When we caught sight of the cave mouth, you drew your sword again. We crept around through the birch and pine, out of sight, until we were behind the guards. I set down the bundle.
Then we killed them, and I took the one man’s bow and quiver.
It is as simple as that, and I am loath to give this any more detail. This was not a great, glorious fight. This was stabbing men in the dark. It would’ve been beneath you had it not been for such a noble cause.
We propped the bodies up with two of the branches and tied them up with rope. Then I fished flint and steel from my deel and got to work setting the remaining branches alight.
Only when the fire was truly raging, only when the burning branches birthed clouds of white smoke, did we continue.
I dropped the bundle into the cave. We stood on either side and waited.
A handful of Yellow Scarves bolted out with stinging eyes, shouting and disoriented. You did not bother announcing yourself. For each cut you made, another bandit fell, simple and solemn as that. This was not something to celebrate. This was not glorious.
I nocked an arrow; I loosed. I tried to isolate what I was doing to the motions. Drawing, loosing. I stared at the arrows and not at their targets. Maybe then I wouldn’t focus so much on the color of their blood, on their fear like wine, on the glimmers like crushed gems as their souls left their bodies.
I thought if I didn’t see it, nothing would happen.
But I tasted it. Their blood. Their souls, rich and shimmering. Their confusion, their anger. And the one taste hovering above them all.
Imagine your father journeyed to Ikhtar, and brought you back some of their famed desserts. You must have had some by now, but I shall tell you of them anyway. They are moist, thick, jelly treats, rolled in sugar. Putting one in your mouth is like tasting joy itself. Imagine he brought these for you when you were only a child, and you ate them all in one night. The memory of them stays with you. Longing amplifies a delicious taste to something heavenly. By the time you are grown, you crave them more than any other, and no Hokkaran sweet can compare.
It is like that, Shizuka. It is like that.
So when I opened my mouth and let my tongue loll in the air to get a better taste, and you noticed me, you stared.
“Shefali?” you said. “Are you all right?”
There was one thing you did not notice.
I never put my boots back on.
What a small thing to forget. What an insignificant thing. Nowadays, forgetting my boots would not trouble me. I have more control, you see.
But I was sixteen then, newly changed, and smoke seared my nose. Bandits are fond of drinking; I think one of them fell into the fire. Burning flesh has such a distinct smell, Shizuka, so hard to ignore. My stomach churned, and my lips grew moist in anticipation.
Yes, I could hear it now: they were screaming for help. Someone fell in the flames. When I took a deep breath of the darkening smoke, I smelled him. I took in a bit of his soul, and I savored it as one savors finely charred meat.
Burning flesh. Bones snapping as you stepped on the fallen. Rubies in the air. It was all so heady, Shizuka, it was all so unreal.
I took a yearning step toward you, and I happened to step directly into a corpse’s wound. Still-warm organs growing cold; bone holding me in place.
Burning flesh.
Cherry-sweet blood.
If I had worn my boots, I think, and not felt that corpse’s innards, I would not have had such a reaction.
But there were four men left when my jaw unhinged.
The bow fell from my hands. I lurched forward. A howl pealed from my mouth, a sound I had no idea I could make. I do not know how high I jumped, but I tell you, it felt like flying.
Horror dawned on my victim’s face when I landed on him. His companions did not stay to watch. When I turned to laugh at them, to mock them, I saw only their backs as they ran into the woods.
“Do you see them?” I said into the bandit’s ear. Spittle dripped onto his collarbones. “They’re smarter than you are.”
With my feet on his shoulders, I took a handful of his hair. He tried to push me off, but my grip was iron, my grip was death itself.
I twisted at the hips until I heard a wet crack. The bandit crumpled. I jumped on top of his body, on my hands and knees. Red. I could see it beneath his skin; I could see it in rivers and lakes and streams. So close. Gods, it was so close and so bright.
Saliva dripped from my mouth onto the man’s broken neck. Yes. Yes, this is what I was made for, this moment before teeth met flesh.
Except someone stopped me.
Someone grabbed me by my braid and yanked.
I turned. Whoever interrupted me, whoever interrupted what they could not understand, would have to die as well. That was the way of things. There were mortals, there were gods, there were demons.
And then there was me.
The Not-You stood before me, baring blackened teeth, pointing at me with fingers so rotted, they were more bone than meat.
“You’re misbehaving,” it said, and as it advanced on me, maggots squirmed from its left eye. Soon they were bursting out through its iris. “This is not how I trained you, Steel-Eye!”
A crack of wrath. I beat my chest and roared, heedless of which bandits remained. “Trained me?” I said. “You do not train me!”
It took another step forward, its sickly gray tongue peeking out from between its lips. By now the maggots had devoured its left eye. The smile on its face was a twisted mirror of yours; all arrogance, all brash certainty.
“You are my dog,” it said. “You always have been. Why else do you follow, nipping at my heels, like a lost puppy?”
It shoved a finger into my chest.
“When I want someone dead, I say so, and there you are.”
It shoved me again.
“I give you orders. You carry them out. You get hurt and I get the credit.”
It cupped my face, squeezed in my cheeks.
