As the stars turned around their northern point, Temujin began to fidget, unable to make himself comfortable. He had seen the smoothness of Borte’s tanned skin as she washed her face and arms in a stream cold enough to make her teeth chatter. They were good teeth, he had noticed, strong and white. For a while, he considered complimenting her on them, but it seemed a little like admiring a new pony and the words wouldn’t come. He could not pretend he didn’t want her under a blanket with him, but the years apart sat between them like a wall. If she had asked, he would have told her everything he had done since the last time they met, but she did not, and he didn’t know how to begin.

As he lay there under the stars, he hoped she would hear the way he puffed air out in great sighs, but if she did, she made no sign she was even awake. He might have been alone in the world, and that was exactly how he felt. He imagined staying awake until dawn so that she would see his tiredness and feel sorry for ignoring him. It was an interesting idea, but he couldn’t keep the sense of injured nobility for very long.

“Are you awake?” he said suddenly, without thinking. He saw her sit up under the stars.

“How could I sleep, with you huffing and blowing to yourself like that?” she replied.

He recalled the last time he had heard that voice in the dark and the touch of her hand on his cheek. The idea was exciting and he felt his body grow hot under his deel, despite the frozen air.

“I had an idea we would spend the first night under a blanket together,” he said. Despite his best intentions, it came out as an irritable complaint, and he heard her snort before she replied.

“Who could resist such sweet words?” she replied.

He waited hopefully, but her continuing silence was enough of an answer. Apparently, she could. He sighed, catching himself in the sound as he heard her giggle, quickly stifled in the blanket. In the darkness, he smiled, suddenly amused.

“I have thought about you many times in the years away,” he said. He saw her shape move then and guessed she had turned to him. He lay on his side facing her and scratched his nose where the damp grass tickled his skin.

“How many times?” she murmured.

He thought for a moment. “Eleven,” he said. “Twelve, including tonight.”

“You did not think of me,” she told him. “What do you remember of who I was?”

“I remember you had a pleasant voice, and a lump of snot underneath your nose,” he said, with such a ring of casual truth that it reduced her to stunned silence.

“I waited for you to come and take me away from my father for a long time,” she said at last. “There were evenings when I dreamed of you riding up, full grown as a khan of the Wolves.”

Temujin tensed in the darkness. Was that what it was? Had his new status made him less in her eyes? He raised himself on an elbow to reply, but she went on, unaware of his fast-changing moods.

“I turned down three young men of the Olkhun’ut,” she said, “the last when my mother was ill and not likely to survive the winter. The women laughed at the girl who pined for a Wolf, and still I walked proudly amongst them.”

“You knew I would come,” Temujin said, with a touch of smugness.

She snorted. “I thought you were dead, but I did not want to be married off to some horse boy of the gers, to bear his children. They laughed at my pride, but it was all I had.”

He stared into the gloom, trying to understand the struggle she had faced, perhaps as great in its way as his own. If he had learned anything in his life, it was that there are some who thrive on loneliness and take strength from it. They were vital, dangerous people and they cherished whatever kept them apart. Borte was one of those, it seemed. He was himself. He thought of his mother for a moment. She had told him to be kind.

“The first time I came to the Olkhun’ut, you were given to me, accepted by my father,” he said softly. “The second time, I came of my own will to find you.”

“You wanted to put your seed in me,” she said tightly.

He wished he could see her face in the darkness.

“I did,” he said. “I want your spirit in my sons and daughters: the best of the Olkhun’ut. The best of the Wolves.”

He heard a rustle and felt the warmth of her as she crept close and pulled her blanket over them both.

“Tell me I am beautiful,” she whispered in his ear, exciting him.

“You are,” he replied, his voice becoming hoarse. He moved his hands on her in the blackness, opening her deel and feeling the smoothness of her belly. “Your teeth are very white.” He heard her chuckle into his ear at that, but her own hands moved on him and he had no more words, nor needed them.

The following day was strangely vivid as Temujin rode with Borte. His senses seemed heightened and almost painful. Every time their flesh touched, he thought of the night before and the nights to come, thrilled by the experiences and the closeness.

They did not make good progress, though Arslan took the reins and let both sisters ride together for most of the afternoon. They stopped to hunt and, between the two bows, they had enough meat to roast each night. Makhda’s cough seemed to be growing worse away from the shelter of the Olkhun’ut gers, and her sister could be heard sobbing whenever she tended her. Arslan spoke kindly to them both, but as the first month ended, Makhda had to be tied into the saddle so that she would not fall from weakness. Though they did not speak of it, none of them expected her to live much longer.

The green of the land was fading as they rode north, and one morning, Temujin woke to see snow falling. He was wrapped in blankets with Borte and they had slept heavily, worn out by the cold and the endless plains. Seeing the snow brought a little ice back to Temujin’s spirit, marking the end of a happy time, perhaps happier than he had ever known. He knew he was returning to hardship and fighting, to leading his brothers into a war with the Tartars. Borte sensed the new distance in him and retreated from it, so that they spent hours each day in weary silence, where before they had chattered like birds.

It was Arslan who saw the wanderers first in the distance, his voice snapping Temujin out of his reverie. Three men had gathered a small herd in the lee of a hill and pitched a grubby ger there against the winter cold. Ever since Sansar had taken their swords, Temujin had feared such a meeting. With Borte in his arms, he swore softly to himself. In the distance, the strangers mounted quickly, kicking their ponies into a gallop. Perhaps their intentions were peaceful, but the sight of three young women would excite them to violence. Temujin drew rein and lowered Borte to the ground. He removed his bow from its wrapping and fitted his best remaining string, pulling away the cap of his quiver. Arslan was ready, he saw. The swordsmith had cut the rope holding Makhda in the saddle, leaving her to sit on the frozen ground with her sister. As he mounted in her place, he and Temujin exchanged a glance.

“Do we wait?” Arslan called.

Temujin watched the galloping warriors and wished he had a sword. Three poor wanderers would not own a long blade between them and it would have been enough to make the outcome certain. As it was, he and Arslan could be left for the birds in just a few bloody moments. It was less of a risk to attack.

“No,” he shouted back over the wind. “We kill them.”

He heard the sisters moaning in fear behind as he kicked in his heels and readied his bow. Despite himself, there was an exhilaration in riding with only his knees, perfectly balanced to send death from his bow.

The distance between them seemed long as they raced along the plain, then suddenly they were close and the wind was roaring in their ears. Temujin listened to the sound of his pony’s hooves striking the ground, feeling the rhythm. There was a point in the galloping stride where all four hooves left the ground for just a heartbeat. Yesugei had taught him to loose on that instant, so that his aim was always perfect.