Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  “It is my greatest hope that you do not. Lady, may I speak plainly? You may find what I say illuminating.”

  Ch'i-kuo nodded. “When the Mongols took me prisoner,” Lien continued, “I saw only beasts in animal skins, creatures who could do no more than rob, kill, and destroy. Perhaps that is all they were once, but the ruler who calls himself Genghis Khan is making something more of them. I have served the Khan, and he is a man of two natures, Lady. One is as honed as his sword, hard and sharp and prepared to strike. The other searches and longs to encompass the world. In a weaker man, two such natures might have been at war, but in him, each feeds the other. The sword clears his way, and the other part of him reaches out for what is there.”

  “I am surprised that you can find anything to admire in a people who have caused you to suffer.”

  “What have I suffered, Lady?” Lien said. “Once, the most I could have hoped for was that a wealthy merchant might have bought me for a concubine. Instead, I have become the woman of an Emperor and the servant of an Emperor's daughter.”

  “Perhaps you can advise me on how to behave with my new husband.”

  Lien turned her perfect oval face towards her. “You are not the first princess who has been given to the Khan. The Princess Chakha, daughter of the King of Hsi-Hsia, was offered to him when the Tanguts surrendered. I glimpsed her in the ordu of the Khan. She had, so I was told, once been a beauty, but I saw only a thin-faced woman with dead, staring eyes.” She paused. “It was said that when the Lady Chakha was first taken to the Khan's tent, she could only weep for her palace in Ning-hsia. Whenever the Khan went to her, she greeted him with tears in her eyes. Even after many months, her tears still flowed freely.”

  Ch'i-kuo said, “She must have displeased the Khan greatly.”

  “You are mistaken, Lady. She pleased him very much. It's said that he went to her tent often, and in time her weeping stopped. Now there are no more tears from the Lady Chakha, and there is also no laughter, no contentment, no peace. She is paid the honour owed a Lady who has given the Khan sons, but she dwells in his camp as a ghost. It is the way of the Mongols, Lady—to take what they can use and destroy what they cannot. Chakha fed only that part of the Khan's nature.”

  Ch'i-kuo swallowed. “Then I shall not weep.”

  Lien rose gracefully to her feet. “Perhaps you wish some refreshment, my Lady. I shall have some tea prepared.”

  The Mongol Khan sent for Ch'i-kuo two days after her arrival. Lien had told her that, with this campaign concluded, Genghis Khan was impatient to begin the journey to his own lands.

  Her woman bathed her with warm, damp cloths, dressed her in silk trousers and a red robe trimmed with gold brocade, and set jewelled combs shaped like butterfly wings in her upswept hair. With Lien and Mu-tan to attend her, she was led outside, where soldiers waited with horses. Commander Fu-hsing stood with his officers, all of them wearing their plated metal armour; the Tangut A-la-chien had brought a detachment of Mongols.

  With a line of Kin soldiers to their left, and Mongols on their right, Ch'i-kuo and the two women rode along the edge of the camp. Prisoners near the tents were simmering food in cauldrons, unloading wagons, mending harnesses, and collecting dried dung. She could not tell which people might have belonged to a rich merchant's household, a peasant's, or a meng-an's entourage; they were all slaves now.

  Lien, when speaking of the Khan, had gently implied that the Kin had brought this storm upon themselves. Hsi-Hsia had submitted to the Mongols, as had the Ongghuts; the Golden Emperor of the Kin might have acknowledged the Mongol Khan as his brother. Instead, the Kin had supported a faction of Ongghuts who had overthrown their leader three years earlier. The Khan's own daughter Alakha, wife of the Ongghut prince's oldest son, had lost her husband and been forced to flee to a Mongol camp with the surviving members of the Ongghut royal family. It had all been for nothing. The Ongghuts had gone back to the Mongols within the year, preferring the Khan's Ongghut allies to the commander the Kin had placed over them.

  It had also been wise of the Khan to support the Khitan revolt. The Liao Wang himself had turned to the Mongols, and Genghis Khan had sent Shigi Khutukhu and Anchar Noyan, brother of the Khan's first wife, as his envoys to secure a Khitan oath of loyalty. The Khitans might never have revolted if Jurchen settlers were not encroaching on their homelands bordering the Khingan range. One could hardly have expected the Khan not to take advantage of the situation. Lien had painted a portrait of a reasonable man pushed into war, a picture quite different from the one Ch'i-kuo had formed at court.

