“Our husband needs your devotion,” Bortai said, “and so do I. His other wives—” She sighed. “Doghon wishes that she had him to herself, and bribes shamans to cast spells that would give her a son—she lost her first daughter and has only one other. Jeren fears him greatly, and I understand why, although I wish I did not.” The Khatun paused. “I've often wished Temujin would find a wife who could also be my true friend. Temujin's good mother and the wives of his brothers aren't often in our camp, and the women of his generals see me as someone they must flatter. I have servants I can trust, but they're guarded in what they say to me.”
“I see,” Khadagan said. “You seek a friend who won't be thinking of what she might gain, and who has no need to fear you or to be jealous of you.”
Bortai's long lashes fluttered. “Yes.”
“And you think I might be such a friend. I have nothing to gain, since Temujin has given me more than I ever could have expected, and I can never have what I lost. I don't fear you, Khatun, because any suffering you might inflict on me could never be greater than the pain I've already endured. The Khan will always honour you as his chief wife, but even if that weren't so, you needn't worry that someone as plain as I could ever be your rival. I can't give him sons, so I won't be trying to secure places for them—my late husband's seed hasn't sprouted in me for years. I didn't mind that once, because I could enjoy him more easily without fearing the pain of childbirth, but that was when the sons I had still lived.”
Bortai set down her goblet. “You speak freely, Khadagan.”
“That is also required from a friend.”
“True,” Bortai murmured. “Often I have to tell Temujin what others fear to say, but there's no one to tell me when I might be wrong. With you, I'd know that, whatever you said, you'd have only our husband's interests in mind. I see what you are, Ujin. Your tent will always be in my ordu, so that I can seek your counsel.”
“I'm not quite so selfless,” Khadagan replied. “I know what my life with the Khan could become. He grieved for what I suffered, and owed me an old debt, but he's paid that, and regrets pass. In time, I might have been no more than a neglected minor wife, but I can remain closer to him through you, and be grateful for any scraps you give me from your platter. I think you saw that as well, Khatun.” She was silent for a moment. “Of course I'll serve you both. I can do nothing else now.”
71
Yisugen awoke to find her sister sitting up in her bed. Yisui's black braids were in a tangle, her face flushed with happiness.
Yisugen went to her and sat down. “Your braids need replaiting,” she muttered as she combed out Yisui's long hair with her fingers; the servants had gone outside to prepare the feast. Their father was not in the great tent; Yeke Cheren had drunk heavily last night, and Yisugen had seen men carrying him to a minor wife's tent. The camp had been feasting for three days to celebrate the marriage of their chief's daughter, but Yisugen could not share their joy. She would lose her sister today.
She finished plaiting Yisui's hair, coiled the two braids behind her ears, secured them with pieces of felt, then grasped the other girl by the shoulders. In her sister's face, she saw her own long black eyes, sharp cheekbones, small flat nose, and curving mouth. Everyone said they might have been twins, although Yisui was one year older than she. The two sisters had never spent a day away from each other. Now Yisui would be taken from her.
“I don't want you to go,” Yisugen burst out.
“Stop it, Yisugen,” their mother said from the back of the tent. “Better to have Yisui wed now, so your father won't be distracted later when the chiefs hold their war kuriltai.”
How carefree Yisugen had been a month ago, when the snow began to melt; she and Yisui had ridden out with their friends to hunt returning birds along the Khalkha River. They had returned to find Tabudai a guest in their father's tent, and the young man had admitted that he had ridden to their Tatar camp to look for a wife. Warm glances had passed between him and Yisui whenever they were near each other; he had asked for her three days later.
“If Tabudai has so many herds,” Yisugen said, “surely he can support two wives. Father should have said he'd have to take us both.”
“What nonsense,” her mother said. “He might have had second thoughts about Yisui if we'd demanded another bride-price for you. You're fifteen—a man's certain to come courting you soon.” The older woman strode towards the doorway. “I'm going outside to make water, and when I come back, I want to see a smile on your face.”
