But it wasn’t to feed me that Chilger dragged me to the shadows near one of the fires. He unbuckled his belt and pulled down his trousers, his member springing stiff and ready from its nest of dark hair.
My hands still bound in front of me, I tried to scramble away, but he yanked me back so hard my neck threatened to snap.
“I like one with a little fight still in her,” he said, keeping one hand in my hair and the other shoving up my caftan.
I lashed at his face, aiming for his eyes, but he only laughed at me, at least until I drew Temujin’s knife from my boot.
With my wrists still bound, there was never any real chance I’d escape, only the desperate hope of freedom. Before I even straightened, Chilger’s boulder of a fist crashed into the side of my head and the knife went flying. The ground slammed into the other side of my face, my cheek skidding across the dirt and pebbles. The heat of the fire licked my forehead.
And then a new fire.
I screamed into the gag as Chilger entered me from behind, his hand digging into my buttocks as he rode me like a horse. The shouts of encouragement and heat of the fire faded until there was nothing but the ground before me and Chilger pounding into me.
When he finished, I lay discarded by the fire, battered and alone. Someone poked my ribs with his boot, then stumbled off with a roar of laughter, splashing my face with airag. I became aware of other pains as I slowly returned to my body, tiny pinpricks of agony joining the fire between my legs. My palms were speckled with blood like a bird’s egg, tiny pebbles embedded deep in the flesh.
A public rape.
Even if I escaped, Temujin would never want me now. I wished for death then, for my soul to fly free of the violated flesh and sinews that made up my broken body and be reborn in the sacred mountains.
Around me, the men continued to drink and a wrestling match started on the other side of the fire. I curled into myself, unable to stop the tremors that spread from my heart to my fingertips, setting my teeth chattering.
Then came the gentle touch on the back of my head, as soft as a bird’s wing as the gag was removed. I flinched and turned away.
“Hush, little goat.” Mother Khogaghchin tucked my hair behind my ears and righted my twisted caftan. “Can you stand?”
I shook my head, unable to speak. Now I finally understood Sochigel’s silence in the face of such misery. I wanted nothing more in that moment than for death to find me.
“Don’t let them see your tears,” the old woman said. I bit back the cry of pain as she pulled me to my feet, as unsteady as a newborn colt. “These sort of men are like wolves—they feed off your fear.”
“Woman!” The grizzled old warrior who had claimed Khogaghchin as his slave waved his cup in our direction, sloshing airag over the side. At her age, and with the smell of urine that always clung to her, surely Khogaghchin was safe from what I’d just endured. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Khogaghchin waved him away. Her hands were also bound, but much looser. No doubt she hadn’t tried to stab anyone.
“She needs to be cleaned before her husband can ride her again,” she said, her face matching their leer. “It will only take a moment.”
Husband. My sodden mind couldn’t decipher what Khogaghchin meant by that.
“Let them go,” Toghtoga said, waving his cup in our direction. “The old woman can barely hobble and the girl will walk so bowlegged we’d be able to catch her no matter how fast she tried to run.”
My entire body burned with shame as we stumbled away from the fire and into the black chill of night, skirting the other campfires to find a tiny creek. It was forbidden to defile lakes or rivers with human filth, but my blood and Chilger’s seed scorched a trail of contamination down my legs, making me feel like I might never be clean again. I plunged into the black water with a violent splash, wishing it might wash away my soul and leave this desecrated body for the carrion. Hot tears of humiliation poured down my cheeks and I splashed them away until Mother Khogaghchin looped her arms over me, her coarse voice crooning softly in my ear. Only then did I notice that she, too, had washed herself. Perhaps not even age was a protection against these demons that disguised themselves as men.
“That beast is not my husband,” I sobbed, finally realizing the full extent of her earlier words. I had lost more than I realized when Chilger claimed me.
“This is how things go for women among the warring clans. You led a peaceful life, sheltered by the clan of your father, but no more.” Khogaghchin removed her arms and gave me a sad smile. “You are a Merkid bride now, whether you wish it or not.”
