Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Read online

  Hoelun slept at the side of the bed, her head against a pillow. She woke to the sound of shouts over the steady drone of the shamans. Dawn would come soon. A familiar voice called out to her as a hand lifted the flap at the doorway; she sat up and adjusted her head-dress.

  Munglik stepped inside. Hoelun said, “You mustn't stay.”

  “I've always served the Bahadur. I can't fail him now.” Munglik came to the bed. “Yesugei, I'm here to do whatever I can for you.” The young man stared past Khokakhchin at Hoelun; his dark eyes filled with tears.

  “Who's there?” Yesugei asked faintly.

  “Munglik,” Hoelun answered.

  “Faithful Munglik,” Yesugei sighed. “Come closer.” Munglik knelt by the bed. “I'm dying, friend.”

  “Yesugei—”

  “Listen.” Yesugei's voice was so low that Hoelun had to strain to hear him. “I left Temujin with his betrothed, in her father's tent. He's called Dei Sechen, and his Onggirats are camped north of Lake Buyur, by the Urchun between the mountains Chegcher and Chikhurkhu.” He gasped for breath. “My sons will have to avenge me. Never let them forget the evil done to their father. Take care of my wives as though they were your sisters, and care for my sons as if they were your brothers. This is my last command, friend Munglik. Go to Dei Sechen's camp quickly and bring Temujin back safely. He must prepare to take his place here.”

  Munglik stood up. “Before the sun rises, I'll be riding to him.” The young man's voice broke; tears streamed down his face. “Farewell, Bahadur.”

  Hoelun followed Munglik to the entrance and caught his arm. “We know little of this Dei Sechen,” she said. “If he finds out that Temujin is without a father's protection, he may consider his agreement at an end and keep my son there as a slave.”

  “I understand. I'll tell Temujin the truth only when we're safely away.” He took her hands. “Hoelun—”

  “Go. May the spirits protect you.”

  She went back to her husband's bed. Khokakhchin settled the blanket around him; Yesugei's eyes were barely open. “Who's there?” he whispered.

  “Hoelun.”

  “Leave me, wife. This is my last command to you—I won't have you here when I fly to Heaven. Take my place and hold these people together. You'll need every day to strengthen your position, and that will be harder if you're forced to stay outside the camp.”

  She hesitated.

  “Farewell, Hoelun. My life will be over before the sun's high. Go from here now.”

  She knelt to kiss his forehead one last time, then let Khokakhchin lead her from the yurt. Sochigil, Biliktu, and the children were already seated outside the camping circle. Hoelun sat down and rocked her daughter until Temulun's cries subsided.

  “Hoelun-eke—” Bekter began.

  “Hush.” Hoelun glanced from him and Belgutei to her own sons. They were all so young, and now they would have to become men. People stood by wagons and yurts, watching the family from a distance; the shamans continued to chant.

  Hoelun did not move or speak until the sun was climbing the sky. From the corner of her eye, she saw the shamans enter her yurt. When they came outside, she knew her husband's spirit had fled.

  She stood up. “My husband's love for life is completed.” She felt dimly surprised at how steady her voice was. “His spirit has flown to Tengri.” She must not speak his name aloud so soon after his death, and refused even to say it to herself silently.

  Sochigil shrieked and tore at her clothes. “My husband's left us too soon!” the dark-eyed woman screamed. “What will become of us now?” Khokakhchin clutched Khachigun to her chest; Khasar was trying to comfort Belgutei. Sochigil clawed at her arms and face; Biliktu huddled on the ground and smeared her face with dirt.

  Hoelun was numb. Everyone would expect her to show her own grief. She ripped beads from her head-dress, but her tears still refused to come. In a moment, her husband would come outside and laugh at them for believing him dead, as his uncle Khutula had done when his people were holding his funeral feast.

  The shamans walked towards her. She heard the rattling of the bones they carried.

  16

  The body being carried to its grave was not her husband. The man Hoelun had known would live among the spirits.

