Except that my mother never formally accepted the title of Kharsa, as part of the terms of her marriage. No one paid that any heed here. She was a Kharsa in all but name.
You said nothing to this. For all your talent with Hokkaran, you spoke not a word of Qorin. Oh, you could write it. My mother wanted our alphabet to be simple enough for a child to learn. You knew it and you knew which symbols corresponded to which sounds. But the words themselves, the grammar?
No. That you could not do.
So you sat and you shifted. I imagine you were about to say something cutting when my mother raised her hand in the air, and the ger fell silent. Otgar rushed to her side.
I sidled up closer to you. My mother was giving me that viper look again. Her serpents coiled about my heart and squeezed. She would not throw a celebration like this if she meant to tear into me in front of the clan, would she?
My mother’s fingers made shapes too fast for me to keep up with them. Before my stay with you, I knew a great many of her gestures, but now I found I could no longer keep up. It’s a strange feeling, being unable to understand your own mother.
“Burqila Alshara Nadyyasar welcomes you all,” Otgar said. “Both those of her clan and of Naisuran Shizuru’s.”
I’d heard your mother’s Qorin name before, but it’d been some time. The sound of it startled me. Nai, for “eight”; Suran for “trials.” Eight Trial Shizuru, for the eight days of hardship she and Alshara endured past the Wall of Flowers. Looking at her rosy, drunk face now, it was hard to imagine her cutting down one of the Traitor’s Generals. But, then again—legend has it she learned the name of the General by charming one of his underlings. And your mother has always been a very charming drunk.
I tried to picture it—my mother and yours huddled together in a damp prison cell, an unspeakable monstrosity dangling rotten food just out of their grasp. Your mother calling him closer, and closer, beckoning with her husky voice—
My mother grabbing the thing’s arm and slamming it against the bars.
One day we shall hear that story in full, Shizuka. I have heard tell that my brother wrote of it from a few of the nobles here—would that I could find a copy, and have it read to me. Sky knows my mother refused to elaborate on what had happened. So much of it is left to our imaginations, Shizuka, and imaginations are the worst kinds of liars.
But even so—it was hard to imagine you and I killed a tiger.
“She hopes you will enjoy the kumaq to its fullest extent, and advises that anyone caught vomiting in her ger will be punished,” Otgar continued, “as she hates the smell.”
All eyes fell on your mother. The laughter that left her, unbridled and boisterous, was more Qorin than Hokkaran.
“Don’t give me that look, Alshara!” she said. “I outdrank Kikomura-zul, I can keep this down!”
I am not certain if your mother knew the gravity of referring to my mother by her birth name. As a Hokkaran man might only call his wife, daughter, and mother by their personal names, so a Qorin would never think of addressing anyone but his immediate family by their child name. An adult name was earned. An adult name told you everything you needed to know about a person. My mother, for instance, is the Destroyer—for what she did to the Wall of Stone.
And yet Shizuru called her the same thing my grandmother called her. The same thing I might call her, if I wanted to catch a backhand. You will not tell my mother I’ve been using her personal name this whole time, will you?
The Burqila chiefs stared at your mother. Some cleared their throats. None said a word against her. Such was our mothers’ friendship—anyone who spoke up against Shizuru spoke up against Alshara.
My mother shook her head. She made four more gestures, then pointed to the red door, a wry smile on her harsh face.
“Burqila says that you are welcome to vomit outside, Naisuran, as she knows you will,” Otgar said in Hokkaran.
Your mother guffawed, slapped her knee. Itsuki covered his mouth. I had to remind myself that this was the Queen of Crows and the Imperial Poet laughing like children. I had to remind myself that your parents were far older than mine. And you were their only daughter.
Was it lonely, Shizuka, growing up without a sibling? Kenshiro was not always with me—and by then, he had already left for Xian-Lai—but I had more cousins than I knew what to do with. I’ve heard you mention yours only once or twice. If only we did not live so far apart! I know my family is loud, and I know they stay up too late, and I know how fond you are of time alone—but I wish I could have kept you company. I wish we had spent more hours together than apart.
Was that why you were so sour? Because I was leaving?
My mother continued her gesturing. Now her movements were slow and deliberate. As she “spoke,” she made eye contact with everyone in the room.
Including me.
At that moment I wished I were a horse, so I might run away faster.
“But before the festivities can continue, there is one thing Burqila would like to say,” said Otgar. “You have by now all heard the story of Shefali and the tiger. It is her opinion that such a deed entitles Shefali to a proper, adult name.”
My breath caught. Next to me, you sat dumbfounded; it occurred to me Otgar was speaking in Qorin and you could not understand her.
Mother beckoned me closer. I stood, reaching for the bundle of cloth behind me, and walked to her.
“From this day forth,” said Otgar.
My mother reached for a strand of my hair. With callused fingers she braided it, then hid it behind my ear.
“You are Barsalai.”
Barsalai—“Tiger-Striped.” Silently I moved my mouth to form the word. My name. Barsalai. Truth be told, I was afraid I’d be Needlenose as an adult. This new name settled on my shoulders like a well-worn cloak.
Ah, that was right. My project.
I presented my mother with the bundle of cloth. Slowly, deliberately, she unfolded it. Within was a deel lined with tiger fur. I will not lie and say it was of exquisite make; embroidery has never been my strong suit. But it was warm, and made of sturdy cloth, and the colors were pleasing to the eye. If it was plain, the tiger fur made up for it.
My mother’s lips widened into a smile. I saw a rare sight that night: wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. She covered my head with her hand and kissed my cheek.
The ger erupted into cheers. Uncle Ganzorig spilled his kumaq onto the fire; it exploded upward. Suddenly I was afloat in a sea of people clapping me on the shoulder or pinching my cheeks or sniffing me. More than one of my cousins dragged me closer to the fire. In the frantic steps of Qorin dances we lost ourselves. Your parents did their best imitation of us. I’m embarrassed to say that O-Itsuki managed a perfect impression despite going through the whole thing without a word. At one point, your mother almost fell into the campfire, only for your father to swoop her away at the last moment. O-Shizuru laughed and kissed him.