by Andre Norton
That evening, she saw the shadow flicker upon the outer wall of her yurt; and if her laugh rang the more musically, and her song the sweeter, she did not know it. Nor did Willow make her any the wiser. As the days of winter wore by, Silver Snow grew more and more amazed at the changes in her maid. Because of Willow’s lameness, Silver Snow had always thought of her as a more sickly creature than herself. Now, however, in the manner of a canny beast who has evaded one trap—albeit at some cost to herself—Willow thrived. Her hair grew thicker, longer, and more lustrous, and her skin became less sallow.
Where does she go? thought Silver Snow. For the endless herds of horses and sheep made no outcry; no child announced her presence; and no hunter swore to have a new fox cap by spring. Yet, at dawn, Willow was always asleep upon her pallet at the foot of Silver Snow’s own bed-place, her fingers twitching, her eyes moving beneath flat lids, as if, deep in dreams, she hunted, wild and free. Thus far, Willow had not confided in her, and Silver Snow forebore to press her.
Silver Snow had completed yet another letter. Perhaps when a thaw came, some bold riders might deign to journey east, there to give her message, most carefully painted upon the finest silk, to the nearest outpost of Ch’in’s army for transport back into the Middle Kingdom. She felt certain that this letter would encourage Li Ling and her father; in it, she spoke of the shan-yu’s renewed offer to defend the Middle Kingdom’s borders.
And perhaps, one day, such riders might even dash up to her yurt, bearing a message in reply.
With a high heart, she went to the great tent of Khujanga, saluted him, and took the pile of cushions close to him that her rank—and his fondness for his latest treasure—demanded that she enjoy.
To her surprise, however, Prince Vughturoi was missing from the assembly. She was wondering how she might find out why he was not present when Khujanga spoke.
“My younger son has ridden forth with those of his men that have a mind to look in and, perhaps, study the flocks of the Yueh-chih.” That sly observation from the shan-yu drew a laugh from his assembled tribesmen.
A journey across the plains in the full of winter? That was not bravery, thought Silver Snow, but folly—and Vughturoi was anything but a fool. Then she saw the complacent smile of Strong Tongue and realized that it was not folly, either, but policy. The shaman’s policy. Put into the old man’s thoughts the notion that the once-rebellious Yueh-chih must be observed, and Vughturoi, who was an obedient son, would fare out to do so. Then, once he was far from the camp . . . well, many sicknesses stalked the plains in the winter, and the shan-yu was old. Let him die, when Vughturoi was gone; and who was there among the Hsiung-nu with a strong enough following to oppose her plans, which called for her own son Tadiqan to seize power, the old shan-yu’s possessions . . . and his wives.
Silver Snow shivered at that line of reasoning, and drew her robes more closely around her despite the warmth of the great yurt. Her thoughts made her feel as if a thick outer coat had been ripped from arms and shoulders, leaving her to shiver unprotected in the winds that swept from the Roof of the World east to the Wall itself. Surely, she told herself, Khujanga is in good health; he might yet last for years, or at least for long enough . . .
“Today is a day of feasting,” the shan-yu told Silver Snow. “My son Vughturoi’s notions”—he shook his head in fond amusement at that younger son—“are well known; he holds with me on the Middle Kingdom. Always, however, Tadiqan has pulled against the traces. Today, though; today, he agrees that we should work with Ch’in against our enemies. Perhaps, if we did that, the men of the Han would no longer need to dwell in those drafty fortresses and could rove free in their homes, just as we do now.”
Silver Snow almost gasped in horror. Who had put that idea into Khujanga’s head? It was diabolically clever: precisely what Li Ling feared that the Emperor might agree to. Let the forts be emptied; let Tadiqan have the run of the garrisons and the manning of them; and Hsiung-nu “protection” could rapidly become invasion. Ch’ang-an must know of this! she thought.
“Drink, my father!” cried Tadiqan. The men who followed him cheered as the eldest prince strode toward his father with the graceless stride of one who spent more time in the saddle than on foot. In his hands shone a cup wrought of silver and of some yellowed substance . . . ivory, perhaps? From the yell of triumph and bloodlust that went up at the sight of that cup, however, Silver Snow knew what it was: the very goblet that had been fashioned from the skull of Modun of the Yueh-chih, last of the enemies of both Khujanga and Yuan Ti. A curdled, pinkish liquid sloshed in its bowl—mare’s milk and blood.
