One of Dayir's men saddled a horse and brought it to Khulan the next morning. She told him that she would keep near the camp, and at last he went off to join her father's other soldiers.
She circled the camp at a trot. Men rode out to scout, while others were taking horses out to graze. The men who had stayed in the camp were practising their archery. She watched the arrows arch over the plain and strike the piece of wood that was the target, then turned towards the tents. Her father was outside, walking towards the edge of the camp. A hand pushed another tent flap aside; Nayaga emerged and straightened when he saw her.
She gazed at him, then lashed her horse. The animal bolted; she raced away from the camp, barely hearing Nayaga's shouts over the sound of the wind and the beating of the horse's hooves. She stood up in her stirrups and leaned forward, urging the horse on until she saw the trees ahead, then pulled at the reins.
The horse slowed to a stop. Khulan leaped from the saddle and ran under the pines, then looked back. Nayaga had followed her; he had not saddled his mount. As he neared the trees, her horse trotted out to him; he caught its reins.
“Khulan!” he shouted. “Khulan!” She ran into the grove, then threw herself to the ground. “Khulan!” His voice was louder; she heard the rustling of pine needles. “Khulan!”
“I'm here,” she cried back, and glimpsed his short, broad-shouldered form among the trunks. His bowcase swayed from his belt as he halted. He stood a few paces from her, in a small patch of light; his hat shaded his eyes.
“I swore to protect you,” he said harshly. “You were told not to go riding alone.”
She sat up, then tore the cloth from her face. He thrust out a hand. She reached up and drew her scarf from her head.
“Khulan.” His voice was a whisper. He slipped his bowcase and quiver from his belt, then fell to his knees next to her. “Khulan.” His hand smoothed back her braided hair and cupped her head as his lips found hers. She rubbed her mouth against his, surprised at how much pleasure this gave her. A wild joy filled her; there was no world beyond this grove. She opened her arms to him as his hand moved between her legs.
“Nayaga.” Her hands clutched at him under his coat. His arms tightened around her; he moaned softly. “Nayaga.” But suddenly he pulled away from her, jumped to his feet, then leaned against a tree, his back to her. His shoulders shook; a harsh, rasping sound came from him.
“Nayaga,” she said.
“I love you,” he said softly. “What I felt for my wife when I first saw her was no more than a spark, but this fire's consuming me. I can't bear it.”
“I love you, Nayaga.” She sat up and pressed her hands together. “Heaven covers many lands—there must be somewhere we can go. Surely we could find a place—”
“Oh yes. Some of my men would be loyal to me. We could tell the others we're riding to the Khan, then make our escape.” He sighed. “It's useless, Khulan. I couldn't have you share such a life—running, having to hide. The spirits favour the Khan—I think his armies would someday ride to any place we found refuge.” He turned towards her. “You and I long for peace. Genghis Khan knows there won't be peace until there's one Khan under Heaven. I can't run and wait for the day the shadow of his wing will cover me.”
She said, “You're afraid of him.”
“I fear him more than any man I've ever met. If I failed him, nothing would remain of me but bones for the jackals. But I love and respect him as well. It isn't the kind of love I have for you, that eats at me and gives me no peace, but I have it, and to think I might have betrayed it with you tears at me.” His hand trembled as he lifted it. “I couldn't live that way, a man without honour, stealing what was meant for my Khan. I couldn't have you suffer for my weakness.”
“He may not want me,” she said desperately. “Maybe he'll give me to you. He gave up one wife, he let you keep your Tatar woman.”
“When he sees you,” Nayaga said, “he'll never give you to anyone else.”
“You're right, Nayaga,” she said bitterly. “If we ran away, he'd be losing only a girl who means nothing to him, but I don't imagine he's a man who forgives insults easily. He would be angry with my father for failing to bring him the gift he was promised, and my people would suffer for that.”
Voices were calling to them; some of his men must have ridden out after him. Nayaga picked up his bowcase and quiver. Khulan covered her hair and face, then got to her feet.
