But it was worth it. No matter how much it cost (and O-Shizuka has never had a head for money), it was worth it to see Shefali’s warm brown face light up.
That was a good memory, she thinks. That one was worth holding on to. Yet there are other memories she’d drown if she could.
She calls for a bottle of rice wine. Spirits to drown spirits, as they say. So what if Baozhai disapproved?
But while she waits for it to arrive—she will read.
IF I SHOULD HEAR THE SOUND OF PINE TREES
I must have heard him wrong.
O-Shizuru, Queen of Crows, who sent more to the Mother’s cold embrace than any other—dead? And her husband—O-Itsuki, the man who made stones weep and trees grow with only his words—who would kill him? No. This was wrong. They couldn’t be dead. Your parents could not be dead.
My mother drew away. With complete disgust, she made sharp, cutting gestures. Her face contorted into a war mask.
“Get out of my sight,” Otgar translated. She was doing her best to keep my mother’s tone, but her voice wavered. “You come into my ger and spread lies? How dare you! I should have you executed on the spot!”
But the messenger did not leave. He stood there with his arms crossed behind his back, his shoulders bowed as if bearing the weight of his news. He had the audacity to meet my mother’s eyes.
“O-Itsuki and O-Shizuru are dead,” he repeated. “By now, their funeral will have passed. His Serene Majesty the Son of Heaven has taken O-Shizuka in for now—but it was O-Shizuru’s wish that you raise her, should the unthinkable happen.”
Numb. I could not feel my fingers. Otgar steadied me with her free arm. In the privacy of our ger, my mother shook.
She was pale, Shizuka. The earthy brown of her skin changed to tea. Sweat trickled down her brow.
One gesture. Alshara’s hand trembled like a branch in a storm.
Otgar’s voice cracked. “You lie.”
Tears watered the messenger’s eyes, but he did not falter. His voice was clear as a funeral bell.
“On the sixth of Nishen, O-Shizuru and her husband departed on a mission from the Son of Heaven,” the messenger said. “They did not return. I wish I could tell you otherwise, Great Kharsa, but I cannot. I speak to you the truth. They are dead—”
My mother rose to her feet. Wordlessly she left the ger. Lightning in her footfalls, thunder in the slam of the door. Otgar, the messenger, and I remained.
My mouth went dry.
“Shizuka,” I whispered.
“Barsatoq will be all right,” Otgar whispered. “She is a stubborn girl. This will not slow her down.”
But Otgar did not know how much you idolized your parents. She did not know—
Again, the sharp aching in my chest painted my vision red. My lips went cold. All I could do was imagine you in your rooms at Fujino, weeping and raking your cheeks, too proud to admit you need company. Too proud to let anyone near you.
“I’m going to Fujino,” I said.
And I, too, left the ger. Otgar followed behind.
I saddled my horse. We were a month’s ride, perhaps two, if the entire clan was coming. But with only myself and Otgar, we could make the trip in a week or two if we rode hard enough. I availed myself of two geldings; I was going to need a change of horse if I planned to make it to you quickly.
“Barsalai,” said Otgar, “do you not think we should take a few riders with us? We might meet bandits on the way, or wolves.”
I shook my head.
Otgar ran her hand through her hair. She had two braids now, though she did not earn them in battle. My mother allowed her to wear one for each new language she picked up. One for learning to read and write Ikhthian, one for learning the tongue of the Pale People from a book written in Ikhthian. We hadn’t met any Pale People yet. She wanted to be prepared.
“I’m not going to convince you, am I?”
Again, I shook my head. With my whip, I eased my horse into a trot.
“Then let me go with you,” Otgar said. “I won’t stay unless you want me to. But someone has to make sure you get there all right.”
“Temurin,” I said.
Otgar drew back, hurt written on her face. “You don’t want me with you?”
“Mother needs you.”
Otgar looked at her reins. From the pout of her lips, I could tell she did not like this; from the furrow of her brow, I could tell she knew I was right.
“Burqila will leave for Fujino, too,” she said. “And then we will be going the same way.”
“Not right now,” I said. “She will mourn.”
Otgar’s mouth made a thin line. Could I never get my words right? Why couldn’t people be more like horses? They got on just fine without talking.
“Stay with her,” I said. “She needs someone to talk to.”
“You need someone to talk to,” Otgar said, her voice dark.
I stopped my horse. I rode over to her, and I squeezed her hand. “I will be fine,” I said. “Mother will not.”
As an old man senses when rain is coming, so I sensed that my mother would not return to camp for some time. Alshara swore an oath of silence. It changed her into something of a symbol: a looming, silent statue of a woman. Hokkarans liked to say her sword did all the talking for her.
No one heard my mother speak. No one saw her do anything but glower at people. Where others’ emotions fluctuated, she was as consistent as the dawn. She did not cry. She smiled only in the presence of Shizuru.
And she never wept.
That was not going to change. No one would see her weep, no one would see her beat her chest, no one would see the tears streaming down her face or her bloodshot eyes. No one would hear her scream herself raw.
That was why she needed Otgar. Someone was going to have to meet her when she returned, haggard and drained. Someone was going to have to speak for her when she did not have the energy to sign. Someone had to comfort her as I could not.
Otgar was the only one I trusted with such a task.
And so I left her to it on the cold, windy steppes, and I did my best not to look back on the white felt gers as I left.
Temurin said little on the way, save to chide me for being so single-minded.
“You should’ve waited for Burqila,” she said, “and arrived with the clan at your back, as befits a future Kharsa.”
But when I arrived in Fujino, it was not as a future Kharsa. It was barely as Oshiro Shefali—were it not for the Imperial Seal you gave me, they never would’ve let me into the palace.
A string’s tied us together all our lives, Shizuka. No matter how far we are, I can feel you tugging at it.
Perhaps it was that tugging I followed, for on that day, the very first door in the Jade Palace I threw open somehow was yours.
There you were, dressed in white from head to toe. No ornaments in your hair. No jewelry on your neck or your fingers. Since I last saw you, you had not grown much in height—but your figure was beginning to fill out, and your face was changing into a woman’s.
Our eyes met, yours rimmed with red.
“Shefali,” you said.
I stepped forward and opened my arms.
You embraced me. “I was worried you would not come,” you said.