The shan-yu heaved himself up to his feet, snatched up the cup, and drained it. “Ahhhh!” he cried, and tossed it back to his son. A few drops scattered over the priceless furs and carpets.
“Thus to all enemies of the Hsiung-nu!” he shouted, to cheers that seemed to ripple the fabric of the yurts as much as the winter gales.
“To all enemies of the Hsiung-nu!” repeated his eldest son. “I myself shall hew off their heads and make their skulls into cups!”
Screaming rose to a feverish pitch, intensified by the beat-beat-beat of what Silver Snow identified with loathing as Strong Tongue’s spirit drum.
“That is,” Tadiqan said, turning his face toward Silver Snow so that she might read his lips, “all but one of them.”
If I do not flee, I will be sick, she thought, then admonished herself fiercely. You will stay, and you will not be sick, and tonight, you will not rest before you write an account of this to your father, Li Ling, and the Son of Heaven.
The letter that she had previously drafted and painstakingly written must be discarded.
But how should she get it to them? That was a question for which she had no answer. Nor had she one when, finally, her eyes burning, she sought her bed-furs, nor that dawn, nor the days after, days that steadily lengthened as the time drew toward a frigid spring.
Finally Silver Snow saw only one way to solve her problems. The shan-yu indulged her; let him give her a messenger to carry her letter to her father, his old captive/guest.
“Or,” Willow hinted at her shoulder, with her usual skill at fathoming Silver Snow’s thoughts, “Sable’s brother might ride out for you. Since his wife died, he has been most devoted to his sister, who now cares for his children.”
Silver Snow nodded. Sable’s brother Basich—young, dashing (for one of the Hsiung-nu), and rash almost to madness—might indeed carry a letter for her. Moreover, he was as loyal to Vughturoi (or so she thought) as his sister was to Silver Snow. Yet, it might be best after all if she asked the shan-yu, who prided himself on being an indulgent husband to her. Throwing on her most colorful garments, since the old man’s weary eyes brightened at the sight of finery, she beckoned to Willow, picked up her carefully sealed silk packet, and hastened toward the great tent.
“Hold!” came a shout, accompanied by raucous, ribald hoots and hoof beats.
That was Tadiqan’s voice.
So, is he dead, that old man who was kind to me? Silver Snow thought, while panic shrilled in heart and nerves. And does Tadiqan give himself the powers of the shan-yu so soon, so soon after his father’s body cools? I have avenged my father and honored my oaths; before I let him despoil me, I shall hang myself with my sash.
Willow tugged at her sleeve, as if eager to get her into some safekeeping before the hunters came. “You go, Willow,” hissed Silver Snow. The less that any kin of Strong Tongue saw of Willow, the better. “You go.”
Willow, however, stood her ground, and Silver Snow bit her lip in dismay. Inspiration seized her, though, and she thrust the letter into Willow’s cold, strong hands.
“You must go. Take this letter to Sable and tell her that Basich must carry it, and ride unseen!”
At her best pace, half run, half limp, Willow retreated toward Sable’s tent, and Silver Snow had perforce to stiffen her knees lest relief make her unable to stand proudly as Strong Tongue’s son rode at her in arrogant, t
errifying parade.
The horses pounded forward. Still Silver Snow held her ground. Then, with a shriek that Silver Snow thought must surely shatter ice, Tadiqan fired a whistling arrow; his men’s arrows buzzed and whined in her ears as the troop of them thundered past her on either side.
Silver Snow stood, while people emerged cautiously from their yurts to discover who, this time, Tadiqan and his men had slain. Only shock, which had frozen her, kept her upright; the instant that the joints of her knees melted, she feared that she would fall.
Tadiqan rode toward her, and Silver Snow forced herself to open her eyes. His eyes, as they raked over her, felt as intrusive as hands fondling her against her will.
“For the first time,” he told her, his voice a feral purr, “my mother has been wrong. You have courage, at the very least. I like that, lady. Remember what I have said. I like that very much.”
