Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  They rode out from the forest towards the Onon. The sun peeped out from the grey clouds, making the wide plain of snow a piercing white. They were silent as they rode, not speaking until they reached the river.

  “Do you ever play knuckle-bone dice?” Temujin asked.

  “Sometimes,” Jamukha said. “I have my bones with me.” They dismounted, tied their reins to the gnarled limbs of a shrub, then scrambled down to the ice. Jamukha took out two knuckle-bones and rubbed them in his gloved hands. “I'll throw first—east.” He threw one bone across the ice; it slid to a stop and pointed north.

  “One point for me,” Temujin said triumphantly. “West.” He tossed a piece of brass shaped like a knuckle-bone. “Two points for me!”

  “I'll score more points, never fear. South.” Jamukha threw his second bone and crowed as it pointed south.

  They went on playing, adding up points, marking their scores along the snowbank with their knives when they began to lose count. Temujin seemed intent on the game; he had probably had little chance for such aimless pursuits.

  They had each scored twenty points when Temujin signalled to him. “You're matching me point for point, Jamukha. Maybe it's a sign good fortune's with both of us.”

  “One more throw each,” Jamukha said. “We'll let that decide the game.” He threw and took another point; Temujin matched him.

  “That proves it.” Temujin picked up his brass bones, then flung one arm around Jamukha's shoulders. “We should play together against my brothers sometime—nobody could beat us both.”

  They walked towards the bank and sat down. Jamukha wanted to prolong the moment. “It'll be clear,” he said at last, “a good day for riding. I'd rather not leave, but the longer I stay, the more questions my uncle will have.” He turned towards Temujin. “I'll come this way again, by spring at the latest.”

  Temujin's face grew solemn. “I think, apart from my full brothers, you're the first true friend I've found.”

  “You must have had friends among your people.”

  “Some of the boys looked up to me.” Temujin shrugged. “But I was the son of their chief then, and when he was gone—” He sighed. “Bortai's a friend—I felt she'd stand with me, whatever happened.” His mouth twisted. “But she's a girl, so it isn't the same.”

  Jamukha's face burned with jealousy. Any love that girl might feel would quickly vanish when she learned how precarious Temujin's life was. His own feelings were nobler. Seeing Temujin's plight only made him more determined to help his new friend claim his rightful place.

  “I've known you for only one day,” Temujin continued, “and yet I feel you're my comrade. I thought at first that my guard was down, that I longed for a friend too much, but—” He shook himself. “You'd be better off with a friend who has more.”

  “You have courage, Temujin. You said yourself that you won't be an outcast forever.” Jamukha took a breath, knowing what else he wanted to say. “I've also wanted a true friend, but I mean to be even more than that to you. I'll be a brother who will never desert you. I would even pledge the bond of an anda to you.”

  Temujin's eyes brightened. “You honour me, Jamukha. That's the most sacred vow two friends can make.”

  “I'd swear such an oath to you, even with no one else here to witness it. Our two lives will be one. I'll always defend you, and will never raise my hand to you—I swear it now.” Jamukha struck his chest with one fist. “May my promise live in my heart. You must become my anda, Temujin. Your life will be as dear to me as mine.”

  “Then I promise you the same. You are my anda, brother Jamukha. When we ride together, no one will come between us. I'll cherish you and love your sons as my own. Our bond will last for all our lives.”

  Jamukha took out his knife, pulled up his sleeve, and made a small cut along his wrist; Temujin did the same. He pressed his arm against the other boy's. “The same blood flows in us now,” he murmured. “I'll never shed yours, nor you mine. We are brothers.” He gripped Temujin's hand tightly. The solemnity of the promise and the joy welling up inside him nearly overwhelmed him. This was love, not that weaker feeling some men claimed to have for women, but a better love, one that added to one's strength.

  “I should give you something to mark our pledge.” Jamukha rummaged in the pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out one of his knuckle-bones. “This is only a small gift, but maybe it's fitting, since luck was with us both during the game.”

  “It always will be, now that you're my anda.” Temujin put one of his brass dice into Jamukha's palm.

