Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 6

  “The child's coming,” the older woman said. Hoelun bit down on a piece of leather and knelt, pressing her hands against the felt carpet. Her belly heaved as her body expelled what was inside her.

  Hoelun fell against the cushions. Khokakhchin lifted a small, bloody form and held it up by its feet, one hand under its shoulders. The baby shrieked. Hands thrust the newborn at her; she held it tightly, afraid it might slip from her grasp.

  “A boy,” the woman muttered, “and an omen—your son clutches a clot of blood in his hand. It's a sign of power—a son marked for greatness.” Hoelun looked down. Her son's tiny fingers gripped a mass of red as bright as a ruby.

  Her body contracted; more wetness flowed from her. A knife glittered as Khokakhchin cut the cord. The child wailed; the older woman picked him up and wiped him with a piece of wool. “He's a fine boy, Lady. The Bahadur will be pleased, and I will live. Look at your son.”

  He was small. It was hard to believe that one so small could have caused her such pain. Khokakhchin picked up a jug, poured a few drops of kumiss into the baby's mouth, then began to smooth fat over him. Hoelun closed her eyes.

  Hoelun remained inside her yurt for seven days, as all new mothers had to do. The shamans entered only to bless the new baby and to tell her that his stars were favourable.

  Khokakhchin brought her food and fuel. No one else, not even Yesugei, could come inside the tent until the next full moon. She had peace, with no work except caring for her son. At night, she lay with him and listened to the voices of Yesugei and his comrades as they sang.

  Her son's eyes were as pale as his father's. Yesugei would name him, but Khokakhchin had already told her what the name was to be—Temujin, He Who Forged Metal. The Tatar chief Yesugei had captured was called Temujin-uge; the name of his son would commemorate that event. The death of the Tatar chieftain would clear a place in the world for Yesugei's son.

  Temujin, small as he was, showed strength. He sucked her nipples until they were sore, and struggled against the strips of cloth that tied him to his cradle. His pale eyes held the light of heated metal and the fire of a forge. She swelled with pride whenever she looked at him; she crooned to him while rocking him to sleep. But when he was silent and still, looking up at her from his cradle with his cat's eyes, she felt a chill, as if a piece of cold iron had touched her.

  On the eighth day after Temujin's birth, Hoelun secured him in his cradle, picked him up, and left her yurt, walking between the two fires that burned outside the entrance. A bow and a quiver of arrows hung by the doorway, a sign that the newborn was a boy.

  Women and girls hurried towards her to admire the baby. She walked to the edge of her camping circle, trailed by Sochigil and the other women. Munglik was gathering dry dung with some other children; he peered into Temujin's scowling face, then laughed.

  “Someday,” the boy said, “he and I will fight together.”

  “Yes,” Hoelun said. Her husband and several other men were practising their archery near the camp, aiming at a distant target of leather stretched over wood to which a Tatar girl was bound. Several arrows jutted from the leather at her sides. Yesugei stepped up to take his turn. His arrow flew from his bow and stabbed into the target just above the girl's head.

  Yesugei laughed; no one was likely to better his aim. “Cut her loose,” he shouted. “She deserves some reward for not screaming.” He turned towards Hoelun, then strode to her side.

  Yesugei grunted at the other women; they scattered. “I chose a good name for him,” he said.

  “Khokakhchin told me.”

  “We'll have the naming ceremony as soon as the shamans allow.” He waved his bow at the infant and chuckled as Temujin wailed. “He could be a son of Heaven.”

  “Perhaps he is,” Hoelun said. “Maybe a beam of Tengri's light quickened my womb while you were sleeping.” She paused. “And am I your first wife now?”

  “I promised you would be.”

  The other men drifted over to admire their chieftain's new son. Hoelun glanced to one side. A woman stood near one wagon, her arm around a small boy; she stared past Hoelun with empty eyes as the boy hid his face against her coat. Two Tatars, Hoelun thought, two more who would now be slaves labouring for Yesugei's people. Her husband reached for his son and lifted the cradle above his head. Temujin's wail rose above the cheers of the men.

