Dashdelgar goes hunting with his clanmates, swearing he will bring home the biggest game. His clanmates want nothing to do with him and abandon him. He stalks through the grass, sure he will find something eventually; he stays out all night. Then, when Grandmother Sky’s silver eye hangs in the sky, he is surprised by a rabbit and wets himself.
If you ask a Kharsa who the most valuable member of her clan is, she may say it is her most skilled hunter. She keeps the clan fed, after all. Another might name their sanvaartain, who keeps the clan healthy. Still another would name the eldest person in the caravan, whose knowledge saved them from disaster.
Allow me to tell you a secret, Shizuka, as the daughter of the Kharsa-that-was-not.
The most valuable member of the clan is the person who tells the best stories around the fire.
You may think me silly, but listen: That hunter picked up her bow because she wanted to be like Tumenbayar. That sanvaartain idolized wily Batederne, and quotes her whenever she gets the chance.
And the caravan elder—how do you suppose they share all this knowledge rolling around in their brain?
They tell stories.
Before my mother insisted on commissioning an alphabet for us, this was how we learned of our world: sat around the fire, learning of Tumenbayar and Batumongke and Batederne. And I tell you, Shizuka, the Dashdelgar stories are every bit as important as the others.
Tumenbayar lives in the clouds, and the hooves of her horse bring thunder on dark nights. But we have all been Dashdelgar.
You’d never heard any stories about Tumenbayar, and no one told them that first night, but you strove to mimic her regardless. In Hokkaro, you woke to practice calligraphy. Here on the steppes, you did not need to write anything. Here on the steppes, there was no one to tell you how dangerous, how foolish swordplay is.
In fact, my entire clan wanted to prove it to you.
You fought anyone and everyone. Young warriors with no braids in their hair. Old veterans with ropes sprouting from their heads. Temurin was one of your favorites; she did not care if she hurt you.
Not that she ever came close, but it was the thought that mattered.
Watching you fight my clanmates was watching oil float on water. Nothing touched you. Your opponents lunged; you melted away from them. They waited for you to strike, and you turned to stone. In the three years you stayed with us, only my mother hit you with any regularity, and that because she was fond of cheating.
A blacksmith stands at his forge. In his hands, a pair of tongs; at his side, a hunk of rough-hewn iron. When he lowers it into the inferno of the smelter, he does not see a hunk of iron. He sees a sword waiting to be born. And so he pulls the iron out once it glows white-hot, lays it on his anvil. With all the force he can muster, he hammers it into shape—and then he quenches it in water.
For months, you subjected yourself to the same routine. When you awoke, you’d see who wanted to test your mettle that day. One, two, three challengers; you didn’t balk at being outnumbered, and the clan wanted to know how good a pampered Hokkaran girl could be. After you finished your first round of challenges, you’d demand that we go riding. When we finished riding, you demanded to practice wrestling.
It is hard to put into words the single-mindedness with which you pursued your training. I must stress this, Shizuka—you never turned down a challenger. When four warriors came to you, you fought them all at the same time, standing barefoot on the silver grass. Over the years, the number grew. You fought mounted Qorin, you asked my clanmates to shoot at you, you went in search of wolves. Anything to test your abilities.
So it was every morning, every afternoon, every night. Months wore into years. More than once, I caught you weeping in your bedroll at night. Whenever I caught you mumbling in your sleep, you were saying that maybe you could’ve saved your parents, if you’d gone with them, if you were strong enough.
I tried talking to you, Shizuka, but milking a stallion would’ve been easier. Either you thought I was babying you, or you said I could not understand the dedication required for Hokkaran swordplay, or …
Once, you snapped at me to “cease my incessant nagging.”
That was worse than your hands around my throat.
*
BUT I COULD NOT abandon you, even during those dark years when you fought so hard to be abandoned. When we ate, I was at your side. When we hunted, when we rode. Though you sometimes ignored me, I was there. That has always been my purpose, Shizuka—to protect you from everything, including your own foolish self.
And foolish it was to practice sword forms outside. At night. In the steppes. But I was there all the same.
“Are you not worried about the cold?” you said one night.
“Are you?” I asked. For you did not have a deel yet—I was still working on making one—and you had no warm hat either. Your cheeks were the color of fresh fruit, your hands raw around the hilt of your mother’s sword. “The ger has a fire.”
“I am not done,” you said. Indeed, as we spoke, you continued to move from form to form.
“You will freeze.”
“I cannot freeze,” you replied. “Imperial blood burns with heavenly fire.”
I cocked a brow at you. You believed that the same way I believed a mare birthed me. Yet you did not stop your sword forms. One stroke led to another: a dance you seemed to be trapped in.
But the more I studied you, the more I was troubled. Your steps were short and shaky; your blade rattled in your hands. Your lips were cracked and pale; beads of sweat clung to your forehead.
I rose to my feet. “Shizuka?”
“I cannot freeze!” you repeated. Your next stroke would’ve gotten you killed on a battlefield. I went toward you.
Now that I was close, I could see how pale you were. My stomach twisted. Though you still tried to go through your forms, I wrapped my arms about your waist. Like trying to hold the sun in my arms.
“Let me go!” you shouted. “I am not done with my forms.”
But we were sixteen then, and I was eighteen hands tall to your almost fifteen. I scooped you into my arms and took you inside.
A hummingbird could not hope to flap his wings faster than my heart fluttered in my chest. Alshara was already asleep, but woke at once when I kicked her rib lightly. And when she saw you … my mother’s brown face turned the color of milky tea.
She yanked Otgar out of her bedroll and fired off a series of signs. I stood there, holding you. What were we going to do? Take you to the shaman. But healers never helped me—how could they help you, if your old theory was true? Who among men can heal a god?
So I sat by your side as fever twisted your protests. You kept raving about your blood. About your heritage. About the dawn pulsing through your veins.
“When the daylight comes,” you said, “when the daylight comes, it will cleanse me, you will see. Scarlet runs gold. Brighter than ever.”
Listening to you, I had to fight my tears. You did not make sense, Shizuka. How is sunlight going to cure your fever? Dawn cannot banish sickness. I clutched your hand; I rocked back and forth in the shaman’s ger.