The Tiger Queens Page 38

  After a moment, he gave a harrumph and adjusted his belly over his belt. “Tell Toregene when you see her that I seek her advice,” he said. “And I don’t care to wait long for it.”

  He lumbered back up the path, and I stood staring after him, my jaw slack.

  Why was nothing about these Mongols as it seemed?

  * * *

  “When were you going to inform me of your relationship with Shigi?” I glowered at Toregene, fists on my hips as she closed the door behind her, filling her tent with the scent of the crisp night air and something else that almost brought me to my knees.

  Happiness.

  She shrugged out of her fur wrap and busied herself unlacing her boots. “The cold must have addled your mind,” she said, but I cut her off.

  “I saw you with him tonight.” My tone was biting, petulant even to my own ears as I threw off my veil and the tiger comb. “I’d like to think you both drank too much wine out of grief and realized afterward the weight of your mistake, but I doubt that’s the truth.”

  “I’m sorry, Fatima.” She heaved a wretched sigh. “I thought about telling you several times, but I couldn’t bear to hurt you.”

  “Hurt me?” Was it possible my thoughts toward Shigi had been so transparent? “What do you mean?”

  Toregene traced the spine of my thick blue record book, identical to the one Shigi used to record his version of the Golden Family’s history. “I believed you might have feelings for Shigi. I didn’t wish to cause you pain, but Shigi and I . . . We’ve loved each other for a long time.”

  “I see.” I wanted to howl with my suffering, but instead my eyes burned with unshed tears and I cleared my throat. “How long?”

  “Since almost the day Genghis brought me to the Golden Family.”

  “What?” Such a revelation was almost more shocking than what I’d seen tonight in the woods.

  “Borte took me in, but it was Shigi who helped me see the sunlight in each day after all the darkness I’d witnessed during the Blood Wars. We never acted on our feelings, for I knew Borte wished me to marry one of her sons. I married Ogodei and then Genghis took Shigi on the campaign against the Tanghut.”

  “Because he suspected you?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps. Yet I was a good wife to Ogodei, running his household and giving him Güyük. It wasn’t until more recently that anything happened.”

  My hands fluttered helplessly at my sides; I didn’t care to listen to the details of Toregene’s love for Shigi, but she looked beyond me now. “Shigi first kissed me one night not long after Nishapur,” she said, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears, her expression taking on a dreamlike quality. “I thought everyone would know my heart didn’t belong to Ogodei then, but no one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t care. We tried to fight our feelings for a long time, but . . .”

  She shrugged and I thought then of one of my favorite verses in the beloved old volume of ancient poetry I’d left behind in Mansoor’s library, wondering if perhaps it was still there now, forgotten beneath a layer of dust or perhaps long since burned in some marauder’s fire. I spoke aloud:

  “Did my Beloved only touch me with his lips,

  I, too, like the flute, would burst out in melody.

  But he who is parted from him that speak his tongue

  Though he possess a hundred voices, is perforce dumb.”

  Toregene smiled at my recitation. “I knew you’d understand.”

  I swallowed a swell of sadness, struck silent at how I’d misread the entire situation. Perhaps I did understand Toregene, but only because I’d experienced such a love with Mansoor. My own battered emotions aside, she was still Ogodei’s senior wife and a member of the Golden Family. “Don’t you worry what people will think?” I asked.

  “People see what they want to see. No one expects a woman with gray in her hair and a face as plain as sand to love the Tatar brother of Genghis Khan.”

  “Ogodei knows.”

  That seemed to catch her attention. “Does he?”

  “It doesn’t seem to bother him.”

  She offered me a meager smile. “Ogodei ceased caring for me once my mismatched eyes and the curves of my body lost their newness. But Shigi loved me long before I married Ogodei. He’ll love me until the day I die.”

  My brittle heart threatened to crack at her words, but I gave a weak smile, until her next words stole away my breath.

  “Enough of all this talk of love,” she said. “We have much to do to prepare for their arrival.”

  I blinked hard. “Whose arrival?”

