The Tiger Queens Read online

  I smirked and drew an arrow from my quiver. “You realize you’ll owe me an accounting of the tolls after I win this shot?”

  “I’m still waiting for my pot of rabbit stew after I beat you last time.” Jingue leaned against the tree, dappled sunlight playing on his face. “Although I’m not convinced you didn’t let me win then.”

  I hadn’t let him win. I’d only lost because I’d been more interested in watching him and had aimed my last shot so poorly I’d almost shot his horse. “Suit yourself,” I said. “I warned you my cooking was more punishment than reward.”

  “I find it difficult to believe that a woman who can speak three languages, ride, and shoot as you do would be cowed by making a simple stew.”

  It was true that I now spoke Mongolian, along with passable Turkic and Khitan, yet I still struggled to make yogurt that wasn’t too thin or cheese that wasn’t so salty it puckered one’s lips.

  “I am a woman of many talents,” I said. “Unfortunately, cooking is not one of them.” A disturbance on the horizon saved me from saying anything else, a fast-moving rider coming from the roads that led to the west.

  My father had finished his initial conquest against the Tanghuts, and his empire had prospered since, including the creation of the ortoo, an elaborate messenger system with a series of riders and relay stations to speed the transmission of information. I’d received a message bearing the sad news of Gurbesu’s death from fever and a terse letter from Shigi in the spring carrying word that Sorkhokhtani had given Tolui a son named Möngke and that Toregene had gone on to drop another son for Ogodei. For his part, my brother had requested that a cart of as much wine as I could spare be sent to him across the Great Dry Desert as a proper celebratory gift. I’d sent the wine and my hollow congratulations, then returned to my empty ger.

  I shielded my eyes against the sun. This was no common arrow messenger wearing an official silver ortoo badge at his waist and running at a pace to avoid tiring his horse, but a slight figure wearing a helmet topped with a horse’s tail and bent over a lathered gelding that raced as if the steppes were on fire.

  The rider veered toward us and brought the yellow gelding to a halt so hard it almost sat on its haunches. I recognized the delicate sweep of the rider’s nose and her immaculate riding deel even before she dismounted and released a sheet of shiny black hair from under her helmet. Sorkhokhtani smiled at me, her cheeks ruddy from the ride, although the rest of her skin was still as soft and pale as the moon. “You look well, Alaqai Beki,” she said.

  It had been too long since I’d heard my family speak my name, and I welcomed the unexpected sound. “And you look perfect as always, Sorkhokhtani of the Kereyid.” I pulled her to me in a fierce hug, feeling as if I were embracing a sliver of home. “The People of the Stone Walls welcome you,” I said. “As do I.”

  “I bear warm greetings from your family, especially your mother. Borte Khatun is as strong and fierce as ever.” Sorkhokhtani brushed her hair from her cheek, just under the mole she so hated, and looked to where Jingue stood, no longer leaning against the tree. “And is this your husband, Ala-Qush?”

  Sorkhokhtani was as small as a weasel and just as sneaky, likely the most intelligent of all my father’s sons- and daughters-by-marriage. Her eyes sparked so I knew that she realized Jingue couldn’t be my husband.

  “This is Ala-Qush’s eldest son, Jingue of the Onggud.”

  Jingue offered her an elegant bow. “You are most welcome to Olon Süme, Princess of the Hearth.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that Jingue knew the names of my family, much less their titles or relationships. I’d yet to find a topic that Jingue wasn’t well versed in.

  Sorkhokhtani gave a gracious smile. “I’m most happy to be here. This will be a welcome respite after many weeks crossing that infernal desert. It’s been a long time since we’ve known shade, or a good bath or meal.”

  “We?” I asked, searching the horizon for the rest of her party.

  “Your father sent me ahead with a message for you.”

  For my father to travel so far could mean only one thing, yet I didn’t care to discuss so dark a matter, at least not yet.

  Jingue caught the meaning in my eyes and swept up his bow and quiver before relieving me of my weapons. “You must be tired and hungry after so long a journey,” he said to Sorkhokhtani. “I’ll return to see that a feast and accommodations are arranged for you.”

