You are an old man, she thought. She could not say that, or tell him how much she feared for him. “Let others fight for you, Temujin. Surely you've earned some rest.”
“I'll rest soon enough. I'll see the Tanguts punished first.”
He was admitting that death awaited even him, yet he was rushing to meet it. “I beg you,” she whispered. “I waited long years for you—my sixtieth year will soon be upon me. How many years can we have left? Haven't I earned—”
The cold rage in his eyes silenced her. “I forbid you,” he said in his soft voice, “to say any more about this matter. Chagadai will guard the homeland with the aid of Temuge and Khasar. If you've grown so feeble that you can't give them good counsel, then stay out of their way.”
“Temujin!”
He stood up. “When I came back to you,” he said, “it didn't matter that the hair once as black as a raven's wing had became as pale as the swan's. I could look past that wrinkled brown face and still see my beautiful Bortai. But you no longer sound like the woman I loved. Wait for death if you must, but wait for it alone. I won't wait for it in fear with you.”
He strode to the entrance and disappeared into the night.
The Khan stirred next to her. Yisui pressed closer to him as the wind howled outside. The winter storm had nearly ripped the door from the tent when he entered, his hat and coat gleaming with ice. Ever since the great hunt, he had come to her ordu often. He was still a young man in her bed; she could arouse him as she had, and delight him with her cries. Her three youngest children, as usual, were staying in her sister's tent, and her Han deaf-mutes could not hear what passed between her and her husband.
“Get me something to drink,” Temujin said.
The slaves were sleeping; she would have to kick one awake to fetch the kumiss, so it was easier to get it herself. She hurried to where the jugs hung from horns set in the tent's wooden framework, took one down, then hastened back to the bed, sprinkling the blessing before she slipped under the blankets.
“I know you enjoy seeing me naked,” she said, “but in such weather, you might leave me my shift.”
He laughed as he propped one elbow against a pillow. “You are refreshing, Yisui.”
“Refreshing?”
“Because you think only of yourself, and care nothing for anyone else. A cat has more feeling for her young, and you love me chiefly for what I've given you, but I find such selfishness and practicality amusing. Others mouth noble sentiments and assure me of their devotion. With you, everything is so much clearer.”
He was mocking her, as he did so often lately. “But I care greatly for you, and for my sister.” She paused. “And I've always loved my children, whatever you say.” She had not heard from the oldest two in some time. Perhaps she should send gifts and a motherly message to them.
“Don't lie, Yisui—it spoils your charm.” He lifted the jug and drank. “I don't doubt that you can summon up some feeling for Yisugen, but that's only because you see yourself in her, and because she relieves you of caring for your own children.”
“You wound me, husband.” She pulled the blankets up to her chin. “Haven't I shown my love for you?”
“Your love for me is that of a crow grateful for the sparkling stones it hoards in its nest, or that of a tiger in heat, who forgets her mate easily once they have joined. Don't look so hurt—I had my share in making you what you are. I can count on your loyalty, because you care so much for yourself, and know your interests and mine are the same.”
She peered up at his shadowed face. She disliked this part of him, the part that was bitter and resigned.
He said, “I find you so refreshing, in fact, that I don't want to be parted from you. I'm going to take you with me when we ride against Hsi-Hsia.”
She had not expected this; he could not mean it. “I'm honoured,” she said slowly, “that you want me as your companion, but—” Her teeth dug into her lower lip. “Yisugen, as you know, is somewhat more frail than she used to be. Oh, she's quite strong enough for her duties here, but I fear she may find the rigours of a campaign hard to endure.”
“I said nothing about Yisugen. She'll stay behind and look after your children and her own. I'm sure you won't miss your young ones too greatly, since they're often under her tent as it is.”
She sat up. “Yisugen and I swore we'd never be separated.”
“That was a promise you made to each other,” he said. “It doesn't bind me.”
“I assumed—you always let us think—”
“Are you telling me you won't go?”