  The Khan's tent was at the north end of the camp, but a pavilion had been raised in the field beyond it. Horses were tied to ropes outside the pavilion; Mongols crowded the space between it and the camp, moving in an awkward, rolling gait on their bowed legs. Outside the pavilion, rows of Mongols stood at attention, hands on their sword hilts.

  Ch'i-kuo could dimly see the Khan under the pavilion. His face was shadowed, and a jewelled cap covered his head. He had adorned himself in a short silk tunic and embroidered robe, and sat in a chair on a raised platform. She had expected that, a barbarian clothed in looted finery.

  She dismounted; Fu-hsing and A-la-Chien led her forward. Carpets were strewn over the ground under the pavilion. At the Khan's right, Mongol men sat on cushions around low tables; several Han women sat in the space to his left.

  Fu-hsing began his speech as the shadow of the pavilion covered them; A-la-Chien quickly translated it into the Khan's tongue. Lien had told her what to expect. There would be speeches, and a welcome from the Khan to his bride, followed by the blessings of the Mongol shamans, a sacrifice, and a banquet likely to go on for the rest of the day.

  Ch'i-kuo knelt, pressed her head against the carpet, then looked up. She saw the Khan more clearly now. He had the same massive build as the others, and thick coiled braids behind his ears; his long moustaches and the dark beard covering his chin had a reddish tint. He was leaning towards a man seated near him, and then his head turned towards her.

  She had not expected to see such eyes. His had the folds of his people and hers, but they were pale eyes, more green and yellow than brown. A demon's eyes, she thought, eyes from which nothing could be hidden, terrifying eyes she might see in her worst dreams.

  “The Khan welcomes his bride,” A-la-Chien was saying in the Han tongue, “whose beauty shines forth as does the light of the moon.”

  Lien had not told her the truth. Whatever excuses this man had found for his deeds, his eyes showed what he truly was, a weapon aimed at the world. Only surrender could turn that weapon aside.

  Ch'i-kuo sat at the Khan's side, enduring the feast. Slaves moved from table to table, and among those seated on the ground beyond the pavilion, carrying dishes and goblets. The Mongols did not use eating sticks with their food, preferring to pass it around on knives or to grab at it with their hands. The food itself was largely strips of partly cooked meat dipped in salted water or soybean sauce, and the soy did not mask the scent of the dung over which the meat had been cooked. Perhaps the barbarians had killed most of the skilled cooks as well.

  The men were soon drunk; they shouted their guttural songs over the gentle music of the flute-players seated near the pavilion. When they danced, they leaped on to the tables, crushing pale porcelain dishes and goblets under their feet. Their fermented, sour-tasting milky beverage was as repulsive as the rest of their food, but they guzzled it and the wines brought to them, often with a goblet in each hand.

  The Khan's eyes narrowed, and she knew he was aware of her disdain. He spoke then, the first words he had addressed directly to her. She bowed her head as he finished, then glanced at Lien.

  “My Lord says,” Lien murmured, “that a man must savour what is given to him to eat and drink, and enjoy it to the full. To do otherwise is an insult to his host.”

  “He does not have to excuse this behaviour to me.”

  Lien shook her head. “The Great Khan has no need to make excuses to an
yone. He is telling you that his men are behaving properly, and that you are not.”

  She would have to live among these people. “Lien,” Ch'i-kuo said slowly, “you must tell His Majesty that I learned my manners at court, where the Emperor picks daintily at sumptuous dishes and sips only the smallest part of the wine in his goblet while his people starve and his soldiers fall before Mongol warriors. It is clear that the Great Khan's manners are better than mine.”

  The Khan smiled as Lien translated, then offered Ch'i-kuo a piece of meat from his knife. She took it, chewed it quickly, and drained her goblet of wine in one gulp.

  The raucous feast was still going on at sunset. Mongols led horses to the pavilion; the Khan lifted Ch'i-kuo to his white steed, then mounted behind her. Men shouted and lifted their cups. The arm around her waist felt as heavy as iron.

