Empress of the Jade Real Chapter 1

Kherlen River Valley – Summer 1476

The summer sun burned hot and high in the sky. Not even the cool breeze blowing down off the Khentii Mountains relieved the infernal heat. Mandukhai sat on a cushioned chair beneath a white canopy, reviewing the day’s reports while sipping honey wine chilled with snow from the mountains. Sweat beaded on her brow and she used a cloth to wipe it away before it could drop on the reports and smudge the ink. Not that wiping the sweat did much good. A minute later, more rose to the surface.

The hollow thumps of sword fighting from the practice yard ten yards away carried toward her. Mandukhai lowered the reports and watched the sparring match.

Unebolod had gathered a half dozen fighters to join him. The six men formed a ring around the small, wiry form of Dayan Khan. At thirteen, he was not yet as big as the men, but not a small boy any longer. The fighters danced around him like a pack of wolves preparing for the kill. Dayan watched each of them twisting to fend off blows when any of them lunged forward. But each strike still pushed him back.

Every day, Unebolod or Togochi would teach Dayan how to fight. Sometimes with bows or swords on horseback—which Dayan had fallen off of more than once, thankfully to no serious injury—and sometimes with swords one-on-one. Recently, Unebolod had begun surprising Dayan with an uneven match. And Unebolod never made it easy for Dayan, pushing him to become stronger, better.

But Dayan was still only a boy and sparring matches like this one today were hardly fair: six grown, experienced men against one boy. Dayan had yet to win a single match. She worried how this would impact his confidence.

One warrior struck out, catching Dayan’s side. He cried out as the wooden practice sword hit him. Before he could recover, Unebolod used the moment of weakness to finish the fight. His movements were graceful, smooth. Mandukhai could not help admiring the way the sun shone off his muscular arms and shoulders in his sleeveless deel.

Dayan blocked Unebolod’s blow, but the force of it was enough to make Dayan trip over his own feet. He fell on his back. In seconds, Unebolod had the practice sword poised over Dayan’s throat.

Mandukhai grimaced as Dayan used his hand to knock the sword away.

“This was not a fair fight!” Dayan protested. His face turned red with anger as he pushed himself to his feet sullenly.

Unebolod's response was calm. “Learn to use all of your senses, Dayan. Men who wish to kill you will not fight fair. Especially once they have you alone. You need to learn how to defend yourself.”

Dayan brushed the dirt off his deel gruffly. “But I won’t be alone, will I? Boke and my guards will be there.” His golden gaze darted to the guards waiting beside the sparring space as if to prove his point. He threw his wooden sword on the ground. “We are done.”

Mandukhai sighed as Dayan stormed off. As Dayan had predicted, his guards closed in around him like a shield.

“My lady Khatun,” Togochi said, drawing her back to her own task.

Togochi had returned late last night from a mission to bring his own Khorlod tribe fully under the banner of the Great Khan. The journey had been exhausting, so she had given him the night to recover before giving her his report. It would not change anything in one night.

Mandukhai wanted to console Dayan, but she knew that this was more important than soothing Dayan’s moody angst. Hopefully he would grow out of that soon.

Unebolod strolled over to join them, his mouth set in a grim line. She knew he thought she was too soft on Dayan. He said nothing as he stopped at the edge of the canopy, leaning against the post with the casual grace of a wild cat.

“Togochi, I hope you had a good night of rest to recover,” Mandukhai said.

Togochi rubbed his neck, chagrined. “I would like to say I did, but my wives were happy to see me return.”

Mandukhai smiled. Jaghan had been sick with worry most of the time he had been gone. The women had tea every other day—a ritual Mandukhai was too busy for, but one she knew was necessary as well. The women needed to feel as if they had a voice with her.

Togochi cleared his throat and adopted a more serious expression. “It went well, Mandukhai. Mendu khan is a bit of an old soul, and stuck in the old ways. Between the young Khan’s legitimacy and my position here, Mendu was more than willing to give his support. He says when you are ready to ride south, the Khorlod tribe will join your ranks.”

Relief washed over Mandukhai. Togochi’s position in the Great Khan’s budding empire was one of the highest ranks a man could achieve—orlok of the northern tumens—and only a lesser khan had a higher position, and only over his own tribe. Mendu khan would have known that, if he had refused to follow Mandukhai and Dayan, Togochi could have killed him and taken over control of the tribe fully. Mandukhai aimed for as few deaths as possible. Killing khans and nobles would impose her strength, but it would also ruffle feathers. She hoped to make this reunification smooth and peaceful—and only fight when absolutely necessary.

