Mohrol frowned. 'It is not over, my lord. The sacrifice of mares was not enough.' He took a long breath and fell silent while he bit at a ragged nail on his hands, tasting the specks of blood there. 'The spirits of this land are full of bile and hatred. They released their grip on your soul only when I spoke of another in your place.'

Ogedai looked blearily at the shaman, struggling not to show his fear.

'What do you mean? My head is full of wasps, Mohrol. Speak clearly, as if to a child. I will understand you then.'

'There is a price for your return, lord. I do not know how long you have before they snatch you back into the darkness. It could be a day, or even a few more breaths, I cannot tell.'

Ogedai stiffened. 'I cannot go through that again, do you understand, shaman? I could not breathe…' He felt his eyes prickle and rubbed furiously at them. His own body was a weak vessel, it always had been. 'Bring me wine, shaman.'

'Not yet, my lord. We have just a little time and you need to think clearly.'

'Do what you must, Mohrol. I will pay any price.' Ogedai had seen the dead mares and he shook his head wearily, looking through the walls of the ger to where he knew they still lay. 'You have my own herds, my slaughtermen, whatever you need.'

'Horses are not enough, my lord, I'm sorry. You came back to us…'

Ogedai looked up sharply. 'Speak! Who knows how much time I have!'

For once, the shaman stammered, hating what he had to say.

'Another sacrifice, lord. It must be someone of your own blood. That was the offer that pulled you back from death. That was the reason you returned.'

Mohrol was so intent on watching Ogedai's response that he did not sense Khasar coming towards him until he was heaved into the air to face the older man.

'You little…' Khasar's mouth worked in rage, sending flecks of spit onto Mohrol's face as he held the shaman and shook him like a dog with a rat. 'I have heard these games before from men like you. We broke the back of the last one and left him for the wolves. You think you can scare my family? My family? You think you can demand a blood debt for your shabby spells and incantations? Well, after you, shaman. You die first and then we'll see.'

As he spoke, Khasar had drawn a short skinning knife from his belt, keeping his hand low. Before anyone could speak, he flicked his wrist, cutting into Mohrol's groin. The shaman gasped and Khasar let him fall onto his back. He wiped blood from the knife, but kept it ready in his hand as Mohrol writhed, his hands cupped.

Ogedai rose slowly from his pallet. He was thin and weak, but his eyes were furious. Khasar looked coldly at him, refusing to be cowed.

'In my camp, you cut my own shaman, uncle?' Ogedai growled. 'You have forgotten where you are. You have forgotten who I am.'

Khasar stuck his chin out defiantly, but he put away the blade.

'See him clearly, Ogedai…my lord khan,' Khasar replied. 'This one wants my death, so he whispers that it has to be one of your blood. They are all hip-deep in games of power and they have caused my family – your family – enough pain. You should not listen to a word from him. Let us wait a few days and see how you recover. You will be strong again, I'd bet my own mares on it.'

Mohrol rolled to his knees. The hand he pressed to his groin was red with fresh blood and he felt sick and shaky with the pain. He glared at Khasar.

'I do not know the name yet. It is not my choice. I wish it was.'

'Shaman,' Ogedai said softly. 'You will not have my son, even if my own life depends on it. Nor my wife.'

'Your wife is not your blood, lord. Let me cast another divination and find the name.'

Ogedai nodded, easing himself back down to the pallet. Even that small exertion had brought him to the edge of fainting.

Mohrol got to his feet like an old man, hunched over against the pain. Khasar smiled coldly at him. Spots of blood fell from between the shaman's legs, vanishing instantly into the felt.

'Do it quickly then,' Khasar said. 'I do not have patience for your kind, not today.'

Mohrol looked away from him, frightened by a man who used violence as easily as breathing. He could not untie his robe and examine the wound with Khasar leering at him. He felt ill and the gash throbbed and burned. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He was the khan's shaman and the divination had to be correct. Mohrol wondered what would happen if the spirits gave him Khasar's name. He did not think he would live long after that.

As Khasar watched with contempt, Mohrol sent his servants running for tapers of incense. Soon the air of the ger was thick, and Mohrol added other herbs to his burning bowl, breathing in a coolness that made the ache in his groin just a distant irritation. After a time, even that faded and was gone.

At first, Ogedai coughed as the harsh smoke entered his lungs. One of the servants dared Mohrol's disapproval at last and a skin of wine had appeared at the khan's feet. He drank it like a man dying of thirst and a bloom of colour came back to his cheeks. His eyes were bright with fascination and dread as Mohrol clutched the bones for divination, holding them to the four winds and calling for the spirits to guide his hand.

At the same time, the shaman took a pot of gritty black paste and rubbed a stripe of it along his tongue. It was dangerous to release his spirit again so soon, but he steeled himself, ignoring the way his heart fluttered in his chest. The bitterness brought tears to his eyes, so that they shone in the gloom. When Mohrol closed his mouth, his pupils grew enormous, like the eyes of dying horses.

The blood was slowly seeping into the layers of felt and the smell of it was pungent. With the narcotic incense, the exhausted men could hardly stand it, but Mohrol seemed to thrive in the thick air, the paste giving strength to his flesh. His voice rolled out a chant as he moved the bag of bones to the north, east, south and west, over and over, calling for the spirits of home to guide him.

At last he threw the bones; too hard, so that the yellow pieces scattered across the felt. Was it an omen to see them leap and jump away from him? Mohrol cursed aloud and Khasar laughed as the shaman tried to read the way they fell.

'Ten…eleven…where is the last one?' Mohrol said, speaking to no one.

None of them noticed that Tolui had grown almost as pale as the khan himself. The shaman had not seen the yellow ankle bone resting against Tolui's boot, touching the soft leather.

Tolui had seen. He had kept to himself the sick fear he had felt on hearing that it had to be one of Ogedai's blood. From that moment, he had been gripped by a numb helplessness, a resignation to a fate he could not avoid. The bolting mare had knocked him from his feet, no other. He thought he had known then. Part of him wanted to tread the bone deep into the felt, to hide it with his foot, but with an effort of will, he did not. Ogedai was the khan of the nation, the man his father had chosen to rule after him. No life was worth as much as his.

'It is here,' Tolui whispered, then repeated himself as no one heard him.

Mohrol looked up at him and his eyes flashed with sudden understanding.

'The mare that struck you,' the shaman said in a whisper. His eyes were dark, but there was something like compassion in his face.

Tolui nodded, mute.

'What?' Ogedai broke in, looking up sharply. 'Do not even think of that, shaman. Tolui is not part of this.' He spoke firmly, but the terror of the grave was still on him and his hands trembled on the wine cup. Tolui saw.

'You are my older brother, Ogedai,' Tolui said. 'More, you are the khan, the man our father chose.' He smiled and rubbed his hand across his face, looking almost boyish for a moment. 'He told me once that I would be the one to remind you of things you have forgotten. That I would guide you as khan and be your right arm.'