Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  Her husband believed he would live long enough to bring that about. I should have been your wife when you were young, Gurbesu thought, and given you sons that could have ruled such a realm. The Tayang would fly to Heaven before he could claim those lands, and his sons could never hold them.

  She could not say so to him; that he grasped for his youth and past greatness had made her love him. Gurbesu took his hand and pressed it against her cheek.

  59

  Temujin's main camp was in sight. A group of boys on ponies raced towards Hoelun. The camel pulling her cart snorted; the boys slowed, then reined in their mounts.

  “Grandmother!” Ogedei shouted. Hoelun smiled and waved at him. Ogedei had his father's eyes, but they lacked the coldness she often glimpsed in Temujin's. A smaller boy sitting in front of him was tied to Ogedei's saddle.

  “A fine-looking lad,” one of the men riding at the side of the small convoy muttered.

  “My grandson Ogedei,” Hoelun said, beaming with pride. Ogedei was only four, but astride his pony, with his boy's bow and quiver hanging from his belt, he looked like a little warrior already. “And this boy riding with you—can it be—”

  “Tolui,” Ogedei answered. “He rides well for a two-year-old.”

  “He's grown much in a year.” Hoelun smiled at her other grandson; Tolui's greenish eyes glared back at her fiercely from a little face as bunched up as a fist. “Now be off with your friends—you'll have time to talk to your old grandmother later.”

  Ogedei waved as the boys rode away. The manservant next to Hoelun prodded the camel; the cart inched forward, trailed by another with her trunks and four servants and a third that held presents and the folded panels of a yurt. Two of the guards Khasar had sent with her rode ahead towards the camp, where several men sat near two fires cleaning their weapons.

  The camel was balking again. Had the chilly autumn not been so arid, Hoelun would never have travelled with the wretched animal, but it could go without water much longer than an ox. The land here was as parched and dry as the steppe everywhere, and that would bring trouble; there had already been fights over some watering holes.

  The weather was colder as well; the grass had barely sprouted before turning brown and dry. Summers had once been longer; so the older people said, and it seemed to Hoelun that the days were warmer when she was young. Perhaps it was only her age that made the world seem harsher now.

  After passing between the fires, Hoelun left her servants with the sentries. A man brought forward a horse, but she shook her head. Her muscles were stiff from the journey; she would walk the short distance.

  People greeted her as she approached Bortai's circle, shaking their heads at the sight of the Khan's mother alone and on foot, wending her way through the pats of manure. Outside the large yurt at the north end of the camp, Bortai knelt on the ground, working a loom with two of her women; she lifted her head, then jumped to her feet.

  “Hoelun-eke!” Bortai hurried towards Hoelun and embraced her. “I thought you would be here sooner.”

  “Blame my camel for that. Such animals have their uses, but—” She took Bortai by the shoulders and peered into her face; the younger woman's smooth skin still had the rosy glow of youth. “You look well.”

  “And you haven't changed, Hoelun-eke. You must have a spell that chains the years.”

  “I have servants and slaves,” Hoelun said, “who leave me with little to do.”

  “Khasar sent a messenger telling us to expect you. He got here days ago.”

  “At the pace we were going,” Hoelun said, “a child on foot could have arrived days ahead of us.” She followed Bortai to the entrance and went inside. “Such trouble for this old woman. Munglik sent twenty guards with me to Khasar's camp, and no sooner had I settled myself there than I was preparing to ride here.” She sat on a cushion near Bortai as a servant brought them a jug and goblets. “By the time I've begun this visit to you, I'll be getting ready to travel back to my husband, and Khachigun will expect me to stop along the way to visit him.” She sipped her kumiss. “Munglik didn't want me to go, but I insisted on seeing my grandchildren before winter sets in, and with the rivers and springs as low as they've been, we'll be moving camp again by the time I return.” They might be forced to move further from their usual grazing grounds.

  Bortai frowned. “The shamans have tried to summon rain all summer. Some of Jamukha's allies are moving closer to our lands, and if they grow bolder, Temujin will have to act.” She motioned to one of the servants, who brought them a bowl of dried curds. “He's been avoiding any battles with his anda—I think he still hopes—”

  “That will have to be settled sometime.”

