The Tiger's Daughter

by K Arsenault Rivera

But blackbloods did not leave this sort of mess. They left carnage, blood and broken bones—not empty husks.

  If demons were out on the steppes again …

  My mother’s fingers moved in soft, small gestures—meant for Otgar and not Surenqalan. I did not catch all of them, but I understood enough. We will make a diplomat out of you yet.

  “What else could do this to a man? To many men?” Surenqalan protested. As he continued, his voice cracked like a child’s. I felt a pang of pity for him. For my people. There were not many of us left; less than the population of even a small Hokkaran city. Every life lost was notable now.

  “A demon,” Otgar said. “But it’s not a General. There are only four of those, old man, and Burqila killed one with Naisuran. We would have seen it by now if it were a blackblood, too—they’re not good at hiding. So it must be a demon. It cannot be a blackblood.”

  “A demon?” said Surenqalan. He attempted to get to his feet. My mother tapped her foot, and he stayed where he was. “How could they get past the Wall of Flowers? Demons are a Ricetongue problem, not one of ours.”

  Moving shadows against the ger’s walls. A featureless face smiling at me.

  “Not for long,” I said.

  Otgar and Alshara both shot me a look. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

  Curiosity written on my mother’s features—who taught me anything about demons?

  I licked my lips.

  My mother is silent because of an oath, but I simply don’t like talking.

  More to the point—I had no idea where that bit of information had come from. Do flowers know, I wonder, when it is going to rain? If so, I imagine they felt the same way I did whenever I thought of the demon.

  * * *

  THERE I WAS, my mother and Otgar staring at me, waiting for me to elaborate.

  I cleared my throat. Say what you mean the first time, and say it plainly.

  “I saw the demon last night,” I said. “Our deaths amuse it.”

  Alshara beckoned me closer. I stood next to her. She sniffed both my cheeks and squeezed my shoulders. Gone was the accusing look. In its place, concern. In its place, hiding beneath the surface of her dark skin: worry and fear.

  Otgar, too, hugged herself a bit tighter. She spat on the ground. By some miracle, she did not hit Surenqalan, who still prostrated himself at my mother’s feet.

  “Barsalai,” he said, “you have seen the thing that stalks us?”

  I nodded.

  “Can we kill it?” he asked.

  I looked to my mother. Alshara and Shizuru slew one of the Generals in their youth. Of the Sixteen Swords that set out from Fujino, only they returned. If anyone could kill Shao, it was my mother.

  She nodded. She raised her hands to about chest level and gestured again, her fingers flying through forms and motions as a tongue shapes syllables.

  “Burqila will slay this demon,” Otgar said. “She will set out tonight and she will return with its head. In exchange, you shall provide her with one of your sons, or your grandsons—whichever is the right age to perform his bridal duties. He will stay with—”

  Otgar paused though my mother continued signing. And then she did something I did not expect.

  She began signing back.

  The two of them went back and forth for some time. Otgar’s motions were choppy waves; my mother’s rising tides. Otgar’s whole arm moved when her hand did, throwing more volume behind her silent words. Eventually she stomped her right foot, crossed her arms, and glowered for a few moments.

  “He will stay in our ger and perform his duties there,” Otgar mumbled. “And in two years’ time, if he is not horrible, he might find himself married to me.”

  Surenqalan did not know what to say. He chose the wise man’s course and said as little as possible.

  “As you wish, Burqila.”

  My mother continued signing, but Otgar refused to translate. She turned on her heel and left the ger, her footfalls like a colt’s. When my mother saw this, she stopped mid-motion and put a palm to her forehead. She grunted. For her, it might as well have been a speech.

  For my part, I did not want to focus on personal matters when there was a demon on the loose. Especially not a demon that knew me.

  So I shrugged in the direction Otgar had gone and reached for my bow.

  My mother nodded. To get Surenqalan’s attention, she tapped her foot by his head. He looked up; she inclined her head. That was all the good-bye we offered.