  Part Two

  Hoelun said, “Who is left to fight with us now? Only our own shadows. What whips do our horses have? Only their own tails.”

  10

  Yesugei and Munglik dismounted by the two fires at the western edge of the camp; a few men rose to greet them. Hoelun wondered what news her husband had brought from the Kereit Khan.

  Patches of snow still dotted the valley by the Onon; blades of grass had begun to sprout. The old ones claimed that the grass had been thicker and the winters shorter years ago. Yesugei and his people had been forced to move camp more often during the past seasons.

  Circles of tents and wagons sat to the west of the river. Yesugei had won more followers, here and in other camps. Yet there had also been sorrows during that time—Nekun-taisi lost in one battle, friends and kinsmen falling to the Tatars.

  Hoelun walked around her wagons and entered her yurt. Temuge, her youngest son, was pushing a knuckle-bone across the felt-covered floor. Her daughter Temulun whimpered in her cradle as Biliktu rocked it.

  Old Khokakhchin did more work than Biliktu. Hoelun frowned as she gazed at the girl. “Bring me my daughter,” Hoelun said. Biliktu picked up the cradle to which Temulun was bound. “Then work on that hide you've neglected. Temuge, go outside and tell me when you see your father coming.”

  The little boy picked up his bone and scurried through the doorway. Hoelun smiled as she suckled her daughter. Yesugei had given her five children. He had not neglected Sochigil, but there had been no more children for his other wife after the birth of her second son Belgutei.

  Biliktu was dressing the hide with salted milk when Temuge ran back inside. “Mother! Temujin's fighting with Bekter!” Hoelun set the cradle down, then hurried through the entrance.

  The two boys rolled in the dirt near Sochigil's wagons. Bekter grabbed one of Temujin's dark reddish braids and yanked it; Temujin clawed at the other boy's face.

  “Stop!” Hoelun shouted. She ran to them, grabbed her son by his collar, and pulled him to his feet.

  Bekter stood up. “Temujin started it.”

  Temujin's greenish-brown eyes narrowed. “That's a lie.” He stepped to the dead hare lying at Bekter's feet. “My arrow found that hare, not yours. It's mine.”

  Hoelun turned to Sochigil's son. “Is that true?” she asked. Bekter's dark eyes glared back at her.

  “I saw it first,” Temujin said softly, “and I shot it.”

  “You wait.” Bekter shook his fist. “You'll be sorry. I'll send the dogs after you.”

  Temujin paled; he hated dogs. Bekter showed his teeth. Temujin's fist shot towards his brother; Hoelun seized him by the wrist.

  “Enough!” she said. “Bekter, go to your mother's tent and skin that hare—then I'll decide what to do with it. Any more fighting, and your father will hear of it from me.”

  Both boys tensed. The last time Yesugei had beaten them for fighting, Temujin had been unable to lie on his back for three nights. Bekter glowered at Hoelun, then picked up the hare and went inside his mother's yurt.

  She would have to speak to Sochigil again. The other woman doted on Bekter, and often pleaded with Yesugei not to punish him, but never disciplined her son herself. Lately Belgutei, who behaved well enough in Bekter's absence, was following his older brother's lead.

  Temujin lifted his head. In the sunlight, his dark hair was more coppery than black—his grandfather's hair, Yesugei had told her. “I see Father,” Temujin murmured.

  Hoelun turned. Yesugei and Munglik were walking towards her tent, trailed by her sons Khasar and Khachigun with their father's saddle. Temujin ran to them; Yesugei's arms
closed around him.

  Hoelun waited until her husband set his whip outside the doorway, then stepped forward. “I've missed you,” she said.

  He smiled, but his eyes were solemn. “We'll talk after I've eaten.”

  Munglik lingered near the yurt as Yesugei and the boys went inside. “Spring,” he said, “always brings a light to your face, Ujin.” He still seemed like the boy who had once found excuses to be near her.

  “I would ask you inside,” she said, “but your wife must be impatient to greet you.” His face fell; he bowed, murmured a farewell, then walked away.