  “Yes.” Bortai paused. “Toghril Khan is in our camp now.”

  Hoelun looked up. “I thought—”

  “He arrived two days ago,” Bortai continued. “The old man was wandering the Gobi for months after the Khan of Kara-Khitai expelled him, with only a blind horse and no followers. Temujin took pity on him, sent him a message, and rode to the edge of the desert to welcome him.” Her son, Hoelun thought, would not give in to pity unless he could gain from it. “I expect Nilkha will turn up when he learns his father's here, and Toghril's brother Jakha Gambu has already come out of hiding to join him.” Bortai's mouth twisted. “They would have done nothing for him if Temujin hadn't brought him here.”

  Hoelun nodded. Nilkha, it was rumoured, had always been jealous of Temujin and the regard Toghril had for her son. “In a way,” she said, “I can't blame them. Toghril Khan hasn't been much of a kinsman, what with killing two of his brothers to gain his throne. Both my son and his father might have done better when they swore their anda oaths.”

  “Still, we'd be safer with Toghril on the Kereit throne, foolish old man that he is. Even Jamukha would welcome his restoration—I suspect the only reason he hasn't attacked us is that he has the Naimans and their Kereit vassals to worry about.”

  “As do we all.” Hoelun made a sign to avert bad fortune. “May the Naiman Khan ride to Heaven soon.”

  Bortai let out her breath. “Things would be better if women sat in kuriltais.”

  Hoelun laughed softly. “There would only be more talk before the men did as they liked.”

  Her son would make his decisions without her help. Hoelun occasionally thought that he had married her to Munglik in part to remove her from his tents, but he had stopped listening to her long before that. Everything had changed after their flight from the Merkits ten years ago, when he had rejected her advice to wait before attacking his enemies.

  He would say that his judgement had proved better than hers. The campaign against the Merkits had both restored his wife and strengthened him. His defeat at Jamukha's hands, which had filled her with dread, had only made him more determined. Even the marriage he had forced on her had brought her some happiness, although it lacked the fire of her life with Yesugei.

  Odd, she thought, that Munglik still saw her as the girl she had been, while her contentment was that of an old woman with little more ahead of her. Her husband would never know that when she held Munglik in her arms she still longed for Yesugei and what she had felt for him.

  “Ogedei's grown,” Hoelun said. “He rode out with Tolui to greet me, and Tolui looks ready for battle already.”

  Bortai laughed. “How he kicked inside me! I feared he'd beat his way out of me before my time. It's good that Ogedei looks after him, or he would have been in more than his share of trouble by now.”

  “And where are my two oldest grandsons?” Hoelun asked.

  “Hunting with Temujin. I hope he can keep them from hunting each other.” Bortai spread out a piece of leather and worked a hole in it with her awl. “Jochi bullies Chagadai, and then Chagadai recites the tale of Alan Ghoa's sons, which only gets Jochi angrier.”

  “Brothers often fight at their age.” Hoelun thought of the last time she had seen them, during the midsummer feast the year before. She had beaten Chagadai herself for calling
his older brother a bastard. The old rumour had never died.

  “At least Ogedei and Tolui don't fight.” Bortai punched another hole. “And are your foster sons thriving?”

  “Kukuchu and Guchu talk of little except the time they'll be old enough to fight with Temujin. And Munglik's sons—” Hoelun fell silent. She had never admitted to her husband that she was wary of his middle son. Kokochu spent much of his time with the shamans, and some said he had learned as much as they knew. The boy seemed to see everything; she almost believed he could touch her thoughts. His six brothers were devoted to him, but perhaps they also feared him.

  “Kokochu's only thirteen,” she went on, “and already some say he can send out his spirit in an animal's guise. He passed through one ordeal this winter—wetting his shirt and letting it dry on his body while he sat outside in the midst of a snowstorm. He claims he never felt the cold. Now he dreams of serving his Khan with his spells.”

  “Temujin will be glad to hear it,” Bortai murmured. “A good shaman is always useful.”

