The Tiger Queens Page 19

  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.”

  Part II

  The Khan’s Daughter

  Chapter 14

  1206 CE

  YEAR OF THE FIRE TIGER

  My mother named me Alaqai, Palm of the Hand, thinking that the clot of blood in my fist when I fell from her womb meant that I would follow in my father’s footsteps to become a great leader. Yet to my father I would always be tarvag takal, his Siberian marmot. But our people’s word for marmot has another meaning, one that brings to mind black boils erupting on a man’s skin, the fevered flush of a child’s forehead, the last rattle of air in a woman’s dying lungs.

  Tarvag takal means marmot, but it is also the name of the plague our people fear.

  The spirits of countless dead soldiers had breathed life into me while I was still in my mother’s womb, surrounded by the scourge of war on a battlefield.

  And so my name is one of power. And also of death.

  * * *

  The eagle soared silently through the air, a stark outline of brown and gold against the Eternal Blue Sky, and a screech that would have curdled the blood in any warrior’s veins accompanied its dive to earth. My pulse thrummed in my ears and I clutched my gelding’s reins, standing in my stirrups for a better view. The sun-drenched grasses waved wildly and a hidden fox screamed as the raptor made contact. I sat down hard in my saddle, a triumphant grin on my face. I’d witnessed plenty of horse races and wrestling matches in my fifteen years, but never the fabled Kazakh eagle hunt.

  “It’s no wonder my father recruited you and your riders into his army,” I marveled to the young Kazakh soldier next to me, his hat the same shade as freshly spilled blood. I’d met him only that morning and had persuaded him to let me accompany him with his eagle instead of watching the races. “I’d almost trade my horse for that eagle of yours!”

  “He’s a fine animal, Alaqai Beki,” the Kazakh said, giving my black gelding an appraising stare. His gaze continued its way along my legs and farther upward. This man knew my title and my position as Genghis Khan’s only daughter, yet I hadn’t troubled myself to even ask his name. It didn’t seem like it mattered.

  “I said I’d almost trade,” I said, tossing my long braid over my shoulders. “I’ll ride Neer-Gui until the day he dies.”

  “Neer-Gui?” The Kazakh’s furrowed brow deepened the lines in his face. “You named your horse?”

  Mongol horses were meant to work and then fill a stewpot. Neer-Gui meant No-Name, so I hadn’t broken the unspoken rule against naming him, and I’d skewer anyone who tried to butcher him. Unfortunately, the yearly winter slaughter of geldings fast approached, and it would be difficult to persuade my mother that he wouldn’t be more useful as sausage. “The only person I like more than Neer-Gui is my father,” I said with a shrug. “It only seemed fitting that he have a name.”

  The Kazakh stared at me as if I’d spoken Turkic to him, so I kicked my horse and galloped across the plain, trailing my long shadow and hearing him holler to his warhorse. I reached the kill site first and reined in hard. The eagle perched atop a pile of shimmering orange fur, blinking her brown eyes when the Kazakh collected her onto his thick leather glove.

  “Can I hold her?” I asked. I ached to touch this stunning creature before the opportunity passed forever.

  He hesitated and the eagle cauled hungrily, revealing her silver-white tongue. “The Khan would have me disemboweled if she hurt you,” he said, raising his hand to stall my protest. “But you may feed her.”

  I unsheathed my knife with a grin and made quick work of the fox, cutting a slit down its belly, careful to avoid puncturing the stomach and spilling its putrid contents, and peeling the thick fur away from the glistening pink sinews. I sliced a long strip of flesh from its hind leg and dangled it above the eagle’s hooked beak. Kazakhs withheld food from their eagles before a hunt, so the famished raptor snapped up my offering.

  “You are a beautiful bird,” I said to her, resisting the urge to touch her gleaming wing. “And a mighty warrior.”

  “The eagle hunt is only for the eyes of men,” the Kazakh said, repeating the excuse he’d first used to put me off. He maneuvered the bird onto the carcass, letting her tear into the warm muscles as a reward as he carelessly tossed the fox pelt onto his saddle. “If any of my soldiers discovered that I’d shown its secrets to a woman, even the daughter of the Great Khan—”

  I glanced about the empty sweep of green, unable to hear the sounds from my father’s khurlatai, even swollen as it was with clans come from as far as the Altai Mountains to install him as Great Khan. “I appreciate the risk you took,” I said, stepping closer and trailing a finger up his chest. The fox pelt shimmered in his saddle, its sunlit hairs trembling in the breeze. The fur would make a decadent trim on my new hat for the coming winter. “And I believe I still owe you.”

  I’d promised the Kazakh only a kiss in exchange for showing me his eagle in action, but the heat of the sun and the width of his shoulders made me want more, and he was happy to oblige. His caresses were coarse and hurried, but as the saying goes, even foul water will quench a fire. I shed my deel and pushed him back into the grass, loosening his trousers and grinning at his slack-jawed expression. He recovered quickly from his shock, his fingers digging into the backs of my thighs, and I concentrated on the rhythm of his body under mine. I was dimly aware of the sun beating down on my back and the grasshoppers chirping in the sedges as a thin wave of pleasure made me shudder. The Kazakh finished with a grunt and I rolled away, shrugging back into my light summer deel. He was still lying in the grass with his trousers around his knees when I took the fox pelt from his saddle and buried my face in it, breathing in the animal’s musk amidst the sunshine.