  The procession neared the mountainside. The Bahadur's closest companions rode on either side of the ox-drawn cart carrying the body and the possessions to be buried with him. His favourite horse, harnessed and saddled, was led by one of the shamans.

  Hoelun rode in a cart behind the men. Sochigil sat at her side, still weeping. Biliktu and Khokakhchin were behind them, under the covering with the children; the girl had been crying nearly as much as Sochigil. Shed your tears, Biliktu, Hoelun thought; your sorrow will end soon.

  She wished that she could cry as easily as the others. Her chest seemed encased in iron bands. She had endured the past days numbly, feeling that her own spirit had already flown to her husband's. She barely remembered taking down the yurt in which he had died and gathering all he had owned so that the possessions could be purified. She and her family had carried their belongings between two fires, then under a rope strung with strips of leather and connected to two tall poles as the shamans chanted. Her hands and body had done the work, with no will to direct them.

  A large pit yawned in a clearing on the slope; men had gone ahead of the procession to dig the grave. Others had been buried on this mountainside; small birches now grew over those graves. Hoelun saw a grassy spot where the tattered remnants of a horsehide fluttered on poles, a mound of snow near the lattice of a yurt. Her husband would be put into the ground and horses would trample down the grave. After a few seasons, nothing would mark the spot where he would rest forever.

  The men dismounted and walked towards the pit. The chestnut horse snorted as one man mounted it; the animal would be ridden into exhaustion before it was sacrificed. Another horse had already been slaughtered for the funeral feast; men worked at the carcass with their knives. Birds circled overhead, the shadows cast by their wings dappling the ground.

  Hoelun reined in the ox drawing her cart, then climbed down with Sochigil. The other woman whimpered as she looked towards the pit. She would join him in the grave if she could, Hoelun thought, as wives of chieftains had done long ago.

  A few men carried the dead man to the grave. He would be buried with all that he might need in his next life—his favourite horse, a mare and colt to increase his herd, his lance, breastplate, arrows, and bow, kumiss and some meat from the sacrificed horse. The mourners would share their funeral feast with him before the earth covered him.

  The shamans stood by the grave, sprinkling drops of kumiss over the ground as Bughu chanted. “Where have you gone, brave leader? Why have you abandoned us now? Who will lead us in the hunt and in war?”

  Other women left their horses and carts to gather near the two widows. Hoelun remembered the times she had comforted those who had lost husbands, how she had circled graves with them and sat at funeral feasts as they burned bones for their dead. She had pitied the bereaved, never quite believing that she would become a widow herself.

  Her children huddled near her. Khasar had one hand on Temuge's shoulder; his little brother peered up at the people around him. Bekter and Belgutei caught their weeping mother by the elbows. Someone jostled Hoelun's arm; Biliktu handed Temulun to her.

  She watched as the body was lowered into the grave, its limbs and torso bent, so that the dead man could sit at the table that would hold his provisions. Hoelun suddenly longed for Temujin, the son most like his father.

  Her inner voice echoed in her mind, drowning out the chants of the shamans. I have to hold these clans together until Temujin is old enough to lead them. The Tatars will think my husband's death has weakened us; we must strike at them again and show them that they still have much to fear.

  A man was carrying her husband's bow to the grave. He still lacked one thing in death, something he had certainly valued in life. Hoelun cra
dled her daughter in one arm and moved closer to Biliktu.

  “Child,” Hoelun said, “I see how you grieve for the one we have lost.” Bughu fell silent. She had spoken to him earlier, although not to the girl. She had seen his eyes glow in anticipation, as though her request were yet another reward for his discretion. The shaman reached inside his coat and pulled out a long silken cord.

  Biliktu's eyes widened. Show some courage now, Hoelun thought; don't plead with me for mercy. The girl was her chattel; she had the right. She could not leave her husband alone in his grave.

  “My master will have many to serve him in the next world,” Hoelun said, “his beloved steed, cows for his herd, the spirits of the enemies he's killed. He will have his food and drink, and a yurt in which to rest, and his bed shall not be empty.”

  Another shaman seized Biliktu by the arm and pulled her forward; Bughu looped the cord around her neck. “I shall pay you the great honour,” Hoelun said softly, “of allowing you to join the master you loved.”