She said, “I can never love him.”
“Khulan—”
“Never.”
His men shouted his name. He motioned to her; they left the grove.
89
Khulan and her father left the camp at dawn, after one of Nayaga's messengers had ridden back to say that the way was safe and the Khan awaited their arrival. Nayaga came with them, along with twenty of his soldiers. He did not speak to Khulan when they stopped for the night in another Mongol camp, and he urged the party to quicken their pace the next day. When they spied a large herd of horses grazing on the steppe, Nayaga sent a man ahead to tell the Khan's guard that the Merkit chief would soon arrive at his ordu.
The Khan's large tent stood among several smaller ones at the encampment's north end; a long line of horses was hitched to a rope near his circle. An officer with the guard glanced at Khulan and her father as they dismounted, then frowned at Nayaga. “I hope you can bring a smile to Temujin's face,” the officer said. “He's angry that Toghtoga and his sons escaped him. That tarnishes his victories somewhat.” He shouted to those inside the great tent as other men led the horses away, then ushered them up the steps to the entrance.
A few men were in the back of the tent. One man sat in a felt-covered chair, his hand clutching a goblet. He wore a plain brown robe and a cloth was tied around his head, but his presence dominated the tent. His pale eyes, sharp and cold, fell on Nayaga as the young man bowed.
“I greet you, my Khan,” Nayaga said; Khulan and her father knelt. “I bring you Dayir Usun of the Uwas-Merkits, since it was his wish to submit to you. I would have brought him to you sooner, but the way wasn't safe, and I wanted no harm to come to him and his daughter.”
The Khan was silent. Khulan glanced to his left, where two women sat. The one nearest him was a beauty with light brown eyes and a small, flat nose; the other had dark eyes and a broad, pleasant face. On the eastern side of the tent, several women sat with lutes; their instruments were silent.
“Dayir Usun,” the Khan said. His voice was soft, but Khulan heard the steel in it. “You have afflicted me for many years. Your people struck at my heart, harried me, and rode with my enemies against me.”
“And you have won many victories over us,” Dayir responded. “We fought you as long as we could, but we can gain nothing by fighting you now. I swore an oath to Toghtoga Beki, but am free of that now that he's fled. I'm an old man, and tired of war. Do what you wish with me, but I beg you to allow my people to come out of hiding and submit to you. They wish only for this war to end.”
“I can't punish a man who kept his oath,” the Khan said, “and who has come here now to give himself up.”
“I see you're as noble as I've heard.” Dayir Usun stood up and helped Khulan to her feet. “I have also brought you my daughter Khulan as a gift. She's the youngest of my children, and many wanted her for a wife, but I wished only the bravest and most noble of men to be her husband, or she would have been wed long ago. She's sixteen now, and strong - she does her work without complaint, and I've never known her to waste time in gossip. Many have said there is fire in her face, and I hope that you'll find her worthy. I've cherished this girl, the child of my old age, and pray that her beauty will touch your heart.” Khulan heard the sorrow in his trembling voice, and knew then how much his defeat had wounded him.
The Khan gestured at her. Khulan lowered her veil, then looked towards Nayaga, unable to help herself. You shouldn't have brought me here, she thought; we might have been together, riding far from this place.
The Khan
stared at her, then jumped to his feet and threw his goblet to the carpet. “Now I see why you kept her for three days,” he said, still in the same soft voice. “Did you think I'd believe only that you were thinking of her safety? You wanted to enjoy her yourself. I'll make an example of you, Nayaga—I can't leave a man alive who offends me in this way.”
Dayir Usun held her hand tightly, but did not protest. Nayaga's men said nothing. Khulan thought of their fleeting moment under the trees; even his men might believe the worst of him now.
“I swear it isn't so,” Nayaga said. “I've never kept anything for myself that belongs to my Khan, and have accepted only what you gave to me. If I have ever done anything else, then take my life.”
