Chakahai stepped close to Genghis and placed her cool hands on his brow as he opened his arms in an embrace. He groaned softly at the touch, letting her ease him. ‘He found her, husband, after the attack on the camp. When I see him, I see the moment when he came from her ger. His face was wild with grief and it haunts me still.’

Genghis was like a statue as she spoke and she felt him withdraw from her. He took her hands and detached them gently, his grip almost painful.

‘He did not find her, Chakahai. One of my men brought me the news when he checked the gers after the shah had run.’

His eyes were cold in the moonlight as he thought through what she had said.

‘You saw him?’ Genghis whispered.

Chakahai nodded, a knot of horror stopping her throat. She swallowed it to answer, forcing the words out.

‘It was as the fighting ended. I was running and I saw him come from her ger. When I heard she had been killed, I thought he must have carried the news to you.’

‘No,’ Genghis replied. ‘He said nothing to me, then or later.’ He released her hands and Chakahai staggered slightly, overcome with what she now understood.

‘Say nothing, Chakahai,’ her husband said. ‘I will deal with the shaman in my own way.’ He cursed softly, tilting his head suddenly so that she could see the grief rising in him. ‘This has been an evil day.’

Once more she stepped into his arms, touching his face and smoothing away the pain.

‘I know it, husband, but it is over now and you can sleep.’

‘Not tonight, not after this,’ Genghis said in a whisper.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It was another three days before Genghis summoned his sons to the audience chamber of the palace in Samarkand. On his orders, Kachiun, Khasar and Jelme had returned with their tumans, leaving cities in ruins behind them.

The day had been hot and the smell of flames, sweat and grease was strong in the confined space. Temuge too had been ordered to attend and with him almost seven hundred senior officers filled the echoing hall as they waited for Genghis. Yao Shu was among them, perhaps the only man there who did not command others. The shaman, Kokchu, crouched at the foot of the throne facing the crowd, his empty stare fixed on the floor.

As the sun set and torches were lit on the walls, Genghis entered without fanfare or retinue, his eyes passing across the crowd and noting the faces of his brothers and his children, from Jochi, Chagatai, Ogedai and Tolui down to the youngest girl his wife Chakahai had borne for him. The smallest ones stood with their mother and Borte, awed at the high ceiling. They had not seen a city before and they looked up nervously, wondering what prevented it from falling on their heads. One of Chakahai’s boys began to bawl, but it was Borte who picked him up and crooned to him. Other wives of senior men were also in attendance, though Genghis’ mother Hoelun was missing, still isolated in her grief for a lost daughter. Since Temulun had died, Hoelun had withdrawn from the affairs of the tribes and both Chakahai and Borte felt the loss of her wisdom keenly.

The khan wore no armour that day. Instead, he had dressed in the simple clothes of one of his herdsmen. A deel robe covered tunic and leggings over soft leather boots. His skin was clean and gleaming with fresh mutton fat. His hair was tied back under a square hat, barely marked with decorative stitching. As the hall filled with yellow light, those closest to him could see grey at his temples, but he looked vital and alert, his presence enough to still the slightest movement in the crowd. Only Tsubodai and Jebe were missing, with all their minghaan and jagun officers. Genghis might have waited for them, but there was no word of the hunt for the shah and matters pressed upon him, each more urgent than the next.

As he stood with the throne at his back, he met the eyes of Jochi and Chagatai, standing to the fore of the silent crowd. Both bore marks of the battle they had fought. Chagatai leaned heavily on a stick to favour his splinted leg and sweated visibly. Jochi’s face was badly bruised and he too limped when he moved, his cuts barely staunched and beginning to form scabs. They could read nothing from their father. He had adopted the cold face and even those who knew him well could not judge his mood or guess why he had called them. As Genghis watched, Jochi raised his head, his expression a match for his father’s. He at least did not expect the gathering to turn out well, but he refused to show fear. He had spent three days waiting for some kind of summons. Now it had come, it was almost a relief.

Genghis let the silence grow as he faced them. He knew many of the men and women in the hall. Even those who were strangers were still his people. He knew their faults and weaknesses as well as his own, or better. He had brought them from the hills of home, taken the paths of their lives in his hands and wrenched them together. They were no longer tribes as they waited for the khan to speak. They were his, down to the last child. When he spoke at last, his voice filled the hall, his tone calmer than anyone there expected.

‘Tonight I will name my heir,’ he said.

The spell held and no one moved, though Chagatai and Jochi exchanged a silent flicker of a glance, both very aware of the other.

‘I will not live for ever,’ Genghis went on. ‘I am old enough to remember when each tribe was at the throat of the rest. I would not see those days return when I am gone. In this room, I have called every man and woman of power in the nation, barring the ones with Tsubodai and Jebe. I will speak to those separately when they come home. You have all pledged your lives and honour to me. You will do the same for my son.’

He paused, but no one dared to move. In the stifling air, some even held their breath. Genghis nodded to himself.

‘I give thanks in front of you to my brother Kachiun, who took the burden of being my heir while my sons grew to manhood.’ He sought his brother out and caught Kachiun’s fractional nod.

‘Your children will not rule the nation, Kachiun,’ Genghis said, knowing his brother understood the need to speak the words aloud. ‘They may come to rule other peoples and other lands, but the Great Khan will come from my choice and my seed alone. You will be the first to give an oath to my son, then my brothers Khasar and Temuge and every other man and woman here.’

He looked up again at them all, his yellow eyes seeming to strip them bare.

‘We are nothing but the oath we give. If you cannot bend a knee to my son, you may leave and take your lives before sunrise. That is the only choice I will allow.’

He paused again, closing his eyes for an instant when grief and anger threatened to break through.

‘Step forward, Ogedai, my heir,’ he said.

All eyes turned to the sixteen-year-old warrior. He had grown almost to his father’s height in their time in Arab lands. The slim boy who had returned from a Chin city with Kachiun was barely visible in the hard planes of his face, but he looked very young, rocked by his father’s words. His eyes were as pale as the khan’s, wide and unblinking. He did not move and Borte had to nudge him forward so that he stepped through the packed room, older men making way. Only she and Chakahai had known it was coming. Both women had advised Genghis over the previous days and, for once, he had listened. Tears of pride brimmed in them both.

Genghis ignored the hot eyes of Chagatai and Jochi as he turned his stunned third son to face them.

‘The man who leads the nation must not be weak,’ Genghis said. ‘He must not be given to rash acts or spite. He must use his mind first, but when he does move, it must be as the snap of a wolf, without mercy. The lives of many rest on him and one wrong decision can destroy everything my brothers and I have built.’