I shook my head so hard my teeth rattled. “No. I married Temujin—”
“Chilger has had you,” Khogaghchin repeated. “And he’s going to want to have you again.” She clasped my face between leathery palms, her wrists still bound. “Your old life no longer exists.”
I hissed in pain as she used a handful of wet river grass to clean the scrape on my cheek. “Then I’ll escape.”
“Where will you go?” She scrubbed harder now. “You don’t know where Temujin is any more than the Merkid do.” She threw the grass in the water and heaved a great sigh. “He let you go, Borte. Temujin won’t risk his entire family for a mere woman.”
He let you go.
But that wasn’t true. I had told Temujin to leave me, but I also knew he wouldn’t come for me, not once word of what had just happened spread across the steppes. I belonged to another man now, and Temujin would be a fool to try to rescue me, outnumbered as he was by the Merkid.
I knew now that women were only the playthings of men, to be used when convenient and discarded later. With my body bruised and my soul battered, I even doubted the pleasure I’d once found in Temujin’s arms, tainted as it was now by the sharp pebbles still embedded in my palms and the throbbing pain between my legs.
If I hoped to escape, it wouldn’t be at my husband’s hands, or at those of any other man for that matter. I would rely only on my cunning and my own two feet.
Chapter 7
“Borte!”
I cringed at Chilger’s bellow, then grimaced at the newest pain in my face. I’d belonged to the Merkid for two cycles of the moon, and in the first days I’d done nothing but contemplate escape, yet there was no scenario that allowed me to take Khogaghchin and Sochigel with me. Their steady presence at the river each afternoon when we drew water was the only bright spot in these dark days, but the old women’s presence also shackled me to this life. Each morning I buried the bloody bandages from the gashes Chilger gifted me on my face, my legs, and my ribs, along with the soiled rags from my monthly bloods. But now my women’s bloods were weeks overdue, my breasts sore, and my stomach sour in the morning.
The foul beast had planted a child in me.
Now I had to decide which to sacrifice: the life of a child, or the lives of two elderly women.
We’d traveled to the Kilgho River, where the riverweeds grew as thick as an old man’s beard and the stones at the bottom of the creek were polished as bright as camel eyes. The Merkid lashed reeds together to float across to the Bugura Steppe, a barren land full of winds that howled louder than lonely spirits. I’d spent part of the afternoon on the edge of a ravine, allowing the memories of my old life to comfort and strangle me at the same time, contemplating throwing myself from the cliff ledge and putting an end to my troubles. I pictured my body flying, diving like an eagle, and then my spirit soaring to the mountains.
I touched my stomach and tucked away the dream as I picked my way along the path to camp, casting longing glances at the rocky ledge that seemed to beckon me back, the dappled sunlight so delicate and peaceful on this earth.
The night before, Chilger had beaten me after he’d discovered the gashes on my wrists. I’d used Temujin’s wolf tooth to cut my flesh, begging the spirits to carry my soul to the sacred mountains. Chilger n
ow wore my husband’s necklace around his own thick neck, a reminder that he could take from me anything he pleased. However, he’d left off my shackles, apparently deciding that the cuts on my wrists were proof that I’d been sufficiently broken and would rather die than contemplate escape.
My gift of sight had deserted me in the face of this nightmare, but I was thankful Mother Khogaghchin was still with me to keep my mind tethered. She was constantly accompanied by Toghtoga’s future daughter-in-marriage, a hardy girl named Toregene. The child reminded me of Temulun with her downcast eyes and her constant humming that floated like birdsong from her throat.
This life would slowly kill me, but with my chains gone, there was another escape outside of death that made the colors of the leaves and sky bolder, the crunch of pebbles underfoot louder. I touched my belly again, the child that was surely growing there.
It would happen tonight.