  He might be better off without my stepson's spells, Hoelun thought, but said nothing. She could not escape the feeling that if she spoke against the boy, he would hear her words somehow and put a curse on her. Being the stepbrother of Genghis Khan had made him even more ambitious and proud. She steadied herself. Better to have Kokochu's spells working for Temujin than against him.

  “Temujin's impatient for a campaign,” Bortai said. “If we don't get rain soon, we'll have to move closer to Merkit territory.” Hoelun listened in silence as the young Khatun spoke of what the Khan might do. Bortai might pretend that Hoelun had something to say about such matters, but Hoelun knew otherwise.

  60

  Gurbesu prayed silently as she looked towards her husband. Inancha still sat on his throne; he had not spoken since his generals and advisers had left the ordu. His sunken cheeks were dark hollows; one gnarled hand clutched his goblet. The Tayang drank much more now, needing wine and kumiss to ease his pain.

  The spirit had gone out of him a year ago. She had expected him to rouse himself when the message came of a Mongol victory against the Merkits, but he had accepted the news passively. Genghis Khan had defeated the Merkit chief Toghtoga Beki and robbed him of many tents and herds, forcing Toghtoga to flee towards Lake Baikal. Some claimed that Toghril had taken most of the Merkit booty for himself, others that the Mongol Khan had given it to him, but the result was the same. The old Kereit, with more wealth and Mongol support, had the means to take back his Khanate.

  Inancha had been certain that Genghis Khan would ride against Erke Khara next, and had come to himself long enough to warn his ally to strike first. But Erke Khara had done nothing, and what Gurbesu had once feared had come to pass. Toghril sat once more on the Kereit throne; the wretched Mongols were stronger than ever.

  God had abandoned them. She had hoped that the birth of their first child might restore his spirit, but Inancha had rallied for only a few days before lapsing into his darker moods. Now her son lay under the ground, taken by the fever that had swept the camp that winter.

  Gurbesu whispered another prayer under her breath. Every night that she lay at the Tayang's side, she slept uneasily, fearing that at any moment she would have to summon the priests and shamans. Every morning, she prayed for one more day with him before a spear ribboned in black felt stood in front of their great tent.

  “My dear,” she said at last, “it's late, and you must rest.” She helped him up; he leaned against her as she guided him to the bed. The servants disappeared behind the curtains that hung over their side of the tent. Gurbesu tended Inancha herself, unwilling to let others see more of his weakening body. She helped him out of his clothes, but left him in his long shift and felt socks; he often shivered, despite the yurt's warmth. His bowed legs, once so muscular, were frail, knotted limbs; she covered him quickly with the blankets.

  “Wine,” he said.

  She brought a goblet to him, held his head as he drank, then slipped off her own clothes. The darkened tent made her think of a grave; the dim glow of the hearth was a dying fire.

  She crept under the blankets, careful not to disturb him. Make peace with the Mongol Khan. She had wanted to say that in front of his men. He was too proud to consider it; he could not admit that he was dying, that he needed to plan for what would happen after he was gone.

  She knew what she had to say to her husband now, yet still resisted. He would hate her for reminding him of his approaching death.

  “Inancha,” she whispered. “Please listen, and say nothing until I've finished.” She pressed against him and put her lips close to his ear. “We've had seven years together, and God grant that we have seven more, but you must think of your people now. Buyrugh and Bai Bukha can't lead in your place.” They were jackals who circled her with anticipation in their eyes. Whenever the two came to their father's tent, she knew they were disappointed not to find the spear in front of his doorway. “They'll be fighting each other instead of your enemies.”

  He was silent; maybe he was at last willing to listen. “There's something you can do,” she continued, keeping her voice low. “Ask the Noyans to accept Guchlug as your heir, and set aside the claims of your sons. Your grandson would have Ta-ta-tonga and me to advise him until he's old enough to rule by himself.”

  She waited. Bai Bukha and Buyrugh would have to die if Guchlug was proclaimed; left alive, they would remain a danger. Inancha would never give the order himself, but she could do so in his place. Some of the generals said that they would sooner follow Gurbesu into battle than Bai Bukha. A whisper to them would bring death to the Tayang's sons, and even Inancha might see, however he mourned, that it was for the best.

