The Tiger Queens (17 page)

Yet Genghis’ gift to me was the most precious.

I stood with Alaqai and Sorkhokhtani when my husband lifted a finger in the air, the grin on his face infectious. “I found something amongst the Merkid which would be common to most, but priceless to you, wife of my heart. I’ve scoured the steppes for this these many years as our children grew and the circles of our
gers
swelled.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I searched not for some
thing
, but for some
one
.”

I knew before he beckoned to the huddle of Merkid women standing behind a tall cart that it would be Toregene. The girl with the mismatched eyes was now a woman grown almost to my height, with the first whispers of lines at her brow and an angular body composed entirely of the straight lines of a towering pine tree. Shigi and the others behind me gasped when they saw her eyes, but I ran to her, enveloping her in a hug that almost knocked her over. “You wonderful, terrible girl,” I breathed. “Where have you been all these years?”

She swallowed but didn’t speak, the silver cross at her throat somewhat tarnished now, but still reflecting the sun’s light. It was Genghis who finally answered for her. “She was married to one of the last Merkid princes,” he said, his tone low and lacking any triumph. “I saw her eyes and ordered the men to spare her.”

To spare her a public rape, but not the death of her husband and her people.

Those eyes that had saved her no longer sparked with life but were now clouded with pain. There was more than simply a dead husband and the shock of a midnight raid. I hugged her again, puzzled at her hiss of pain as I pressed her to me. Only then did I catch the familiar and unpleasant scent on her, stronger than the pain and suffering that roiled from her.

Sour milk.

I realized then that the front of her
deel
was stained with many days of rancid breast milk, the last testament of an infant who had been ripped from his mother’s arms and was now no more than dust. Genghis was brutal when dealing with other men but forbade the killing of any child shorter than the linchpin of a camel cart. Yet sometimes not even my husband could control everything that happened in the heat of battle.

Toregene’s eyes welled with tears as understanding dawned across my face, and she bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

This courageous woman before me had survived a second raid and the murder of her husband and child—perhaps even children—and then endured the agony of many days’ journey being jostled in a cart while her breasts hardened and her milk dried away. I recalled with a shudder my own terrible ordeal with Chilger and how Toregene had opened my heart to hope again. I had so little to offer her, but I would heal this girl as best I could, although part of her was surely shattered beyond repair.

“You brave girl,” I whispered. “I don’t know how you survived all you did, but I’m glad that your god protected you.”

“Sochigel found me in the woods after the first raid,” Toregene said, her voice as low as the flutter of a dove’s wings. “She helped me find roots and berries to eat, until we came to the other Merkid camp. They took me in, knowing I’d been betrothed to Toghtoga’s son, but Sochigel chose to remain in the woods. I never saw her again.”

I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Sochigel and clutched Toregene to me, pressing my cheek to her hair. “I’ll care for you now,” I said. “As you once cared for me. All right?”

She nodded and her eyes filled again with tears, but she blinked them away. “Thank you, Borte Khatun,” she whispered.

I wondered then if I should tell her that her stepmother, Gurbesu, was here, too, but there would be an opportunity for that later, as there would be time enough to discuss Toregene’s position in our clan. This girl would be no slave, nor would I allow anyone to claim her as a wife until she was ready.

“I’ve waited for you a long time, Toregene.” I pressed my forehead to hers and inhaled, claiming her as mine. “Welcome home, daughter.”

1206 CE

YEAR OF THE FIRE TIGER

I
n the end, it was Jamuka’s own supporters who finally betrayed him and delivered him to our hands.

Deserted by all his clans, Jamuka huddled with five men, the last of his followers, and together they roasted a great mountain sheep with curved horns. But when Jamuka fell asleep, the men seized him and dragged him bound and gagged to our camp, thinking to claim a reward for his capture.

The five men spat on Jamuka and kicked him after they’d thrown him to the dust at Genghis’ feet. Khasar and the Four Valiant Warriors flanked my husband, hands on the hilts of their swords, while Shigi remained in his usual place, hidden in the shadows while he recorded every word and gesture on paper. This was a public spectacle under the dark sweep of night, and even the children had joined the crowd, boys and girls who knew nothing of a life free of war. Our clans believed they were here to witness Jamuka’s fate, but from the way Genghis glowered at the other men, I feared more than one man’s blood would be shed tonight.

“Here’s the brown vulture you sought for so long,” one man said, landing a blow to Jamuka’s cheek. The face that had once been so beautiful was now swollen, scarcely recognizable save the almost black eyes that peered at us.

“Stop,” I said, feeling the weight of my
boqta
, the green khatun’s headdress. “Only the khan can pass judgment on this man.”

