The Tiger Queens Read online

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  Sorkhokhtani’s caravan of silk and horses arrived on one of the brightest days of spring, accompanied by her father to share the milk of the betrothal agreement. I would not bid farewell to my sons so they might complete their bride-price, but instead gathered daughters as the clans sought the privilege of marrying into the family of the future Great Khan. The People of the Felt sprawled before us in a sea of brown faces, including Gurbesu standing up front in a stunning red deel and Shigi in his black scribe’s cap, already taking down notes with the pen and ink he carried in his sleeves. Alaqai and our elder sons stood behind us, but Tolui squirmed at my side, uncomfortable in the stiff new deel and blue headdress I’d made him wear. Almost twelve summers old, he had cheeks that were still round, and every so often he suppressed a cough, one he’d picked up as winter had ebbed.

  Jamba Gamu stood to the side of his daughter’s horse and Genghis helped her dismount, a symbolic acceptance of our future daughter even as he threw his head back with a triumphant roar of laughter. Tolui grinned back at his brothers. “My wife is prettier than any you’ll ever have,” Tolui whispered, but Ogodei only winked at Alaqai and then yawned.

  “Too bad you can’t marry her for another four years, little pup,” Ogodei drawled.

  Tolui opened his mouth to argue, but I silenced him with a glare that threatened to turn him to ash. Together we stepped forward to greet Sorkhokhtani. She’d seen perhaps seventeen summers and immediately bowed to us, the brass bells at the ends of her tall red headdress tinkling. I would soon learn that this new daughter of mine was a creature of music, filling her days with the sounds of bells and her horsehair fiddle rather than with idle chatter as girls were often wont to do.

  “I bring Genghis Khan and Borte Khatun greetings from the Kereyid,” she said, her voice reminding me of a stream slipping over the smooth stones of an ancient creek bed. Her features were as delicate as the rest of her, save a brown mole high on her left cheek. “I am honored to one day marry your Prince of the Hearth.”

  I laid my palms lightly on the girl’s shoulders, as fragile as birds’ wings, and I pressed my forehead to hers. I was accustomed to my sturdy Alaqai, who was always ready to rough-and-tumble with her brothers, and wondered whether Tolui’s intended wife was as delicate as my youngest son. I wondered then at her thoughts, whether she was as terrified as I had been to meet my new family, or if she viewed this as an opportunity to continue her family’s prestige. Her skin glowed like a ripe moon and I offered her a warm smile, but her expression remained placid.

  I linked her arm through mine to introduce her to her new home, and vowed then that I would not spy on Sorkhokhtani as Hoelun had done when I’d arrived to share her hearthstones. Still, I wondered at this girl’s secrets, at the hidden desires of her heart. From the hooded expression she wore, I had a feeling that she’d not soon share them with us.

  * * *

  Only months later and despite my many protests, my husband rode into battle against the remaining Merkid clan—the last of Jamuka’s followers. Genghis routed their bedraggled soldiers and returned with a meager caravan of spoils, having allotted most of the treasure to his deserving men. He gifted Sorkhokhtani a priceless two-stringed tobshuur carved from a single ancient birch tree, and Hoelun a black cart drawn by a sleek white camel as befitted the mother of the future Great Khan. Shigi’s eyes bulged at a gift of a stack of pristine paper with a set of gilded pens and a silver inkpot. Each of our children received new swords. Alaqai’s was thinner than the boys’, but the hilt was inlaid with jade and decorated with golden tigers.

  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 something, but for someone.”

  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.”

  Chapter 13

  1206 CE

  YEAR OF THE FIRE TIGER

  In 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 ou
r 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 sai
d, 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.