  Biliktu screamed and clawed at the air with her hands. You should be pleased, Hoelun thought; you were anxious enough to be his bedfellow before. The shaman holding Biliktu grabbed her wrists. Hoelun caught one last glimpse of the girl's frightened eyes before Bughu tightened the cord around her neck.

  17

  Bortai flicked her whip against her horse's flank as Temujin's brown horse bounded ahead of hers. She rose in her stirrups; her bay was soon at his side. Temujin turned to grin at her and his dark reddish braids danced in the wind.

  Bortai howled with delight. Birds flew up from a patch of grass in front of her. She looked back; Anchar was several paces behind them.

  Her horse pulled ahead of Temujin's. She tightened her reins slightly; her bay horse slowed, just enough for Temujin to catch up. His horse edged hers by a head as they passed a small tree.

  They slowed to a trot and circled back to meet Anchar. “Temujin won,” her brother shouted.

  “No,” Temujin replied. “Bortai let me win.” He scowled; his gelding trotted closer to hers. “I saw you pull up. I could have won without that. Don't ever do it again.”

  She looked away, embarrassed. Other boys and girls were out riding over the bare land, but they were keeping away from the tree, maybe because they assumed Bortai wanted some time alone with Temujin.

  During the nine days Temujin had been here, she had not seen much of him except in the evening, when the family told stories before going to sleep. While she helped her mother, the boys practised archery, sat with Arasen the bowmaker to learn some of his craft, went out herding or hunting with her father, and played endless games with their antelope bones.

  Temujin gestured at the tree. “We'll rest here for a while.” He turned towards Anchar. “Ride back to the others if you want.”

  “Aren't you coming?” Anchar asked.

  “We'll join you later,” Temujin replied. The other boy shrugged, made a face at Bortai, then galloped away.

  Bortai and Temujin dismounted and tied their reins to a low-hanging limb. She was about to slip the bowcase from her belt when Temujin lifted his hand. “Don't leave that. My father says you should always keep your weapons close, especially when you're away from camp.”

  She followed him to the tree, set her bowcase and quiver next to his, then sat down. “We're safe enough, Temujin. We'd see anyone coming from a long way off.”

  He stared out at the flat open ground. “I know, but why lose even a little time running for your bow?”

  “I am sorry.” She felt awkward, uncertain about what to say to him now that she had him to herself. “I mean, about letting you win. But you would have won anyway.”

  “Then you didn't have to do it. If I'm good enough, I'll win by myself. If I'm not, I'd better find that out.”

  Bortai drew up her legs. “I haven't seen you fail at anything yet.”

  He laughed. “Anchar's won a few of my bones.” He rested his back against the tree trunk. “When we're men, maybe he'll be one of my generals.”

  “How many do you plan to have?”

  “As many as I need.”

  Bortai searched for more to say. “You have brothers,” she said. “Do you get along with them as well as you do with Anchar?”

  “All except one. My father's second wife gave him a son before I was born. Bekter picks any excuse for a fight. He doesn't like knowing that I'll be Father's heir.”

  Bortai shook her head. “But if his mother's a second wife, he can't expect—”

  “She was father's wife before he found my mother.”

  “And he made your mother his first wife?”

  “He knew Mother was a stronger woman. He often talks of how he knew she'd have to be his as soon as he saw her.” Temujin grinned. “She was a bride, travelling with her new husband. My father and uncles chased him off and brought Mother to their camp.”

  Bortai was appalled, but also thrilled. “She must have been very angry.”

  “Father says she wept and cried, but that passed. She's been a good wife to him, so maybe she didn't really mind that much. What if your father had promised you to someone else before you met me? You might have wanted me to steal you.”

  “Well, it's silly to talk about it—we're betrothed.”

  “I know,” he said. “I knew we had to ask for you right away. Father doesn't wait to get what he wants—why should I?”

