had to be close to forty. Ibakha had expected to meet an old dowager, not someone who could still rival a younger woman's beauty.
Perhaps Bortai had bought a spell from the Khan's chief shaman to preserve her looks. The shaman was often with the Khan; Teb-Tenggeri, they called him. Ibakha had to fight the urge to cross herself whenever the shaman, with his hairless face and skin as smooth as a girl's, was present.
“Khadagan showed me a fine stitch for my embroidery,” Yisui said. The two Tatar sisters sat on cushions, having brought their sewing to Ibakha's tent. “She uses it to sew little flowers—I'll show it to you when I learn it.”
“Khadagan!” Ibakha giggled. “It's hard to believe the Khan would claim such a plain woman.”
Yisugen looked up from the robe she was mending. “The Khan has never forgotten that she saved his life.”
Ibakha scraped at the hide. Yisui and Yisugen had warmed to her, perhaps because they were all close in age, but even they sometimes frowned at her the way her sister had.
“I pray our husband gets us both with child soon,” Yisui said. “I would ask Teb-Tenggeri for a spell if I weren't so afraid of him.”
Ibakha put down her bone and crossed herself. “My priests can say a prayer for you—you don't need the All-Celestial's spells.”
Yisugen paled and made a sign against evil. “Don't say it. I saw him make rain for us at Baljuna. He rides up to Heaven on his white horse—everyone says so.”
Ibakha said, “I'm not afraid of him.”
Yisui and Yisugen both made signs. “He'll hear you,” Yisui whispered. “He can hear at a distance, and through the ears of animals—you never know when his spirit might be near, listening.” Her long black eyes grew colder. “His powers also serve our husband, and Teb-Tenggeri cherishes his rewards. You'd do well to remember that.”
Ibakha hated the shaman, whose eyes always seemed to mock her silently. Her father found shamans useful, but gave a higher place to his priests. The Khan's chief shaman was like all such men, casting his spells and getting paid handsomely for them. The magic of the cross was stronger than Teb-Tenggeri's.
She would glorify herself in God's sight if she brought her husband to the true faith. Teb-Tenggeri would be banished, to practise his magic only when an evil spirit had to be driven from one who was ill or when the bones had to be read. Everyone would see how much the Khan loved her if he shared her faith.
After the great hunt, when the hides were cured and the meat dried and stored, a snowstorm raged over the Khan's camp. Ibakha helped her servants bring the sheep inside their yurts, then struggled through the falling snow to her great tent. She found the Khan there, alone for once; he stood by the hearth warming himself as her cook Ashigh watched the kettle.
Ibakha hurried to him. “You came to me,” she said breathlessly, “even in this storm.”
“Your tent was closest, my horse could go no further, and your cooks are the best of any here.”
Ashigh grinned. “I do my best,” he said. Ibakha shook the snow from herself, handed her coat to the old woman who was the only other servant present, then settled the Khan by the bed. The two servants sat near them, eating only after her husband had taken some meat.
She would not have a better chance to speak to him. She rarely had him to herself, without his other wives coming to share the meal or his Noyans drinking and singing with him, and when he was in her bed, he did not want to talk.
“There's something I wish to tell you,” she said.
“Then say it,” he replied.
“I wish to tell you of my faith.”
The Khan lifted his brows and sighed. “Go on.”
“Of course my priests could tell you more—they have more learning.”
“Ibakha, tell me what you wish to say.”
“Well.” She plucked at her robe. “Surely you've heard something from my father or others of my people about God's Son, and how he died on a cross for our sins.”
“I have, but men have other things to talk about.”
“The Christ told His followers,” she said, “of God's love for them, and said that if they believed in the true faith, they would have eternal life.”
He shrugged. “I've heard that sages in Khitai also know the secret of immortality.”
“I'm speaking of the soul,” she said. “The Christ died for our sins, then rose from the dead, and promised that we would live forever in Heaven. If you believe in God's Son—”
“God has many sons,” he said. “He gave my ancestor Alan Ghoa three sons, and made them the fathers of Khans.”
Ibakha crossed herself, at a loss for what else to say. The chanting of the priests as they swung their golden censers always filled her with joy, and the thought of the Christ watching over her gave her happiness; she wished she could explain that to him. “It would make me happy if you shared my faith.”
“Ibakha, I let you keep your priests. Believe what you like, but don't ask me to pray as you do.”
“My faith is my shield against evil,” she said. “In all the world, good and evil must struggle. Your shaman Teb-Tenggeri—”
Her husband made a sign. “You wouldn't need so many of his spells,” Ibakha insisted, “if you—”
Something in his eyes warned her to be silent. “My stepbrother has served me well with his powers,” he said quietly, “and I'm not such a fool as to make an enemy of him.”
