Jebe laughed and stretched the stiffness out of his back. “You think too much, Batu, do you know that?” he said, and walked away, still smiling.
Ogedai was in the gardens of Karakorum, watching the sun set from a stone bench. He felt at peace there in a way he could never have explained to his father. He chuckled softly. Even the thought of Genghis was like bringing darker shadows into the groves of trees. Ogedai loved the gardens in summer, but in winter they had a different beauty. The trees stood bare, their branches outstretched and waiting silently for green life. It was a time of darkness and yearning, of snug gers and heated airag, of being wrapped tight against the wind. Life in the gers was one thing he missed in the palace of Karakorum. He had even considered having one built in a courtyard before he dismissed the idea as foolishness. He could not go back to a simpler life, not now that he had left it behind. It was the longing of a child, for the days when his mother and father were still alive. His grandmother Hoelun had lived long enough to lose her mind and memories, and he shuddered at the thought of her last days. The first mother of the nation had become a babbling child at the end, unable even to clean herself. No one would wish such a fate on an enemy, never mind someone they loved.
He stretched his back, loosening the cramps from a day of sitting and talking. There was so much talking in a city. It was almost as if the streets were built on words. He smiled at the thought of his father’s reaction to all the meetings he had attended that day. The problems of clean water and sewage pipes would have driven Genghis to apoplexy.
Ogedai shaded his eyes as the sunlight struck across Karakorum. The city was washed in dark gold, making every line of it stand out with extraordinary clarity. His eyes were not as sharp as they had once been, and he relished the light and what it revealed. He had made Karakorum, no one else, certainly not his father. The palace tower cast a long shadow across the city in the wilderness. It was young yet, but in time it would be the true heart of the nation, the seat of khans. He wondered how they would remember him in the centuries to come.
He shivered slightly as the evening breeze picked up. With a quick gesture, he pulled his deel tighter over his chest, but then let it fall open again. What would his life have been without the weakness of the flesh? He sighed slowly, feeling the erratic thumping in his chest. He had grown weary waiting. He had thrown himself into battle to conquer the terror, ridden into an enemy army as if fear were a snake to be crushed under his sandal. In response it had sunk its fangs into his heel and dropped him into darkness. There were times when he thought he had not yet climbed out of that pit.
He shook his head in memory, trying not to think of Tolui and what he had done for him. A brave man could conquer fear, he had learned that, but perhaps only for a time. It was something the young did not understand, the way it could gnaw at a man, the way it came back stronger every time, until you were alone and gasping for breath.
He had smothered himself in despair, giving up the struggle; giving in. Sorhatani had pulled him back and given him hope again, though she could never know how it was an agony to hope. How could he live with death crouched on his shoulders, gripping him from behind, weighing him down? He had faced it. He had summoned his courage and raised his head, but it had not looked away. No man could be strong all day, all night. It had worn him down to nothing.
Ogedai rested his hands on his knees, turning them upward so he could see the palms. The callus had begun to return, though he had experienced blisters for the first time in years. One or two were still weeping from just an hour with the sword and bow that afternoon. He could feel his strength coming back, but too slowly. In his youth, he had been able to call on his body without thought, but his heart had been weak even then. He raised a hand to his neck and pushed his fingers under his silk tunic over his chest, feeling the thready beat there. It seemed such a fragile thing, like a bird.
A sudden pain made him start. It was as if he had been struck, and as his vision blurred, he turned to see whatever had hit him. He felt his head for blood, bringing his hands close to his eyes. His hands were clean. Another spasm made him hunch over, leaning against his knees as if he could press it away. He gasped aloud, panting. His pulse thumped in his ears, a hammer that throbbed through him.
“Stop,” he snapped, furious. His body was the enemy, his heart the betrayer. He would command it. He clenched his fist and pressed it against his chest, still bent over to his knees. Another pain hit him then, even worse than the last. He groaned and threw back his head, staring at the darkening sky. He had survived before. He would wait it out.