CHAPTER 16
The rest of the winter was a time of waiting: waiting for spring; waiting for Sable’s brother Basich to ride with a few chosen friends back into camp and for Sable to report that her letter had been delivered to the garrison; waiting for Prince Vughturoi to return; or for Strong Tongue to show her hand. To Silver Snow’s amazement, even her time of immurement in the Palace now proved to be useful: she knew well how to wait, even unto despair.
The frozen grasses had begun to thaw by the time Prince Vughturoi returned, riding back from the camps of the Yueh-chih. He entered the great tent, prostrated himself as was fitting before his father, then rose eagerly at the invitation to sit beside him and feast.
Silver Snow had bent over her handiwork, aware that his eyes had gone straight to her, had approved the fact that she sat calmly among them, accepting and—to all appearances—accepted. The warmth she felt had nothing to do with the heat of the tent, a thing of close-packed bodies and warmth bound together by layers upon layers of felt. If anyone among the Hsiung-nu was a link between her past and her present, it was Prince Vughturoi, who saw her resplendent in Ch’ang-an, refused to accept another princess in her stead, and, even now, did not disdain her. Together, they had driven off the white tiger.
The presence of one warrior—or of one warlord and the warriors whom he led—should not have made her feel so much safer as this Hsiung-nu prince’s sudden appearance did. Yet she might now have a shield lifted between her and her enemies, or a warm cloak laid over her shoulders during the howling climax of a winter storm.
After that first, relieved glance, however, she kept her gaze relentlessly down, allowing the shan-yu some privacy to speak with his son, though how private such speech could be before a tentful of keen-eared Hsiung-nu was highly questionable.
“How fare Modun’s former children, my son?” Khujanga asked.
“They follow us,” he told the shan-yu, “as the lamb follows the ewe. Do you but command, and they shall obey.”
“That is well,” said the old man, his eyes brighter than they had been for many a day. Some of that had to be due to Vughturoi’s triumphant return, without the loss of a single man. However, much was also due to the care that Silver Snow and Willow took of him. The fevers that swept over the camp at the thaw, frequently taking with them the spirits of those who were eldest, youngest, or most sickly, had swept around him. He scarcely coughed, even at dawn, his slaves told Willow, and each day he rode out with great zest.
All around a cheer went up, a cheer rapidly silenced as the robust secondary wives of the shan-yu, wielding heavy copper meathooks, drew mutton from the great cauldrons, then passed around the skins of mare’s milk. The Hsiung-nu ate rapidly and hugely, as if they never knew from whence their next meal might come or whether someone might attack them while they feasted. Gradually, however, as the edge wore off their hunger, and the mare’s milk was passed again and again, men lay back, belching and groaning in satisfaction. Now that the all-important business of eating was done, gradually they began again to speak.
“So, brother,” said Tadiqan, “the Yueh-chih follow like lambs. Does this seem right for kin of ours, to obey thus, following like sheep when Ch’in commands?”
Vughturoi leaned back, but his eyes were wary. “I had not heard, Elder Brother, that the Yueh-chih obeyed the Middle Kingdom or anyone but the beloved of Heaven, our father the shan-yu who defeated them in honest battle. So long as they obey us, that seems well to me. I have heard, however, that there are others, who do not obey the royal clan of the shan-yu, whose will is—is it not, my father?—that there shall be peace with Ch’in. The Fu Yu and the Jo-Chiang, it is said, speak of raids against the Middle Kingdom, despite our father’s ban. Most Heavenly . . .”
At Khujanga’s gesture of impatience with his elaborate title, Vughturoi grinned. Silver Snow was surprised at how much younger and less formidable he looked. “ . . . my father, come spring, permit me to ride with my warriors and teach them proper obedience!”
His enthusiasm was contagious. All around the tent, warriors grinned and shouted, pledging support.
Silver Snow suppressed a frown. Impressed with the Middle Kingdom Vughturoi might be, but in some things, he was all Hsiung-nu. She could but hope that he would fight only when attempts to subdue the Fu Yu by argument or show of strength had failed. Not so the others, however.
“Nay, brother,” cried Tadiqan. “You have had your mission to the other clans. Let me and mine go against the Fu Yu, at least, now! I swear that we shall return before the time comes to break camp and move to the summer pastures.”
A flicker of the light drew Silver Snow’s attention to Strong Tongue. Though the woman set her face almost instantly in a grin of triumph, Silver Snow would have taken oath that, for at least a moment, the shaman had been shocked and displeased by her son’s impulsive demand. He had been caught up in the excitement for a good fight, more than in any struggle for power over the royal clan.