The servants rose and took away the empty platters. It would have been surprising, she thought, if he had accepted her words easily, but all was not lost. He would need a prayer from her priests eventually, and then—
“Khasar and I,” he said, “used to hunt marmots as boys.” Ibakha blinked, wondering why he was talking of that now. “Every spring, when we heard their whistling and saw them rolling down the hillsides towards their holes, we'd set out to hunt them, and often they were all we had to eat. We would sneak up on a hole, and one of us would wave a branch while the other took aim. It amused me to see a marmot sitting by its hole, curious, transfixed by our waving branch, too stupid to notice the arrow aimed at its heart. I waited as long as I dared before making my shot, because it gave me such pleasure to watch a foolish creature doing so little to protect itself from harm.”
“Men have better sport,” she said, “than hunting marmots.”
He gestured to her; she knelt and pulled off his boots. “Do you know why I took you as a wife?” he asked.
She looked up. “Surely because you found me pleasing.”
“Because you were beautiful, but your sister is as fair. I might have given you to one of my sons and taken her as my wife, young as she is.”
Ibakha felt confused. “I'm grateful you chose me.”
“Yes, I chose you. Khasar told me of the beauty of Jakha Gambu's daughters. He also told me one had the look of a young eagle in her eyes, while the other seemed as flighty as a small bird. Now I'll tell you why you, rather than your sister, are my wife.”
Ibakha stood up; he got
to his feet and smiled down at her. “My son Tolui needs a wise woman for his first wife, one who can be to him what his mother is to me. When I saw the fire in Sorkhatani's face, I was reminded of my Bortai when she was a girl. But it didn't seem fitting to claim you both when I still have sons who must be wed, so I chose you. I have wise wives already—it doesn't matter if one is a fool.”
It took her a few moments to grasp his meaning. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Come now, Ibakha.” He was still smiling. “As I said, it doesn't matter. Be as foolish as you like, but don't pretend you're wiser than you are, or chatter about things you don't understand.” His hand gripped her shoulder. “Come to bed.”
One night that winter, the Khan woke at Yisugen's side, crying out with such passion that she summoned the guards. His sleep had been troubled by a dream, one he could not recall, although he was certain the spirits were trying to speak to him.
The next night, he lay with Ibakha, but tossed so restlessly that she could not sleep. When he moaned and sat up abruptly, she sent for her priests.
Her husband was calmer when the three priests arrived, but scowled as they approached the bed. “I need a shaman,” he shouted, “not these priests.”
Ibakha flung her arms around him. “Let them pray for you,” she said. “Your sleep won't be troubled again.”
The priests prayed, burned incense, and made the sign of the cross over him. When they left, the Khan was sleeping soundly; Ibakha exulted.
Within a day, her servants had told others that Ibakha's priests had brought peace to the Khan. After he passed a peaceful night with Bortai and another with Khadagan, Ibakha was certain his bad dreams were banished. Several times before, the Khan had spent nights troubled by evil dreams, and only Teb-Tenggeri had been able to ease him. Some whispered that the shaman was angry at not being summoned, but Ibakha had never feared him. A few days later, when Yisui and Yisugen came to tell her they were both pregnant, she admitted that her priests had said prayers for them. Yisui wondered aloud why their prayers had not yet opened Ibakha's womb, but even that could not diminish her joy.
Her rejoicing was short-lived. When the Khan came to her again, he had hardly fallen asleep before he started from the bed and shouted to the guards, ordering them to send for his chief shaman.
“But why?” Ibakha asked. “Didn't my priests help you before?”
“I want Teb-Tenggeri.”
She could not argue with him. Teb-Tenggeri might fail, and then the Khan would have to summon the priests again.
The Khan's stepbrother said nothing to her when he arrived with two other shamans. Ibakha sat on the eastern side of her tent with the servants while the shamans sacrificed a lamb and boiled it in a cauldron. Teb-Tenggeri chanted, shook his bones as he danced around the bed, then offered a potion to the Khan. The other shamans beat their drums; Teb-Tenggeri hovered over the Khan, bending low several times to whisper to him.
Ibakha ached with weariness by the time the shamans were done. “My brother sleeps,” Teb-Tenggeri whispered as he moved away from the bed. “A dream that rouses a man from sleep often carries a message that must be heeded.” He gazed towards Ibakha with his long dark eyes. “Temujin will hear the message soon.”
He left the tent. “We'll see what message my husband hears,” Ibakha called out as the other two shamans were passing through the doorway. “Perhaps it will tell him to rid himself of his chief shaman.” The servants gasped as she walked towards the bed; they were sure to tell others of her defiant words tomorrow. She leaned over her husband; his eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even. Ibakha took off her robe and slipped under the blankets.
“Ibakha.”
She struggled to wake. Her husband sat on the bed, looking down at her. “I know what my dream was trying to tell me,” he said.
She sat up and smoothed down her shift. Beyond the hearth, the tent was dark, the servants asleep. “You won't be pleased to hear it,” he continued. “You weren't meant to be my wife. The spirits have ordered me to give you up.”
Her throat locked. She clawed at the blankets; her voice freed itself. “You can't mean it!” she screamed. “This is Teb-Tenggeri's doing - he put a spell on you, he - “
The Khan grabbed her by both arms. Coughs and mutters reached her from the shadows. “My dreams have never lied to me,” he said softly. “They've always shown me what has to be. This one says to give you up.”