He did not feel himself slump, slipping sideways off the bench so that the stones of the path pressed against his cheek. He could hear his heart beat in great, slow thumps, then nothing, just an awful silence that went on and on. He thought he could hear his father’s voice and he wanted to weep, but there were no tears left in him, just darkness and cold.
TWENTY-SIX
Sorhatani was tugged from sleep by the creak of the floor. She woke with a start to see Kublai standing by her bed, his expression grim. His eyes were red and she was suddenly afraid of what he would say. Though years had passed, the memory of Tolui’s death was still painfully fresh. She sat up sharply, pulling the blankets around her.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“It seems your sons are cursed to bear bad news, Mother,” Kublai replied. He looked away as she stood and removed her shapeless nightdress, pulling on clothes from the day before.
“Tell me,” she said, yanking at a tunic’s buttons.
“The khan is dead. Ogedai is dead,” Kublai replied, staring out of the window at the night outside the city. “His Guards found him. I heard them and I went to see.”
“Who else knows?” Sorhatani said, all thought of sleep forgotten as the news sank in.
Kublai shrugged. “They sent someone to tell Torogene. The palace is still quiet, at least for the moment. They found him in the gardens, Mother, without a mark on him.”
“Thank God for that at least. His heart was weak, Kublai. Those of us who knew have feared this day for a long time. Have you seen the body?” she asked.
He winced at such a question and the memory it evoked. “I did. Then I left and came to tell you.”
“You were right. Now listen to me. There are things we must do now, Kublai, as the news begins to spread. Or before summer you will see your uncle Chagatai come riding through the gates of Karakorum to claim his birthright.”
Her son stared at her, unable to comprehend her sudden coldness. “How can we stop him now?” he asked. “How can anyone stop him?”
Sorhatani was already moving toward the door. “He is not the heir, Kublai. Guyuk stands in line and in his way. We must send a fast rider to Tsubodai’s army. Guyuk is in danger from this moment until he is declared khan by an assembly of the nation, just as his father was.”
Kublai gaped at her. “Have you any idea how far away they are?” he said.
She halted, with her hand on the door. “It does not matter if Guyuk stands at the end of the world, my son. He must be told. The yam, Kublai, the way stations. There are enough horses between us and Tsubodai, are there not?”
“Mother, you don’t understand. It is more than four thousand miles, maybe even five thousand. It would take months to bring word.”
“Well? Write the news on parchment,” she snapped. “Is that not how it works? Send a rider with a sealed message for Guyuk alone. Can these messengers hand a private letter over such a distance?”
“Yes,” Kublai replied, shocked by her intensity. “Yes, of course.”
“Then run, boy! Run to Yao Shu’s offices and write the news down. Get the news moving to the one who must have it.” She wrestled a ring from her hand and shoved it into his palm.
“Use your father’s ring to seal it in wax and get the first rider on his way. Make him understand there has never been a message as important as this one. If there was ever a reason to create the scout line, t
his is it.”
Kublai broke into a sprint down the corridors. Sorhatani bit her lip as she watched him go before turning the other way, toward Torogene’s rooms. Already, she could hear raised voices somewhere nearby. The news would not be kept in the city. As the sun rose, it would fly from Karakorum in all directions. She felt sadness swell in her at the thought of Ogedai, but pressed it down, clenching her fists. There was no time to grieve. The world would never be the same after the day to come.
Kublai had cause to thank his mother as he sat at Yao Shu’s writing desk. The door to the chancellor’s workrooms had been replaced by carpenters, but the holes for the new locks still sat ready, clean and sanded. It had swung open at just a push, and Kublai had shivered in the cold as he took a Chin tinderbox and scratched sparks with a flint and iron until a wisp of tinder blew into flame. The lamp was small and he kept it well shuttered, but there were already voices and movements in the palace. He looked for water, but there was nothing, so he spat on the inkstone and blackened his fingers to rub a paste. Yao Shu kept his badger-hair brushes neatly and Kublai worked fast with the thinnest of them, marking the Chin characters on the parchment with delicate precision.
He had barely finished a few stark lines and sanded them dry when the door creaked open and he looked up nervously to see Yao Shu standing there in a sleeping robe.