“That is how our relationship works, Steel-Eye. How it has always worked. I am the Virgin Empress. You are the bitch.”
I grabbed it by the throat.
In an instant, we were on the ground. Beneath my hands, I felt bone and sinew. If I squeezed hard enough, I could end this. I could pop off the thing’s head and never be bothered by it again.
Kill. Kill, kill, kill, the only thing I’m good at, the only thing I have ever truly been good at. Kill it. Kill it and find freedom, find peace.
So I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, snarling all the while. Blood drained from the thing’s face. As I choked it, it turned blue, it struggled beneath me, it slapped and kicked and punched.
But when its right palm struck me, so, too, did reality.
I was choking you. Your pomegranate lips turned pale as bird’s eggs, your veins like rivers on the map of your skin. The look on your face, Shizuka. The anguish, the pain, the fear. You were so small and so delicate; my hands so large and monstrous and …
And I’d nearly killed you.
“Shefali?” you croaked. “Shefali, have you … have you returned?”
My jaw hung slack now, not in hunger, not in thirst, but in shame. It hit me hard as any hammer, winded me, left me hollow and broken. Prying my hands away from you felt like … they must’ve been someone else’s hands. Must have been. My own hands would never hurt you.
Let go. Let go.
When I finally pried them off your throat, my hands were frozen in place, sore and aching. Try as I might, I could not will them to relax.
I stared at you, stared at my hands. Shaking. I was shaking. You massaged your throat and tried to sit up. I moved to help you, but … but I couldn’t bring myself to touch you.
“It’s all right,” you said. “That wasn’t you.”
But it was not all right. And it was me.
No.
I needed to disappear. You’d be better off without me.
I shot to my feet. A faint glimmer of bronze ca
ught my eye; the laughing fox mask Ren had asked for was strapped to a corpse’s face. I looked from it to you.
You were scrambling up. “Shefali?”
“It was me. I did it, Shizuka, it was me,” I said. “And I have to die.”
And I grabbed the mask, turned my back to you, and ran to my horse fast as I could. I knew you could not hope to follow. I knew you’d try anyway.
But I hoped you’d let me go. I hoped you’d let me just die, as I deserved. What else was I good for, what else could I do?
As I rode through the woods, I thought of how I’d do it.
Traditional Hokkaran suicides are too painful, even for someone like me. Kneeling before a crowd and disemboweling myself? No. I could not and would not. The first stroke alone wouldn’t be enough to kill me, and by then I’d … I’d change again.
No. It had to be something quick. Something that would not leave behind a body. A pyre. Yes, a pyre was ideal. All I had to do was gather kindling, purchase some oil to speed things, tie myself to a pole, and light it all up. Holy flame could cleanse me if nothing else could. When everything was done, a gentle breeze would carry my ashes to the sky, where they belonged. By the time you found me, there’d be nothing left to mourn over, and you could continue your life as if I’d never been in it.
Once, my people looked on me with admiration. My mother would never want her deel back now, would she? Tiger-Striped Shefali, who won her first braid at eight years of age. Tiger-Striped Shefali, who never missed with bow or with knife. The future Grand Kharsa of all the Qorin. The girl who would lead whatever was left of our people to glory again.
But she was gone now. In her place was the tiger’s daughter, wearing her skin and clothes.
Once, you said we were gods.
What a bitter thought.
On most nights, when I see my mare, a sense of calm washes over me. During my travels, I’ve turned to her for comfort more than once. There is an old Qorin trick for anxiety—stand with your head up toward the sky. Touch your horse’s flank with your right hand, and your own heart with your left. Listen to her breathe; feel her heart beat. Try to match hers.
It’s said that Tumenbayar herself taught us this. She could speak to her horse, too, though she had to be touching her to do it. Every few generations, someone will claim to have the same ability I do—people pretend to be part of Tumenbayar’s clan all the time.
But Qorin value deeds, not words. Anyone who says such a thing is soon put to the test, and my mother has never taken kindly to liars.
I’ve never told her about this ability of mine. The thought of being tested in front my entire family, in front of the whole clan, was enough to break me out in hives. Bad enough I never missed a shot. Otgar already took bets on whether or not I’d be able to hit a bird a hundred horselengths away, blindfolded.
I always did.
If she knew I could talk to my mare—I hesitated to imagine what she’d come up with.
I’d never have the chance to see now.
But still I stood there with my head up toward the sky and my right hand on Alsha’s flank. I could not fool her; she knew my intentions.
You are leaving Shizuka behind?
“I must,” I said. “She is better off this way.”
Alsha stomped her front hoof. And I am better off with three legs, she said. Of course she was not going to understand. As much as I spoke to her, she was still just a horse.
“Will you take me, or not?” I said.
Alsha whickered. Better I take you than you go alone, she said.
Well. At least she wasn’t trying to talk me out of it. I suppose my horse can see sense sometimes. It must be because she is a good Qorin mare. Hotheaded, stubborn, yes; but protective as can be.
I tied the war mask around my neck. It would be my last duty in this world, my last good deed.
Besides killing myself.
