The Tiger Queens (30 page)

No one had glimpsed my husband yet, but soon one of the rebels would sound the alarm. I could run up the stairs and push him back into the relative safety of the Great House, thereby exposing Boyahoe and myself.

Or I could do nothing.

“If it isn’t Ala-Qush, the doddering Prince of Beiping.” Orbei’s brother and his supporters emerged from an alley just as I pushed Boyahoe under the wagon of cauldrons. They wiped stained sleeves across cheeks streaked with soot and blood, and I searched their faces in vain for Jingue.

Orbei’s brother circled my husband, then gave his wheeled chair a shove. The wooden contraption careened down the steps, spilling Ala-Qush in a
heap at the bottom. I moaned and covered Boyahoe’s ears. “You should have died before bending a knee to the heathen Khan,” the man in black said, leaning down to grab Ala-Qush by his
deel’
s collar. “You’re a disgrace to the Onggud, weaker than an old woman.”

I clutched Boyahoe tight, ensuring he didn’t witness his father’s last moments, but I forced myself to watch without blinking, hearing Teb Tengeri’s accusation in my ear.

The foot soldier of death.

Ala-Qush remained kneeling on the ground, as trusting as a goat awaiting its slaughter. The knife across his throat flashed quickly, and his eyes grew wide as a flag of crimson unfurled down his chest. He fell forward onto the trampled earth and blood of his people, but Orbei’s brother kicked him onto his back, then spat on his ruined face before scuttling away with the rest of the rebels.

The rain fell harder then, great, fat drops as if the Eternal Blue Sky wept at such senseless slaughter. I waited until the mob had moved on, holding my breath as they passed our hiding place under the cart, and then I crawled out on my belly.

“Run to the climbing tree,” I ordered Boyahoe. “Faster than you’ve ever run before.”

We left Ala-Qush behind in a growing pool of blood, my husband’s frail body already being washed clean by the rain. We had only one chance to escape, and together we raced toward the oak tree that Boyahoe and I had climbed the first winter I’d spent in Olon Süme.

The spirits of the dead must have clouded the eyes of the living, or perhaps it was only the thirst for blood that blinded them to us, for we had to backtrack often and I dared not sheath my sword as I ran. Once we rounded a corner and came upon an Onggud woman removing the decorated leather boots of a fallen man. The boot came off with a wet squelch and the woman gave us a gap-toothed grin. I ran as fleet-footed as a fox down the opposite alley, dragging Boyahoe behind me.

Finally, the tree was before us with its spread of bare branches.

I unclasped Boyahoe’s grip and pushed him in front of me. “Climb,” I
said, whirling around, my sword ready against anyone who might spot us. “Up and then along that branch close to the wall.”

“I can’t.” His body shook violently and he started to cry, great, heaving sobs that obscured his ability to speak. Voices followed us, echoing off the thick walls and making my heart thump like a war drum.

“On my back, then.” With great misgivings, I tucked the tiger sword into my belt as he clambered onto my back, smelling of piss from where he’d wet himself earlier, and his slight frame quaking with tremors so strong I worried he might shake himself loose. Slowly, one hand over the other, I hauled us up the tree, the dried bark cutting into my palms, yet I felt no pain despite the sensation of warm blood slick on my hands.

Once up the tree, I clung to the trunk and tested the branch with my foot, my heart falling as it creaked with the slightest pressure. It had gone rotten and was no longer strong enough to hold my weight, let alone that of myself and an eleven-year-old boy. This time of year there were no snowdrifts on the other side to jump into, nothing to soften our fall. Even the ravens had fled.

The rain obscured my vision, but a man on the other side of the wall stepped from the shadows and into the circle of light created by the conflagration behind us. I swallowed a sob and waited for the arrow’s whistle that would end all this, but instead, a familiar voice called to us. “You don’t have much time, Boyahoe.” Jingue spread his arms open wide. “Leap like a flying squirrel, and I’ll catch you.”

Jingue wouldn’t harm Boyahoe, regardless of whether he sided with the mob. “Do as your brother says,” I murmured to Boyahoe.

The boy hesitated, then shimmied down my back. The branch groaned, but he leapt with the swift motion of a soaring hawk. Jingue caught him with a pained grunt and they both tumbled to the ground.

