“We should leave today,” you said. “Before your mother arrives.”
“She has,” I said.
You winced. “Do you want to tell her?”
I shook my head. Truth be told, I was not sure I wanted to return. My mother keeping something so important from me for so many years left a bad taste in my mouth, and my stomach twisted at the thought of seeing her and Otgar in the same ger.
This was my family. This was my home. And yet it felt alien now, or the people did. As if I’d been living with strangers my whole life.
“Shefali,” you said, “she will hear, one way or another. Would you not prefer she heard it from you?”
I’d prefer she never learn that her daughter found the sight of blood appetizing, but I knew that was unlikely.
I looked at my feet. “Shizuka,” I said.
You instantly looked up, stopped pacing, and came near to me. “Yes?” you said. “Is something wrong? Did something happen? Say the word, and I will find whoever—”
“My mother is like me,” I said. “With women.”
You tilted your head, squinted. “Like us?” you said. “How are you sure?”
“Dorbentei,” I said. “Dorbentei told me. She said—”
The words stuck in my throat. What I wanted to say: She said Alshara loved your mother. But what left me was a strangled sound, a whimper. I laid my head against your shoulder; you ran your fingers through my hair.
Perhaps you sensed I was not done speaking. You scratched my head and whispered to me that it would be all right, that you would wait as long as I needed.
But there was so much I wanted to say. My mother loved yours and never told me. My cousin speaks of my mother in terms too familiar; my thoughts weren’t my own anymore; my mother didn’t know what happened to me, and I did not want to tell her.
There was just so much going on.
Wet lips against my ear. The smell of soggy death.
“Why not leave?” it said. “You can distract that cousin of yours easily enough. Leave, Steel-Eye. Why face such foul people ever again, when you can do so much more on your own?”
I forced myself to swallow the razors in my throat, grabbed handfuls of your beautiful robes. My decision was made.
I would not be the person my demons wanted me to be. I would not run from these mounting problems.
I held you at arm’s length. When I spoke, it was more clearly, more loudly. “She said my mother loved yours,” I said.
You leaned in, cocked a brow, parted your lips. The sort of face one makes when they are sure they’ve misheard something. “As more than a friend?”
I nodded.
Fingers flew to lips. Your delicate brow furrowed in thought. “My mother loved my father,” you said. “They did not stray. They could not tear their eyes from each other.”
“Your mother did not love mine,” I said.
Your shoulders slumped. You sat on the bed, head perched on your hand, the bells in your hair singing a bright song. “Do you remember, Shefali,” you said, “when we were eight?”
“The tiger?”
“The feast,” you said. “Or the next morning. You were in your ger at the time, and your mother, too. My mother got it in her hungover head to say good-bye to Burqila’s mare.”
I flinched. One did not touch a Kharsa’s horse. Not unless one had a death wish, or … well, a husband could touch his wife’s horse. No one would question that. But Shizuru’s husband was a Hokkaran poet, not the Kharsaq.
“I told her it was a fool thing to do, since horses cannot speak. She ignored me. I remember she touched that mare between the eyes, fed it a sweet, and told it to behave.”
How on earth did no one see that? But, then, most of us were hungover that morning, and we left very early on.
“My father saw her do this, too,” you said. “And this is the only time I can recall he ever raised his voice to her. ‘Shizuru,’ he said, ‘you would not do that if you knew what it meant.’” You paused. “I do not know what it means.”
“Married,” I said.
At this, you spared a bitter smile. “Is that why you insisted we ride together?”
Ah, I’d been discovered. To hide my guilt, I kissed you.
“You could have just proposed and saved us all the time,” you said.
We were thirteen then! You would not have said yes. In no way would you have said yes. Even if you had, that was entirely too young to enter a marriage.
Except I knew full well it would’ve given you three years to pay your bride-price, and you would’ve said yes without a moment’s thought.
