*
THAT NIGHT I listened to another of Otgar’s stories and pretended to take an interest in it. Tumenbayar saddled her golden mare and rode to the north. Friendly winds told her of a clan in danger there. When she arrived, she found demons rampaging through the camp, scooping up horses and snapping into them like jerky. Dozens of them, the largest horde anyone had ever seen up to that point—and this Ages ago, when demons did not roam the countryside as they do now. An entire clan could not hope to defeat this many.
But Tumenbayar and her golden mare were worth twenty clans together. So she strung her crescent-moon bow and fired her windcutter arrows. As she fired at the beasts, she rode in a circle around them, faster and faster each time. The demons caught on to this and threw people at her, threw horses at her, threw anything they could to try to slow her down.
Tumenbayar reached into her thousand-pocket saddlebags. She pulled out her skin of mare’s milk, and with the tip of her arrow, she slit it open. Milk dripped along her path. Tumenbayar, raised by a cadre of sanvaartain, spoke holy words as she rode.
Demons charged at her, but could not pass the barrier of the milk. Tumenbayar rode just outside their grasp. In an hour’s time, no more, she felled all the demons. When they were dead, she herself set fire to their bodies, so that their foul blood could not corrupt Grandfather Earth. She did this wearing the deel given to her by Grandmother Sky herself, which protected her from all manner of harm.
It was a good story. Not the best Tumenbayar story, but good. Enough to get my mind off things, if it were any other night, or any other thing I’d seen. Otgar did her best to lend the tale more weight. One day, you shall hear her Tumenbayar voice, and you will laugh loud and long.
Tumenbayar is something like your ancestor Shiori to us. I’ve heard a thousand stories about her, and despite my better judgment, I believe every one. For who is to say whether or not Tumenbayar really did fire arrows of wind, or if the ridge of mountains north of the Rokhon really are her horse’s footprints? These things are legends. In their own way, all legends are true.
You must be laughing now. I’m certain you’ve heard a few legends about us. Those are true, as well, but true in a different way. I’ve begun to think of the Barsalai my clan whispers about as a different person. Did you know, Shizuka; I’ve heard children telling Tumenbayar stories, but with me instead of her?
*
SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT, Otgar gave in to sleep. I stayed up awhile later. If Shao returned, I wanted to be ready. This time, I told myself, I would not hesitate.
So I told myself. In reality, we’d been riding most of the day, and most of the day before that. Exhaustion gripped me, and try as I might, I could not fight it. I, too, fell asleep.
I awoke to women screaming.
“Burqila! Burqila, save us!”
As I scrambled to my feet, my mother was dashing out our door with sword in hand. Ringing pain split my ears; I reached for my bow and followed her out. My chest ached. Without looking, I knew which ger we’d be going to.
The one I saw Shao outside of.
A dozen Qorin clustered outside its red door. Color drained from dark faces. An old grandmother sank to her knees in the snow weeping, raking her cheeks and pulling her hair. She was the one screaming for my mother.
Alshara pushed her way to the door, then pushed her way past that. I saw her go in and I tried to follow—only to find crossed swords barring my path.
“Barsalai,” said the taller woman. “A demon visited us last night. That ger is no place for a child.”
I pointed to my braid. My one braid. The woman I was speaking to had three.
“Braid or no, name or no,” she said, “you are ten. I cannot let you pass.”
I knew this woman, though not by name. She rode in my mother’s personal guard. Short for a Qorin, she had short hair the color of hay and a scar on her chin. On her left hand, she was missing one finger. Years she’d been with us. I remember seeing her when I still had to be strapped into my horse. A good, loyal guard is hard to find.
At that moment, I wished she were a bit less loyal. I could not strike her down. I was not you—I could not command her. I was not even Otgar.
Where was Otgar?
Bounding up toward the ger, hastily fastening her deel with one hand and holding her hat to her head with the other. The guard looked to her and crossed her arms.
“Dorbentei, until I receive orders otherwise, I cannot allow you to enter—”
“Who is going to give you the orders?” Otgar said. “Burqila? She is not going to break her oath of silence to speak to you.”
The guard pressed her lips into a line. “Dorbentei, the body might be corrupt.”
“Burqila does not fear corruption and neither do I,” said Otgar. “I do not intend to touch the corpse. We will be fine.”
But I did not want to wait for her to negotiate. While Otgar spoke to the guard, I slipped in.
My mother stood at the western side of the ger. At her feet, a corpse. Calling it a “corpse” is, perhaps, exaggerating.
You are out in your Imperial Garden enjoying a plum. Suddenly business calls you away—you leave the plum on a bench and tend to your affairs. Hours later when you return home, the plum is forgotten. Days pass into weeks. When you next sit on the bench, the plum is still there, but it is a dry, withered thing, and you mistake it for a stone.
So it was with the corpse. Once it might’ve been a man. Now it was simply skin and bones. No meat. No substance. On its face an eternal scream. Dark pits where its eyes should’ve been, dark pits for nostrils. Any hair the man had was gone, too, as well as any clothing.
Worst of all, I saw no glimmering near him.
My stomach churned. I tasted bile at the back of my throat. A Kharsa cannot retch at the sight of a body; I tried my best to conceal it. Still I let out a small noise.
My mother sheathed her sword. She stomped on the ground once, to catch my attention. When she saw I looked at her, she pointed to the corpse, then the door. I nodded and left and tried not to think of the shadow I’d seen the night before.
When I left the ger, Otgar and the guard were still talking. Both turned toward me.
“Barsalai!” said the guard. “I told you not to go in there!”
The old woman continued her wailing, her screaming. Burqila, save us. Over and over again. As if my mother could bring her dead son back to life. I screwed my eyes shut against the sound, and waved for Otgar to come closer.
“Burn the body,” I whispered to her. “Remove it. Burn it.”
Otgar nodded. Orders were passed along. I did not stay to watch it all happen. No need to. Instead, I followed my mother and Otgar as they made their way to Surenqalan’s ger. The old man was already awake. My mother did not bother taking off her boots, and so neither did we.
As he bowed to us, the old chief shook.
My mother made three sharp gestures.