My stepson safe, I now had two options. I could follow him over the wall or scramble down the tree and try to find some other route to safety.

But there was no other route, and Jingue and I both knew it.

“Come, Alaqai,” Jingue ordered from below. “They’ll be here any moment.”

My grave awaited me if I stayed within these walls. And although I’d
ushered others to their deaths, I had no wish to join their spirits in the sacred mountains. Not yet.

I ran along the branch, then launched myself into the air and away from Olon Süme’s fiery inferno as the branch finally groaned and crashed to the ground. The impact when I landed on the far side stole my breath, and I expected a sword at my throat as I struggled for air, but it never came. Instead, I scrambled to my feet and drew my tiger sword, pointing it at Jingue.

“What are you doing, Alaqai?” Jingue asked. His borrowed sword remained in his belt.

“I’m protecting myself from those who seek revenge against me,” I said, echoing his earlier warning that I keep my sword close. “Boyahoe told me you joined your uncle to hunt me down.”

He gave a strangled laugh. “After all this time, you still think I want you dead? Another dose of
gu
poison would have been far easier to arrange than torching all of Olon Süme and slaughtering my people in the streets.” His fists clenched and unclenched uselessly at his sides, and I kept the sword pointed at his throat. “I joined my uncle so I could save you. Aside from the tortoise gate, this is the only escape from the city, so I knew where you’d be.”

“So your uncle let you go?”

Jingue was silent for a moment. “Yes,” he finally said.

“And your mother? Would you leave her behind?”

I dared not mention his father, knowing that Ala-Qush still stared up at the night sky, his body bloodied and desecrated by his own people.

“My mother’s family will protect her, but my lot has been cast with you, Alaqai, for better or worse.”

I recognized the truth in his words. I owed Jingue my life and had destroyed his yet again, but there would be time later to wallow in guilt. “Then you’ll have to come with us to my father’s army,” I said, lowering my sword.

“The Khan will bring his wrath upon the Onggud,” Jingue said quietly. “He’ll raze what’s left of the city and slaughter everyone taller than a wagon wheel to punish them for this revolt.”

I had no desire to witness more death, yet there was nowhere else to go.

“We have to go, and now.” I was already moving away from the city and its promise of death. “There’s no alternative.”

Jingue glanced back at Olon Süme and all that we were leaving behind. “The monastery is a day’s ride from here,” he said. “They’ll have horses.”

“We’ll never make it there on foot.” At least not before we felt Onggud arrows in our backs.

Jingue gestured toward the dark hillside. “No, but we have camels.”

I’d forgotten the herds. There were no saddles, but fortunately the herders kept rope reins tied to the pointed wooden dowels strung through the animals’ noses. The beasts were a gift from the Earth Mother, but it took us so long to persuade the frightened animals to let us grab their reins that I almost screamed.

“Boyahoe should ride with me,” I said once I was on the back of a particularly ill-kept camel, its hair matted with dirt. My stepson was too frightened and exhausted to control his own mount. Jingue nodded but hissed with pain as he handed him up. It was only then that I noticed his tattered sleeve and the angry wound hidden beneath the torn fabric, a detail that had escaped my terror-stricken mind in the dark.

“What happened?” I asked, grabbing his wrist to inspect his forearm.

“It’s nothing.” Jingue tried to pull his arm back, but I held tight.

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” I said. The cut was long and straight, but not too deep. “This is a sword wound.”

“A sword wound will heal as well as any other injury,” he said, yet his gaze wouldn’t meet mine. “But not if we get killed before we reach the monastery.”

“Put pressure on it,” I said. “I can’t have you falling off your camel from loss of blood.”

I let him go then, noting the dark stain of dried blood on his sword for the first time and wondering if I’d ever know what he’d faced while Boyahoe and I ran through Olon Süme’s streets. Now wasn’t the time to ask.

We rode side by side all night, haunted by the ghosts of the dead and terrified of the living who might be pursuing us. I waited to speak until
Boyahoe’s head lolled against my arm in sleep and the only sounds were the exertions of the camels. “Your father is dead.”

Jingue’s jaw clenched in the watery moonlight and the vein in his temple pulsed like a tiny snake. “May his spirit rest well.”

I couldn’t relate the details, that I’d watched his father be butchered instead of saving him, had seen his body grow still as his spirit flew to the sky. I recalled Teb Tengeri’s words from long ago.