  Outside, the preparations began. My mother gathered up her riders. Without an interpreter, things were a bit more difficult, but many of our guards have been with us for years. If they couldn’t read Alshara’s signs, they could read her body language. Simple enough to convey “get your weapons” or “follow me.”

  I watched from horseback. I watched them string their bows and sharpen their swords, watched them don their three-mirror armor, their bronze war masks. Two dozen humans became two dozen animals. I gazed upon the faces of wolves and tigers, of lions and eagles.

  Not a trace of their skin showed through.

  I did not have a war mask. I did not have three-mirror armor, or gauntlets thick enough to shield me from any demon blood. If I followed them on this trip, I’d be exposing myself to great risk—the sort of risk my mother wouldn’t abide. The smallest drop of demon blood spreads through a body like paint in water. For this reason, we cover ourselves. For this reason, Hokkarans use naginatas in place of swords.

  Qorin do not much believe in polearms—instead, we prefer to pick enemies off from afar. And for the most part, this works.

  But you must sever a demon’s head for it to truly die.

  And that requires getting very close indeed.

  Whoever slew the creature must be both the bravest and the most foolish. My mother, more likely than anything. She is the only person I know whose war mask is modeled on her own face. She would be the one to hold Shao’s hair and swing her sword and sever her head. She would be the one whose clothing would be burned when this was through.

  The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to see it. The more I wanted to be there. And this want grew into a need, into a burning thing in my chest.

  I slunk over to the supply tent. I did not have a war mask, but I could find one here. Indeed, a few were lined up on a table just inside. Wolf, fox, falcon. Family, guile, speed. I picked up the fox mask. Not that I consider myself a trickster—several others wore them. It was best if I fit in. And, no, there was no three-mirror armor—but there was lamellar. I wriggled into it and looked in the mirror.

  I stood fifteen hands tall. My armor was intended for someone sixteen and a half hands at the shortest. It hung loose around my torso; I had to hold my gauntlets up to keep them on. When I moved my head, my war mask rattled. I could see, yes. Barely. Enough to know I looked ridiculous. Imagine it, Shizuka: a kitten wearing a lion’s mane.

  But in the dark, on horseback, in the heat of battle—who is paying attention to what their comrade looks like?

  This would have to do.

  I stuffed the armor into my saddlebags. My mother wouldn’t depart until later on, when the moon was high in the sky. Demons do not travel by day. I had until then to convince Otgar to translate again.

  Otgar was in our ger when I found her, huddled against the northern wall. She poked at the fire with a stick. Glowered at it. In that moment, she reminded me of you. A darker, paler-haired version of you. When I entered, she glanced up, then continued staring at the fire.

  “Needlenose,” she said. “Your mother wants to marry me off.”

  I took a seat next to her. The fire made my cheeks tingle as they came back to life; I held out my hands to warm them.

  “Can you imagine some ten-year-old running around our ger, trying to get his chores done?” she continued. I was ten, which I did not point out. “Messing everything up. He’s going to mess everything up. Why’s she doing this?”

  “You’re old enough,” I said.
>
  Otgar threw her stick into the fire. It crackled and roared, devouring the wood in an instant. She slumped forward and hugged her knees.

  If only I were you—if only I could instill confidence in someone with the slightest effort. You’d know what to say.

  Granted you did not like Otgar.

  But in general, you would’ve known what to say.

  “Otgar.”

  “Yes, Needlenose?”

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “You can say no.”

  She puffed her cheeks out. Here in the ger, it was warm enough that no vapor left her. I half expected to see it anyway. “You want me to say no to the Kharsa.”

  “Your aunt.”

  “The Kharsa.”

  I shrugged.

  Otgar shook her head. For some time she stayed slumped forward like that. I watched the fire in her place, wondering how long it would take her to feel better. There would be time to discuss this after the demon was dead. Plenty of time. Two years, in fact, when we could send the boy away if he ever displeased us. Such was the way bride-price worked: a boy came to work for his mother-in-law for a certain amount of time, as a sort of audition. If at any point his mother-in-law decided he was not worthy, he’d be sent back to his mother’s ger. Otgar was only slightly less picky than you were. She’d find some reason to send him away.