“You might have said something,” Yisugen murmured when their mother was gone.
Yisui's arms slipped around her. “I'm sorry.”
“You're not. You want to marry him.”
“He might have asked for me instead of you only because I'm older. He thinks you're beautiful, too—he told me so.” Yisui patted her face. “I'm lucky to have him. He'll be a chief someday, and—”
“—there's light in his eyes and fire in his face,” Yisugen finished; she had heard her sister sing his praises too many times. “I hate him.”
“Stop.” Yisui caught her hands. “Didn't we promise each other we'd always live in the same camp?”
“You forgot that as soon as you saw Tabudai.”
“I didn't,” Yisui said softly. “I mean to make sure he's happy with me. When he'll give me whatever I want, I'll tell him to ask for you, before summer passes if I can.”
Yisugen gaped at her sister. “But how—”
“I've been thinking of this all along. Father won't attack the Mongols before autumn, and he'll be too busy planning his war in the meantime to think of betrothing you. By then, I can convince Tabudai to ask for you. We'll be together again by next year.”
“A year,” Yisugen said, wondering how she could bear it.
“When I accepted him,” Yisui continued, “I was thinking of you, too—I wanted us both to have a good husband.” She chuckled. “I think Tabudai can handle two wives. His member is the size of a stallion's.”
Yisugen was shocked. “How can you know that before you're wed?”
“I heard him say so to one of his men. He confessed that he grows so engorged at the thought of me that he can hardly sit his horse.” Yisui laughed and covered her mouth.
“Men always boast about such things,” Yisugen said.
“I'll soon find out if it's true.”
Yisugen giggled. “Promise me you won't forget.”
“I promise.”
Yisugen kept near her sister as they hurried towards the horses; women fluttered around the bride. “Tabudai yearns for you,” one of their cousins said to Yisui. “Make sure he doesn't catch you too soon.”
“Struggle,” an aunt said. “That always excites a man.”
The horses had been saddled, and the women mounted and rode past the circle of tents and wagons. At some camp-fires, cauldrons simmered; at others, sheep roasted on spits. Beyond the camp, Yeke Cheren sat under a pavilion with his wives and his shamans, waiting to bless the bride and groom; a yurt guarded by some of Tabudai's men stood at a distance from the canopy.
Yisugen glanced at Yisui. Her sister's blue-edged coat and wedding robe were as white as the flowers beginning to bloom on the plain; her square head-dress was of birch bark and adorned with felt ribbons and stones. Yisui caught her eye and smiled; her light brown skin reddened as she blushed.
They rode east, towards the looming Khingan Mountains; their camp was near the birch-studded foothills. The grass was growing green; soon it would reach to a man's chest. She would be without her sister when the grass was high.
Yisugen looked to her left; Tabudai and the men in his party rode towards them from his yurt. The women lashed at their horses, keeping the bride in their midst. The men bore down on them and quickly surrounded them, whooping and shouting as they came closer. Women shrieked, reined in their horses, and blocked Tabudai as he steered his horse towards his bride.
Yisugen forced her mount to Yisui's side, then struck at T
abudai; he drew back and laughed, showing his white teeth.
Yisui's horse bolted from the group. Yisugen's horse reared; the others galloped after her sister, Tabudai in the lead. His horse was soon abreast of Yisui's. He leaned towards his bride; his arm caught her around the waist. In one swift movement, he pulled her on to his saddle.
The others cheered as the couple rode back towards Tabudai's yurt. Yisugen's eyes stung as she trotted after them. Yisui was so close to Tabudai that they looked like one rider; the bride had already forgotten her sister.
Yisugen sat near her father as the servants set down their meal. Yeke Cheren ate with a distracted air. During the five days since Yisui and her mother had left for Tabudai's camp, he had been consulting with his generals and waiting for word from his scouts. He was already planning his war. Tabudai might have to ride with the army before autumn, and then Yisui would not get a chance to talk him into paying court to her.
