It had been many years since he had slept away from the constant commotion of civilization, and many years before that since he had slept outside with only a sleeping roll between him and the ground. It was not surprising, in that case, that he had slept poorly.
It had been the constant mention of his father that had put him in a foul mood as he had laid down to sleep the previous night. He had stared up at the stars for a long time, lost in thought, as more and more of the men around him surrendered to their dreams.
All spoke of Genghis Khan as if they knew him, as if they were anything more than lap dogs and lackeys to him, but none of them knew the Great Khan as well as he did. And he would never confess to them that the man had been an enigma to him.
He never understood why Genghis had chosen him over his brothers to lead the empire. Jochi had been stronger and Chagatai was smarter; even Tolui—dear sweet Tolui—had been better suited to lead than he. And yet, Genghis had ignored all of the evidence and chosen him—the middle son who no one believed was capable.
Late the night before, he had recalled a dream from months earlier, during the late summer at Karakorum. He had dreamed of abandoning the empire—just he and Toregene. They shared one horse and rode west until they reached the endless sea where the sun doused itself every night. There, on the beach, they had built a shelter out of driftwood and palm fronds. He had learned to fish from the shore, and she haunted the rock ledges where the noisy birds nested, harvesting eggs. It had been a simple life, unlike any he had ever known, and it had been satisfying. When they had gotten hungry, he fished; when they had been tired, they slept. The sun fell down from the sky, boiled the sea, and went out; the next day, it was there in the sky again. Nothing ever changed. The dream hadn’t been a vision; it was nothing more than the idle spark of a desire that he fueled enough to become a tiny flame, lurking in his heart.
The previous night, sleeping on the ground, beneath a sky filled with bright stars, was a small taste of what that life would be like. Now, with the sky obscured by the predawn fog, the ground wet with dew, he discovered that the burning desire for a simple life had been extinguished. That dream was nothing more than cold ash in his mind, a fantasy that belonged to someone else.
?gedei rolled his dry tongue around the inside of his mouth, and his attention drifted to the nearby bundle of his gear. Nestled deep inside one of the bags were two flasks of wine. He’d only need one to quench the worst of his thirst. He could save the other one for after he slew the Great Bear.
He rolled over, turning his back on the bag and its secret contents. His knees and back complained as he got to his feet, and he used this soreness as an excuse to walk away from his sleeping roll. A little exercise would get his blood flowing. They had camped near a stream; he could get a drink from there just as easily, and the clear, cold mountain water would wash away the cobwebs of the night.
Under a nearby tree sat a pair of Torguud, and one slapped the other as ?gedei limped past, trying to rouse the sleeping guard. He should have stopped and berated them for failing to both stay awake, but he found himself sympathizing: the hard ground was no substitute for a warm ger.
As he made his way to the river, his head was filled with thoughts of Karakorum—the comforts of home, the ease and luxury that he had earned after many years of crisscrossing the steppe in pursuit of his father’s dream. Why did he need to kill this bear, anyway? What did he really have to prove? Genghis had given him the empire, and it had expanded under his rule. It was so large that it took all of Genghis’s sons and their sons to rule it. Wasn’t that enough?
?gedei knelt at the edge of the stream and cupped his hand in the rushing water, wincing at the frigid temperature. He scooped water into his mouth, and gasped as the cold water made his teeth ache. He scooped several more handfuls into his mouth, feeling cold rivulets of water stream down his throat. Bracing himself, he splashed water on his face and rubbed his skin vigorously.
It didn’t help his mood.
He heard someone approach, and he turned in acknowledgment. It was Alchiq. The gray-haired hunter knelt by the stream, his knees popping, and dipped a small bowl into the water. He stood, sipped from it slowly, and then he offered it to ?gedei.
?gedei dismissed the offer. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a bowl to the river? How dare Alchiq embarrass him like this? Why hadn’t he stopped him from getting his hands wet? He glanced down, noticing how much water had splashed on his shirt from his own actions, and his annoyance increased. He was Khagan, and here he was slurping water from a river like a mongrel dog, sleeping out in the open like some herder’s sheep. This was all beneath him.
“You’re thinking about going back,” Alchiq said.
?gedei glowered at him.