  I wanted her to feel better, I did. But I wanted the demon to die first. That was more important than Otgar, more important than me. If a letter arrived with your seal, I’d stop to read that—but otherwise, the death of my people took precedence.

  After what felt like hours, Otgar sighed again. “You need me to translate, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “You have some nerve, Shefali,” Otgar said. “I’m worried, you know, about the boy, and here you are, asking me to translate.”

  There are bigger things, I wanted to say, than you or I.

  Instead, I gave her a flat look.

  Otgar pinched her temples. Finally she stood and kicked a bucket of sand onto the fire. “I will do it,” she said. “But it’s because we don’t have many more people left to lose. And you have to promise to support me when I speak to your mother.”

  Again, I nodded. I could not think of anything less appealing to me than standing up to my mother, but I nodded. It was not about me.

  So I gathered Otgar’s and my things, and we mounted our horses, and we met my mother outside the camp before sundown. The two dozen riders joined us. My mother was in front of them, gesturing in as clear a way as she could what she wanted them to do.

  But the moment my mother laid eyes on Otgar, she brightened and beckoned her close. She held one hand high in the air, her fingers crossed, then tapped her eyes.

  “She is happy to see us,” Otgar said.

  I elbowed her.

  With a sigh, she returned the gesture.

  When we were close enough, my mother mussed Otgar’s hair. This time she made her signs far closer to her chest, and faster—only Otgar could get a good look at them. I watched in silence as they communicated. It is a strange thing to be unable to speak with your own mother. It felt unfair. I hardly spoke. Shouldn’t I be able to understand them, too? Shouldn’t I know what they were saying?

  My father wrote to Kenshiro in Hokkaran, and he always used characters I could not read. Kenshiro tried his best to explain them, but … they never seem to take hold in my mind, never seem to stay. He’d read his letters out loud and point to each character as he went, so that I would not feel excluded.

  Yet the letters were addressed to Kenshiro and spoke only to Kenshiro. They never mentioned me.

  And here I was, watching my cousin and my mother talk in a sign language I barely understood, addressing only each other.

  I held my reins a little tighter. Let them talk, then. I’d use the opportunity to slip away and get my armor on.

  In the time it took me to get on my armor and ride back, the battle plans were settled. I’d heard precisely none of it. Instead, I heard the echoes of your voice. We were more than others. Gods, you said. The notes rang within me that night. As dusk fell and the sea of stars rolled into view beneath a fat full moon, I imagined myself among them. You and I were going to do great deeds, were going to be the brightest stars in the sky.

  What need did I have for plans, when I knew in my bones I was going to rule one day?

  So I said nothing and did my best to look inconspicuous on horseback. My mother sorted everyone into three groups of five. She led one with Otgar, and two of our senior riders led the others. One of the younger boys went around passing out torches, and one of my older cousins lit them. I took one. When no one was looking, I snuffed it. Darkness did not trouble me the way it troubled my clanmates, and I wanted both hands free.

  I was not in my mother’s group. No matter. I did not need my mother’s guidance. I had my bow and my own strength; those would be enough.

  Surenqalan’s clan stayed inside their gers, as they had been instructed. Besides our horses and the clinking of our armor, the whistling wind was the only sound. My war mask hid my face but did not warm it; the tips of my ears stuck to the metal. My cheeks burned. At least my hands were warm, tucked away in oversized gloves. A cold face I can ignore. Cold fingers ruin good shots.

  The five of us advanced through the camp. We circled each ger. The rider leading us—the stern woman from earlier—sprinkled milk around the walls. Under her breath she muttered holy words, too, and when she was done, she kissed her fingers and held them up to the sky. So it was with every ger we saw.

  Hours of this. I did not know how I ended up with the blessing team, but I did not like it. While our leader blessed the gers, we waited nearby. If anything happened, we were to act, I suppose. The thought rankled me. I did not sneak into this mission to watch someone else bless tents. I grunted, checked my bow.