“I must obey you, Temujin. I only ask that you not take me from—”
“You're selfish enough to use her as an excuse.” He swallowed more kumiss. “I want one of my four cherished Khatuns with me. Khulan grew tiresome when we went west, and Bortai must stay here to advise Chagadai. Yisugen is, as you say, somewhat weaker than she was. That leaves you, Yisui, and your protest surprises me. You have your faults, but I never thought cowardice was one of them.”
“Give me a bow and a lance,” she said, “and I'll ride into the fray at your side. It's only that to be parted from my sister—”
“Spare me any touching speeches. You claim to love your sister, so I offer you this choice. Yisugen may stay behind, or she may travel with us. You may decide whether your love for Yisugen demands that she be at your side, or that you leave her.”
Tears streamed from her eyes. “Whatever I choose, both Yisugen and I will suffer.”
“I'm leaving your sister's fate to you. I'm curious to see what you'll decide.”
“You know what I must do,” she said harshly. “I can only show my love for my sister by parting from her now, by breaking the promise I made.”
“Cover yourself, wife. We can't have you falling ill.” She stretched out under the blankets; he set down his jug and slipped his arm around her waist. “I was wrong about you, Yisui. You're a little less selfish than I thought. Your sister will be sorry to lose you, but her life will be little different in your absence. Maybe she won't miss you too much.”
“Stop it,” she said.
“You'll have time to say your farewells. I know you'll serve me well, if only so we can return to Yisugen more quickly.”
“Yes,” she said.
120
The wind bit at Yisui. Along the banks of the Onghin River, the short grass was just beginning to turn green. The rows of wagons had halted by the river; camels and oxen, freed of their yokes, grazed. The Khan was hunting in the wooded slopes to the north, where musk deer and wild asses roamed.
The sky was still light, but Yisui and those with her would camp here tonight. Girls had built fires near the covered wagons; boys took up positions as guards with the men. If the hunting party did not return that evening, they would move south at dawn and wait for the hunters to rejoin them.
They had left the camp along the Tula a month ago. Here, the Onghin was thick with ice and women warmed water near the fires before letting the animals drink it. Temujin had not waited until early spring to send out his scouts; they had clothed themselves in heavy sheepskin coats and covered their horses in felt blankets before riding south to the borders of Hsi-Hsia. Their reports were encouraging. The Tanguts, it seemed, did not expect an attack so soon, and were also counting on the forces stationed in their cities and towns. The Mongols would move towards the Etzingol River, graze their animals there, then strike at Hsi-Hsia in the west.
Yisui looked upriver at the rows and circles of wagons and tents that stood on the sand-strewn, rocky ground beyond the thin grass. The other women had been uneasy during the journey. A rumour had swept the Khan's camp before the army's departure, of a shaman dreaming that a star had fallen to earth and that a shadow had darkened the sun. Yisui had ignored the stories. Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai had read the bones for the Khan, and had predicted victory.
She had been more troubled by Bortai's visit to her tent. Bortai had made Yisui swear that she would be the Khan's shadow if
any harm came to him. “Stay at his side,” Bortai had whispered, while admitting how much she feared for Temujin. To see Bortai consumed by doubt seemed another evil omen.
A tiny cloud of sand moved towards an outlying circle of wagons. Yisui watched as the rider pulled up and two boys rushed to him. One of the boys suddenly bolted towards another horse, saddled it, and began to gallop in her direction.
Her mouth grew dry when she caught sight of the boy's face. His lips were chewed raw, his eyes wide with terror. “The Great Khan!” he shouted when he was near. “He fell from his horse—he's badly hurt!”
Yisui turned away and shouted to her servants.
By the time Yisui and her women had pitched a yurt, tying a second layer of felts over the first against the cold, the hunters were back. Borchu was leading Temujin's horse; Subotai sat behind the Khan, holding him up. Temujin groaned as Subotai dismounted, helped him down, and led him to the tent. Yisui hurried inside after Borchu, followed by the shaman she had summoned.
The two generals laid the Khan on a bed of cushions. “Temujin's horse threw him,” Borchu said. “The damned steed reared when some of the men were driving the game towards us. He's been complaining of pain ever since.”