The Khan glared at him. “You've pronounced your own judgement with your last words,” he replied. “Take this man from my sight—cut his hands and feet from him first, and then his arms, and—”
“No!” Khulan cried. The women sitting at the Khan's side widened their eyes. Guards quickly surrounded Nayaga. Khulan moved closer to the Khan and knelt before him, then compelled herself to look up at him. “Please hear me,” she continued. “This man has done nothing wrong.” Nayaga had said the Khan could see into men's hearts; she gazed steadily up at him. “He warned us we might be in danger if we went on alone, and thought only of bringing us to you unharmed, I beg you to let him go.”
“How can I believe that, now that I've seen you for myself? I don't wonder that he kept you in his camp—it surprises me only that he brought you to me.”
The men near him stood up; the guards dragged Nayaga towards the doorway. “She speaks the truth,” Nayaga called out.
Khulan stretched out her arms. “I'm still as I was when I was born,” she said, “untouched by any man. My own body can show the truth of my words.”
The Khan's men were backing away, as if fearing he might turn his anger against them. The beautiful woman near him raised her head. “My husband,” she said, “we can find out the truth of this. Leave the girl with me and the Lady Tugai. When we've examined her—”
The Khan showed his teeth. “Leave me, all of you,” he said in a louder voice. “Guard that man—if he's done nothing wrong, he has nothing to fear.” Soldiers pushed Nayaga through the doorway; the other men followed them. As Khulan rose, her father looked back at her, his face taut with fear as he hastened after the men.
The Khan prowled the tent, making her think of a wolf. The lute-players were still, their hands locked around their instruments. The woman who had spoken before got up and took Khulan's hand. “Don't be afraid,” she said.
“I'm not afraid,” Khulan said. “I didn't lie, and neither did Nayaga.”
“This will take only a moment, child. The Lady Tugai and I will try not to hurt you.”
The Khan came towards them. “Step aside, Gurbesu,” he muttered. “This is something I can test for myself.”
“Haven't you frightened the poor girl enough? We—”
He pushed the woman away. Khulan took a step back; he threw her to the floor, then dropped to the carpet. His hands grabbed at her roughly, reaching under her robe to pull her trousers down to her knees. She closed her eyes as he fumbled at his own clothing. The weight of him pressed her against the floor; she struggled for breath. Pain lanced through her as he thrust inside her, but she did not cry out. His fingers dug into her hips; he would crush her.
It passed quickly. He shuddered and withdrew; she felt the dampness between her legs. He was fastening his trousers when she opened her eyes; his face was flushed, his pale eyes wild. The woman called Gurbesu knelt next to her, but the other wife was hiding her face behind her hands.
“I see,” he said, “that I wasn't deceived.”
Khulan sat up and looked down at the blood on her thighs. She no longer feared him. Perhaps he had expected her to be frightened, and shamed by this act, but she felt no shame and no terror. He was the one shamed, with his suspicions and his unjust accusations; he did not deserve Nayaga's loyalty.
Gurbesu helped her up and assisted her with her clothing. “You were brave to speak to me as you did,” the Khan said. “Hearing the fire in your words roused me as much as the beauty I see in your face.”
She lifted her head. “It takes no courage to speak the truth.”
He gazed at her for a long time, then called out to his guards as he moved back to his chair. “Are you all right?” Gurbesu whispered.
Khulan managed to nod. “Bring her to me,” the Khan said. “She will sit at my side.” Gurbesu led her to him and settled her on the cushion, then sat at her left with Tugai. Men entered the tent; Khulan searched the group until she found Nayaga. His arms were bound, his face tight with tension.
“I've been unjust,” the Khan said. “I doubted an honest man. The blood on that carpet there shows he spoke the truth.” Nayaga tensed; she saw the pain in his brown eyes. “Remove his bonds. He's a man who can be trusted, who's worthy of more responsibility.”