She would have to fight one day against the Uyghur. Mandukhai had hoped that the Ming would, as Unebolod stated it, remove the Uyghur boot from their throats so she would not have to worry about it. If the Ming had killed Bigirsen for her, Mandukhai would have more easily unified the southern tribes. But nothing was ever so easy.

“That is a relief then,” Mandukhai said sincerely. “Alayitung just sent a report this morning that one of the Oirat Lords attempted a revolt. Thankfully, it was put down almost as swiftly as it began. Chari now leads that branch of Oirat. Asha khan had the other Lord executed.” She sighed, gazing at the reports in her lap. “Each of these deaths is necessary, I know, but it feels like such a waste.”

Unebolod snorted. “That Lord was probably loyal to Bigirsen. We need to deal with him soon, Mandukhai. Before he gathers strength again.”

“The Ordos Lords have abandoned him,” Mandukhai replied. “That massacre at the red salt lake lost him all of his support in the south.”

“But for how long?” Unebolod asked, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. Mandukhai tried not to stare. It would do neither of them any good. “The Ming built a wall to block him out of Zhongwei and Wuzhong, but if he finds even an inch he will be like a dog with a bone. All it takes is one right move to position himself again. This fight against him has been a long time coming.”

The bloodlust Unebolod had for Bigirsen was unhealthy. Mandukhai wanted the Uyghur warlord dead as well, but she had to be careful how she went about it. Bigirsen may have lost control of the southern tribes, but he could still be dangerous even with only the Uyghur. Her foothold over the Oirat was more important now than ever.

Unebolod had returned to her with the sulde, found in Bigirsen’s camp, and told her all about the massacre. The women and children killed by the Ming. The loss had crippled the southern tribes, and Unebolod had pressed her to move in and assert the Great Khan’s authority over the area before they recovered. She had refused. She would not use such a horrific tragedy to gain her own power. It was a move for the weak.

After the massacre, the south had become unmanageable terrain. The tribes constantly fought with each other with one clear purpose: kidnapping women and girls in an effort to rebuild. Females had become a commodity that the men constantly pillaged for. Another reason she had no desire to ride south yet. She would not put herself or any of the women under her protection in such a dangerous place. Not yet.

Mandukhai simply did not have enough warriors to launch the attack in the south. While she had garnered the loyalty of six subtribes—and the Oirat—six others remained between her and the south. And that did not include the twenty tribes and subtribes in the south. Instead, she had focused these past few years on teaching Dayan and making as many allies in the north as she could. It was tedious work—these lesser khans all seemed to want something from her—and she had only gathered oaths from three of them. Four, now, with Mendu khan, she thought.

She set her reports in her red lacquer box and closed the lid. “Bigirsen will have to wait a little longer, Unebolod. We are just far too outnumbered to run the risk.”

Unebolod’s jaw twitched. The two of them had this argument several times, and he had always insisted he could easily sweep Bigirsen off the map with their warriors, especially if he rode through Oirat territory to get to Bigirsen’s men. But Bigirsen was not a fool. He kept his warriors on the move. They could not pinpoint his location since the massacre at the red salt lake.

“I agree with Mandukhai,” Togochi said. “Until we know where he is and have more warriors to ensure victory, we cannot launch an attack. It would leave us vulnerable to the southern tribes. And if the Oirat are attempting revolts—even as brief as they are—we risk exposing ourselves to them as well, which would put us right back where we started.”

Unebolod took an urgent step closer, waving his hand toward the gathering tent in the distance. “Put that boy in front of the sulde, and it will bring the rest of the eastern tribes to us,” Unebolod said tersely. “Perhaps even some of the southern tribes.”

Mandukhai raised a brow in his direction. ”That boy needs more men behind him first. This is a matter of numbers, not blood. Right now, we don’t even have half the tribes under our banner. Without securing the majority, we risk his life. I won’t do it.”

“You can’t shield him forever,” Unebolod retorted.

“Watch me!” Mandukhai surged to her feet and marched away.