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Sorkhokhtani said to Jingue, enunciating each word in perfect Turkic. It was difficult to forget that this sister of my hearth had been raised as a Kereyid princess, more educated than anyone in my father’s clan. Had it not been for the fact that she was already married to Tolui, she and Jingue might have made a perfect match. The very thought made me scowl, earning a quizzical expression from Sorkhokhtani.

  “I look forward to meeting the rest of your illustrious family,” she said to Jingue, arching a delicate eyebrow in my direction.

  We watched Jingue retrace the path back to Olon Süme’s tortoise gate. “That one seems quite dedicated to you,” she murmured when he was out of earshot, although I could hear the laugher in her voice. “Toregene would ask if you’ve tumbled him yet, but I assume from the way you ogle him that you’ve only dreamed of him in your bed.”

  I gaped and slapped her arm. “I suppose it’s a good thing Toregene isn’t here, isn’t it?” I ignored the heat in my cheeks and took the reins of her lathered horse to follow Jingue through the herds of camels and into the city. “You claimed my father sent you with a message. I’d ask why he didn’t send one of my brothers, but I fear I know the answer.”

  “Jochi vanquished the northern forest people and fights the forty tribes of the Kyrgyz now,” Sorkhokhtani said. The smile had left her voice and a frown took up an uncomfortable roost on her lips. “Chaghatai, Ogodei, and Tolui spend too much time drinking to remain upright in a saddle long enough to cross the Great Dry Sea.”

  I winced at the appraisal of my brothers, recalling the nights I’d watched Chaghatai come to blows while red-faced drunk, and Ogodei roaring with laughter while swilling from jugs of airag and Onggud wine, one right after the other. And Tolui, whom I last saw hiccuping and weeping like a woman until Ogodei led him away. “So you volunteered for the task?”

  “I did, the better to survey the lands my son might one day rule.” Sorkhokhtani spoke with the same certainty as if commenting that the sun would rise tomorrow or the mares would drop their foals in spring. I felt the hole in my heart grow a little wider; she and Toregene both had sons, yet I remained childless.

  “How does Möngke fare?” The words tasted bitter, but I managed a smile. “I imagine everyone dotes on the Prince of the Hearth’s little heir.”

  “They do, yet I try to curb the worst of their excesses, the golden saddles and constant parade of ponies. I’ll raise my son to fill his grandfather’s boots.”

  It was no empty boast, for as my father’s youngest son and Prince of the Hearth, Tolui would inherit the lands of my father’s birth. Sorkhokhtani seemed to sense my sadness and squeezed my arm in a rare display of tenderness. “Your arms won’t always be empty, Alaqai. Your womb will fill with life when the time is right.”

  “That may be,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice. “But I’ve accepted that I’ll be an old woman hunched over my lonely hearth.”

  “If that were so, I’d ride to Olon Süme myself and steal you back to my ger.”

  “I don’t doubt that you would.” I chuckled then. “And I could entertain your brood with exceptionally poor buree music.”

  She brightened at that. “You learned how to play?”

  “I take it as a good sign that the dogs have stopped howling when I practice. How does the rest of our family fare?”

  “Yesui’s daughter Checheyigen has gone to marry the Oirat prince and yo
ur father promised Gurbesu’s daughter Al-Altun to Tokuchar, the Idiqut of the Uighurs. Tokuchar begged the Khan of Khans on his knees to become his fifth son. Your father might have refused the sable furs, pearls, and gold the Idiqut brought as the bride-price, but when Tokuchar paraded the white gyrfalcons and geldings before him . . .” She shrugged.

  And so two more of my father’s daughters would give him alliances and extend his influence. I wondered whether my father’s skill as a conqueror lay in his ability to wage war or in his adroitness at spreading our family across the steppes, mountains, and valleys.

  We approached Olon Süme’s gate and Sorkhokhtani recoiled as the breeze ruffled the fur lining of her collar. I recalled my first impression of the city that was now my home, the way nothing could have prepared me for the stench and noise within its confines.

  “It helps if you breathe through your mouth,” I whispered. “At least for the first few days.”