  “I saw the riders on my way back from the . . .” Her voice trailed off and she had the decency to look embarrassed. “Alaqai and Boyahoe will be here tomorrow. Al-Altun won’t be far behind them.”

  Al-Altun.

  I’d thought that perhaps I might fill my life with love, but I recognized this sign from Allah. With tonight’s discovery, I now knew it would not be love that gave my life meaning, but something else entirely, something I’d silently nurtured as I had the narcissus bulbs, and that now overshadowed my desire for love.

  Revenge.

  * * *

  I avoided Shigi in the days to come, reconciling myself to the fact that he was a man I might have loved had I been given a chance. Yet that was never to be. Sleep eluded me as I imagined Al-Altun’s return, and I wove plot after plot to ensure my success. When I did sleep, it was to dream of my father and Mansoor, their eyes hard and accusing after all the years I’d squandered without avenging them.

  One raw and soulless night, I dreamed of my mother, blood dribbling from her lips. “Kill Al-Altun as you killed me,” she whispered. “Give her the narcissus bulbs as you did me, and end her life.”

  I woke from that dream gasping and with tears streaming down my face. The shadows under my eyes deepened to the color of fresh bruises, so it was the first thing Alaqai mentioned as she dismounted her red-and-white horse.

  “Has Toregene been beating you?” she asked gaily after she’d greeted Toregene, crushing me in a hug that threatened to break my ribs. “Or merely keeping you up all night working on her ledgers?”

  “It’s my own fault.” I waved away her concern, feeling both Toregene’s and Shigi’s gazes heavy on my back. “Too many thoughts in my head.”

  “You must learn to think less, then,” Alaqai said, releasing me. “And learn instead to enjoy life.”

  Boyahoe had already dismounted and was speaking in earnest with Ogodei, although the future Gur-Khan only roared with laughter and clapped Alaqai’s husband on his back, gathering the tall young man at his side into his free arm and tousling his hair. Toregene clasped her hands before her and smiled. “It seems you and your family have found happiness once again, Alaqai.”

  Alaqai’s gaze strayed to her husband and the boy who bore a striking resemblance to her. Her eyes sparkled. “I never expected it, but I think Jingue’s spirit would smile upon us.”

  “The Khan always said Boyahoe made a fine soldier,” Toregene said. “I’m glad to hear he makes a good husband as well.”

  Alaqai laughed at that. “Boyahoe is more my son than husband, but he’s as fine a father to Negudei as I could ask for.”

  Toregene glanced at Boyahoe, then back to Alaqai. “Then you’re not . . .”

  “By the Earth Mother, no.” Alaqai made a face. “Boyahoe has his other wives for all that, and ruling the Onggud and raising my wild hellion leaves me no time to ponder my cold bed.”

  A smile played on Toregene’s lips. “I’d have thought a cold bed would have been a greater hardship than you could bear.”

  “And once I would have agreed with you.” Alaqai laughed. “Yet most nights I fall asleep before my head hits my pillow. I don’t know how my mother managed with all of us.”

  “Borte Khatun will be pleased to see you,” Toreg
ene said. I hoped she was right, for since the Khan’s death, Borte had scarcely left her tent. In truth, I’d avoided the Khatun these past days, terrified that she might see into my shriveled heart and discover the hot fire of revenge burning there.

  Toregene gestured to the path leading to Borte’s tent. “I’ll take you to her.”

  Alaqai followed but paused before me and clasped my hands. “I meant what I said,” she whispered. “We widows can choose the easy path and allow grief to consume us, or we can find a new purpose in this life, Fatima of Nishapur. Our hearts are forever scarred, but in living life we might honor our husbands.”

  I stared at her, Mansoor’s final words expanding and filling my mind as Alaqai squeezed my hands. She kissed my veiled cheek, then swept away like a hot desert wind.

  Live for both of us, Fatima, and I’ll meet you in the gardens of Jannah.

  Yet I was never destined for the paradise of Jannah, not after I’d helped usher my mother to her death.

  Alaqai didn’t need to know that I’d already found a new purpose in life.