  They sat in silence for a while, until the cold made Jamukha shiver. He got to his feet reluctantly; Temujin rose and brushed the snow from Jamukha's coat.

  “I'll come back,” Jamukha said, “by spring.”

  They embraced. Jamukha let go first, afraid his feelings might overpower him. He could wait. He would allow this love to grow, and wait for a time when their joining would express that love, when Temujin would see what had to exist between them.

  Jamukha mounted his horse. “Farewell, my brother,” Temujin said.

  27

  Khasar hunkered down behind a tree. In the grass just beyond the woods, Temujin and Jamukha were practising their archery. The Jajirat boy took aim at a lone tree in the distance; his arrow whistled as it flew, then embedded itself in the trunk. Temujin's arrow struck the tree just above his friend's.

  His brother and Jamukha were both fine archers, but he was a better one. Khasar was certain that he could split Jamukha's arrow with his own. Temujin would often point at difficult targets—a tree limb barely within range, or a small bird on the wing—and dare Khasar to hit them. He rarely missed.

  Jamukha's favourite horse grazed at the edge of the forest with his spare mount. The two boys slipped their bows into their cases, then jogged towards the tree. The high spring grass rippled as a cold wind blew. Jamukha retrieved his arrows, moved closer to Temujin, pressed something into his hand, and held him by the elbows for a moment. Temujin pulled an arrow from his quiver and offered it to the other boy.

  Khasar felt a twinge of jealousy. Jamukha had arrived four days ago, with woollen scarves for gifts and several ducks he had killed along the way, and had rarely left Temujin's side since then. They hunted together, watched the horses together when Temujin's turn came to guard them, practised with their bows and spears together, and slept under the same hide. Temujin had admitted that he and the Jajirat had pledged an anda bond that winter. With a friendship so quick to flower, and with such a sacred tie, it was not surprising that the two were so close.

  Temujin had always been closer to Khasar than to their other brothers, perhaps because they were only two years apart in age, but he had grown more distant during Jamukha's visit. Even when Khasar was with them both, he somehow felt excluded, as if the others had forgotten he was there.

  He thought of the night before last, when he had awakened to hear Jamukha whispering to his brother. There had been the sound of muffled laughter, and then a strange gasping sigh that had startled him, and then silence.

  He had not asked Temujin about that. If he had, Temujin might have questions about things Khasar did in the night, and he had never been able to lie to his older brother. His cheeks flamed as he thought of how he touched himself, how he had discovered the fierce pleasure he could give to himself with his hand.

  Maybe Temujin had guessed. Perhaps he and Jamukha had been laughing at him. He was no better than someone who put it into a sheep; that was what they would say. A man had to save himself for women and use his seed to sire sons. If he kept this up, he might lose his strength and be unable to service a wife later; judging by the sounds he had heard from his parents' bed long ago, such acts required a lot of effort. Maybe Temujin and Jamukha had been laughing about what he did.

  His brother could not know. Even if he did, he might poke fun at Khasar himself, but would never allow anyone else, even his anda, to laugh at him. He had enough to feel ashamed of, and had no right to res
ent Jamukha.

  The two boys walked back to Jamukha's horses and sat down, their backs to him. Maybe he could sneak up on his brother and catch him unaware. Temujin would be annoyed at his lapse, for not knowing what was around him all the time, but he would not get upset with Khasar. Temujin was like that. Whenever he was careless, which did not happen often, he seemed angrier with himself than with anyone else, unlike Bekter, who was quick to blame others for his own mistakes.

  Khasar was about to drop on all fours when Temujin turned his head. “Khasar,” he called out, “you can come out now. Jamukha's leaving soon.”

  His brother had known he was there all along. Khasar sighed as he got to his feet and hurried towards them. Jamukha's black eyes narrowed as he looked up, and then a smile crossed his handsome face.

  “I didn't even see you,” Jamukha said. “But you didn't fool your brother.”

  “Nothing much fools him.”

  “I know.” Jamukha and Temujin gazed intently at each other; Khasar felt excluded again.