Yet from the myriad emotions passing over Genghis’ face, I knew not what that judgment would be. Jamuka had caused us much pain and grief over the years, but now I saw him for what he truly was: a lonely shell of a man whose dreams had deserted him entirely. The white-boned dragon I’d met at the Festival of Games had been honest and loyal, a good man, but this man before me was broken, having allowed the darkness of greed and jealousy to overtake all the light in his soul. He had no wife and no clan, no brothers or children to sing his songs after he traveled to the sacred mountains. He was a man not to be hated, but to be pitied.

The shortest of the men pretended not to hear me, then landed a kick to Jamuka’s ribs so hard there was a crack like snapping twigs. Jamuka moaned and his pupils rolled back to reveal the bloodshot whites of his eyes. “We knew the great Genghis Khan would be happy to see this traitor again.” The short captor leered at my husband. “And, of course, we’d be happy to accept any reward you might feel we’ve earned for our work.”

A vein in my husband’s neck pulsed angrily, but he calmly stroked the end of his long mustache. His eyes never once strayed from the man. “And what sort of reward,” he asked, “do you feel you’ve earned?”

The man glanced at his comrades and one of them nodded. They’d discussed this in advance. “Horses and silver,” the short one said. “And positions in your army.”

“I see.” Genghis turned to me, yet beckoned to Khasar and the other guards with a crook of his finger. “Yet how could I trust you, men who lie in wait to turn upon their leader?”

The captors protested but fell silent as Khasar’s and the soldiers’ cold swords touched their necks.

“The only reward you’ve earned is a merciful death,” Genghis said.

Jamuka’s former followers moved to draw their swords, but with a swift movement my husband sliced off the head of the short man. It fell to the ground with a spray of crimson as the body collapsed forward with a thud. Khasar and the Four Valiant Warriors made short work of the other traitors,
slitting their throats. Genghis blocked my view, but I sidestepped him and nudged the head with my boot, careful not to sully the leather with the unclean blood. “It’s unfortunate their deaths were so quick,” I said.

Genghis stared at me for a moment, then chuckled as slaves dragged the bodies away. “You never cease to amaze me, wife of my heart.”

I knelt before Jamuka then, waiting for the reassuring wave of hatred, but the emotion wouldn’t come. Instead, I was filled with revulsion and pity for this man who had been stained with a prophecy as dark as mine, yet had squandered all his opportunities—and the lives of many men—in his quest for greatness and power. I loosened the horsehair gag and the ties at his wrists and ankles, which were crusted with filth and blood, the leather thongs tied so tightly they had sliced deep into his flesh. He watched with dead eyes, then struggled to stand, and when that proved impossible, he pulled himself to sit. I was shocked at how thin he’d become, his sharp shoulders and skeletal hands better suited to a corpse long dead.

I glimpsed the future then, and shuddered at what awaited.

Seeing that his former
anda
could no longer stand, Genghis crouched to speak to him eye to eye. It might have been a gathering from long ago, at least if one could ignore the slaves scurrying to cover the puddles of fresh blood with dried grasses.

“We are old men now,” Genghis said to Jamuka. “It is time to remember what we had once forgotten.”

Jamuka’s voice was as faint as the rustle of a crane’s wing flying overhead. Gone was the proud dragon with the golden future, replaced by a frail man with a corrupt soul who shivered despite the dung fire burning brightly at his back. “Long ago, I declared myself to be your
anda
. We spoke promises which were never to be forgotten.” He looked up with eyes shining with tears and remorse. “I should have kept my promise, but my face was blackened with jealousy.” He bowed his head. “I shall be forever sorry for that.”

I glanced at Genghis to see his eyes bright with tears and softened my expression, silently pleading with him. I waited an eternity, then exhaled with relief as he gave a tight nod.

“
Anda
Jamuka,” he said, “I do not live in the past. Join my clan and let us be allies now that we are together again.”

The crowd rumbled at that, unsure of Genghis’ motives. If Jamuka rejoined us, my husband’s conquest would be complete, but war might break out again at any time. Jamuka’s unfocused eyes moved first from Genghis and then to me. I searched for a flicker of hope there, the faintest trace of a dream fulfilled with Genghis’ offer. Instead, Jamuka shook his head. “There can be only one sun in the sky, and my sun has set. I shall be forever known as a traitor.”

Genghis stood, protesting and full of bluster, citing all the times Jamuka had been loyal to him in their early years and how he’d rescued him from certain death many times over, how he’d even rescued me.

Jamuka held up his battered hands to stop Genghis’ rant. “Please,” he said. “I ask only one thing.”

My husband ceased pacing then. “You have merely to say it and it will be yours.”

“I am ready to journey to the sacred mountains,” Jamuka said. “I ask that you do not shed my blood when you kill me. I would greet the ancestors a whole man, so my soul might protect your children and your children’s children.”