  * * *

  Al-Altun didn’t make it to the Khan’s deathbed, but Ogodei ordered a feast in her honor when the Khatun of the Uighurs arrived at our temporary camp at the base of the Altai Mountains, come to pay her respects to the man who had sired her. My hands trembled as she approached on horseback, only growing calm when I touched the silk bag of narcissus bulbs hidden within the folds of my robe.

  Patience is bitter, but it has a sweet fruit.

  And tonight, under the silver light of the moon and the golden glow of countless cook fires, I would have my revenge.

  The Khatun of the Uighurs hadn’t changed since I’d seen her at Nishapur, and my throat tightened at the remembrance of her on my city’s walls, grinning wildly at the carnage spread before her. My gaze lingered on the gleaming hilt of the sword slung in Ogodei’s belt, and I wondered if perhaps the price of slitting Al-Altun’s throat in full view of the Golden Family might be worth the consequences.

  I knew what I had to do. And I wouldn’t allow myself to fail.

  Most of the Golden Family had already disbanded and left the Altai Mountains, deciding that the arrival of Genghis’ youngest daughter wasn’t incentive enough to linger away from their homelands any longer. Alaqai and Boyahoe cited their need to return to the Onggud before the snows flew, and Borte remained in her tent, claiming Al-Altun could meet with her later that evening if she wished.

  The camp felt strangely silent without the energy Alaqai and her family had brought, but I was thankful for the emptier paths with fewer eyes to discern my true motives tonight. I elbowed my way past several scowling generals in their whispering silks and creaking leather to where Al-Altun exclaimed loudly over Ogodei’s new Great White Tent, its size and the team of twenty snowy oxen that could pull it across the steppes. Unlike his father, who lived in a simple ger all his days, Ogodei reveled in ostentation. Hidden in the shadows, I doubled back to where Al-Altun’s slaves were assembling their hearths and her modest traveling tent. The air was warm from the roaring fires with their massive cauldrons and the stench of boiling horsemeat, and a cook in a stained deel supervised the flurry of slaves. He whirled about when he saw me, his face turning redder than it already was in the heat.

  “Get out,” he ordered, a single glance taking in my foreign robe and veil. “The only slaves allowed in my kitchen are the ones I’ve ordered here.”

  “You’ll have to explain that to Ogodei and his senior wife,” I said. “They sent me to supervise this meal, and they outrank the Khatun of the Uighurs.”

  The cook’s eyes narrowed to a squint at my lie, but he threw his hands in the air with a curse in Uighur. “Fine,” he said. “But stay out of my way or I’ll see to it that you accidentally run into one of my carving knives.”

  I scowled over my veil despite my nerves, remembering the foul language and threats I’d often heard my head cook in Nishapur mutter under his breath. Perhaps the heat and smell of blood made cooks a permanently surly sort. Yet I didn’t have time to parry with this man.

  “Fine,” I said. “Where are you preparing the Golden Family’s food?”

  The cook jerked his head toward several smaller metal kazans set over a trench dug in the ground, merry fires blazing underneath with rice cooking inside. And on a low table nearby, piles of chopped carrots and yellow onions waited to be mixed into the tasteless Uighur dish of palov. No one would notice the addition of my narcissus bulbs.

  “Ogodei is a cultured man whose cooks hail from the farthest reaches of Cathay,” I lied. “He won’t be impressed with this slop you plan to feed him.”

  The cook’s nostrils flared. “I’ll have you know that the Uighur aqueducts bring pure water from ancient glaciers, proof that my people are more civilized than the bowlegged creature you serve. My family has been making palov for generations—”

  “I don’t care if your family served palov to the Prophet,” I said, cringing at my blasphemy. “Where are your spices? Ogodei’s favorite spices must be added so that he and the Golden Family can choke down this swill.”

  The cook’s glower would have stopped a fainter heart than my own, but he dug under his collar, then flung a key at me. “The chest is there.” He spat the words. “And you’ll account for every grain of salt and flake of pepper you use.”