  Before her departure from Chung Tu, the Emperor had sent a book to her with his presents, one printed on leaves of paper bound together with thick gold threads. The book, which contained several woodcut illustrations, was a suitable gift for a bride, since its subject was the bedchamber's arts. Now the Emperor's parting gift seemed meant to pay her back for her last painting. Hsun would know what the Mongols were, and how unlikely it was that their Khan would follow such a book's prescriptions.

  Another large tent had been erected to the east of the Khan's; silk curtains fluttered at its sides. The guards who were posted around the tent saluted, striking their black breastplates with their fists, as the Khan dismounted and lifted Ch'i-kuo from the saddle.

  He led her inside; Mu-tan and Lien followed them. Her possessions had been moved to this tent; her slaves knelt near the bed at the back.

  “I shall tell our master,” Lien said, “that your women will prepare you for bed before they go to their own tent.”

  “Their tent?” Ch'i-kuo asked.

  “The small tent nearest this one. Should they be needed later, a slave will summon them.”

  “But surely—” She had assumed her women would stay with her. “Do not say this to the Khan, but I fear being alone with him.”

  “My Lady, I don't intend to leave you alone.” Lien lifted her brows. “The Khan may need me to convey his words to you.”

  She could not imagine that he would have much to say. He watched them with his pale demon's eyes as two of her women helped him off with his robe. He glanced around the tent as they were led to the bed, then sniffed at the ivory incense burner on one table. Lien murmured a few words to him. He lifted his cap from his head before one of the women could reach for it; the top of his head was shaved, with a tuft of hair left over his forehead. His gaze fell to the bed and the book lying on the silk coverlet.

  One of her women must have put it there; Ch'i-kuo longed to thrust it out of sight. The Khan scowled at the book, then picked it up as he muttered to Lien.

  “The Khan,” she said, “is asking what this is.”

  “It is a book about the Clouds and the Rain,” Ch'i-kuo replied, “but I am certain that the Khan, who has brought the joy that banishes a thousand sorrows to so many wives, will have no need of it.”

  One of the women untied the belt around his tunic. He waved her away and sat down on the bed, squinting in the soft light of the lamps. His broad hands turned the pages until he came to an illustration; he held up the book as he spoke.

  “The Khan is asking what this is,” Lien said.

  The other women giggled softly. Ch'i-kuo's cheeks burned; the picture showed a naked man, his legs looped around a kneeling woman as they joined. “That,” Ch'i-kuo said, “is called The Hovering Butterflies.”

  He pawed through the book to another illustration. “And this?” Lien asked with a smile.

  “Mandarin Ducks.”

  “And this one?”

  Ch'i-kuo forced herself to glance at the picture. “Frolicking Wild Horses.”

  “He says that one looks more familiar.”

  The Khan shook his head and pointed to another picture of a man licking the cleft between a woman's legs. Ch'i-kuo's throat tightened. “That one is called The River of the Yin Nourishes the Yang.”

  “He is surprised that people actually do such things.”

  Ch'i-kuo stared past the young woman. “Then he has learned few such arts from you.”

  Lien laughed. “I have explained to him that a man gains most from the act when it is prolonged, so that his precious yang can be properly augmented by the woman's yin, but he told me any man who indulged in such acts to excess would surely grow weaker rather than stronger. As I told you, the Mongols have little use for the arts of the Jade Chamber.” She laughed again. “But as I have also told you, the Khan is a man of two natures, and he's capable of giving much pleasure to those willing to accept it. Your cinnabar gate will happily open to his vigorous peak.”

  Ch'i-kuo doubted that very much. The Khan set the book on a table. Her women undressed them; she kept her eyes averted from him, feeling his gaze. Mu-tan combed out her hair, then helped her into the bed. Ch'i-kuo closed her eyes as he stretched out next to her. The coverlet floated over her and settled against her.

  When she opened her eyes, her women were gone, and Lien was kneeling at the side of the bed. Ch'i-kuo lay there, afraid to move. He reached for her and then lifted a long lock of her hair to his face as he whispered his strange words.

  Lien said, “The Khan is saying that you are beautiful, Lady.” He drew the coverlet from her, cupped one small breast in his hand, then murmured more words. “Now he is telling you that the sight of your jade mound delights him.”