  “Inancha,” she murmured, “what do you say?”

  A snore escaped him; she realized he was asleep. She would have to speak to him again, when he was awake and his pain dulled by kumiss. She held him in her arms, wishing that her own life could pass into his ailing body, and prayed for one more day.

  61

  Temujin said, “Our chance has come.”

  Bortai glanced at the men. Temujin had been talking of the Tatars ever since Borchu and Jelme had entered the tent. He had sent for the two chiefs as soon as a scout had warned him that several Tatar clans were fleeing in their direction, forced on by an advancing Kin army. The three men were savouring this news as though it were a roasted sheep. Temujin's eyes glowed; now he would have a chance to strike at his father's murderers.

  Bortai's four sons sat on cushions, listening intently. “The Kin must have tired of their greedy Tatar friends,” Jelme said. “We should help them punish the filthy tribe. The Kin would reward us for it.”

  Voices murmured beyond the doorway and a shadowy form entered. The light from the hearth fire illuminated Kokochu's smooth face as the young shaman approached the back of the tent; Bortai recoiled. Her husband had sent for Kokochu, but Munglik's son was always sure of the Khan's welcome.

  Teb-Tenggeri, everyone called the shaman now, the All-Celestial. He had been dwelling in their camp for over a year, and many said he often climbed to Heaven to speak to Tengri. Jeren was afraid to let even his shadow touch hers.

  The shaman bowed gracefully. His coat was lined with silk, his chest covered with necklaces of bright stones, his hat adorned with eagle feathers—all gifts he had received from Temujin for his spells. He sent his spirit into wolves to roam the steppe, and flew over the camps in a falcon's form; nothing could be hidden from him. Bortai stilled her thoughts, fearing the shaman might sense them.

  “I greet you, Khan and brother,” Teb-Tenggeri said in his musical voice. His eyes were large and dark, his hairless face as beautiful as any woman's. He did not look like his brothers, all stout young fellows with Munglik's placid gaze, and some said Munglik could not be his father. A beam of light had bred him, they whispered, reaching down from Heaven through the smoke-hole of his mother's tent to open her womb.

  “Greetings, brother Teb-Tengg
eri.” Temujin's eyes widened; even the Khan was fearful of the shaman, who had powers others lacked. Kokochu had brought them rain when they needed it, standing beyond the camp as it fell when everyone else had run for the tents or cowered under blankets on the ground. Even Tengri's bolts could not touch him.

  “I would have come sooner,” Teb-Tenggeri said, “but my soul was wandering, tied to my body by only the thinnest thread, and I could not break the spell even for you.”

  “We've been talking of killing Tatars,” Temujin said. “You'll read the bones for us at the war kuriltai.”

  Teb-Tenggeri sat on a cushion between Jelme and the boys. One of Bortai's women brought him airagh, trembling slightly as she handed the horn to him. The shaman muttered a blessing, then lifted his head. “I'll read the bones,” he said, “yet I already see what they will tell us. When I sent my spirit wandering, I soared above a great camp until I saw a fire below. I dropped to the ground and stood before several men, and the pale light shining from their faces told me I was among the dead. The men were drinking from the vessels that had been buried with them. One of them handed his cup to me.”

  The shaman swayed as he chanted. The boys covered their faces and peered at him through their fingers. “I drank from the cup,” Teb-Tenggeri continued, “and tasted blood, and then the man said, 'I am Yesugei Bahadur, poisoned by my enemies when I drank from their cups, but now I sip their blood, which my son has given to me.' “

  Borchu shuddered. “A powerful omen.”

  “And one I won't ignore.” Temujin tugged at his moustache. “We'll trap the damned Tatars in a vise, between our men and the Kin army. My father's spirit, and the shades of Ambaghai and Khutula, will drink deeply of their blood.” He paused. “We'll ask Toghril Khan to help us, and to claim his share of spoils. The Naiman Khan's sons are still fighting over their dead father's realm, so the Kereits needn't fear an attack from the west while they are fighting with us.”