  Bortai plucked at one of her braids. “When we talked that first night,” Temujin continued, “I was thinking of how my parents talk sometimes. You'll have to tell me when I might be making a mistake—my father says some of his men tell him only what they think he wants to hear. Mother's more honest with him. If she weren't, he'd beat her as often as he beats his other wife.”

  “I won't let you beat me!” She struck his arm; he grabbed her wrists and pinned her to the ground. She laughed as she tried to free herself. “If I think you're going to beat me, you'll never get past my dogs.”

  His grip tightened. “Don't say that.” His face reddened; his hands were bruising her wrists.

  “You're hurting me.”

  He let go and pushed her away. She sat up and rubbed at her wrists. “You're brave to pretend the dogs don't scare you any more,” she said at last. “Just keep acting as if you're not afraid until you believe it. Then, when you have them cowed, give them a piece of meat or a bone. You have to make them too fearful of you to harm you, but let them know they'll get a reward if they obey.”

  The boy was silent.

  “Did something happen to make you afraid?” Bortai asked.

  “When I was little, Bekter was supposed to be watching me—that's what Mother says. I don't remember it myself. Mother found me with a dog on top of me, trying to chew my arm, and Bekter just stood there and laughed. She says Father beat him raw for that.” He leaned towards her. “You'd better not tell Anchar I'm still afraid.”

  “Of course not—I promise.” She gazed out at the steppe. More green patches of grass were sprouting; in a month, the land would be alive with blue and white flowers. Her father's horses grazed near one small rise. A man was riding towards the herd from the river; the other children galloped after him, their voices a dim murmur on the cold wind.

  Anchar left the others and rode towards them. Bortai and Temujin got up and went to their horses.

  “A man's here,” Anchar shouted as he neared the tree, “from Temujin's camp. Arasen rode out to get Father.” He reined in his horse and trotted closer to Temujin. “The man wants to see you.”

  “Did he say why he's here?” Bortai asked.

  “Arasen says his name is Munglik, and that Temujin's father sent him.”

  Temujin frowned; his greenish eyes were solemn. “He's a Khongkhotat,” he said, “one of the men Father trusts most. I'll ride back with your father.” He mounted his horse and left them by the tree.

  18

  Temujin was waiting for Bortai and her brother outside their father's yurt. “Munglik's inside,” he murmured.
“He hasn't yet said why he came.”

  Bortai and Anchar left their whips by the doorway and followed Temujin inside. Dei and his guest sat in the back of the tent; her father looked up as Shotan sat down next to him. The children hung up their bowcases and quivers, then walked towards them.

  “Our visitor is called Munglik.” Dei gestured with his jug of kumiss. “He tells me that his father Charakha has served Yesugei faithfully since the Bahadur was a boy.” He turned towards the stranger. “My daughter Bortai and her brother Anchar.”

  The man nodded at Bortai; his dark eyes were mournful. “My brother the Bahadur chose well. Your daughter will be a beauty, Dei Sechen.”

  The children settled themselves on the carpet in front of the bed. Munglik took a long drink. His fingers tightened around the leather jug; his knuckles were white.

  “Bortai and Temujin are becoming close companions,” Shotan went on, “although no closer than they should be before they are wed. Anchar's a brother to the boy, but you'll see that for yourself while you stay with us.”

  “I cannot stay long, Ujin,” Munglik replied. His pleasantly broad face was solemn; he had not smiled at all since Bortai had come inside. “I must tell you now why I am here. The Bahadur longs to see his son once more—his heart's ached ever since he left the boy. He misses him so much that he asked me to ride here and bring Temujin back to him.”

  Bortai shot a glance at Temujin, who seemed as surprised as she. “Friend Munglik,” Dei said, “the boy hasn't even been with us for a season. We would all grieve to part with him so soon.”

  “Then you'll understand how the Bahadur feels at being parted from a son he loves so much. Yesugei remains your khuda, bound to you by the promise of the children's marriage. He asks you only to allow Temujin to return to him for a time.”

  Temujin's pale eyes were wary as he gazed at Munglik. Something was wrong; Bortai could feel it. Munglik was as tense as a man sensing danger, his face as stiff as a mask.