  She covered her nose as we passed under the gate, her brown eyes wide over the green felt sleeve. “And you live like this?” her muffled voice asked.

  “One does what one must.” I was reluctant to venture into the real reason why she was here, but we’d lingered long enough on niceties. “So tell me, who does my father attack this time?”

  She lowered her arm, but her nose remained wrinkled. “The Jurched.”

  They were our prestigious neighbors to the east, and many of Olon Süme’s noble houses—including Orbei’s—relied on the Jurched for the camlet trade as well as for the steady river of silk and spices as they traveled west. This latest conquest of my father’s would prove more difficult to support than that against the Tanghuts. “When does the army arrive?”

  “They’re only days behind. I fear this campaign promises to be bloodier than even the Blood War.”

  Gooseflesh rolled over my limbs at her warning and the terrible realization it brought.

  In mere days, war would surround us once again.

  * * *

  Time had ravaged my husband but scarcely touched my father. As he dismounted outside Olon Süme, I noted with new eyes that though he stood with bowed legs from his years in the saddle, he was still as solid as a boulder. Shigi had accompanied him and smiled down at me from where he sat astride Neer-Gui, dressed in his jaunty blue judge’s hat. My gelding tossed his mane and I wondered if he remembered our wild chases over the steppes and the long journey together over the Great Dry Sea. I was glad to see him well cared for but saddened at the remembrance of one more thing I missed from my old life. The hills around Olon Süme swarmed with mounted cavalry bedecked with spears, bows, and gleaming cutlasses. Sorkhokhtani had told me that my father had integrated Tanghut engineers into his corps, that these learned men would build catapults and giant wheeled crossbows when they reached their destination. I’d shivered at her pen-and-ink sketches, for the drawings of the war machines were more menacing than anything I’d seen before. I was glad I wasn’t amongst the Jurched.

  “It’s been a long time, tarvag takal,” my father said, opening his arms and breathing deeply as he pressed his forehead to mine. My nose filled with the scent of horse and leather, and despite the way he’d tricked me before my marriage, for a moment I didn’t want to let go.

  But I was Beki of the Onggud, not just the daughter of the Khan of Khans.

  “Father,” I said, stepping out of his arms and gesturing behind me. “My family welcomes you, as do all the Onggud.”

  Part of my family at least. Ala-Qush sat in a cushioned wheeled cart that Jingue had fashioned to transport him about Olon Süme. Since his illness, my husband had shrunken into an old man and his braid had gone completely gray. His sons flanked him, Jingue dressed in his usual white deel and Boyahoe in a camlet robe of midnight blue tied with a yellow sash. Orbei and Enebish had asked to remain behind to ready the Great House for my father’s arrival. I had granted their request, although I’d recognized it as a plot to avoid facing the Great Khan.

  My father clapped Ala-Qush on the back as if they were old friends. For all that my husband bemoaned the crudeness of the Mongols, the protection my father had offered the Onggud had sheltered Ala-Qush’s people from the ongoing saga of war and conquest.

  Until now.

  Ala-Qush’s perpetual frown deepened and he used a piece of charcoal to scribble on the paper I kept tucked in his chair, then waved it in the air.

  “My husband has lost his ability to speak with his illness,” I told my father in a low voice, “but not his sharpness of mind.”

  Jingue intercepted the paper and his lip twitched as he scanned the message. I raised my voice so it would carry to the crowd. “And what does Ala-Qush, Prince of Beiping, say to Genghis, Khan of Khans?”

  Jingue cleared his throat, his hands and the message behind his back. “Ala-Qush of the Onggud bids welcome once again to the Khan of Khans. In addition, he wishes to open his stables to Genghis Khan, for he knows that the great conqueror is also a great admirer of horseflesh.”

  My father roared his approval and a white-faced Ala-Qush gave an angry grunt. Jingue pressed the paper into my palm, and I read it before hastily tucking it into my sleeve.

  Don’t let the heathens eat my horses.

  I smothered a snort of laughter while my father squeezed Sorkhokhtani’s shoulder. “I see my daughter-in-marriage reached you,” he said. “I trust she told you the reason for my visit.”