You carry death in your heart, just like the vermin you’re named for. Death’s own foot soldier.

I said nothing else to Jingue, only prayed under the cold sweep of stars that we wouldn’t soon greet Ala-Qush and the rest of the dead in the sacred mountains.

T
he monastery gave us horses and supplies as Jingue had promised, and the three of us soon followed the trail of scorched Jurched villages left in my father’s wake. Death blanketed the countryside; the only signs of life we encountered amongst the burned fields and broken pens were wild dogs and bent-necked vultures feeding on the waxy and bloated bodies and horse carcasses left to rot in the sun. Unfortunate Jurched corpses spilled purple intestines through bloody gashes, and others lay sprawled facedown with arrows protruding from their backs like giant porcupine quills. The stench of decomposing flesh burrowed its way into our noses and coated our tongues so I feared I’d never taste or smell anything save death.

Finally, we reached a town that had not yet been put to the torch, surrounded by a veritable city of felted field tents. The air was still and the wooden gates had been flung open as if in welcome, yet Mongol soldiers roamed the streets, relieving the abandoned countryside of its goats and pillaging anything that wasn’t nailed down. There were no peasants around, and I wondered then if these lucky Jurched had escaped with their lives, fleeing their beds and hovels in terror at news of my father’s approach. Instead, we’d later learn that they’d been captured and sent ahead with Sorkhokhtani’s contingent to dig up boulders to fill the moat of Liaoyang, the nearest Jurched capital and my father’s next siege target. The
peasants were motivated to dig quickly, for my father threatened to use their bodies instead if there weren’t enough stones.

I held my head high despite the caked mud and dried blood that still plastered my felts. One of my father’s soldiers finally recognized me beneath all the grime, and my name was shouted on the wind, followed by waves of men bending their knees to me. I felt Jingue’s gaze on me as I sat straighter in my saddle, proud of the honor paid to me by the people of my birth, although embarrassed that I’d never inspired such devotion from the Onggud.

My father emerged from his camp tent at the commotion, eyes hardening as he beheld the blood-spattered lot of us. “Greetings, Khan of Khans,” I said, dismounting. “We come bearing news of your vassal state, the Onggud of Olon Süme.”

“Unpleasant news, it appears,” he said, crossing his arms over his stocky chest. I could already hear the thoughts in his head, his plans to besiege my city and lay waste to its fields. Still, he beckoned us inside his traveling tent, away from the ears of his soldiers. “Bad news is best served over a good meal, and I just ordered a particularly fat Jurched sheep slaughtered for my dinner.”

The smell of boiling meat made my stomach growl in anticipation, and I filled the dented metal bowl my father offered me, pouring a bit of the mutton stew into the hearth fire for the spirits while Jingue and Boyahoe prayed over their food to the god of the cross. “Tell me what happened,” my father said.

It took far less time to relate the horrors of the attack than it had to survive them, although I skimmed over the worst of the atrocities, both for Boyahoe’s benefit and because I had no desire to relive them.

“The Onggud have served their
beki
and our vassal with treachery,” my father answered as he drained the last of his broth, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “They must be repaid in kind.”

And so Jingue’s warning would come true. New rivers of blood would run through the streets of Olon Süme, and more bodies would be piled like kindling within its walls. Although they’d kept me an outsider during my time as
beki
, I had no desire to see them destroyed.

“The Onggud aren’t a clan to be annihilated,” I said, setting down my bowl. “They are my people.”

And without them, I was no
beki
, only the failed daughter of a great conqueror.

My father scoffed. “You would show them mercy after all they’ve done?”

“A mother may punish her children, but only to teach them a lesson.” I spoke slowly, forming the words carefully. I thought of my own mother, feeling in my soul that she would approve of this decision. “Give me a contingent from your army and I’ll retake Olon Süme. But I will
not
raze it.”

“They won’t accept you,” my father said, shaking his head. “They must be cut down, and their bodies burned so their ashes feed the grass.”

With Ala-Qush dead, the rebels would need a new leader. Though bold, they wouldn’t be so audacious as to place someone from outside my husband’s white-boned lineage in the Great House. That left two candidates for the new Prince of Beiping. Fortunately for me, both were inside this tent.

