Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan
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The obo stood on a grassy hill below the northern slope of Burkhan Khaldun, a short ride from where Jelme and his Uriangkhais were camped. Seven piles of stones had been placed at the top of the hill; a spear jutted from the mound of stones in the centre of the row. Once, the obo had honoured the spirit of this hill, but the Uriangkhai shamans had come to believe that they could feel the Khan's presence there.
Sorkhatani's horse slowed as she neared the hill. She had travelled to the Uriangkhai camp to make sacrifices to the Khan's spirit. She had brought her youngest son, a few servants, her shamans, and her Christian priests. Jelme had been surprised to see her at this time, while he was preparing to ride to the kuriltai, but her guards carried a tablet with Ogedei's seal, and he had welcomed her.
A square latticework of wood, its sticks adorned with felt streamers and shreds of cloth, stood just below the shrine. A shamaness in a coat made from the hides of snow leopards was kneeling in front of the latticework; her tethered horse grazed at the bottom of the hill.
Sorkhatani and Arigh Boke dismounted, took the small packs that held their offerings from their saddles, then handed the reins of their horses to the two boys who had ridden there with them. Sorkhatani looked up at the obo, bowed deeply three times, and began to climb the hill.
The grass was high, reaching to her knees; the spring flowers were fading. The shamaness had hollowed out a spot for a fire; a sheep's shoulder-bone burned in the flames as she chanted. Sorkhatani bowed three more times, knelt by the wooden lattice, and took out a piece of meat, a jug, and a bowl. She whispered a prayer, poured out the kumiss, sprinkled a few drops on the ground, then pushed the meat and bowl under the sticks of wood as her son tied streamers of silk to the lattice.
The shamaness turned towards them. She was hardly more than a girl, but her dark eyes had the sly, watchful look of an old woman. “I greet you, Beki,” the shamaness said.
“I greet you, Idughan,” Sorkhatani replied. Arigh Boke finished tying the last bit of cloth; she sat with her son in silence as the shamaness peered at the shoulder-bone.
“Ogedei will be Khan,” the shamaness said at last.
“No one doubts it,” Sorkhatani said.
“Ogedei Kha-Khan—the Great Khan. That is how he will be proclaimed, yet it's said some among the Noyans might have chosen another, despite his father's wishes.”
“It isn't so.” Sorkhatani sat back on her heels. “Ogedei is a wise man. He felt that the Noyans needed time to feel confident in their choice before he held the kuriltai.” Doregene had sown doubts in her husband's mind, imagining that some of the men were looking to Tolui as a possible successor. Sorkhatani had never spoken of the Khan's words to her, of how he had said Tolui's sons might one day have to rule, but Doregene was capable of seeing rivals even where there were none. Doregene resented the fact that Ogedei often consulted with Tolui, who was fiercely loyal to his brother, because she knew that Sorkhatani advised Tolui.
When Ogedei was finally raised on the felt, as he would be this summer, perhaps Doregene, her ambition fulfilled, would learn the wisdom of cultivating those who would serve her husband best. If Ogedei preferred Sorkhatani's counsel and his brother's to that of his wife and her beloved slave Fatima, that was Doregene's doing. She had tried to surround Temujin's heir with her own favourites, and that, as much as anything, had spread doubts about Ogedei. Doregene had gone so far as to speak against Ye-lu Ch'u-ts'ai when Ogedei asked the Khitan to continue as his chancellor; the woman was too avaricious to understand a man who was selfless.
Ogedei, fortunately, was as stubborn as he was placid. He indulged his chief wife, heaped treasures upon her, and largely ignored her advice. The Noyans no longer had to worry that, with Bortai Khatun failing, he might rely more on people his wife favoured. There would be no disputes during the kuriltai, and no talk of other candidates.
Sorkhatani had come here to placate the Khan's spirit with sacrifices and prayers, to tell him that his will would at last be done, but she would return to Ogedei's camp with Jelme before the kuriltai. She sighed and lifted her eyes to the obo. She should have been thinking of the spirits in this place, not these other matters.
“It grows harder to hear the spirits,” the shamaness said. “They spoke to us more clearly once—so the old ones say.”
Arigh Boke was fidgeting. “Go and watch the horses with the boys,” Sorkhatani said to her son. “I'll come down in a little while.” The boy got up, bowed three times towards the shrine, then hurried down the hill.
She looked to her left, at the distant slope where the Khan was buried. In the year and a half since then, tiny saplings had sprouted over the site, and the yurt raised over the grave was little more than tatters. The Uriangkhais camped below would guard the slope until the forest claimed the site and the trees covered all traces of the grave. The Great Khan's rest would not be disturbed.
Sorkhatani's eyes stung. She could weep for him even now.
“Ogedei will make a good Khan,” the shamaness said, “but I wonder if his son Guyuk will be the equal of his ancestors.”
“Ogedei is far from settling on a successor,” Sorkhatani murmured.
“Guyuk is his oldest by his chief wife. There would be no reason to turn to another, unless—”
Sorkhatani looked away from the woman's sharp eyes; the shamaness saw too much. They all have the makings of Khans; Temujin had said it himself about her sons. Khans they would be, but they would serve the Kha-Khan unless Heaven willed otherwise. She would not push them to a higher place, but would see that they were prepared for it if the ulus should need one of them. Temujin had charged her with this; he had envisioned a time when one of her sons might have to rule. She would not fail the man she had loved.
A bird fluttered above the tattered yurt on the mountainside. It rose, opened its wide wings, and glided in Sorkhatani's direction.
“An eagle,” the shamaness said softly. “I see them often above the Great Khan's resting place.” The eagle soared towards the obo. “They usually avoid this hill.”
Sorkhatani was still. The black-feathered bird circled them in a wide arc and dropped to the obo, alighting on a stone next to the spear. She looked into its golden eyes and sensed the presence of a powerful spirit. Only one had ever filled her with such awe; somehow she had drawn his spirit to her.
The shamaness made a sign acknowledging the spirit and passed her hands before Sorkhatani's face. The eagle spread its wings, gazed up at the vast blue sky, then sprang from the obo and climbed the wind.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1993 by Pamela Sargent
ISBN 978-1-4804-9736-8
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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