Unebolod’s impatience was precisely what had kept her from naming him Great Khan instantly after Manduul’s death. He had displayed such impatience before, when Manduul had left him in charge as he rode off to fight with Bayan. With each passing year, she grew more certain that her vision with Genghis, where the horizon burned, would have certainly been their fate if Unebolod was in charge.

Mandukhai, however, took a more patient, practical approach. Who is he to tell me I cannot shield Dayan forever? I can, and I will.

The cloying scent of rosemary and sandalwood mingled inside the confines of Goram’s ger. Dayan had little choice but to focus on his breathing to keep from gagging on the smell. This space always smelled of some floral or woodsy incense. Today, after Dayan stomped into the monk’s ger for his meditation lesson with what Goram called “the look of a thunderhead cloud,” Goram handpicked the rosemary and sandalwood. The scents were supposed to help Dayan feel grounded and calm while relieving stress and enhancing mental balance.

Dayan tugged at the collar of his deel from his place across from Goram on the rugs. He had dropped into his spot sullenly when Goram motioned to it, then adjusted the many colored belts around his waist.

“You need to learn how to focus your frustration and channel it into something more productive,” Goram said, folding his legs as he joined Dayan on the rug.

The lines of age on the old monk’s face fascinated Dayan. He didn’t realize people could live so long. How can Goram be so wrinkly? I hope I never get like that, he thought as his nose wrinkled in disgust.

“I’m convinced he enjoys abusing me,” Dayan grumbled, slouching and rubbing at his neck as he recalled how Unebolod had—once again—bested him. “It’s hardly fair. He’s ancient and experienced in battle. Besides, Mandukhai won’t let me do anything.”

Goram folded his hands over his knees patiently, giving Dayan a look that clearly said he expected Dayan to do the same. Dayan scowled and dropped his hands dramatically to his knees.

“Petulance will get you nothing,” Goram said.

That’s not helpful. Dayan rolled his eyes. He hated his body, all limbs and no muscle. Dayan was skinnier than other boys his age. And shorter, as well. But his limbs were disproportionally long, which often made those fights with Unebolod even worse. Dayan tripped over his own feet or miscalculated the swing of his sword far more often than not.

“It isn’t like I will ever beat him, or ever need to,” Dayan groused. “He serves me.”

“Spoken as one who sees their power as absolute,” Goram commented with a grin. Why was he grinning? It only made Dayan slump further down. “Sit up straight to properly balance the natural flow of your body. Close your eyes, Dayan.”

Dayan grumbled under his breath but did as he was told—albeit with theatrical movements. If he was to feel miserable, he would make Goram miserable with him.

“There is a lot of negative energy flowing through you,” Goram said.

Obviously, Dayan thought. But he knew better than to say such things to Goram. The monk was insufferably patient. He kept his eyes closed and awaited the instruction.

“Release your palms flat to the Eternal Blue Sky, Dayan,” Goram instructed. “Open yourself to enlightenment and focus on your breathing. In. Out.”

Dayan’s boiling frustration diminished somewhat as he followed Goram’s commands. He focused on the void of nothingness, allowing his energy to flow into it, through the earth, and away. Maybe, just maybe, if he could learn how to control his emotions, Dayan would beat Unebolod and show Mandukhai that he was not a little boy any longer. She had made him Great Khan when he was too young to know what that meant. He should have resented her for it, but her devotion, faith, and love had changed him. Dayan could never resent her. Without her, he had nothing.

Not that the other Lords fully supported him. And he had not been officially installed at kurultai yet, either. Those other men doubted him—even the ones who followed him. But he would show them all one day. It was a long time coming.

First, Dayan had to find some way to keep the Great Fist from squeezing at his heart and lungs as it so often did.

Southwestern Ordos Territory – Fall 1476

Issama politely sipped at his tea across from Ibarai. Issama had sent an offer of truce to Ibarai at the start of the summer. The Ordos in this area were constantly on the move and often came too close to Issama and his family for his comfort. He worried about the safety of his wives, Siker and Qolotai. Too many women had disappeared or been taken from their families these past years. But if Issama could offer something more to Ibarai, it would protect his wives and give him powerful allies—something he desperately needed. These alliances were a long time coming.

