The Tiger Queens (36 page)

“True,” the tiny one said, her soothing voice reminding me of the call to prayer. “But only because I’ve also avoided the burden of love.”

“Sorkhokhtani is Princess of the Hearth,” Toregene said quietly. “She received news of Alaqai’s impending arrival and traveled to meet her in my absence.”

I nodded distractedly as I sought a way to empty my bowl without Alaqai’s notice. If only I could throw the stew onto the fire when she wasn’t looking, but the fumes would likely kill us all.

“My first marriage spared me love and also joy, but my second gave me love and my hellion of a son,” Alaqai said, staring at the hole in the ceiling. “I once scoffed at Gurbesu for her three weddings, but only the gods know what my third marriage shall bring.”

“Third?” I choked at both her blasphemy and the idea of taking three husbands, thankfully not at the same time, although I wouldn’t put even that past these heathens.

“Alaqai weds Boyahoe in the morning,” Toregene said calmly. “Although I’ve asked her to wait for the arrival of her mother. I’m sure Borte Khatun would wish to see you off.”

“A widow is weak and broken in the eyes of the Onggud.” Alaqai gave a derisive snort. “Despite my ten years being married to Jingue and the prosperity they brought to Olon Süme, they believe I can only be whole again once I marry a boy almost half my age. I cannot wait for my mother.”

“Boyahoe had grown into a capable soldier,” Toregene chided, “and a good man.”

“I know, but he’s not Jingue.” Alaqai drew a shuddering sigh, pressing her fist into her heart. “No one can ever take his place.”

“Of course not,” Sorkhokhtani said. “But you must do what’s best for Negudei now. Your son and his lands must be your main concern.”

Alaqai sat up, rubbing her temples. “That’s why I’m here. Negudei is all I have left of Jingue,” she said, her lip trembling again. “That boy is wilder than I was at his age, yet every glimpse of him reminds me of his father. I’d do anything for that child, yet I can’t help wondering . . . Teb Tengeri once told me I carried death in my heart. I’ve outlived two husbands and I have no desire to outlive a third. Not only that, but I’d wish for more for Boyahoe than to marry his brother’s old widow.”

“You’re hardly old,” Toregene said. “For if you were, that would make me a crone.”

“I’m thirty-one,” Alaqai said. “I’m old enough to be Boyahoe’s mother.”

“His very
young
mother,” Toregene corrected, a smile playing at her
lips. “You’re only nine years older than Boyahoe, and he’s no longer a fledgling falcon whose feathers are still gray. Many women would tremble with anticipation at having such a young man in their bed.”

“You have your son and your kingdom,” Sorkhokhtani said, changing the subject while her fingers stroked Alaqai’s hair as if she were playing a lute. “In the absence of all else, our children still give our lives meaning.”

I was glad for the darkness that hid my face then. I had no parents, no husband, and no children, nothing to keep me tethered to this life, save my desire for revenge.

Alaqai seemed to sense my sadness and leaned toward me. She removed a comb from her hair and tucked it behind my ear. I touched it, trying to make out its shape with my fingers.

“A jade tiger,” she said. “A gift from one widow to another, so we never forget that we’re not alone.”

“Thank you,” I said, almost stuttering the words. “But I have nothing to give you.”

She smiled then. “You ate my stew. That’s gift enough for me.”

I listened with one ear as Alaqai lay down again and the women talked of Genghis’ latest forays into Persia and plans for the coming winter. I kept my fingers and my imagination busy assembling a platter of soft cheese and wine to replace the inedible slop Alaqai had tried to poison us with, even as my guts protested over the lone bite—I doubted whether even pigs would eat the gray swill.

Only once Alaqai had drifted into a fitful sleep and Sorkhokhtani had slipped away to take her husband to their tent did I find Toregene at my elbow.

“Did Ogodei offer to sleep with you?”

How does one answer a woman when asked about her randy bull of a husband’s lewd propositioning? I checked Toregene’s expression for venom, but her features were as placid as if she’d just commented on the existence of the sun. I hesitated, then decided to tell her the truth.

“He did,” I said, wondering whether I should tell her of Güyük’s offer as well. No woman wanted to hear that a son of her womb was a womanizing wretch, so I spared her. “But I refused.”

Toregene shrugged. “Ogodei can be terribly charming when he chooses. Few decline his advances.” She spoke detachedly, as if she didn’t care how many women her husband took to steed, but it seemed contrived. “Ogodei isn’t as wily as his father, but neither is he stupid. If he bides his time, one day he’ll be Khan.”

I wondered if we were speaking of the same man. “How can you be sure the Khan won’t choose one of his other sons?”