Nayaga was silent as the men near him cut at his ropes. “Dayir Usun,” the Khan continued, “I'll happily take your daughter Khulan as my wife. You did well to bring her to me, and I will honour her with all my love.”
His love, Khulan thought; this Khan could know little of love. If he had, he would have seen what lay in Nayaga's heart and hers and given them some happiness. He had so many women; he could have let her go. But he cared nothing for their feelings. Nayaga had made his choice, to be loyal to his leader, and the Khan would see that he abided by that. The young man would never think of her again without imagining what had happened to her below the Khan's throne. Their love was only something else to be swept aside.
“You will have your own tents,” the Khan was saying, “and servants from among your people. You'll have your share of my herds and any booty I take.”
Khulan huddled under the blanket as he undressed. He had said all that before, while they feasted, leaning from his chair to clutch at her hands. Her father, relieved at having achieved his purpose, had drunk so much his men were forced to carry him from the tent. Nayaga had drunk nearly as much, but was able to sing and dance with the others. She had only imagined his voice was catching a little during his songs, that he seemed more frantic than joyful. Nayaga would be rewarded for his loyalty; his Khan had promised it. He would be grateful he had not thrown everything away for her sake.
“Ask what you like of me,” he said. “Anything that you want will be yours.”
“I have what I wanted,” she said. “My people can come out of hiding. I wish for nothing more.”
He came closer to the bed. “You're not afraid of me, Khulan. Many would warn you not to let your lack of fear make you careless.”
“I won't be careless. I know you would punish anyone who offended you in an instant, that you'd crush me without mercy if I gave you cause, but I'm not afraid of you.”
He sat down and fondled her braids. “Nayaga's a stronger man than most,” he said, “if he could keep you for three days and not succumb to you.”
“He couldn't betray you,” she said. “He had only praise for you whenever he spoke of you. No woman could come between him and his duty to you—I doubt that anything could.”
“And yet—” He stretched out next to her and circled her waist with one arm. “My desire for you is strong, Khulan. I thought I was past such feeling for any woman, but you've awakened it again.”
She lay there passively as he stroked her, unmoved, feeling nothing for him. He could claim her body, but he would never have more than that. He put his lips on hers; she thought of Nayaga, holding the memory inside herself.
90
Jamukha drew in his breath as the odour of roasting meat | rose from the kettle. His five companions squatted by the fire. Jamukha's hunger sharpened; the argali was the best meat they had found in some time. They had followed the great-horned wild rams down a mountain slope and on to the yellow steppe before bringing this animal down.
Above him, the snowy peaks of the
Tangnu Mountains seemed to float above the clouds. The larches on the lower slopes were growing green; under the pines and cedars, small currants budded in the thickets, and the honeysuckle would soon bloom.
His comrades were grim; the prospect of this meal had not raised their spirits. Jamukha was sure they would leave him soon. They had been living the lives of outcasts for months, waiting to see what he would do. He had no army to rally; few had followed him here, and only five remained. He could go north and join the reindeer people, but suspected it would not be long before Temujin rode against them. His companions would finally lose their patience and abandon him.
His joys were now small ones—seeing another sign of spring on the forested mountains, finding a pool of water, capturing an argali. His battle was over; Temujin had won. He had been no more than a way to test the one the spirits favoured.
“Rejoice, my friends,” Jamukha said bitterly. “We're fortunate to have such a feast.”
Ogin's face darkened. “It may be some time before we feast again.”
Jamukha shook his head. “The forests are full of deer, and when our horses are fatter, we can steal more steeds. We'll—”
“This is what you've led us to,” Ogin said, then glanced at the others. The men shifted their eyes from Jamukha to the younger man. “I grow weary of this life.”
“You chose to follow,” Jamukha said. “I freed you from your oath to me.”
Jamukha's weapons lay at his side. As he rose to reach towards the pot hanging over the fire, he saw Ogin gesture to the others. Before he could grab his knife, they were upon him, forcing him to the ground. He struggled briefly, then sagged against them as his hands were bound.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 52