“They will accept me,” I said, squaring my shoulders, “if I marry Jingue.”

Both men drew sharp inhales. I didn’t have the courage to face the revulsion I might see in Jingue’s expression, so I tipped my chin to my father, daring him to defy me. He only nodded after a moment, stroking his long mustache. “That is a sound approach.”

“Boyahoe must remain with you while we march on Olon Süme.” I wouldn’t present the rebels with a choice of who might lead them, nor would I put my stepson in further danger.

“How old are you, boy?” my father asked Boyahoe.

“I’ve seen eleven summers.” Boyahoe trembled in his seat, his eyes almost as wide as his ears over his untouched bowl of stew. My youngest stepson had been taught that Genghis Khan was a brutal and bloody conqueror, but he’d soon find my father was also a charismatic leader, a trait I hoped Boyahoe might one day learn to emulate.

“I’d say you’re old enough to learn the ways of war,” my father said,
slapping his own knee while Boyahoe’s eyes grew even larger. “I’d already killed my first man by your age.”

I refrained from mentioning that that man had also been my father’s brother. Instead, I dared to face Jingue, my heart thudding at his blank expression. “I’d have you, Jingue, son of Ala-Qush, as my husband,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “But will you have me?”

The silence might have lasted only moments, but to me it seemed an eternity. Jingue finally sighed and rubbed a hand over his haggard features, his forearm still wrapped in a dust-stained bandage. “Life never brings the expected when you’re around, does it, Alaqai?”

“You don’t have to agree,” I said, my cheeks flushing as my ire rose. “I’ll ride on Olon Süme alone if I have to.”

“I don’t doubt that you would,” he said, holding up a tired hand to stop my tirade. “But that won’t be necessary. I’ll take you as my wife, Alaqai, as you’ve commanded.”

The smile that jumped to my lips died just as quickly at the emptiness in his eyes. Jingue would make a worthy Prince of Beiping, and I’d dreamed of him in my bed countless times, yet he agreed to marry me now only because he had no choice. The joy at what should have been a glorious moment fled, leaving my heart hollow. I turned to my father, my voice flat. “When will the men be ready to ride?”

My father laid his hands on my shoulders as he’d often done to steady me when I was young, then pressed his forehead to mine. “You shall have your men at first light,
tarvag takal
,” he murmured. “But first we must see you married.”

*   *   *

My first marriage took place under the shadows of lies and half-truths, my second under the stain of war and revolt. Yet despite the circumstances, I was determined not to come to Jingue dressed as a refugee.

I sought out Enebish amongst the other Onggud healers housed within my father’s tents. She’d just finished packing Jingue’s wounded arm with a honey poultice, and both of them glanced up with hooded expressions when I entered the healers’ tent, a sure sign that they’d been discussing me.

“Thank you, sister,” Jingue said, avoiding looking at me. He passed by me with the sweet tang of honey, and Enebish watched him go.

“Did Jingue tell you how he was injured?” I asked.

Enebish busied herself rolling a tidy pile of wool bandages and packing her box of ointments. “Only that he earned it during the riot, after our father’s death.” Her fingers stilled. “He told me he’s to marry you tonight.”

I hesitated, then sighed. “I hoped you might help me find something to wear.” I gestured to my filthy
deel
. “I could just wear this . . .”

She folded her hands primly over her medicine box, her lips pursed. “I can scarcely see your face under all that grime. My brother should greet his bride swathed in silk, not wearing the blood of other men and a layer of dust from days spent traveling on the road.”

I clenched my teeth. “Does that mean you’ll help me or not?”

She closed her eyes, as if gathering strength for her reply. “Yes, Alaqai. It means I’ll help you.”

Together we spent the afternoon wandering through empty Jurched houses and rifling carefully through the many abandoned and brightly painted chests until we found what we were looking for. The green silk
deel
was wrapped in yellowing paper and embroidered with reclining dragons, and a cloud of dust and the hopes of a bride from long ago billowed from it when I shook it out.

“It’s lovely,” Enebish said, her eyes warm as she fingered the soft silk. “You’ll make a beautiful bride for my brother. Once you’ve had a thorough bath, that is.”

I almost dropped the
deel
at her compliment, but Enebish’s expression was sincere. With a ragged fingernail I traced the silk dragons, their coiled tails and the fire billowing from their mouths. “I expected you to spit and hiss when you learned I was to marry Jingue,” I said.