She ticked off the other possible heirs on her fingers. “Jochi and Chaghatai are the elder brothers, but they got into an awful brawl over that very question and each threatened to cut down the other if he was named the successor, so Genghis named Ogodei instead. That was years ago, but Jochi doesn’t share the Khan’s blood, and Chaghatai is a brute known for riding his horses to death and raping his soldiers’ women. And it won’t be blubbering Tolui—even Sorkhokhtani knows that.” Toregene seemed far away for a moment. “No . . . it must be Ogodei.”

I almost felt pity for Genghis then, to be saddled with such miserable sons that the great lump of flesh I’d encountered tonight was the best of the lot. I had difficulty imagining bellowing, red-faced Ogodei as Khan and cringed at the idea of Güyük one day becoming leader of the Mongols. Genghis Khan’s son would direct the empire of horsemen to raid only those cities with extensive vineyards, while his grandson would surely inspire hatred both within and without his empire.

Perhaps it was the black and withered fruit of Genghis’ lineage that would finally cause his empire to come crashing down and free the world from his terror.

I smiled at the thought. There was nothing more I wished to see than the utter destruction of these people. And when it happened, I would crow with victory just as Al-Altun had on the walls of Nishapur.

1226 CE

YEAR OF THE FIRE DOG

W
ithout my permission, the days turned to weeks and months and then years. I soon realized that these Mongols were fearsome warriors because everything in their lives, from the food to the weather, was raw and harsh. The summer was transient; blistering heat often followed torrential downpours, but as the winter snows fell I’d have given anything for the summer mud that seeped underfoot in Toregene’s
ger
during the worst of the rains. Even worse were the mosquitoes that feasted on me every time I walked outside to fetch water or lay cheeses out to dry.

I awoke each winter morning to a water bucket frozen solid and a thin sheen of ice on my upper lip from my breath. At Toregene’s urging, I’d taken instruction from Shigi in recording the events of the Golden Family, but during the winter we were unable to do even that, for the ink froze as hard as a rock and our fingers became cramped and brittle from the cold. The days grew shorter and there was no fruit to eat on the winter solstice, no dates or even dried apricots as we used to nibble long into the dark Night of Birth, as we’d done at home. I survived what I thought was the worst of the cold, but after the winter solstice came the season of the Nine Nines, nine sets of nine days so frigid I’d have wept if it wouldn’t have left ice on my cheeks: the First Nine, when a pail of water thrown into the air freezes before it hits the ground; the Third Nine, when the horns
of a four-year-old ox freeze; and the Seventh Nine, when the hilltops blacken. During those months, I’d have given my soul for a sweet desert breeze with its scents of sand and saffron, or better yet a bag of dried cherries.

But my soul was doomed the night my mother died, so I went without fragrant desert breezes or dried fruits. This was the end of the Ninth Nine, when the air no longer bit my face, and I was glad to enter the season of the White Moon after the winter solstice, when the Mongols roused themselves from their snow-covered tents to traipse from
ger
to
ger
,
stuffing their wind-burned cheeks with fresh white curds,
buuz
mutton dumplings, and sheep-tail fat—a so-called delicacy I refused to touch, much less swallow. Shigi had delighted me with a precious gift of dried apricots, saved in a pewter tin since autumn, when the last of the caravans had passed our camp.

My ever-present grief for Mansoor had dulled with the passing months and years, even as my recollection of my husband’s chiseled cheekbones and his almond eyes grew dim. Part of my heart was forever lost, yet I found that I enjoyed Shigi’s quiet companionship while I adjusted Toregene’s ledgers and he worked on recording the actions of the Great Khan. Perhaps I spun fancies from the air, but I thought he might enjoy my company, too.

“You seem to have found some peace here, Fatima of Nishapur,” he had said one day, finishing his writing and wiping his hands on a bit of damp felt. I resisted the urge to bid him to use sesame oil to scrub away the ink stains, for that was something I’d once told Mansoor. Also, I’d yet to see a drop of sesame oil since I’d left Nishapur, something my chapped hands could attest to.

“Not peace,” I had said, hiding those hands in the sleeves of my woolen cloak, sewn by my own hands in the draping Persian style along with a new veil and head scarf. I’d long ago folded away the clothes I’d worn from Nishapur, burying the robe and veil in the bottom of one of Toregene’s trunks so I wouldn’t be reminded of the day I’d left my old life. Part of me wished to burn the borrowed silks, yet I also wished to have something from home in case I ever returned. Or at least so I might be buried in
proper clothing and not a
deel
stinking of wet sheep. “No, not peace at all,” I murmured. “More like resignation.”