Your voice stayed warm as tea when you continued. “When my mother heard my father, when she heard his tone, she rounded on him. One finger in the air, like she was reprimanding me for breaking pottery. ‘Itsuki,’ she said, ‘it means nothing, and will never mean anything, save that Alshara is my dearest friend.’ My father said nothing to that, but the ride home was the quietest it has ever been, and my mother did not come to dinner that night. I thought it strange at the time.”
Now it was you who leaned on me.
“I suppose it makes sense now.”
We sat in the silence of our shared shock.
Then, as always, you spoke first. “I feel sorry for her,” you said. “It is an awful thing, to long for someone you cannot have.”
You did not look at me; instead, you focused on the box I kept my bow in, hanging from a hook across the room.
“Do not let it get to your head, Shefali,” you said, “but I do not think I could ever live without you.”
And yet on this very night, my Shizuka, you lie in the palace in rooms of your own choosing. On your grand bed covered in silk and flowers, you read this. Perhaps there is another woman at your side—I will not fault you if there is. It has been so many years, hasn’t it? Of course there is someone else warming your bed. You have always been more physical than I am, have always longed to sink your teeth into the flesh of another. No, I cannot fault you.
If we were like any other Qorin couple, such things would be commonplace. We have a saying, you see—you can never have one horse. Your sprinter is not your packhorse is not your long-distance steed. How different would things be, then, if we were together? Would I be your packhorse, Shizuka—or your sprinter?
Tumenbayar herself had more than one husband—did you know? Batumongke was her favorite, but there were others.
One day, Ages ago, when there were only two hundred stars in the sky, Tumenbayar was riding her horse and exploring the northern steppes. She found a man half-buried in the dirt, with hair the color of leaves, handsome as a man can be. He called out to her for help, for he’d been stuck in that spot for years now.
Tumenbayar took pity on him—and on his good looks—and threw her pure-white rope around him. She hauled him up out of the ground. That was when she saw the man’s bottom half was thick with gnarled roots, and his skin was rough as bark.
“I thought I might take you as my lover,” she said, “but if I took you in my arms, you’d tie me to this barren place.”
The man pleaded with her. He sang her songs sweet as the first blossom of spring. Poetry dropped from his lips as easily as dewdrops. Over and over he promised that he would not tie her to the north.
And so Tumenbayar indulged him, and she married him for a night—but before the morning light could find them, she mounted her mare and left him there.
The man was so distraught that he tore his hair out and threw it, and wherever it landed, new trees grew. Every morning he’d hobble a little bit farther south, closer to the steppes proper, and every morning, he’d pull his hair out.
So the northern forests came to be.
I wonder, my Shizuka—have you sprouted any forests for me? Though you know how I hate trees, I think I might enjoy wandering through yours.
* * *
I THINK WE would’ve kissed each other all that day and into the night if left to our own devices.
Ot
gar knocked on the door after perhaps five minutes. “Are you done in there, Barsalai?” she called in Qorin. “You are not going to make your cousin wait while you rut, are you?”
I grimaced. You did not need to speak Qorin to know when I was being summoned back. We pulled away; I fixed your hair as best I could, you smoothed my dress—another you’d lent to me. We’d not gone further than kissing, and we hadn’t since my injury. Blackblood is a volatile thing—I could not bear the thought of infecting you.
But my cousin did not know that.
She did, however, know that I was not happy with her. If we had been engaged in such activities, then I would’ve done my best to be as loud as possible out of spite. But we were not, and so we prepared ourselves to leave.
“We will not tell your mother,” you said, “but I think traveling with her would be wise. At least until we reach Xian-Lai.”
Yes, that did sound like a good plan, though I was not sure how to behave around my own mother anymore. Was I going to speak to her about Otgar? About Shizuru? What would I say? What a strange conversation it would be. Either I had to wait for her to write her answer on her slate, or Otgar would translate.
And I was not so sure I wanted to see Otgar around my mother.