  “Temurin,” said one of the riders to my right. He jerked a finger toward me. I did my best to sit up straight. All thoughts of boredom left my mind; I’d forgotten I was not meant to be here. “Do you recognize that one? Armor doesn’t fit right.”

  Our leader—so that was her name—rode right up to me. She was so close that I had to squint against the light of her torch as she studied me. I puffed myself up, stuck out my chest, pulled back my shoulders. With one hand I gripped my bow, and with the other the pommel of my stolen sword. I nodded to her with all the mock bravado I could muster.

  Temurin clucked her tongue.

  “Rider,” she said. “Unmask yourself.”

  Beneath bronze, I bit my lip. If I hadn’t grunted so loudly, this wouldn’t be happening. And it was not as if I could avoid taking my mask off. Temurin wouldn’t hesitate to shoot me. An unknown rider could mean anything. I could very well be the demon, for all she knew. From the way her dark green eyes pierced into me, she needed only an excuse to turn me into a pincushion.

  I raised both hands to show I meant no harm. Then I lifted off the mask.

  The rider nearest me guffawed. “It’s Burqila’s girl!”

  The other three riders soon joined him in laughter, all while I sat there trying my best to look official. Temurin groaned and threw her head back. When she spoke, I could picture her brows knitting together.

  “Barsalai,” she said. “Burqila may have given you an adult name, but she did not change your age. You are ten. We are hunting a demon, and you weren’t even sensible enough to take a torch. Mongke will lead you back to camp, where you will stay in your ger until your mother returns.”

  I shook my head.

  Temurin stared me down. “Listen to me, girl,” she said. “Follow Mongke back to camp. In another five years, perhaps you can accompany us—but now you must stay safe. Burqila cannot be named Kharsa. You can. Do not forget that.”

  What did it matter if my mother could not bear the title? She was Kharsa in every other way. How could I know what it meant for my mother to sacrifice that? Since the dawn of time, since we learned to ride, our
leaders have been Kharsas and Kharsaqs. All children learn their names and deeds. Broad Khalja, who won a wrestling match against the Son himself; Clever Dzoldzaya, who made Grandmother Sky weep with his stories when the clans needed rain; Toluqai the Talker, the man who negotiated our trade pact with the Surians.

  All of them paled in comparison to my mother.

  The seven clans turned to her for leadership. She called them together once a year, she provided for them, she hunted with them, she commanded them.

  In her rise to power, my mother had overcome obstacle after obstacle: the blackblood plague spreading among her people; her brothers fighting each other like starving wolves over a scrap of meat; her oath of silence; the Wall of Stone itself. When she finally laid down her bow and sword, it was not because she wanted to. If Alshara had her way, there would be no Hokkaro anymore. No, when she laid down her weapons, it was because she’d lost too many of her people, and could not bear to see more of us die.

  So she married my father. So she agreed never to name herself Kharsa of the Silver Steppes. So she birthed two children with a man she never cared for, and allowed them to be given Hokkaran names.

  When the time came for my mother’s name to be sung with Dzoldzaya’s, and Khalja’s, and Toluqai’s—why should she receive any less respect than they did? Why should anyone question her? At the time, “Kharsa” was only a word to me. Two short sounds, straining to encompass within them all the things my mother had done for her people.

  But I would not say that to Temurin, who lived through the plagues; I would not say that to Temurin, who was there on the day my mother swore her oath of silence.

  “Stop dallying!” she said.

  I opened my mouth to protest, though I knew nothing I said would convince her. Adults never listened. She reached out and turned my head toward Mongke, who held up his torch as if that would make him easier to see.

  “Go,” said Temurin.

  Maybe you would’ve fought, but I knew a lost cause when I saw one. I rode over to Mongke with one last sad look over my shoulder. This was only the blessing party anyway, I told myself; they were never going to come to real harm. They didn’t need my help. No demon would come near blessed milk.