“I do not have time to explain,” Kublai said curtly as he stood. He folded the vellum parchment, goatskin beaten and stretched until it was as thin as yellow silk. The lines that would change the nation were hidden, and before Yao Shu could speak, Kublai dripped wax and jammed his father’s ring down, leaving a deep impression. He faced Ogedai’s chancellor with a strained expression. Yao Shu stared at the neat package and the glistening wax as Kublai fanned it in the air to dry. He could not understand the tension he saw in the younger man.
“I saw the light. Half the palace is awake, it seems,” Yao Shu said, deliberately blocking the door as Kublai moved toward it. “You know what is happening?”
“It is not my place to tell you, Chancellor,” Kublai replied. “I am on the khan’s business.” He met Yao Shu’s eyes steadily, refusing to be cowed.
“I’m afraid I must insist on an explanation for this … intrusion before I let you go,” Yao Shu replied.
“No, you will not insist. This is not your business, Chancellor. It is a matter of family.”
Kublai did not let his hand drift to the sword he wore on his hip. He knew the chancellor could not be intimidated with a blade. They locked eyes and Kublai kept silent, waiting.
With a grimace, Yao Shu stepped aside to let him pass, his gaze falling onto the desk with its still-wet inkstone and writing materials scattered in confusion. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Kublai had already vanished, his footsteps echoing.
It was not far to the yam way station, the central hub of a network that extended as far as Chin lands to the east and beyond. Kublai raced through the palace outbuildings, across a courtyard and along a cloister around a garden, where the wind caught him up and passed him with a cold breath. He could see torches in the garden, lighting a spot in the distance as men gathered by the khan’s body. Yao Shu would hear the terrible news soon enough.
Out of the palace, he ran along a street made gray in the dawn. He skidded on the cobbles as he rounded a corner and saw the lamps of the yam. There was always someone awake there, at every hour of the day. He called as he passed under the stone arch into a large yard, with horse stalls on either side. Kublai stood panting, listening as a pony snorted and tapped the door of its stall with its hoof. Perhaps the animal sensed the excitement that gripped him; he did not know.
It was just moments before a burly figure came into the yard. Kublai saw the yam master had only one hand, his job a compensation for losing his ability to fight. He tried not to look at the stump as the man approached.
“I speak with the authority of Sorhatani and Torogene, wife to Ogedai Khan. This has to reach Tsubodai’s army as fast as you have ever run before. Kill horses and men if you have to, but get it into the hands of the heir, Guyuk. No other but Guyuk. His hands alone. Do you understand?”
The old warrior gaped at him. “What is so urgent?” he began. It seemed the news had not yet spread to those who carried it. Kublai made a decision. He needed the man to jump quickly and not waste a moment longer.
“The khan is dead,” he said flatly. “His heir must be told. Now move, or give up your post.”
The man was already turning away and calling for whoever was on duty that night. Kublai stayed to watch the pony brought out to a taciturn young rider. The scout stiffened as he heard the order to kill horses and men, but he understood and nodded. The papers went deep into a leather satchel that the scout strapped tightly to his back. At a run, yam servants brought a saddle that jingled with every movement.
The pony chosen for the task raised its head at the sound, snorting once more and flicking its ears. It knew the sound of saddle bells meant it would run fast and far. Kublai watched the rider kick in his heels and canter under the arch, out into the waking city. He rubbed his neck, feeling the stiffness there. He had done his part.
Torogene was awake and weeping when Sorhatani arrived at her rooms. The Guards at the door let her pass with no more than a glance at her expression.
“You have heard?” Torogene asked.
Sorhatani opened her arms and the older woman came into her embrace. She was larger than Sorhatani, and her arms came fully round her, so that they clung to each other.
“I’m just going to the gardens,” Torogene said. She was shuddering with grief, close to collapse. “His Guards are standing over … him there, waiting for me.”
“I must speak to you first,” Sorhatani said.
Torogene shook her head. “Afterwards. I cannot leave him out there alone.”