  Hearing the Khan's words from Lien's lips was not making matters any easier, but the young woman was silent after that, and the Khan was soon past any need for speech. He touched his lips to hers; she managed not to recoil. His hands roamed over her and came to rest between her legs.

  To feel his roughened hands trying to bring dew to her lotus petals was worse than if he had simply thrust himself into her. She supposed that she should caress his jade stalk, but could not bring herself to do so. He reeked of sweat and the meat he had eaten; the weight of him threatened to squeeze the breath from her. As he thrust inside her, she tensed against the pain; he gasped, shuddered, and then withdrew.

  Lien rose and covered them. “There's no need for me to stay longer.” She bowed, murmured some words to the Khan in his language, then left the tent. Perhaps she had told the Khan that his bride was too overcome by her pleasure to display her joy properly.

  He lay at her side and cupped her face between his hands; his eyes searched her. She thought of what Lien had said about his Tangut wife. She would not allow herself to become such a creature, wailing for what was lost.

  I'll be your wife, she thought, and live among your people, and give you no cause to wound me, but I won't forget what I saw of your work beyond this camp.

  His lip curled, as though he sensed her thoughts; he drew her to him.

  98

  The place named Yu-erh-lo, near the lake the Mongols called Dolon Nor, was flat yellow grassland empty of trees, with patches of drifting sand. This was Ongghut country, where the Khan would graze his animals until autumn, when the desert leading north to his homeland could be more easily crossed. The water of Dolon Nor was brackish, and the flocks of birds that rose from the lake made the deafening sound of a whirlwind with their wings, but Ch'i-kuo welcomed the wildness.

  They had left the ravaged towns outside the dragon's spine of the Great Wall behind. She had not wept while passing through the Mouth of the Wall, or at the sight of the messages other exiles had scrawled on the arching stone gate. The barbarians had slaughtered the slaves they could no longer use and abandoned the bodies. She preferred not to be near the raven-infested graveyard the Mongols had made of her land.

  Ch'i-kuo gazed at the picture she was painting, then added one last stroke. During the last two months, those in the Khan's encampment had grown used to the strange sight of the Kin princess seated under a canopy outside her tent, screens a
t her sides to protect her from the wind as she dabbed at a scroll of silk or paper with her brushes. Even in this wild land, she had little more to do than she had in the palaces of Chung Tu. Slaves and servants tended the herds the Khan had allotted to her, and took care of her tent and belongings. Lien remained at her side to guide her through her new life.

  Ch'i-kuo looked up; the Lady Tugai, with two of her servants, was walking towards her from a cart. Tugai was the most important of the four Mongol wives the Khan had brought with him on this campaign; she had warm brown eyes and a body nearly as thick as a young Mongol man's. The other three wives were pretty, sturdy girls with broad faces and red cheeks. They had remained in Ongghut territory with other Mongol women and a rearguard, and had rejoined the Khan during the journey to Yu-erh-lo.

  Ch'i-kuo and Lien got to their feet. “I greet you, Elder Sister,” Ch'i-kuo murmured. She had learned more of the Mongol tongue, although Lien often had to prompt her.

  “I greet you, Noble Lady,” Tugai said. Her high square headdress made the squat Mongol woman seem tall.

  “It would give me pleasure—” Ch'i-kuo hesitated; Lien whispered a phrase to her in Mongol. “It would afford me a great deal of pleasure if my Elder Sister would partake of my humble hospitality.”

  “I would be most pleased,” Tugai Ujin replied. She sat down at Ch'i-kuo's table, shifting her bulky form as her women settled near her. Lien hurried around the tent, returning with Mu-tan, who carried a silver tray with a porcelain pot and teacups. Tugai had learned to like tea, and Ch'i-kuo was grateful for that; she still choked on the fermented mare's milk the other lady offered to her in her tent.

  They sipped their tea. Tugai craned her short neck, obviously trying to look at the painting. Ch'i-kuo had given the other woman a painting of a swan nesting in the salt marsh around the lake, and had also sent such gifts to the other wives. The women took a childish pleasure in the pictures quite unlike the cooler appreciation offered by the courtiers in the imperial palace.