I thought of Chaghagan Uua, with his bloodied head tied to his horse, and all the men boiled alive in the Field of Cauldrons. I wondered if Jamuka’s request was born from cowardice or if perhaps he really did seek to right the wrongs of this life from the sacred mountains. He would surely forfeit his life, but despite his blackened soul, perhaps some small shred of his former honor still remained. That was what I chose to believe, for otherwise, the long struggle Jamuka had fought against avarice and despair had been lost entirely.

Genghis cursed under his breath and the crowd roared, thirsty for blood, but my husband raised his hands. A hush fell then, Genghis wielding the silence as skillfully as he did his sword.

“I could refuse you,” he finally said. “If I wished, I could make you live the rest of your days by my side.”

Jamuka hung his head. “That is your choice. Still, although I deserve to die a horrific death, I ask only for a clean one.”

Genghis stood stone-faced, then gestured for Khasar and the other warriors. Their
deels
were still stained with blood. “We will honor the last wish of my
anda
.
Execute this man by breaking his neck, but do not shed his blood. His bones will be buried with all due honor.”

Then he clasped Jamuka’s hands with his own and drew a deep breath. I imagined for a moment the faint wisp of Jamuka’s dying soul entering my husband, felt its traces from long ago flare deep within my own soul.

The warriors took up their positions behind Jamuka, but they hesitated when I knelt and lifted Jamuka’s head to look into his eyes.

“You should not touch me,” he said, recoiling. “I would not taint you with the stain of my dishonor.”

“I will touch you,” I said. “For who else will sing the song to guide you to the sacred mountains?”

He blinked then, and a single tear fell down his swollen cheek. “I will watch you from their highest peaks, Borte Ujin. My spirit shall always guard your family, as I should have done in life.”

My hand lingered on his cheek, but I gave a terse nod to Khasar before my vision blurred entirely. I held Jamuka’s hand as he was hauled to his feet. There was a long moment of silence, and then, with a deft movement, Khasar twisted Jamuka’s neck. There was a snap, and the crowd cheered as the last trace of light finally left the eyes of the man I’d once loved and hated.

*   *   *

We buried Jamuka’s bones in the cliffs of a snowcapped mountain so high it grazed the underbelly of the clouds. The wind whipped my hair, worn loose these past weeks in mourning, and generations of ancestors, young and old, wailed in my ears. The ground was rocky here, slick with last night’s rain, and a lone magpie preened in the dead birch before me.

And at the base of its white trunk . . .

My voice rose in the song I had sung weeks ago as Jamuka’s spirit had fled his broken body, flying into the Eternal Blue Sky toward his new home in the sacred mountains. Wild dogs and hawks had circled me the day my daughters and I brought him here, but today I had slipped from camp at
first light before Alaqai, Toregene, or Sorkhokhtani could follow me. This time there was only the wind at my back.

Cups of fresh camel milk and leather sacks of dried horsemeat joined the platters I’d left forty-nine days ago, their offerings long since eaten by the spirits or scavenging animals. I’d waited until the last possible day to return to the open burial, praying that I would find only bones when I returned, a sure sign that the guardians of the sacred mountains had accepted his spirit. I built two fires, striking flint over dried goat dung and feeding the flames until they shuddered in the wind, as if unwilling to burn in so harsh a place. I passed between the two sentries to burn away any lurking evil spirits, just as I’d done on the night of my wedding.

The white silk shroud I’d used to cover Jamuka’s face the day he died flapped in the wind, revealing a yellowish skull with two lines of white teeth protruding from the open jaw. A trace of his dark hair still clung to the scalp, and here and there was a patch of dried tendon or skin, but the winds and the sun had done their work as I’d hoped. Tenderly, as if touching the cheek of one of my children, I gathered Jamuka’s bones into a birch basket Toregene had woven for me.

“Remember your promise,” I murmured to his spirit. I closed my eyes and leaned into the warmth on my shoulder, the same as when his hand had lingered there the night we’d stood together on a similar mountaintop. The heat spread to envelop me like a blanket on a stormy winter night, but when I opened my eyes it was to find that the clouds had broken and the sun shone down on me.

It was not for myself that I prayed, but for my children, my sons and daughters, both those of my womb and all the others I’d spread my wings over, and my children’s children, yet unborn. As I’d worried years ago, my husband wasn’t content to merely unite the clans of the steppes. Only the day before, Genghis had declared war against the Jurched Empire in the east, further unifying the People of the Felt in preparation to attack the foreign walled cities, to plunder their riches and seize their trade routes.

“Protect us,” I prayed to Jamuka’s spirit, feeling it hover nearby as I often felt Mother Khogaghchin’s and my parents’. “For we shall need your protection now more than
ever.”