A faint pounding rang through the tent, then died away, as if Strong Tongue tapped restively upon that damnable spirit drum of hers, then laid it aside and was quiet. She bent over her son’s shoulder then and muttered urgently, raising a hand when he hissed back. Finally, however, she smiled, showing strong white teeth, and sank back in her place, nodding. The look of satisfaction returned, and she sat serenely, like a beast that has fed well and now will sleep until it wakes to feast again.
Not so the rest of the Hsiung-nu, however. Khujanga’s delighted acquiescence set off cheers and demands for more and more drink until, finally, the noise and heat became intolerable and Silver Snow sought leave to withdraw. She was aware of Strong Tongue’s now-scornful gaze as she left. Probably the elder woman thought her too weak to endure a Hsiung-nu celebration; that is, if she did not resent the fastidiousness that made her draw her skirts aside from the warriors who sprawled, unconscious from drink, on the rich, grease-stained rugs.
Stout and gleaming with oil and with every bit of copper and gold that she owned, Strong Tongue would probably try to usurp Silver Snow’s seat by the shan-yu, too. But, were Silver Snow’s suspicions true, if Tadiqan were gone from the camp, she would try no other evil. That fact that she was required to restrain herself from some of her intrigues might well have accounted for her displeasure.
That was not, Silver Snow learned later, to be quite the case. True it was, the next day, all went round the camp quietly, for Hsiung-nu, as if Strong Tongue’s spirit drum banged in their heads. Venturing out for a ride, Silver Snow noted how many men—restive after a winter’s inaction, or chafing, perhaps, that Vughturoi had not selected them to ride with him to spy out the Yueh-chih’s flocks—now followed Tadiqan. Even some of the younger prince’s own retainers trailed after them. Clearly they longed to be chosen to visit the Fu Yu or Jo-Chiang and awe them into submission.
Action. Tadiqan knew one thing, at least, besides whistling arrows and the forces of arms and fear. He knew that his people required constant movement, a constant promise of battle. Unlike the race of the Han, the Hsiung-nu were too young a tribe to relish the fruits of pe
ace.
Silver Snow had a map, however crude, of the grasslands, provided her by Li Ling. She must, she thought, find out where precisely those tribes ranged and somehow get the news back to Ch’ang-an.
Strong Tongue sauntered from her own tenthold to stand, arms akimbo, before the great tent of the shan-yu.
“She acts as if she, not the old man, rules this camp,” Willow muttered. “Make her understand otherwise, Elder Sister.”
So much, Silver Snow thought wryly, for her earlier musings on the love of the people of the Han for peace. She, however, was a warrior’s daughter on a mission for the Son of Heaven; she dared bow to no barbarian, even if that refusal meant war. Besides, the armies of the Middle Kingdom were many and strong; the Middle Kingdom knew that peace might be bought at a greater price than silks or jade.
Thus it was, when Strong Tongue caught Silver Snow’s eye for the customary battle of looks between them, Silver Snow held her gaze. More than that, she greeted the older woman with the salutation that senior wife used to junior, and waited until Strong Tongue responded accordingly and withdrew. To her horror, as she stared at the woman’s broad, retreating back, Silver Snow found herself shaking even from so paltry a test of strength.
All that day and the next, Silver Snow wondered what form Strong Tongue’s vengeance might take. She checked her horse’s legs; she sniffed her food; she waited, in the shan-yu’s feasting tent, for an attack in words. No such attack came. Strong Tongue, without her son, seemed to be only half the fighter that she was when he was present.
Yet, because it was Tadiqan whom the shan-yu had entrusted with the leadership of this new mission, Tadiqan who might lead what could prove to be a new war, the talk was all of Tadiqan and his prowess. Prince Vughturoi seemed to be forgotten. Much to Silver Snow’s surprise, he appeared to be content that this was so. She became aware that, each evening, Vughturoi was seated farther and farther from his father. Whenever he attempted to speak with him, some distraction intervened, some clamor of Strong Tongue’s, some disagreement between Vughturoi’s warriors; while the proud, touchy elders who clustered still around the shan-yu regarded Silver Snow as an old man’s toy, and paid homage to Strong Tongue as shaman.