Maybe her father could make a truce. Yisugen thought of hinting at it, but he would never listen to talk of battle or truces from women and girls. He had given her mother the worst beating of her life that past winter, when she had suggested he seek a peace with the Mongol Khan.
Women were cowards; he said that often. They did not care which master they served, and there could be no peace with the Mongols. They had destroyed many Tatar clans with the aid of the Kin; he would have the Mongol Khan's head for that, and for his lies about Tatars poisoning his father.
They ate in silence. If Yisui had been here, she and her sister would have been chattering about the new lambs, or asking Yeke Cheren if one of their brothers might break in new horses for them. She felt her sister's absence most in the evenings. Five days, she thought despairingly, and wondered how she would endure the year of days ahead.
“You've been sullen lately,” Yeke Cheren said abruptly.
Yisugen looked up. “I miss Yisui.”
“She had to be married sometime.”
“And I'm happy for her,” she added quickly. She was wary of him when darker spirits afflicted him. He brooded alone then and lashed out at anyone who came near him, and he had been drinking all evening.
“I'll have to marry you off, too. When girls your age start acting like sick calves, it's time to give them away.”
“No!” she cried out. Her father's hand tightened around his jade goblet; he warned her with his eyes. “I mean, you have so much to think about now. After all, if you're going to fight a war—” His face darkened. “I meant that, when the war's over, any man who courts me would have more loot, and be able to offer you more for me.”
He tugged at his greying moustache. “True.” He motioned with one hand; she helped a servant clear away the platters and empty jugs.
Yisugen went to her bed on the tent's eastern side, feeling a pang of sorrow as she glanced at the spot where Yisui's bed had been. She was about to remove her robe when a sentry called out to Yeke Cheren.
A man hastened inside, went to the bed where her father sat, and bowed. “Word has come from our scouts, Cheren,” the guard said. “Mongol scouts were sighted beyond Lake Kolen, and others are moving towards us from the west. The Onggirats are already moving their camps north-east.”
Yeke Cheren cursed. “The damned Onggirats show their backs to their allies, then expect us to reward them for not joining our enemies. Do the Kereits ride with Temujin?”
The man shook his head. “It seems he's fighting this battle alone.”
“Good. I didn't expect it this soon, but we're ready to deal with the Mongol dog.” The two men crossed to the doorway. “Summon the generals—we'll meet the enemy on the steppe west of Lake Buyur.”
Yisugen sank to her bed. Let it be over quickly, she prayed. Give us victory and bring me to my sister's side.
72
For two days, the camp was filled with the noise of an army readying for battle. Swords were sharpened, arrows fletched, arrowheads fashioned, lances sharpened, and armour coated with pitch and then polished. Captains assembled their men, gear, and horses and, just as suddenly, the army was gone, riding west.
Ten days later, Tatar warriors were seen galloping towards Yeke Cheren's camp along the Khalkha, and the people knew from the sight of them that they were in retreat. Many were without their strings of war-horses; they fled towards the Khingan foothills, and the camp followed them. Women took what they could on carts, but many fled on horseback or on foot, abandoning their possessions and herds. The great tent of Yeke Cheren was left behind.
In the foothills, the people made barricades of tree limbs and wagons. Soldiers spoke of how the Mongols had refused to retreat, regrouping to come at them again; some claimed that Genghis Khan had ordered his men to kill any warrior who retreated. Other Tatars made their way to the foothills, men who had been captured by the Mongols and had overcome their guards to escape, and the people learned that they could expect no mercy if they surrendered. The Mongol Khan had decreed that every male Tatar would die.
A wing of the Mongol army soon appeared in the valley below. At night, their camp-fires blazed; at dawn, they struck, riding towards the barricades in waves, renewing the assault each time they were thrown back. When the first row of trees and wagons was breached by the enemy, and Yisugen saw bloodied swords slashing towards men, women, and children alike, she fled.