“I am dying to know what you have to offer that would make us forget what you did,” Ibarai said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Issama had not been the one who killed the families at the red salt lake. Yes, he had selected the location for the camp, but these rest fell on the shoulders of one man. “Bigirsen was the one who had insisted the families remain with the Uyghur so he could monitor them—or control them. Perhaps I organized the campaign that drew too many of the men from the camp, but Bigirsen was the one who had insisted all the warriors be present when he finally broke through Yinchuan. Bigirsen was the one who had believed it would show his divine right to rule the Mongols.” Issama set down his tea and eyed Ibarai intently. “We all lost too much. You can blame me for following his orders if you want, but we both know he would have taken my head if I hadn’t. How could we have known what would happen?”

The massacre had been horrific, for certain. They had all lost everything. Bigirsen’s entire family had been killed. Many of the Lords lost wives and children. The sheer number of deaths had been devastating.

“I lost a wife and daughter that day,” Issama murmured, staring into the depths of his cup. He would play a victim in this until he gained what he came for. “I miss Uingen still, and Qolotai has not really recovered from the loss of our daughter.”

The logical part of Issama knew his daughter was better off dead. Otherwise, someone would have kidnapped her for future mating. It was better that she died than live as a slave to some deviant man’s will.

Issama would use the tragedy to shift all the blame. He came here with a rational purpose. To gain allies and funnel their rage where it belonged.

Against Bigirsen and Mandukhai.

“What do you propose, then?” Ibarai asked.

“Ordos independence, just like you have always wanted,” Issama said, smothering a smirk. “The ability to choose your own rightful Khan, free of the Ming and Borjigin influence.”

And if all went according to plan, they would choose him.

Greater Khingan Mountains – Urainkhai Territory – Fall 1477

The ger was silent as the four children slept. Exhaustion crept up on Esige as she loosened her hair and let it fall around her shoulders. She and Huoshai had spent the better part of their day talking with Tulugen—a leader of the Three Guards tribes. Stories had swirled around Tulugen, about how he had gone to Bigirsen and how Bigirsen had nearly killed him with hot soup. Hearing the story now from Tulugen, it all made so much more sense.

Huoshai stepped up behind her and swept her hair away from her neck, nuzzling in and pressing his lips to her warm skin. She smiled softly and reached up to stroke his cheek.

“Do you think Tulugen will keep his word?” she whispered, afraid of waking the children. “His tribe is not exactly known for its loyalty.”

Over the years, the Three Guards tribe had served whatever overlord offered them the most to gain. Mongols, Ming … Bigirsen. Esige wanted to trust Tulugen, and felt they had truly bonded over their shared hatred for Bigirsen, but she knew his people had a reputation.

“This is not a trap, if that is what you are worried about,” Huoshai said.

His breath rolled over her neck. He snaked his hands around her waist, holding her against him. Esige adored the way he showered her with affection in private, yet maintained a healthy respect for her in public. Somehow, she loved him even more now than she had the day she married him.

“The Three Guards may be swayed easily, but they can hold a grudge better than anyone else.” Huoshai grinned, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Even you.”

Esige laughed and swatted him off. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she teased indignantly.

“The squirrel?” Huoshai replied, raising his brows as he leaned against the butcher block. “You still shake out your deels before putting them on.”

“Perhaps if my husband didn’t traumatize me, it would not have had such lasting effects,” Esige retorted.

Huoshai chuckled and shook his head. “In all seriousness, I believe Tulugen meant every word. He is furious. That much was obvious.”

Esige nodded. “Then we should send word to Mandukhai and leave in the spring to ride north and give Tulugen a chance to do as he promised.” She glanced at the dark sky through the open smoke hole. “We should find Nemeku before we settle in for the night.”

Huoshai grunted and popped a sweet curd in his mouth. “You mean I should. He should be back soon.” As he headed for the door, Huoshai paused, kissing her on the cheek.

Esige smiled coyly at him. “Don’t be too long.”

“I wouldn’t dream of keeping you waiting,” Huoshai teased as he strode out into the dark.

Before turning in for the night, Esige strode toward the four slumbering children—three boys and a girl. As she leaned over to kiss each of their foreheads, Esige cradled her stomach. The fifth child would arrive soon, in the heart of winter.

Their faces were smooth. Esige could not remember the last time she felt such peace. Huoshai certainly made her feel safe, but Borogchin’s death still scarred her heart. As long as Bigirsen drew breath, she could not know peace.

And he would die soon. It was a long time coming.