The day was like all the others before it, including the blow to the cheek I took after Chilger ate his kefir, claiming I hadn’t mixed the mare’s milk with the grain properly. He rolled away when he finished with me, grunted once, and fell into the sleep of the dead while flies buzzed overhead, trapped by the closed smoke hole. I scrubbed the sacred triangle between my legs with a dirty rag from the leather bucket of lukewarm water by the hearth. My stomach heaved at the stench of sex and sweat, but I pressed my nose into an old horse blanket until I was calm again.
Tucked in Chilger’s belt was the knife he’d stolen from me, gleaming dully in the faint glow cast by the embers. I’d never considered harming anyone—much less killing a man—before the Merkid had claimed me, but I desperately wished to stab the blade between his ribs, to watch the shock in his eyes fade to death as I cleaved open his chest.
But I couldn’t chance it. The men in other gers around us might wake, and then I’d be captured and handed off to the next man, back where I had started, or perhaps even worse.
One day I’d have my revenge on Chilger. I’d sworn that promise to every spirit I could name since that first night by the campfire.
I waited until there were no sounds save Chilger’s occasional snort and the low whinny of a horse outside. Then I tiptoed into the cold night air.
Tethered to a lead line stood Chilger’s brown warhorse with its stocky legs, a beast as mean as his owner, and one I wouldn’t dare touch. But behind him, asleep on her feet, was a yellow mare with a bony knob at her withers. Not a pretty mount, but a strong one.
I stepped around the stallion, opening my palm to the mare as I touched her muzzle. She sniffed my hand, her soft lips closing around the wild chives I’d brought as a bribe.
I undid her ropes, surprised at the ease with which I led her away from the camp. After two months of my docility, it must never have occurred to Chilger that I would try to escape. He knew not of the babe in my womb, or that I would rather die than let any child of mine be claimed and raised by such a beast of a father. I sent a silent prayer for forgiveness as I passed the gers where I knew Khogaghchin and Sochigel slept. Once we were far enough away, I swung myself onto the mare’s back, clenching her bare sides with my bruised thighs. This promised to be a painful ride, but I gave her ribs a gentle kick and we started into a trot before surging into a gallop. If I could push her until morning, we might have a chance.
If not, I’d soon be left for the wolves, and she’d likely end up in a stewpot.
I don’t know how long we’d traveled before the rumble of horses came from behind us. A fearful glance over my shoulder revealed a man melded to his stallion, lit by white moonlight like the shade of some ancestor long since dead, and flanked by an army of men with faces like skulls in the moonlight.
Chilger.
I screamed until my throat was raw and the mare galloped as if flames nipped her hooves. But it wasn’t enough.
Slowly, Chilger and the others caught up with us. Hot tears cut swaths down my cheeks when Chilger pulled alongside the mare. One strike of his shoulder sent me flying, and I tumbled from my horse’s back, blinded by the white flash of pain as I hit the ground. I gasped for air like I was drowning, but my lungs wouldn’t fill. Then the blows began, a thunderstorm of fists.
At first I fought back, but I was no match for the onslaught.
I felt the lightning of shattering bones and the skin of my forehead ripping open. And then a merciful darkness pulled me into its black maw and away from the hell I’d created.
* * *
A child hummed in my dream, a somber tune that reminded me of black crows and crisp winter ice. My left eye wouldn’t open and every joint and rib cried out in pain. The song stopped when I moaned at the soft hand against my forehead.
“Poor, stupid girl.”
I peered through my good eye to see Mother Khogaghchin’s scowl, her lips pursed tight. Toghtoga’s future daughter-in-marriage, Toregene, hovered at her elbow. I’d seen the child—I guessed she’d seen nine or ten summers—only from afar, but now when her gaze flicked up at me I realized why she kept her eyes hidden. One eye was brown and the other a hazy gold, beautiful but disconcerting. For the first time in ages, my fingers itched for the bones. Hers was a future I would like to cast.
“Chilger beat you within a breath of your life.” Khogaghchin dabbed my lip with a red-streaked rag that smelled of metal and milk, then handed it to the girl. “You’ll have a scar here to rival any warrior’s.”