  She went inside. Yesugei sat in front of the bed, his sons around him. Biliktu had set a few curds on a platter. The girl brought a jug of kumiss to Yesugei, then backed away, sat down near the hearth, and plucked at one long black braid. Preening herself, Hoelun thought as she settled at her husband's left; Biliktu was so obvious. Yesugei ate in silence, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and pushed the platter aside.

  “The camp of Toghril Khan is larger,” Yesugei said at last, “and his people prosper. His priests said prayers for us.”

  Hoelun shrugged. Toghril Khan and many of his Kereits worshipped the Christian god, but the Khan consulted shamans as well. Heaven could be called by many names.

  “And was the Khan pleased to see you?” Temujin asked.

  “Of course. We went hawking together, and he feasted me in his ordu. Many came there to his circle of great tents to greet me.”

  “Then he'll fight with you this autumn,” Temujin said.

  “We'll see,” Yesugei muttered. “I told him my young son already shows a warrior's spirit.” His eyes were grim. Hoelun knew then that Yesugei had failed to win any promise from the Khan.

  “Temuge can sit a horse by himself more easily now,” she said quickly. “Khachigun's better with the spear.” Her five-year-old son brightened at this praise. “Charakha says that Temujin and Khasar have become the best archers among the boys.”

  “I shoot well enough,” Temujin said, “but Khasar's better, even if he is only seven.” It was like Temujin, Hoelun thought, to say such things; her oldest child was quick to give others their due.

  Yesugei's eyes narrowed. “And are you getting along with Bekter?” Temujin looked away. “Remember the story of your ancestor Alan Ghoa's sons. A shaft of arrows bound tightly together cannot—”

  “He's the one who wants to fight,” Temujin burst out. “He steals and lies about it, he's always—”

  “Enough!” Yesugei raised a hand. “How do you expect to lead if you can't get along with your own brother?”

  Temujin lifted his head. “You used to fight with Uncle Daritai when he was in your camp. You sent him—”

  Yesugei slapped him. Temujin's cheek flamed; his eyes glistened with tears. “Daritai's the Odchigin,” Yesugei said. “It's only fitting that he dwell closer to our father's old grazing lands. He and his men fight beside me when I need them, and that's all that matters. You must learn how to handle Bekter.”

  Hoelun averted her eyes. Temujin should not have mentioned Daritai. As long as the Odchigin was chief in his own camp, he would grudgingly follow his brother; Yesugei had not kept his own shafts tightly bound.

  “It's time I spoke with your father alone,” she murmured. “Temujin, you and Khasar may take Temuge riding, but make certain one of you is on his horse with him. Khachigun, my hearth needs more argal. Biliktu.” The girl looked up. “Gather fuel with Khachigun.”

  The boys scrambled to their feet, and Temujin led them outside. Biliktu stood up, glanced at Yesugei from the sides of her long dark eyes, then slowly walked towards the doorway.

  “The girl's growing up,” Yesugei said when she was gone.

  “She'll soon be fifteen.”

  “It may be time I took another wife, and Biliktu—”

  “She would make a poor wife,” Hoelun said. Biliktu was lazy, always quick to remind others that she was a Noyan's daughter, that only her father's death and her capture in a raid had made her a slave here.

  Yesugei stroked his moustaches. “Why, I almost believe you're jealous of the girl. You needn't be. You're still much as you were when I found you.”

  It was kind of him to say so, but her children had left their mark; her waist was thicker, and her breasts and belly sagged a little. She kept her face veiled when fierce winds raged and oiled her skin with animal fat, but felt the tiny traces of lines around her eyes when she lifted her hands to her face. She was nearly twenty-five, her youth almost gone.

  “I must get more,” Yesugei continued, “to support another wife, and I'm not likely to increase my wealth soon.”

  Hoelun let out her breath. “Toghril won't ride with you.”

  “Oh, he was happy to see me. He wished me well.”

  “He's your anda. If he stood with you now—”

  “Toghril stands with me,” Yesugei said, “but he won't ride with me—not this time. It serves him to wait and to see who gets stronger—my followers or my enemies.”

  “He wouldn't be Khan if it weren't for you. He'd still be wandering among the Merkits begging for help and getting none while his uncle ruled the Kereits.”