  “Look.” Temujin held out his hand as Khasar sat down. “Jamukha gave this to me.”

  Khasar peered at the arrowhead in his brother's palm; two pieces of horn had been glued together and a hole bored through the middle. “A whistling arrowhead.” He touched it, admiring the work.

  “Jamukha made it himself,” Temujin said.

  “I'll show you how to make them sometime,” the Jajirat boy said. “An archer with your skill should have such arrows—the sound of whistling arrows terrifies enemies.” Khasar nodded, feeling ashamed again of his jealousy. “Your brother gave me this.” He held out one of Temujin's cypress-tipped arrows.

  They sat in silence. At last Khasar said, “We should go and watch the horses—it was our turn.” Bekter would be getting impatient.

  “I don't want you to go,” Temujin said as they all got to their feet.

  “I wish I could stay.” Jamukha embraced Temujin. “I'll come back in autumn, when my people move south again. Farewell, my anda.”

  “Safe journey, Jamukha,” Temujin said.

  Jamukha walked towards his horses, mounted, then waved at them as he rode away. Temujin gazed after him, his face solemn.

  “You think a lot of Jamukha,” Khasar murmured.

  “Of course—he's my anda.”

  “He seems closer to you than anyone else is.”

  Temujin put a hand on Khasar's shoulder. “What is it? You like him, don't you? He thinks a lot of you.” Temujin peered into his eyes. “You're my brother.”

  “He's your anda,” Khasar said. “Some would say that's even more than a brother.”

  “It's different—not more.” Temujin led him towards the trees. “When he asked me to swear that oath, I knew he'd be a true friend. He has nothing to gain by joining himself to an outcast. I'm the one who gains—he'll be chief of his clan someday.”

  “Is that the only reason you became his anda?”

  “No. I would have taken that oath even if he'd been an outcast himself.” He laughed. “Still, it doesn't hurt that he'll be a Jajirat chieftain.”

  They fell silent as they entered the woods. Temujin glanced from side to side. Khasar did not like the forest, or having to hide among the trees. He longed for space, for flat land completely open to the sky. When he was a man, he would stay on the steppe, away from darkness and the nightly whispering of the spirits that dwelled here.

  Temujin stopped, then slowly lifted his hand. A lark sang overhead. Khasar smiled, taking pleasure in its song, then glimpsed the small bird on a limb, barely visible among the leaves.

  He took out his bow and aimed. His arrow struck, cutting off the bird in mid-song. A small feathery form fluttered down and fell at his feet.

  “Good shot,” Temujin murmured.

  Khasar picked up the dead bird and drew his arrow out. “It's a fat one, enough for both of us.”

  They walked on until they came to the clearing where the horses were kept. Belgutei had joined his brother; he lowered his bow as Bekter got to his feet. “About time you got here,” Bekter said.

  “We'll take them out on the plain to graze,” Temujin responded, “and you won't have to water them, either. I promised I'd take your turn tonight, too. You gained from the bargain.”

  “A pity your friend had to leave so soon,” Bekter said. “Why, he hardly left you alone the whole time he was here.”

  Temujin said nothing. Khasar glared at Bekter, knowing he would try to start another fight, now that Jamukha was not around to take Temujin's side.

  “Poor Temujin.” Bekter's lip curled. “Maybe you'll never see him again.”

  “Be quiet,” Temujin said.

  “He'll be back,” Khasar said. “You're just sorry you don't have a friend—not that anyone would want to be friends with you.”

  “I don't need that sort of friend.”

  “Don't worry.” Khasar gritted his teeth. “You'll never have one.”

  Bekter stepped in front of them. Belgutei moved to his side and watched his brother warily. “You've been careless, Temujin,” Bekter muttered. “I know what went on when you thought the rest of us were asleep. Hoelun-eke must be sleeping more soundly, or she would have found out. She'd be angry if she knew what you did.”

  Temujin's face was white. “Don't say any more, Bekter.”

  “No wonder you like him so much,” Bekter said. “I saw you two moving around under your hide. Did you let him touch you? Maybe he did more than that.”