  The drums outside Ogodei’s tent began their steady beat as the cook stormed away. I hadn’t much time. I rifled through the man’s impressive store of spices, removing garlic cloves, lumpy gingerroots, and a packet of black pepper. The paper of the narcissus bulbs crackled beneath my fingers as I removed them from my pocket. One had rotted on the journey, but the remaining three were white and only slightly wrinkled underneath, no longer smooth from their long absence from the earth. I cut them as quickly as I could with my knife, palming them and letting the fire devour the evidence of their papers and tiny root clumps.

  I made a great show of grating the priceless gingerroot, while next to me, the Uighur cook supervised the filling of golden bowls of varying sizes, all hammered with scenes of daily life in the various khanates. The largest must be for Ogodei, decorated with crude scenes of horses, mountains, and even several tents; another showed the familiar domes of my homeland. The smallest bowl depicted camels traveling through the Silk Road oases of the Uighur kingdom.

  Al-Altun’s bowl.

  But I had to be sure.

  “Which is your khatun’s bowl?” I asked the cook. “I’ll not waste precious spices on her Mongol tongue, accustomed as it is to boiled horsemeat and bland rice.”

  The cook growled at me like a dog about to attack but jerked his thumb at the camel bowl before turning his back on me with a curse.

  Allah had heard my prayers. This was my chance.

  I opened my hand, marveling for a moment at the chopped narcissus bulbs and the power I held in my palm. My heart pounded so loudly in my ears that the skies might have thundered and I’d have been oblivious to the storm.

  I was so absorbed in what I was about to do that I didn’t notice the shadow that fell over the bowls before me.

  “Here you are,” Toregene said. Her hand on my shoulder startled me so I almost cried out. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Without hesitating, I dropped the narcissus into the golden bowl of steaming rice, praying that she wouldn’t realize the crime I’d committed.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I thought I’d help prepare the meal.” My voice was smooth, but the blood rushed in my ears.

  “But you can scarcely boil water.” Her brow knit as she studied the chopped bits of poison in Al-Altun’s bowl. “Is that garlic?” She took a bit out and sniffed it. “It doesn’t smell like garlic.”

  I didn’t think when she lifted the poison to her lips, but grabbed her wrist and flicked the narcissus back into the palov
. “Don’t,” I said. “Please . . .”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing, Fatima?”

  “Correcting a wrong from long ago,” I said. “Since Nishapur.”

  Horror dawned in her eyes. I waited for her to shriek at me, but instead, there was a flash of gold like lightning as she shoved Al-Altun’s bowl to the ground. Immobile, I watched helplessly as meat, rice, and precious bits of narcissus were strewn across the earth.

  Then came the unexpected bolt of pain at my temple, and I staggered back at the impact of Toregene’s open palm across my face.

  “Idiot!” she screamed. I gaped at her and clutched my cheek as slaves scurried to clean the mess.

  “What’s going on?” The cook was purple faced at the sight of the overturned bowl, growing more livid as he looked from Toregene to me.

  “My fool of a slave knocked over Al-Altun’s bowl,” Toregene said, grabbing my arm so hard I scarcely resisted the urge to rake my nails across her face. My promise to Mansoor was gone, scattered across the trampled earth, and it was all her doing.

  The cook lunged at me. His fist made contact with my other temple, causing a second explosion of pain and a ringing in my ears. “I’ll have your hide for this, Saracen!”

  I steeled myself for the next blow, but Toregene yanked me away from the cook before it could land. “Throw some fresh rice in a pot,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I’ll skin this slave myself.” She hauled me away from the cursing cook and his fires, dragging me out of camp until we’d reached the river. Perhaps she’d drown me now; she was within her rights to do so.

  Instead, she whirled me around. “Christ’s wounds,” she cursed, her chest heaving. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “Al-Altun deserves to die a thousand deaths for what she did in Nishapur.” My veil had come loose in the fight and I ripped it off, waiting for Toregene to hit me once more, to rail at me for my disloyalty or perhaps find a guard to order my execution, but she only grabbed me by my shoulders and gave me a shake.

  “Only God can judge Al-Altun, or mete out her punishment.” She held my shoulders and drew a ragged sigh. “Just as only he can judge you.”