Only after a few seconds did it occur to me what you’d said. “Xian-Lai?” I said. “Kenshiro?”
You nodded. “As good a place as any to hide from the court.”
The thought of seeing my brother, too, made me feel lighter. Ten years had passed since I last saw him. He was married now, and a magistrate, too. I wondered if he still spoke Qorin or if he’d forgotten it. He’d better start practicing.
We left the room, you and I, and we took our meager belongings with us. Otgar greeted you and said she was happy you were safe. She did not bring up our relationship, not with so many people near. But she did not bring it up on the ride to camp, either.
As we rode, we spoke of things that did not matter: the beauty of the Hokkaran countryside, the food, the lack of kumaq. I said nothing, and you as little as you could. Your eyes kept darting toward me.
When we arrived at camp, the feast had already started. There was nothing to do to get out of it. Qorin feasts involve everyone around them, whether they know it or not.
And so we sat on the eastern side of the ger, near to my mother and near to Otgar, and I watched Otgar speak for her, saw the way she looked at my mother, saw things that were not there. And when we danced around the fire later that night, I held on tighter to you than normal, and when you asked in hushed tones if I was all right, I told you that I would have to be.
Long after kumaq sent the toughest to their beds, I lay awake inside the ger. The scent of burning singed my nostrils. My stomach felt swollen and heavy, though I’d had only one cup of soup. You slept in my bedroll, curled up against me, and I counted the bumps of your spine to pass the time.
And so it became the pattern of our days. In the morning, we rose with the clan and broke our fast. We’d ride for a few hours after that, careful to keep from straining our horses. My mother chose to avoid towns when possible. I do not blame her for this; whenever we so much as used a main road, we were met with derision. It is strange how highway patrols never appeared when it was just you and I traveling—but when we traveled with the clan, they were everywhere.
“Who among you speaks Hokkaran?”
That is how it would start. And before Otgar could open her mouth, you’d go to the front of the caravan.
“I do,” you’d say. “And I imagine I speak it better than you do. What seems to be the problem?”
The patrolmen were never comfortable with the sight of you. When they spoke, they asked two questions, but voiced only the one.
“Where are you going?” they said out loud. Are you traveling of your own will?
“We are traveling south,” you’d respond. “Is it suddenly illegal for a caravan to travel south on a public road?”
“Barsatoq, I think it might be illegal for Qorin,” Otgar piped in. She rode next to my mother. Too close to my mother. Throughout our journey, I had done my best to avoid the two of them. With you near, it was an easy thing to do; we rode ahead of them, and I listened to your golden voice. But when we were all together in the ger at night, when I had to watch Otgar voice my mother’s words, my stomach twisted.
“Forgive us our caution,” said one of the guards. “We have had reports of bandits, given the Troubles.”
And even though I go cross-eyed whenever I try to read it, I know that in Hokkaran a single character may have a hundred different meanings. A skilled poet bears this in mind when he writes. Your father, for instance, was famed for writing poems that could be read three different ways, and be beautiful in each one. Yet if your father tried to wrangle the many meanings of “Troubles,” his head would spin. From crops withering overnight to bandits to stillborn babes—all things were Troubles in those days.
“You will find no bandits among us,” you said.
“Do we have your word, Noble Lady?”
Our word, of course, was not good enough. They had to hear it from you. Even though they had not recognized you as the Imperial Niece, though they knew nothing of you, they valued your oath above ours.
“Yes,” you said, exasperated. “You have my word. What is your name?”
“Kikomura Kouta, Honored Lady,” he said.
“Very well, Kikomura-zun,” you said. “To whom do you report?”
“Honored Shiseiki-tur,” he said.
“Keichi, or Toji?” you asked. By now, Kikomura was shifting his weight on the balls of his feet. You were not using honorifics. That meant you stood above both Keichi, the son, and Toji, Lord of Shiseiki. He could not answer using their names—that would be a great offense. You’d put him in quite a position.