I am a coward, Yisugen thought. Others had fled up the forested slopes, but she had been intent on her own escape, and now she was alone, with only her bow, a few arrows, and a knife. She ran, expecting to hear men in pursuit, but the thick underbrush slowed her. When night came, she curled up against a poplar, afraid to sleep.
Her father was among those who had escaped from the Mongols, but he had been behind one of the lower barricades, in the midst of the fighting. She should have fought with him. Other women had stayed with their men. She did not deserve to be alive when so many of her people were dead.
In the morning, she looked for food. The few berries she found were not yet ripe; she dug out a root and ate that instead. She finished her skin of kumiss and knew she would soon have to find water. She did not dare to move towards the river, where the Mongols would be searching for Tatars driven there by thirst.
When the deep green light under the trees grew brighter, she heard the sound of thrashing and cracking twigs below. Slipping an arrow into her bow, she crept down the slope and came to a birch grove.
A small boy lay there, his head against a tree trunk. One look at his pale face and the bloodstain swelling over his belly told her he was dying. He opened his eyes; she knelt by him and cradled his head in her arms.
“They took everyone away,” he said faintly, “the ones still alive. Then they began to measure us against the linch-pin on the wheel of one cart. They—” He gulped air. “The order was that any male taller than a linch-pin had to die.”
Yisugen's throat tightened. “But only the very youngest boys would be shorter.”
“I'm taller than a linch-pin—that's why I ran. Wasn't quick enough—one of them gutted me with his knife and left me for dead, but I crawled here.” The child's mouth twisted. “Our men slipped their knives under their sleeves. Yeke Cheren told them to make grave pillows out of the Mongols who came for them, so many of the enemy died, too.”
The boy closed his eyes. When he was dead, Yisugen searched him, but found nothing she could use. She folded his arms over his chest, whispered a prayer, then left the grove.
Her father should have made a truce. She knew at last what her mother had been trying to tell him. Wars only made spoils of women, forcing them to serve the victors; her mother had been pleading for the lives of their people.
A storm came that night. She huddled under a makeshift shelter of branches, holding out her skin to fill it with water. After the storm passed, and the forest was filled with the sounds of gentler spirits, she crept under the branches to sleep.
A dream came to her. She sat with her mother under the trees; the pale, ghostly light on the woma
n's face told her that her mother was dead.
“You came for me,” Yisugen said.
“I have not come for you,” the ghost replied. “I ask you this, daughter—why do our people weep for our dead? Why does our blood seep into the ground? Why have our yurts been desecrated and our women ravaged?”
“Because the Mongols hate us.”
The ghost said, “It is also because your father, and all those who led us, failed us. There's no safety for women and children under Heaven if their men cannot defend them. No one remains among our people who can protect you—your only hope for life lies with the victors.”
Yisugen said, “I would rather die.”
“No, you would not. A spirit wouldn't have seized you and carried you from the barricades if you were meant to die. You must live, and seek safety however you can.”
Yisugen awoke; her mother was gone. Yisui's shade had not appeared to her and that had to mean her sister was alive. If Yisui were dead, her soul would have been torn in two. Yisui had promised they would always be together; if her sister had died, her spirit would have come for her.
She stood up, knowing what she would have to do, then moved down the hill.
Flocks of black birds wheeled in the sky. Birds roosted on piles of heads; other heads had been placed on pikes. Captives, under guard, were dragging corpses away while leaving others behind. The enemy would have his own men buried and leave the Tatar bodies to rot.
Yisugen smoothed down her masses of braids. Mongols on horseback patrolled the plain of high grass, but she would gain nothing if common soldiers found her. She had to look for a Noyan who commanded many, who might keep her for himself and help her find Yisui.
She scanned the land below. To the south, near the river, several horses were tethered. A tall man strode along the bank with several men; those he passed bowed or raised their arms in a salute. He had to be one of their generals, and the tall grass would hide her until she was close to him. She crept down from the trees, crouched low in the grass, then crawled slowly towards him.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 40