If you called after me, I did not hear you. I tried not to think of you at all beyond how much better off you’d be a year from now. What you felt now was a temporary pain. What you felt now was weakness leaving the body. Fire put to a wound. That’s all I was. A gaping wound on your chest leaking thick black blood.
You’d heal. You always healed.
I made plans. I’d tell Ren what you looked like, so that when you came into town looking for me, she could provide you with whatever you wanted. Food. A place to stay. Company, perhaps. You deserved better company than me, deserved someone who would not wrap their hands around your throat and—
The one thing I’d ask for, the one thing I had to ask for, was oil. Otherwise, the fire wouldn’t burn hot enough. What was I going to do with Alsha? I’d leave her to you. Yes. I’d tell Ren to keep everyone away from my horse except you. Alsha liked you.
It took only a few minutes for me to settle the minutiae of my life. My brother, my father, my mother—they would find ways to cope. My mother could name Otgar the Grand Kharsa. Clearly, she favored her. It would not be so difficult. Kenshiro was a recently married man; he’d name a child after me if he was feeling gracious.
My father would not mourn.
By the time I arrived at the village, it was the start of Second Bell. If I was stared at two nights ago (had it been so short a time?), then I was gaped at now. I’d not bothered wiping the blood off my feet or pants or deel. I did not see the point. Why bother hiding it anymore? I was a monster. I met the eyes of those who stared, nodded to them. They looked away quickly. Ren was standing in the same place, near the winehouse. When she saw me, she started, but she was kind enough to cover it with her fan. She ran toward me.
“Barsalai!” she called. “Is that … Is that the mask, around your neck?”
I offered the mask to Ren.
She took it from me gingerly. I watched as she held it above her head, so that the light of the sun shone down through the eyeholes.
It is a rare thing to see perfect joy on a person’s face. I saw it then. Tears sprang to her eyes; she clutched the mask close to her chest. For a long while, she held it there. A soft smile contrasted against her damp cheeks.
What was I to say? I was glad to have helped her. But I did not want to continue existing if it meant I was going to hurt you again.
She tugged my hand. “Come,” she said. “Come, you must let me thank you.”
I drew back my hand and shook my head. “I need oil,” I said.
Ren furrowed her brow. Two lines appeared at the corners of her small mouth. “What happened to food?” she asked. “Yesterday you asked for food. Today, oil. Why?”
I did not meet her gaze. “I need oil.”
“What for?” she asked.
I could run. I could get the oil somewhere else.
But I had no money.
I grunted.
“Barsalai,” she said. There was a quiet pleading in her voice. She took my hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Please come with me. My home is not far. I will tell you the story of the war mask, and I will see that you have your oil—but, please. Come with me.”
I glanced around. Two sellswords watched us. They were concerned for Ren, I think. Part of me was happy she had people looking out for her, but most of me did not want to be bothered.
Yet when she looked at me, I felt the faintest memory of being a hero. Of Tiger-Striped Shefali.
So I sighed and dismounted, and I followed her to her home. It was the largest in the village, as it happened. On the way in, I caught sight of the stables. Yes, she did indeed have six horses: two red dun mares, one bay roan mare, a chestnut mare, a beautiful seal bay mare, and a dapple gray stallion. The seal bay and dapple gray intrigued me; I’d never seen horses of those colors outside the steppes, and these were all stocky Hokkaran workhorses.
Where had she gotten them?
Inside, a serving girl greeted me with a cheery face despite what I looked like, despite the blood I tracked into the house. Ren led me upstairs. The fact that she had an upstairs at all spoke well of her status. There ar
e Ikhthian nobles who dream of having furnishings as beautiful as the ones I saw that day. Fine silk divans, gauzy curtains swaying gently in the nighttime air; plums of incense smoke imparting intoxicating scents. This was the sort of home even you would take pride in.
So the oil had to be around here somewhere. She had lanterns, after all, and if she could keep lanterns burning, certainly she could keep me burning.
She led us to her bedroom, and I saw no lanterns there. Only candles shining with dim orange light. What if she wasn’t going to give it to me? What if I had to find it somewhere else? What if I had to break into someone’s home and steal it? Was I capable of such a thing?
The whole room smelled of flowers. They almost drowned out the scent of sex, the scent of burning.
I was in a singing girl’s bedchamber at Second Bell while you ran through the woods, trying to find me.
“Take a seat anywhere you would like,” she said.
I did not sit. I stood and crossed my arms. Ren was fiddling with something in the corner of her room, something on a shelf. When she finally turned, I realized what it was: a small portable shrine, similar to the one you had. Two little statues—one of the Grandmother and one of the Daughter—held unburnt prayer tags. The foxhead sat between them. Grandmother and Daughter—Ren had to have been born in either a first year or an eighth year, then. Eight years older than me, or eight years older than you.
Was that why I liked her so much? I did not think much of Hokkaran astrology, but the coincidence stuck out like a bone in thin stew. One of those idols was her birth year, and one was her chosen patron.
Which was which?
“This mask belonged to my father,” she said. “He fought in the Qorin war against Sur-Shar, and when that was done, he went to the Wall to help send the blackbloods back.”
She touched the edges of the mask as if she were touching her father’s face. When she looked to me, she wiped away another tear.
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