  I glanced at the crowd gathered behind me. There had been much debate in the days since Sorkhokhtani’s arrival as to whether the Onggud—a people terrified of war—would support my father’s campaign. The Jurched were Olon Süme’s longtime allies, and many noble families had taken wives from them and relied upon trade with their eastern cities. Still others argued that my father’s campaign against the Tanghuts had forced more luxuries to pass along our roads, resulting in increased tolls for our coffers. I’d reminded everyone that we had no choice but to ally with my father, yet it had taken messages of support from both Ala-Qush and Jingue before the debate had ended in the Great House. Still, the nobility seethed, and they’d be angrier still when they realized their taxes would soon increase in order to finance my father’s conquest.

  “May your campaign against the Jurched see them scattered to the winds,” I said to my father. “Olon Süme shall provide you with the necessary supplies for your attack.”

  My father gestured toward the land of the rising sun. “My cavalry will travel east after we’ve rested. Our dried meat and reserve horses served us well in crossing the desert, but we require fresh water and horses.”

  “Our wells are sweet and our horses fast,” I said, stifling a smile as Ala-Qush gurgled in protest about the horses. “Take all you need.”

  “This shall be a lightning campaign,” my father said. “With my new weapons and the Mongols and the Onggud united as one, the Jurched don’t stand a chance.”

  Robust shouts from his soldiers and lukewarm cheers from the Onggud met his proclamation. Yet within my heart, I recognized a familiar jolt, the same I’d felt when Teb Tengeri had touched me at my father’s khurlatai.

  The brush of death.

  * * *

  The day my father departed was drenched in gold, as if the sun itself fell to earth to bless his campaign, and yellow dust choked the air as the regiments of the Thirteen Nations departed Olon Süme on their way to the Jurched borders. I stood on the walls above the tortoise gate, dressed in a delicate Onggud camlet and my horned boqta as I nocked a specially crafted golden arrow against the smooth curve of my bow. It flew to the east in a flash of light, and I relished the reverberation of the horse-gut string through my shoulder long after the arrow had passed from sight. This weapon, tipped with the Golden Light of the Sun, would guide my father and his soldiers to victory.

  The army’s commanders scattered mare’s milk into the earth and yellow linden leaves fell to the ground, tanglin
g in horses’ manes before they were trampled under the pounding of thousands of hooves. My father rode at the front of the line, dressed in an amber wolfskin and a black helmet trimmed with fox fur. Although I knew Sorkhokhtani traveled with my father only in her official capacity as his personal messenger, I felt a surge of jealousy as she nodded to me, riding on his right with Shigi on his left. Behind them came the oxcarts carrying supplies and physicians from Olon Süme’s new School of Healing, their wheels creaking ominously. Despite Orbei’s protests, Enebish had begun studying at the school under the guise of learning to better minister to her father, but her desire to put her new skills to use on the battlefield outweighed her revulsion against my family and I’d happily agreed when she’d asked my permission to travel east. I could set her free from Olon Süme, even if I remained trapped within its walls. She inclined her head to me from her cart, and behind her came the soldiers, saluting me as they passed on their shaggy horses.

  The sun drenched the countryside in its final hazy light as the last regiments departed, mounted on horseback and carrying double slings of arrows on their backs—one of feathered whistling arrows that gave the enemy pause to determine the origin of the strange sound, and a second quiver of shorter quarrels that would deliver death to the stationary target. I waited until the final man saluted me before returning to my ger, despite the ache in my feet from wearing the thin felt slippers all the Onggud women wore instead of my sensible fur-lined boots. Olon Süme’s streets were mostly empty, but to my surprise, Jingue fell into step beside me as we passed the empty market square. The flagstones of the butchers’ section were permanently stained with blood, and the ground near the grain sellers was covered with pigeons seeking an easy meal. “You look as worried as I feel,” he finally said.

  “I just sent my father and sister, along with countless other men, to war.”

  “Your father will return victorious,” he said.

  I gave a wan smile. “I didn’t know you’d become a seer.”