Yisui beckoned to the shaman. The old man knelt by the Khan, poking at him under his coat until Temujin pushed him away. “Let me be!”
“At least one rib is broken,” the shaman said, “and you may have other injuries, my Khan. You should be bound up, and then a sheep must be brought here so that you—”
“Bind me up,” Temujin muttered, “but spare me a sheep's fat tail. I'd only choke on it.” He moaned as Subotai propped him up and removed his coat and hat; the shaman bound his midriff with a length of silk. The Khan's face gleamed with sweat, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. “Leave me—let me rest.” His voice was faint.
“Go,” Yisui whispered to the shaman. “Sacrifice a sheep, and bring the tail to me.” The old man scurried outside. Temujin would recover, she told herself; to doubt that was akin to believing the sun would not rise at dawn.
The Khan closed his eyes; a rasping sound came from his throat. “Shall we stay with him?” Subotai asked.
“Let him sleep,” Yisui said. “I'll watch over him. Come back in the morning, and we'll see how he's faring then.”
The two men got up. “The Master from Khitai warned him not to hunt,” Borchu said.
“My husband will recover.” Yisui walked with them towards the entrance. “The mightiest of men can hardly be felled by a skittish horse.”
She sat with him throughout the night. She covered his fevered body with blankets, wiped his face, and lifted his head to give him mare's milk. The shaman returned with a sheep's tail; she tore off bits of fat and put them between her husband's lips.
He could not die. She huddled near him, listening to his laboured breathing as the shaman chanted outside. She had feared him, and the mingled rage and joy she felt when they joined was as close to hate as it was to love, but he was the centre of her world and that of his people.
At dawn, she went outside. Borchu and Subotai had come back, but they were not alone. Men crouched around fires; the shaman had been joined by others, all of them beating drums and crying to the spirits. Ogedei squatted next to the general Tolun Cherbi; Tolui stood with Mongke and Khubilai, the sons he had brought with him to look after his horses. The guards around the tent drew back as Yisui walked towards the men.
“Take heart, brave warriors,” she said. “You'll see no spear before this tent.”
“The Khan is better?” Subotai asked.
“He's feverish. He was still for most of the night. He's no worse.”
Tolun Cherbi got to his feet and peered at her with his small bloodshot eyes. “We must speak to him,” he said.
“I'll see if he's awake.”
When she went back inside, Temujin lifted his head. “Who's out there?” he asked.
“Ogedei and Tolui. Several of your generals.”
“Help me sit up,” he said.
“Temujin—”
“Help me up, Yisui.”
She knelt next to him, raised him into a sitting position, and propped cushions against his back. His jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth; his face was sallow and beaded with sweat. “I'll see them now.”
She went to the entrance and rolled up the flap. Borchu and Subotai entered, followed by Tolun Cherbi and the Khan's two sons. Others gathered by the doorway of the small yurt.
“I'll hear what you have to say,” Temujin said as Yisui sat down at his side.
“I think I can speak for all of us,” Tolun Cherbi said. “My Khan, we should turn back. The Tanguts have walled towns and camps that don't move. They won't pick up their houses and go elsewhere. We can return to your camp on the Tula, wait until you recover, and when we come back, the Tanguts will still be there.”
“And do the rest of you agree?” the Khan asked.
“Tolun Cherbi speaks for me,” Tolui said. “You know me, Father—I'd never turn aside from war without a good reason.”
“I spoke with my son Guyuk before coming to your tent,” Ogedei said. “He says that the Tanguts can't stand against our might, whether we fight them now or later.”
Temujin looked towards the entrance, but the men peering inside were silent. “Now hear the words of your Khan. The King of Hsi-Hsia will soon know we're riding to him. If we withdraw now, he'll say it was fear that drove us back. I swore they'd be punished. They sent me no soldiers when I requested them, and have been a spear in my side ever since. Must I wait even longer to have my revenge?”
Subotai leaned forward. “Le Te Wang wasn't ruling Hsi-Hsia when we went to war in the west. It's true that he's insulted you, and refused to send the hostage you demanded, but it was his father who wouldn't send us troops. This King may turn aside from war if he's offered the opportunity, and you'd have time to regain your strength.” The general smiled. “Le Te Wang is likely to give us an excuse to war against him later.”