  Temujin flew at Bekter. The other boy's foot caught Temujin in the groin. Arrows spilled from Temujin's quiver as he toppled forward; Bekter kicked him again.

  Khasar dropped the lark and swung at Belgutei, hitting him in the chest, then threw down his weapons and wrestled his half-brother to the ground. Blood pounded in his ears. He thought of Bekter lying awake, listening; maybe he knew about his own secret deeds. He pressed a knee against Belgutei's chest, wishing the other boy were Bekter and he could squeeze the breath from him. His hands were around Belgutei's neck when something hard struck the side of his head.

  He lay on his stomach. Bright sparks danced before his closed eyes; he heard a groan. Khasar opened his eyes to see Temujin on his knees, retching; then a booted foot kicked him in the small of the back. The ground spun, and he squeezed his eyes shut, afraid he might be sick, too.

  “That'll teach you,” Bekter said.

  “Khasar's not moving.” That was Belgutei's voice. “You shouldn't have hit him with that rock.”

  “He'll recover.”

  “But what if he's really hurt?”

  Khasar heard the sound of a slap. “Don't worry about him. Take that lark.”

  Khasar was still until he knew the two were gone, then opened his eyes. Temujin wiped his mouth and crawled towards him. “Khasar.”

  “I'm all right.” Khasar rolled over on to his back; the ground under him was spinning again. He swallowed hard and sat up, then felt at his head. His cap was still on; apparently that had given him some protection.

  Temujin grimaced as he sat back on his heels. “This has to end.”

  “We'll go to Mother,” Khasar said. “When she finds out what they did this time—”

  His brother's hand closed around his wrist. “We're not going to her.”

  “We can't just let it pass.” His head was clearing. “What did Bekter mean about you and Jamukha—”

  “It's a lie.” Temujin tightened his grip. “You won't speak of that again.”

  Khasar was sorry he had spoken of it at all. He thought of his own secret, and vowed silently that he would never touch himself again.

  “I promise you this,” Temujin said. “Today is the last time Bekter will ever do anything like this to us.” He rose unsteadily and helped Khasar up. “We'll graze the horses now.”

  28

  Khasar and Temujin returned to the forest with the horses in the morning. Their two younger brothers were waiting in the clearing.

  “Bekter shot a lark yesterday,�
�� Khachigun said as Temujin led the horses inside the roped-off patch. “We had the last duck, though, and Mother wouldn't give him any of that—she said the lark could feed him.”

  “That was my lark,” Khasar said. “I shot it.”

  Temuge squatted near the horses, gripping the small bow Khasar had used when he was younger. The five-year-old boy already had a hard and wary look. “I hate Bekter,” Temuge muttered.

  “So do I,” Khasar said.

  He followed Temujin back to the yurts, wondering what his brother would do now. As they entered their dwelling, he saw that his mother and Sochigil were alone with Temulun. Hoelun greeted them, then set out a few shreds of dried duck and bark broth.

  “Where are Sochigil-eke's sons?” Khasar asked, hoping they were far from the tent.

  “They went to the river to fish with the net.”

  “I think I'll go hunting, then.”

  “We might have more luck fishing,” Temujin said. “The Onon should be filled with fish now.” Khasar glanced at his brother, surprised.

  “You may do as you like,” Hoelun said, “as long as you bring back food. We have little enough, especially now that your sister needs more than my milk. Sochigil and I are going to look for roots. If you catch no fish, bring fruit from the bushes along the bank.”

  Khasar bit his lip. Gathering berries and plants was hardly fit labour for a man, and fishing was not much better. He might have to do such things to live, but despised such lowly work.

  Sochigil left the yurt. Khasar took off his cap and sipped his bark beverage. His mother reached down and touched his cheek. He gazed into her face, surprised; she did not hug them as much as she used to, or sing to them. Her beautiful eyes were gentle as she smoothed back his hair; her fingers brushed against the bump above his ear.

  He winced. She said, “You've hurt yourself.”

  “He fell,” Temujin said quickly.

  “Be more careful.” Hoelun patted Temujin on the shoulder, then hoisted Temulun to her hip as she picked up her basket.