  “That's true, Hoelun, and it doesn't matter. He also wouldn't be Khan if he hadn't put his older brothers under the ground. Toghril isn't a man to let his bonds get in the way of his interests.” Yesugei lifted his jug and drank. “We may do well this autumn, and if we win enough, a kuriltai might proclaim me as Khan. Toghril would ride with me then.”

  But there would be no kuriltai as long as the Taychiuts clung to their own hopes. They were content to follow Yesugei as a general, or during the hunt, but they would never make him Khan—not while Toghril offered only words of friendship, and not while the old Taychiut Khatuns lived.

  “Well, then.” Hoelun rested one arm on her upraised knee. “There's something else I want to talk about. I've been thinking we should find a wife for Temujin.”

  “He's only nine.”

  “Old enough to be betrothed. He would have time to know the girl and to serve her family before he's wed, as my father did before he married my mother. Better for Temujin to win his wife peacefully instead of making more enemies by stealing her.”

  “Some women are worth that risk.” He touched her hand. “And where shall we look for Temujin's betrothed?”

  “Among my Olkhunugud people, perhaps, or others of the Onggirat clans. You could use an alliance with one of their chiefs, since their lands lie close to those of the Tatars.”

  “They're not much at fighting, but their women are beauties.” He patted her hand. “I'll think about this.”

  Hoelun stood up. “Sochigil will be anxious to greet you, and your comrades will want to hear about the Kereit Khan. Tell them that he trusts his anda to lead them. Let them think he wouldn't remain such a close ally of another chief.”

  Yesugei slept at her side. Hoelun had felt no urgency in his embrace, even though he had been gone for nearly a month. He took her in the way he satisfied his hunger with food and drink—quickly, with little thought of her after his need was met. His passion flared up only a little, as a fire's embers might before the flames died, and no flint remained in her to ignite new sparks. Even his rage at his enemies was a flame that burned less often; she sensed that he was weary of battle.

  Fear rose inside her at that thought. Men had to fight until every enemy had surrendered or lay under the ground. Hate was the fire in which their swords were forged. If it burned too fiercely, it would soften the metal too much; if it cooled, the weapons would not be strong enough. People had to tend their hatreds as they tended their fires; hate kept them alive. Maybe Yesugei no longer hated enough.

  Hoelun slipped from the bed and knelt by Temulun's cradle, then untied the straps around the baby and lifted her to her breast. Her sons slept on in their small beds of cushions on the tent's western side. Perhaps Temulun would be the last of her children. She had other joys to anticipate now—seeing her sons wed, becoming a
grandmother—yet she shivered, as she did when cold winds warned of autumn's approach.

  Hoelun's arms tightened around her daughter. Her loves and her hatreds were bound up with her children — love for those she had brought into the world, hate for any who threatened them. She would not let that love and that hatred burn low, not until she was ready to die.

  11

  Bortai stood alone on a vast, grassy steppe under a starless black sky. A ghostly, winged shape, illuminated by the bright light it carried, flew towards her. She covered her face, then peered through her fingers at the white falcon. Its left claw held a sphere of flame; its right clutched a large white pearl.

  Bortai held out her arms, no longer afraid. She marvelled at the fiery light and the dimmer, softer glow that shone from under the bird's talons. The falcon circled her and released its catch; she caught the lights in her hands as the white bird alighted on her wrist.

  “I have brought you the sun and the moon,” the bird said. She looked into its eyes and saw flecks of green and gold. The spheres she was holding suddenly blazed into a blinding white light.

  Bortai cried out and awoke. Her soul had returned to her. Only the light of the hearth fire remained, where the shadow of her mother bent over the kettle.

  “What is it, Bortai?” her mother asked.

  “A dream,” Bortai replied as she sat up in her bed.

  “This seems to be a night for dreams,” her father's deep voice said from the back of the yurt. He sat on his bed, pulling on a boot. “Put on your clothes, child, and then tell me about your dream.”

  Bortai scrambled out of bed, straightened her shift, then reached for her trousers. Her brother Anchar sat up in his bed and yawned. “More dreams?” the boy asked.

  “This was the strangest one,” she said.