“It feels like a herd of horses trampled me.” I tried to shift on my pile of blankets to get more comfortable, but the movement only brought on fresh daggers of pain.
She clucked at me. “You were drenched in your own blood when they dragged you back to camp. Sochigel and I stitched up the worst of your wounds and Toregene has been helping me entice you back to life.” Khogaghchin’s brows knitted together, then softened. “The colt is still in your belly. Your son is a strong one, not to flee during such an attack.”
Despair crashed upon me with the remembrance that I carried Chilger’s child. Death beckoned me with its promise of peace, but I would not carry a child to the sacred mountains with me, nor could I bring a babe into this world to be raised by Chilger. It would be better for both of us if the baby never lived to be born. Yet what sort of mother was I to wish for my child’s death?
I opened my mouth to speak, but only sobs escaped. Mother Khogaghchin gathered me into her arms. “There, there, little goat. It’s not important whose colt grows in your belly. Only the womb that houses him matters.”
I tried to rise, but pain lanced through my body and shrill bells rang in my head. Toregene scampered to my side with a cup of restorative cow’s blood, still warm—the girl was so quiet I had forgotten she was there. “I’ve cleaned your wounds with milk from a camel that just gave birth for the first time,” she said, ducking her eyes. “To speed the healing.”
“Stay and rest,” Khogaghchin said to me. “I’ll do my best to keep Chilger away.”
I drank the blood, taking the animal’s strength into my body. I thought to stay awake as Khogaghchin slipped from the ger, but my broken body was defenseless against the pull of sleep. Caught between dreams and reality, I felt two small hands on my stomach, accompanied by the hum of a child’s lullaby. Toregene looked down on me, her expression terribly solemn for one so young. She shifted and the firelight caught the gleam of silver at her throat, a talisman in the shape of a cross.
“What’s that?” I asked, finding the strength to brush my fingers against the warm metal. I’d seen a token like that only once before, on a day when someone dear had left me.
Her face softened. “The symbol of my father’s god,” she said. “Christ.”
“Christ,” I repeated. I’d heard the name once or twice on travelers’ lips, for the people of the steppes were a practical lot, trading gods as we did horses. Most felt it was best to respect all the gods—including those born in foreign lands—rather than offend
any. “He is the god of your father,” I said. “And also your own?”
She nodded and caressed the silver talisman. “He died on a cross like this. I try to think of his suffering when I’m sad or lonely.”
“Are you often sad?” My bruised heart throbbed for this girl, younger than I’d been when my clan had made me an outcast.
She nodded, and her gaze skittered to the door as if she feared we might be interrupted. “My mother went to the sacred mountains the night I was born. My father left after she died, but he returned last year with a new wife. He couldn’t bear to look at me when he came back, to remember how I’d murdered the wife of his heart.”
I clasped her hand, although she spoke as if the words were so old that they no longer hurt her. “I’m so sorry.”
“I watched my father marry his Unigirad bride before he sent me away. He wore new boots, embroidered by all the Naiman women of our clan, and she wore a dress as red as poppies.”
I breathed the name that sprang to my mind, unbidden like a blossom in snow. “Gurbesu.”
“Your friend spoke often of you, Borte Ujin.” Toregene smiled at me then, the simple gesture transforming her plain face and making her mismatched eyes shine.
It seemed lifetimes since Gurbesu had left me, promising we’d meet again. How I wished we could go back to those summer days, when the spirits were kinder and life was simpler.
“Your father gave you that cross?” I asked. I knew I’d recognized Toregene’s cross, on her father’s neck before he’d married my friend.
“When he sent me here,” Toregene said. “He said it would give me strength, along with Christ’s love.” She bit her lip, as if perhaps a bit of silver and the love of a foreign god still hadn’t fully shielded her heart. “I won’t marry Toghtoga’s son until I’m older, and there’s no one here I can really talk to. I thought perhaps this baby could be like a brother to me, if you’d let him?”
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