“You don't believe—”
“Silence.” He leaned closer to her. “I'll hear no protests from you, or I'll tell others everything else my dream told me, and that can scarcely help you now.”
“What could it have said?” she whispered.
“That even a Khan can be harmed by ambitious fools close to him.” He called out to the guards; a soldier entered. “Who is the officer on duty tonight?” the Khan asked.
“Jurchedei.”
“Tell him to come inside.” The Khan stood up and pulled his coat tightly around himself. “Get dressed, Ibakha, and cover your head.”
Ibakha put on her robe and a scarf, too stunned even to feel fear. The shaman had put this dream inside him. The servants were awake; she could not bear to think of what they would tell others.
Jurchedei entered and approached them. “Jurchedei,” the Khan said, “you've served me faithfully.” Ibakha glanced at the other man's roughened, hard face, then looked away. “You deserve any reward I can give you, and I wish to offer you a prize now. My beautiful Ibakha Beki is now yours.”
The Noyan gaped at him. “Temujin!”
“I want you to know that she is above reproach, that she has been a good and faithful wife. I hoped to keep her with me, but a dream has come to me, commanding me to give her up. If I must lose her, I can think of few who deserve her more than you.” The Khan lowered his voice. “Her only flaw is that she sometimes lacks sense, but you're capable of dealing with that, and her beauty will more than make up for it.”
“You do me a great honour,” the general said.
“She will keep her tent, and half the servants she brought with her. I must have her cook Ashigh, but the other cook's nearly as skilful—you'll feast well in your new wife's tent.”
Ibakha searched her husband's face. She saw no relief in his pale eyes at being rid of her, no sorrow over losing her.
“Her descendants will be honoured,” the Khan continued, “as though she were still one of my wives. Ibakha has done nothing dishonourable—I wouldn't give such a faithful friend a woman who had. I am the one who offended the spirits by keeping her.” He took Ibakha's hand and thrust it into the general's. “May your joy with her be as great as mine.”
The Khan walked towards the doorway and was gone. Jurchedei stared at Ibakha, clearly as shocked as she was. She tore herself from his grasp and ran to the entrance.
A man was bringing a horse to the Khan. Behind him, a few men stood around a fire, warming their hands. One of them looked up; she saw the dark eyes of Teb-Tenggeri.
“When I go to war,” Tolui said, “I'll bring you a golden cup from the Tayang's tent.”
Sorkhatani turned in her saddle. “Is your father planning to fight the Naimans?”
“He'll have to sooner or later. Maybe this autumn, or next year—I'll be old enough to fight then.”
“Unless the Naimans make a truce,” she said.
Tolui scowled, then brightened. “If he doesn't fight them, maybe we'll ride against the Merkits.”
“Don't worry, Tolui. There will always be wars. You'll have many chances to show your courage.”
The boys and girls who had ridden out with them were racing towards the Kereit camp across the sprouting spring grass. Tolui had beaten them all at races since coming to Jakha's ordu. He looked most like his father when he spoke of war, his round face firm and determined, his pale eyes aglow. There was fire in his face; perhaps he would grow up to be much like the man she loved.
Sorkhatani thought fleetingly of her sister, whom the Khan had g
iven away that winter. The story was that a dream had commanded him to do so, but Sorkhatani often wondered if the Khan was secretly relieved at being rid of her. He should have married me, she thought, but knew now why he had not. She would show her love for Tolui's father by being a good wife to his son.
“I'll race you,” Tolui said.
“I may beat you.”
“No, you won't.” His horse bolted. She galloped after him, her braids streaming behind her as the wind rose.
85
Gurbesu had ordered that the head of Toghril Ong-Khan be brought to her. A silver band encircled the neck; the silver plate on which the head sat rested on a piece of white felt.
The head was on a table to the right of the Tayang's throne; Toghril's heavy-lidded eyes stared towards the hearth. Gurbesu had offered the head libations, holding her goblet to the twisted lips, and the Tayang's concubines had sung to it. The Ong-Khan had been coming to them to seek refuge, and his death was an evil omen. She hoped that his spirit would be placated by the honour shown to him.
The girls seated behind Gurbesu continued to pluck their lutes. The Tayang was muttering about the Mongols to Ta-ta-tonga. Bai Bukha had spoken of little else since hearing of Toghril's death at the hands of Naiman sentries; the guards had not believed the old man's claim to be the Ong-Khan.
There had been many such evil omens lately. A foal of the Tayang's favourite mare had been strangled in her womb and born dead. Gurbesu's third child by Bai Bukha, like the two before it, had emerged from her too soon and never drawn breath.
She had been given a poor choice after the death of Inancha Bilge. Agreeing to become Bai Bukha's wife had not kept him and his brother Buyrugh from fighting. Now the Tayang was tiring of her. Soon he might not listen to her at all.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 48