The shamans were chanting again, muttering and humming under their breath—whispers on the wind. Tolui had returned and he stood at the foot of the bed. His head was lowered, and the sound coming from his throat sounded like the noise of ten men, droning and crying. A wooden cup was passed from shaman to shaman, until it reached his brother, who accepted it, squatted next to ?gedei’s feet, and raised it to his lips.
He drank and drank and drank. It seemed as if he would never stop drinking, and ?gedei was about to cry out for him to stop, when he dropped the bowl and fell heavily against the bed. He raised his head, his bright eyes piercing ?gedei. His mouth worked for some time before words came out, and when they did, ?gedei wanted to cry out, to drive them back into his brother’s throat as if that would undo what had been done. “Bring greatness to our empire, brother,” he whispered.
?gedei sat up. His spirit was returning in prickly waves running through his limbs. “Tolui,” he cried, his voice a hoarse gasp.
Tolui groaned, then doubled over, his hands clutching at nothing. When he looked again at ?gedei, the veins of his brow swelled purple and tight under the sweat-slicked skin. “Brother,” he whispered, his voice a ragged hiss, “they drink me.” All the skin of his face now stretched tight, like the head of a drum, and ?gedei could see things moving beneath—like worms burrowing.
“I am drunk,” Tolui sighed. He tried to shape one last smile for his older brother, but his muscles failed him and he collapsed in a heap.
?gedei threw off the furs. Finding he could stand, he rushed to his brother’s side.
A shaman stood to one side, half in shadow. “It is done,” he pronounced in a hollow, distant voice.
Tolui’s eyes were closed, as if he had fallen into a deep sleep. ?gedei hugged him tightly, but there was no life left in his brother’s body.
“On this day nine years ago, my noble brother sacrificed himself so that I might live. But his sacrifice was not just for me! Tolui…Tolui Khan sacrificed himself so the Mongol Empire would not be denied its leader—or its destiny.”
Surrounded by more than a minghan of ecstatic and effusive warriors, it was easy to be infected by their enthusiasm, and when the crowd roared in approval following the Khagan’s words, Gansukh found himself halfheartedly cheering along.
The courtyard was removed enough from ?gedei’s balcony that it was not easy to tell if the Khagan had been drinking. Certainly, at this distance, one could not make out any of the telltale details in a man’s face that betrayed intoxication, but based on the Khagan’s cadence and the way he leaned heavily on the balcony railing while the crowd cheered, Gansukh suspected the Khagan was, indeed, besotted.
“We must never forget my dear brother’s spirit,” ?gedei continued, pulling himself upright again. “His strength is our strength; his spirit is with us still. His name, and the names of all our fallen brothers, are what make us who we are. Those who stand against the empire—those who defy me—defile the memory of our dead brothers.”
?gedei paused dramatically, and as the noise of the crowd filled the courtyard, he raised his arms, urging them to even greater volume. The ground rumbled as men began to stomp rhythmically. This time, when the Khagan dropped his hands, silence came slowly.
“It is due to my brother,” ?gedei shouted in a ringing voice, “and to your brothers, and all the fallen Mongol brothers, that our empire endures. My father brought the tribes together and set us upon a course that will forever carve a furrow in history. It is our duty—our sacred duty for our brothers who will follow after us—to continue that course.”
The crowd’s cheers grew louder, more guttural, becoming a war chant. The noise flowed back and forth, beating against the walls of the palace, and above the seething tide of shouting warriors, ?gedei faltered. Gansukh’s heart faltered with him. But the crowd did not notice as ?gedei steadied himself, and Gansukh saw someone move behind ?gedei and the sharp shooing motion of his hand as the Khagan brushed off any assistance.
The crowd continued its exultation, but Gansukh had seen enough. As ?gedei began to quiet the shouting warriors for one final declamatory exclamation, Gansukh shoved his way through the crowd.
The Khagan’s greatness had not departed. The wine addled him, but it had not entirely doused ?gedei’s fierce spirit. The Khagan could still be saved, but it would require someone like Gansukh—an outsider, a warrior for whom the old ways were still fresh and vital—to show him the path.
Learning the ways of court were a means to an end, much like learning how to read tracks and spoor in order to hunt. A hunter had to know his prey well before he could stalk it, before he could get close enough.
CHAPTER 30:
PILGRIMS’ PROGRESS