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.
Mongke knew better than to pat me on the shoulder, but as soon as we were out of earshot he leaned toward me. “You should talk to your mother about a suit of armor. Can’t have our future Kharsa clanging around like this.”