  “You’re a generous man,” I said, batting my eyelashes shamelessly and ignoring the smear of fox blood on my fingers. “Would you mind terribly if I kept this?”

  He sat up and rubbed his jaw, his pupils still dilated. “I don’t know—”

  “I’m sure your eagle can catch another one.” I threw the fur over my shoulder and vaulted onto my horse’s back. The sun hung brightly over the distant mountains—if I didn’t hurry I’d miss the wrestling competition. I kicked my gelding’s ribs and glanced back through my tangled hair to see the Kazakh standing by his warhorse, fumbling with his rope belt and wearing a bewildered expression. The eagle let out a shrill cry like laughter and Neer-Gui snorted in derision as he ran.

  I laughed with them, rubbing my chee
k against the fox pelt. Like most men, the eagle hunter had underestimated me simply because I was a girl.

  After all, no man expected to be bested by a Siberian marmot.

  * * *

  The shadows were short and I scrambled to keep my footing, feeling sweat trickle down my temples as my burly opponent and I danced around the ring. Only men and boys were allowed to compete in the wrestling competition, but I’d had enough time after the eagle hunt to bind my breasts under a blue vest and smudge my face with mud and a bit of manure so no one would recognize me.

  I attempted to maneuver my arms around the man’s shoulders, but he blocked the move and lunged to grab my braid.

  “This will be the end of you, boy.” Boroghul’s snarl revealed bits of horsemeat stuck between his crooked teeth. My father’s favorite cook, Boroghul had taken time out from distributing food and guarding the precious gift of wine brought by the Onggud in order to compete in the wrestling tournament today. He had teats like an old sow and his bare belly glistened in the summer sunshine, thick black hairs curling over the waistband of a breechcloth stained with horse blood and charcoal.

  “Get him, Alaqai!” Tolui jumped up and down from the edge of the ring where he stood next to Ogodei and Toregene. My brothers Jochi and Chaghatai were much older than me, and too busy trying to impress my father to spend time with their younger sister, so I spent most of my days wrestling and racing with Ogodei and Tolui, although I’d seen less of Ogodei recently. Toregene had agreed to marry him a few months before the khurlatai, becoming his second wife although she was several years older than him. Ogodei’s first wife had been barren for three years, but Toregene’s stomach already swelled with their first child, which my favorite brother crowed about so often I’d threatened to sew his lips shut more than once.

  Of course, I could barely wield a needle; I’d have better luck shooting him in the mouth with an arrow.

  Boroghul’s eyes widened in surprise and he lurched back. “Alaqai? As in Alaqai Beki?”

  Toregene yanked Tolui to her and whispered something in his ear. Wearing an official blue judge’s cap, Shigi stared at me from the middle of the ring before shaking his head; he certainly wouldn’t appreciate my bending the rules. Having recently been appointed both judge and scribe for the People of the Felt, Shigi wore dark smudges under his eyes from all the late nights he’d spent working on the Jasagh, my father’s new code of law. Tolui jabbed the air with his fists, sloshing airag over the jug he held, which Ogodei quickly requisitioned as he hollered a brother’s helpful advice in my direction. “Uppercut!”

  I took the momentary advantage of the distraction and let fly a scream like the Kazakh’s golden eagle before launching myself to his right. Boroghul turned just as I’d hoped, and I leapt to his front and slammed my elbow into his soft belly. For a moment it was like a pebble thrown upon a mountain, but then he gasped and crouched over, suddenly weak in the legs. I slammed into him one last time and used the toe of my turned-up boot to hook his ankle, and he crashed to the earth with a dull thud.

  There was a moment of hushed silence, and then Shigi stepped forward. The sun caught the gold ring he wore in his nose, and for a moment I feared he’d declare the match invalid. Instead, his eyes sparkled and the corners of his mouth twitched. He took my hand and lifted it in the air, pressing the traditional victor’s bowl of cheese curds into my free hand. “The small one wins!” Toregene let out a whoop of victory as Shigi leaned down to whisper in my ear. “I only wish you’d told me you were competing.”

  “So you could forbid it?” I asked, waiting for a tirade as I tossed the curds to the waiting crowd. Men dove for the treats, likely made from my mother’s own churn before the sun rose this morning.

  “No,” Shigi answered. “So I could have bet on you.”

  I grinned like a fool as Tolui collected bets from men twice his size. Ogodei tossed me a rag and my share of the earnings, then draped his thick arm around my shoulders while I scrubbed most of the manure from my face. “Next time try to finish a little sooner, eh, little sister?” he said, ignoring the trail of people that seemed to always crowd his shadow. Of all my brothers, Ogodei had inherited my father’s ability to draw people to him, both men and women alike. “I drained a full jug of wine waiting for you to finish off that lout.”