Sorhatani weighed her chances of stopping Torogene and gave up. “Let me walk with you,” she said.
The two women moved quickly along the corridors that led to the open gardens, Torogene’s guards and servants falling behind. As they walked, Sorhatani heard Torogene choke into her hands, and the sound tore at her own control. She too had lost a husband and the wound was still fresh, ripped open by the news of the khan’s passing. She had the unpleasant sensation of events slipping beyond her control. How long would it be before Chagatai heard that his brother had fallen at last? How long after that would he come to Karakorum to challenge for the khanate? If he moved quickly, he could bring an army before Guyuk could come home.
Sorhatani lost track of the corners and turns in the palace until she and Torogene felt the breeze on their faces and the gardens lay before them through a cloister. The torches of the Guards still lit the spot, though dawn had come. Torogene gave a cry and broke into a run. Sorhatani stayed with her, knowing she could not interrupt.
As they reached the stone bench, Sorhatani stood rooted, letting Torogene cross the last few steps to her husband. The Guards stood in mute anger, unable to see an enemy, but consumed with the failure of their office.
Ogedai had been turned to face the sky by whoever had found him. His eyes had been closed and he lay in the perfect stillness of death, his flesh as white as if he had no blood in him. Sorhatani rubbed tears from her eyes as Torogene knelt at his side and brushed his hair back with her hand. She did not speak, or weep. Instead, she sat on her heels and looked down at him for a long time. The breeze passed through them all and the gardens rustled. Somewhere close, a bird called, but Torogene did not look up or move from the spot.
Yao Shu arrived in the silence, still in his sleeping robe and with a face almost as pale as his master’s. He seemed to age and shrink as he looked on the fallen khan. He did not speak. The silence was too deep for that. In misery, he stood as one of the sentinel shadows in the garden. The sun rose slowly and more than one man looked at it almost in hatred, as if its light and life were not welcome there.
As the morning light turned th
e city a bloody gold, Sorhatani stepped forward at last and took Torogene gently by the arm.
“Come away now,” she murmured. “Let them take him to be laid out.”
Torogene shook her head and Sorhatani bent closer to her, whispering into her ear.
“Put aside your pain for today. You must think of your son, Guyuk. You hear me, Torogene? You must be strong. You must shed your tears for Ogedai another day if your son is to survive.”
Torogene blinked slowly and began to shake her head, once, then twice, as she listened. Tears came from under her closed eyelids, and she reached down and kissed Ogedai on the lips, shuddering under Sorhatani’s hand at the terrible coldness of him. She would never feel his warmth, his arms around her, again. She reached out to touch the hands, rubbing her fingers over the fresh calluses there. They would not heal now. Then she stood.
“Come with me,” Sorhatani said softly, as if to a frightened animal. “I will make you tea and find you something to eat. You must keep up your strength, Torogene.”
Torogene nodded and Sorhatani led her back through the cloister to her own rooms. She looked back almost at every step, until the garden hid her view of Ogedai. The servants ran ahead to have tea ready as they arrived.
The two women swept into Sorhatani’s rooms. Sorhatani saw the Guards were taking positions on her door and realized they too were without direction. The death of the khan had taken away the established order, and they seemed almost lost.
“I have orders for you,” she said on impulse. The men straightened. “Send a runner to your commander, Alkhun. Tell him to come to these rooms immediately.”
“Your will, mistress,” the Guard said, bowing his head. He set off and Sorhatani told her servants to leave. The tea urn was already beginning to steam, and she needed to be alone with Ogedai’s wife.
As she closed the doors, Sorhatani saw how Torogene sat staring, stunned with grief. She bustled about, deliberately making noise with the cups. The tea was not fully hot, but it would have to do. She hated herself for intruding on a private grief, but there was no help for it. Her mind had been throwing sparks from the moment she had woken to find Kublai standing beside her. Some part of her had known even before he spoke.
The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle: Genghis: Birth of an Empire, Genghis: Bones of the Hills, Genghis: Lords of the Bow, Khan: Empire of Silver, Conqueror Page 160