Shigi had set down the cloth and stared at me for a moment, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Perhaps that was it at first, but I’ve seen your eyes light with a smile when you think no one is watching.”

I felt my cheeks flush at the realization that
he
had been watching me. Here in the vast emptiness of Mongolia, I was caught between trying not to draw attention to myself and also refusing to become a ragged heathen. Of everyone, it seemed only Shigi understood my desperate need to cling to the remnants of my former life. It was he who brought me volumes of poetry stolen by Mongol raiders and a blank record book in which he urged me to write an account of my life. The words I read and those I wrote allowed me to escape this new life of mine, and against my will I felt my heart softening toward Shigi, that softening always followed by a wave of guilt, as if my very thoughts made me unfaithful to my dead husband.

Shigi reached out then and touched my hair, his touch simultaneously shocking and pleasing. “This comb is familiar,” he said. “Did Alaqai give it to you?”

“She did,” I answered, hating the way my voice caught. “How did you know?”

He smiled. “I gave it to her, on her wedding night.”

“A very thoughtful gift,” I said, remembering what Alaqai had said when she gave it to me,
a gift from one widow to another
.
Yet here I was, sitting beside a handsome man who was decidedly not my husband.

“Actually, I only gave it to Alaqai so she wouldn’t kill her husband with that tiger sword of hers,” Shigi said, rising. “It’s a long story, perhaps one you’d care to hear during the feast tonight?”

“Perhaps,” I answered, unsure whether I spoke the truth. During the recent solstice celebrations, I had tried not to remember similar feasts with my family during Ramazˉan nights, my father’s jokes and Mansoor’s slow smile as we filled our empty bellies after a day of fasting. But those celebrations were only faded memories now. After three days of celebration and drinking enough wine and
airag
to fell a herd of oxen, the Mongols would
stumble back to their tents, there to remain until fresh shoots of grass speckled the melting snow.

And when spring came, I’d wait for the narcissus outside Toregene’s tent to emerge from the frozen earth. I always split the narcissus bulbs under spring’s first full moon, keeping them in a hammered-bronze chest until I could replant them each fall. Narcissus flowers ringed Toregene’s tent every spring, their delicate white faces nodding in the breeze.

A circle of beauty that still held the promise of revenge.

I waited for Al-Altun to travel to our camp, but she remained in the west, controlling the Uighur people alone with the authority claimed by a child of Genghis Khan. We received news that Alaqai ruled the Onggud while Boyahoe carried out the Khan’s orders to expand east toward the lands of the Song.

I spent the endless march of days recording for Toregene, preparing her bowls of salt tea, and arranging platters of famed Basra dates when the traders came from the west as the snow melted. Toregene taught me about the plants and herbs native to the steppes, and I traded the knowledge my mother had given me about our garden, although I kept secret the lethal qualities of the narcissus bulbs planted outside her door.

Tonight the sliver of the White Moon shone overhead as I hurried down to the frozen lake to relieve myself, burrowing deeper into my layers of rabbit fur and brushing aside shadows like cobwebs. Toregene had long ago stopped teasing me each time I bundled myself up for the long trek, for many Mongols in the winter scarcely poked their bare backsides out of their tents to relieve themselves.

Although I was forced to live among animals, that didn’t mean I would debase myself to act like one.

I grimaced and picked my way around newly revealed piles of old horse dung in the dirty snow, my face flushing at the moans and other sounds of lovemaking that drifted from several tents while the happy couples inside took advantage of the White Moon to plant new seeds. I felt my loneliness keenly then, recalling the way I clambered into my pile of freezing blankets each night and shivered myself asleep. Through the bare trees, the moon’s curve glowed on the lake’s glistening ice, and clouds the color of ink
swirled above in the dark sky. Snowflakes swirled down in mad patterns, like calligraphy drawn in the air with bits of ice. Although I’d never admit it aloud, this land had some beauty to it, and the dainty lace of snow that clung to my sleeve reminded me of the delicate silver filigree that decorated the interior of Nishapur’s mosque. I’d expected the lake path to be empty, but someone stood at the edge of the ice, her white hair gleaming down her back like an errant shaft of moonlight.

The woman didn’t acknowledge my presence. Despite her age, there was only one woman in camp who stood as tall and straight as a minaret.