She acted for a moment as if she hadn’t heard me. “Sometimes we’re forced to make difficult decisions,” she finally said. “I may not agree with all your choices, but this marriage will save my family and my people.
Our
people. That makes me happy, as I believe it does Jingue.”

“You don’t know your brother very well,” I muttered, but Enebish only smiled. “Will you come with us back to Olon Süme?” I asked.

“If you think it best,” she said, her gaze dropping.

“You’d prefer to remain here instead, to continue patching up my father’s wounded soldiers?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Perhaps one day I’ll ache to marry some noble dressed in camlet
and bear his children, but for now I enjoy my work here, setting bones and sewing wounds for men who need me to save their lives, and not their vanity.”

There was nothing else she might have said to convince me to let her have her way. I’d not deprive Enebish of her happiness in this life, especially as her work assisted my father. “Then you shall remain here,” I said.

“Thank you, Alaqai.” She gave me a mischievous smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever said it before, but I’m sorry we tried to kill you when you first came to Olon Süme.”

“I accept your apology, late though it is.” I laughed. I knew not whether Enebish was more daughter or sister, but against all odds, she’d become a part of my family all the same.

“Now, go put this on,” Enebish said. “And I’ll find some hairpins for those stubborn tangles of yours.”

Enebish rifled through more chests and I draped the emerald
deel
across my chest, a waterfall of green silk that ended in a froth of golden dragons. “Thank you for letting me borrow this treasure,” I whispered to its unknown owner, wondering if she was still alive and on her way to Liaoyang, or beyond that, the Northern Capital. I would return the priceless outfit after the ceremony, and perhaps one day she would come home to find it folded differently than she’d left it, and scented with fresh hopes.

I prayed for victory and happiness with Jingue, yet I didn’t discount the very real possibility of failure.

Enebish and I hummed traditional wedding songs while I tied the coordinating deep yellow silk sash around my waist in a simple knot and she plaited my hair into a makeshift
boqta
, an elaborate pile of coils my clumsy fingers never would have managed. Finally, I carried my tiger sword with me, for tomorrow I would be transformed from a bride into a warrior
beki
intent on reclaiming her right to rule.

My father was waiting when I emerged into the gray haze of twilight,
his smile deepening the creases that fanned from the corners of his eyes. Shigi and the Four Dogs of War flanked him, and the purification fires burned as bright as the flames that had devoured my
ger
in Olon Süme. I was struck by the incongruity of a wedding on a field of battle, some grim joke of mischievous spirits.

“I wish your mother could witness this,” my father said, low enough so only I could hear. “Instead, Shigi shall transcribe everything to share with her one day around the hearth fire.”

Shigi beckoned for my sword then, and I cocked my head in question, but he only waggled his fingers in response. I relinquished the blade, opening my mouth to protest when he tucked it into his own belt. “You’ll have it back come morning,” he murmured, threading something in my hair. “Your very wise uncle doesn’t want you to be tempted to use it on your new groom. After all, you do have your father’s temper.”

I made a face at that, then touched the new ornament he’d placed in my hair, trying to discern its design.

“A jade tiger,” Shigi said. “It seems a fitting trade for your sword, at least for tonight.”

“Go well, Alaqai,” my father said, gesturing to the tall man who approached, dressed in a brown silk
deel
that had likely been pilfered from another obliging Jurched trunk. Even so, the sight of Jingue made my heart trip. “This man of yours is a good one.”

“He is indeed.” Yet I was far from good, forcing Jingue into this marriage. I offered a wan smile to my waiting groom and was surprised at the heat I saw in his eyes. Then he blinked, and the fire was banked as he held out his hand for mine.

Without a proper wedding tent, we walked between the purification fires and down the dusty path filled with thousands of soldiers’ footprints. Jingue intoned a prayer to his god of the cross and I prayed to the Earth Mother before we entered my father’s traveling
ger
, lent to us for the night before we rode for Olon Süme in the morning. There was no salt tea to serve to my father’s Dogs of War, but I poured many mismatched porcelain bowls of wine, requisitioned by our soldiers from abandoned Jurched homes. Jingue and I drank from our own bowls first; then our fingers
brushed as we switched and placed our lips on the imprint left by the other.