“Very well.” Temujin frowned. “I'll give him one last chance. Subotai, find the most trustworthy man among your Tangut officers, and tell him to take this message to the King.” He paused. “You swore to be my right hand, yet sent no army when I rode west. I took no vengeance then, but now I demand your surrender. You will submit to me and send a hostage from among your sons, along with the tribute I am owed, or God alone knows what will happen to you.”
Subotai nodded. “It will be done, Temujin.”
A few days after the envoy's departure, the army moved south along the Onghin. In spite of his injuries, the Khan refused to be conveyed in a wagon, and rode with his men. The soldiers were heartened at seeing he was not so weak as they feared; the women no longer whispered of evil omens. Only Yisui heard his groans at night, his feverish mutterings as he sought sleep.
The Khan's envoy returned three days after they had stopped to pitch their tents once more. Although Temujin was resting, he insisted that Yisui prop him up so that he could greet the man properly. Borchu and Subotai came with the messenger to the Khan's tent, their faces grim, and Yisui's last lingering hopes vanished.
“Give me your report,” Temujin said.
“I delivered your message, my Khan,” the Tangut envoy said. “The King wavered. I heard him murmur that it was his father Li Tsun-hsiang who was responsible for offending you, but in the end, his minister Asha Gambu spoke for him.”
“And what did he say?” the Khan asked.
The messenger took a breath. “He said this. If the one called Genghis Khan wants to fight, tell him to come and test his strength. If he wants treasure, tell him he can try to wrest it from our mighty cities of Ling Chou and Ning-hsia.” The man swallowed. “I think I was fortunate to return here with my head.”
Temujin's face was pale. “After that kind of challenge, we can't withdraw. I'll march on Hsi-Hsia if it means my death! I swear it by Koko Mongke Tengri!”
“No man can call back such
an oath.” Subotai's hand shook as he gulped down his kumiss.
“They've been strengthening their defences,” Temujin muttered, “but their forces are scattered among their cities and towns. We'll strike at Etzina, as we planned. Once it's taken, the river to the south will lie open to us.” He took a shallow breath. “We must strike hard and fast. We move tomorrow.”
The men finished their kumiss, then stood up. “Your men will be ready,” Subotai said.
When they were gone, Yisui crept closer to her husband. “You may have need of me,” she said. “I can think of no safer place to be than at your side while you direct this war.” She touched his face lightly. “I wish you'd turn back, and let the others go on without you, but I also see that your men will fight harder if you remain with them. Let them see your pain—let them know that even your suffering can't dull your courage. They'll do anything to preserve their Khan's life, as would I. What would become of us without you?”
He sighed hoarsely. “Why, Yisui—I might almost believe you've come to love me.”
It had nothing to do with love. She could not see him as a man like other men. For Heaven to take him from the world would be as if the sun were to vanish from the sky, or the moon were no longer there to light the night.
She said, “I swore an oath that I would be your shadow until you return to your old camping grounds, that I would stay at your side if any harm came to you.”
“Then I'll allow you to keep your oath.” He lifted a brow. “Perhaps the thought of hearing songs praising the bravery and devotion of Yisui Khatun also appeals to you.”
She would keep her promise. He did not have to know that Bortai, who had feared she might never see him again, had brought her to make the pledge.
121
The Mongols crossed the desert, driving south towards the Etzingol River, and even the desert spirits seemed to tremble before the Khan. The sudden storms that reddened the sky and blotted out the sun, forcing people to cling to their animals and cower next to wagons, lashed at them for only a short time before lifting. The winds that ceaselessly swept across the desolate plain died a little as the army passed. The voices that whispered in the desert, spirits that might lure unwary travellers from their path, instead seemed to beckon them on their way; the funnels of sand spirits swirled in the distance without touching their train. During the cold nights, the sky was black silk, the stars bright lanterns unveiled by clouds, the silence so intense that even a distant whisper could be overheard.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 72