The weather had warmed enough that Borte Khatun had traveled to the camp of her third son for the White Moon festival. Genghis Khan had chosen his lesser wife Yesui to accompany him as he campaigned against the troublesome Tanghut, leaving the administration of his homelands to Borte. Ogodei had managed to stay sober long enough to welcome his mother and then had outdone himself drinking and carousing. Over the past few days, Borte had visited Toregene’s tent several times in the full regalia of the Khatun, and I’d found her milking goats and boiling yogurt while still wearing her towering green headdress, but tonight she wore only a wool robe. The Khatun plucked a handful of the alder catkins Toregene sometimes boiled into a bitter tea, tasted one, and then tossed the lot to the ground. “His shade won’t protect us much longer,” she mumbled to herself. “Jamuka has abandoned us.”

“Borte Khatun?” I spoke hesitantly, not wishing to startle her. A recent rebellion in Rus had been crushed—the majority of the rebels had been cut down and the two Rus princes had been stretched out under boards and suffocated while the Mongols stood on the wooden planks during the victory banquet—but news from the north had come only weeks ago that Borte’s eldest son, Jochi, had died, leaving his sons Orda and Batu to lead the White and Blue Hordes.

The Mother of the Mongols whirled around, her wide eyes reflecting the white snow. The Khan’s senior wife stood taller than me, but without her headdress she seemed stooped and frail. It occurred to me that perhaps the Khan had traveled to conquer the Tanghut without his chief wife because she lacked the strength for such an ordeal. “The storm gathers
tonight,” Borte muttered, but she stared right through me. “And nothing shall shelter us from its destruction.”

I glanced at the night sky, as placid as the frozen lake. “I don’t think we have to worry about any storms tonight.”

She blinked and her vision seemed to clear. “Fatima. I didn’t realize you were there.” She reached out a hand to steady herself, swaying on her feet.

“Are you well, Borte Khatun?” I said.

“For now,” she said, offering a wan smile as I took her arm. “Although I fear that shall not last long. You were not bred for a life such as this, were you, Fatima of Nishapur?”

She patted my hand when I didn’t answer. “Neither was I, my child. I tried to avoid it, for my mother proclaimed in my youth that I would usher in a war of blood and destruction. Mine was only the beginning of our epic tale, the start of this quest for a mighty empire. I must be content with the choices I’ve made, and the knowledge that, although the
tobshuur
players will long sing of our family around the hearthstones, I won’t live to know the ending.” She sighed. “We must all suffer in this life. You’ve suffered more than most, but I fear neither of us has reached the end of our travails.”

I opened my right hand to ward off the evil eye, wishing for a handful of esfand seeds to burn over a charcoal brazier then—two staples of any proper Persian home—with their tiny explosions and fragrant smoke that warded off malevolent spirits. Borte’s words reminded me of the fortune-teller my mother had once asked to visit her sickbed, a silk-clad woman who carried a little bird to pick snippets of illuminating poems from a box, and who, for an added fee, read the dark dregs of my mother’s tea. Yet Borte Khatun’s warning seemed to carry more import than the fortune-teller’s prophecy that my mother should throw lentils in a rushing river to rid herself of the pain that had only just started to gnaw at her bones. I glanced down at the snow so Borte couldn’t see my face. “You’ve lost your boots,” I said.

The Khatun’s bare toes poked out from under the snow-crusted hem of her
deel
. She lifted a gnarled hand and caressed my cheek. “So I have, my dear,” she said. “And I shall soon lose so much more in the days to come.”

I watched Borte shuffle back the way I’d come. Perhaps it was how she carried herself, or the air of fragility that followed her, but the Khatun of the Thirteen Hordes reminded me of another woman on a different winter’s night. It seemed a travesty that the innocuous weapons of illness and old age could bring such strong women so low. “Are you sure you’ll be all right, Khatun?”

She stopped and nodded. “Of course, Fatima of Nishapur. But I shall rely upon your strength in the days to come.”

A shiver of foreboding curled down my spine as she retreated, and I saw her footprints in the snow, each step tinged with blood.

*   *   *

All that spring we endured poundings of hail, another abuse particular to this wretched land, which flattened the new grass so the horses and goats starved. Bolts of rotten silk arrived from Cathay riddled with moth holes, and the expected camel caravans laden with packs of Persian limes and dates failed to materialize, leaving me aching with dusty memories of home.

On the day the storm unleashed itself, Toregene had disappeared somewhere and I sat with Borte, sewing marten fur into Toregene’s winter robe while the Khatun churned butter. Despite the fact that Borte owned the finest of wooden churns, the Khan’s senior wife claimed the best butter was shaken in a sheep’s stomach so it tasted of grass and red clover. I enjoyed watching her work, be it churning butter or shaping giant blocks of cheese curds to dry in the sun, her old hands conveying peace and wisdom to everything she touched. But as a rider approached, she dropped the bloated sheep stomach to the grass and rose on unsteady legs, her face as pale as the moon.