  I sniffed the dark dregs of his container, wrinkling my nose at the sour smell of the alcohol that the Onggud delegation had brought as a gift to my father. They claimed the drink was made from fermented grapes, and they had brought dried versions of the fruit, which my brothers and I had tasted and spit into our hands. Eating dung would have been preferable to these Onggud foods, although all my brothers except Jochi had warmed immediately to the wine.

  I glanced across the corral at Boroghul, wincing as another of the cooks cuffed his head with a harsh fist. “That boy was half your size,” the second cook yelled. “What in the name of the Eternal Blue Sky happened?”

  Boroghul yelled something about drinking too much and his head hurting, although I hadn’t smelled any alcohol on his breath. My brothers were another matter entirely; I felt half-drunk just breathing near them.

  “I did throw him, didn’t I?” I chuckled to Ogodei as he ruffled my hair and handed me my tiger sword, which he’d been holding for me. I slipped the blade into my belt as Tolui rejoined us, my fingers lingering to trace the striped beasts in what had become my ritual after a win.

  “A beginner’s move.” Tolui grinned, his voice too loud and his words slightly slurred. “You can do better, sister.”

  I glared at him and cringed as a few of the other wrestlers nearby gave me strange looks.

  “Didn’t he say your name was Alaqai?” one of them asked. “Doesn’t the Great Khan have a daughter by that name?”

  “He does,” Tolui answered, his grin showing off a gap where he’d lost a tooth in a drunken brawl. “And she just beat all of you!”

  Boroghul turned to stare at me with a black expression. “You’d best shut your mouths,” I said, grabbing my brothers by their arms. “Unless you want to fight that whole crowd. Alone.” I glanced at the pitch of the sun and winced. “We’re late. Father’s going to be furious.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about your father,” Toregene said, grabbing Ogodei’s free arm and pulling him along as we broke into a run. “It’s your mother who will wring our necks.”

  I cringed, my ears already ringing with the inevitable tongue-lashing we’d soon receive. There wasn’t even time for me to change out of my wrestler’s vest. “She’s going to kill us,” I groaned.

  Together we ran through the endless rows of white tents, darting around herds of dirt-streaked children and the veritable city of cauldrons stewing hundreds of butchered goats and horses. In the center of camp stood the tallest ger of all, like a colossal snowcapped mountain surrounded by petty foothills. My mother had pounded new felts for months for the occasion, and her new tent was now at least fifty paces across instead of fifteen. For the first time in my life, a white Spirit Banner flew outside, the hairs from my grandfather’s favorite horse fluttering in the wind along with the nine strips of white felt. My mother had packed away the black banner only the day before, uttering a prayer for everlasting peace as she closed the trunk lid over the symbol of war.

  Inside our tent were gathered the leaders of all the great tribes, and sitting in the middle on a black felt rug would be my father, surrounded by his family.

  Most of it, anyway.

  Wishing I could crawl under the back side of the ger and magically reappear behind my mother, I instead stepped inside. My eyes alighted on my mother’s tall green boqta headdress, which made her even more imposing than she already was. My grandmother Hoelun flanked her, and Tolui’s soon-to-be-wife, Sorkhokhtani, sat at their feet, playing her morin khuur. The horse-head fiddle was supposedly created when a jealous wife discovered her husband riding a winged horse to meet hi
s beloved in the sky. The wife cut off the horse’s wings so it fell from the air and died, but the shepherd used its skin and tail to create the first fiddle. Somehow Sorkhokhtani’s instrument managed to combine the sound of the steppe’s breeze and the neighing of wild horses, but now it stopped midnote.

  Despite her wide eyes, Sorkhokhtani was as pristine as we were disheveled, although for her to be otherwise would mean the spirits had turned the world upside down. Everything came easy to Sorkhokhtani, for she’d been raised and educated as a Kereyid princess, meaning she could pour salt tea without splashing her voluminous silk sleeves and also debate religious texts—never raising her voice, of course—with Shigi instead of enduring his interminable lessons on the simple letters that swam before my eyes. Sometimes I worried that my mother loved her best, for dutiful Sorkhokhtani was most like my mother, whereas my soul’s fire was constantly at odds with my mother’s water.

  And yet again, I’d disappointed her.

  The clan leaders and their wives swiveled to face us, and their gasps accompanied my mother’s withering glare and my father’s laughing eyes. I touched my hair and came away with bits of dried grass, remnants of my romp with the Kazakh. A rare heat flared in my cheeks, but I shrugged and offered a contrite smile. “We got lost among all the tents,” I said, prompting an eager nod from Ogodei. Toregene lifted her eyes heavenward.

  That comment deepened my mother’s glare, but my father only chuckled. “I notice you found your way well after the wrestling competition,” he said.

  Tolui belched then, releasing sour airag fumes and earning my father’s scowl. I’d watched our father drink countless men to the ground, but he wouldn’t take kindly to Tolui’s blatant disrespect for this momentous occasion. I thought to make an excuse for him, too, but I’d said enough already.