You sat, preening, on your saddle.
He bowed. “With respect, Honored Lady, it is the younger Shiseiki-tur I serve.”
Impressive for a guardsman.
“You may return to Keichi-tun, and you may tell him O-Shizuka-shon gives her word she will not raid any villages,” you said.
To say he turned the color of milk would do a disservice to milk. I have never in my life seen a man bow so low to the ground. Up and down, up and down, like a bamboo fountain, until his forehead was covered in dirt. My clan laughed. I almost did, too, but I felt a measure of sympathy for him. How was he supposed to know he was speaking to you? It was not as if you wore your name around your neck for all to see.
But after some time, you dismissed him, and we continued on our way.
Three, four times this happened. Guards stopped us. You, or sometimes Otgar, would explain that we were just passing through. They’d ask for our word that we meant no harm. They’d leave, and we would grouse. One would think the highway guards would communicate a bit more; they’d save themselves an awful lot of trouble.
But no. Again and again, it happened.
So it was that the eighth time we were stopped along the road, we did not bother listening to the guardsman.
“We mean no harm, you have our word,” you snapped. “We are simply traveling. Go. Do not trouble us further, or my family will hear of it.”
This man did not recognize you either, but he recognized your sharp dismissal.
“Careful up ahead, Honored Lady,” was all he said as he left.
It happened to be that we were three weeks into our journey by then. Keeping my secret was growing more difficult; I forced myself to eat at feasts only to succumb to nausea later. Temurin kept asking why I rode in the middle of the night. I was being watched at all times, though no one meant any harm by it.
My mother, too, behaved differently. Perhaps it is just that I saw her differently. No longer was she the fierce warlord, striking fear into Hokkaran and Qorin hearts alike. No, she was a woman who wore an old token of favor around her neck; a woman with wrinkles; a woman I no longer felt I knew.
Hunting was slim in that final week. I found onl
y a few rabbits, nothing more, and I was the most skilled of the group. We were coming up near Imakane Village. You suggested we fetch some supplies.
“Supplies?” scoffed Otgar. “Barsatoq, we are people of the steppes. We survive. It is our one great talent.”
“Do not be a prideful fool,” you said, and I tried my best not to laugh at the irony. “We need meat, and grain, and good cloth. I am almost out of ink.”
“What use is ink to us?” Otgar asked. But before you answered, my mother gestured. Otgar crossed her arms. “Burqila says you pay for things with your calligraphy. Is that true?”
“It is,” you said. “My calligraphy is worth more than my uncle’s money.”
At times I think you are a peacock in the body of a woman.
Otgar mulled this over. My mother, again, gestured. They had their silent conversation.
“Burqila agrees with your idea,” she said. “She says you, Barsalai, Temurin, and Qadangan can stop for supplies at the next village.”
Imakane was not a large village. It was the sort of place that had only one market, if you could call it that—really one old man who traded with merchants along the road. As the four of us approached, we saw one small temple, roughly twenty homes, a statue of the Daughter, a smithy, and a bathhouse.
I learned later that Imakane is famous for its bathhouse. As it happens, it stands near a natural spring whose waters are said to cure any ill. Idle talk, of course—the waters did not heal me. But either way, they brought in travelers along the road to Fujino.
We entered the village, the four of us, and the first thing we noticed was how silent it was. People make noise no matter where they live—yet there was no one tending the smithy, no one leaving flowers for the Daughter, no priests muttering mantras over burning prayers.
At once, I was on edge. I reached for my bow; you wrapped your hand around your sword. Together we dismounted. With quick hand signs, I told Temurin and my cousin Qadangan to scout the village.
Sure enough, they saw no one.
We had options: We could have left. We could have checked the houses, one by one. We could have called out to see if anyone answered.
But you have never been one for choices. You had an idea in your head, and you went with it.
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