I looked down at you asleep against me, our feet entangled beneath the blankets. Already red crept back into your complexion; already you felt cooler. I squeezed you tight.
And under the sheets, you were naked. I had not been dreaming, after all.
But with the dawn came the return of reality. We could not be caught like this. I slipped out of the bedroll. In your sleep, you reached for me; as I stood, your fingers trailed through my hair.
It hurt my heart to leave you, but I, at least, had to be dressed.
Just as I tugged on my deel, I heard the clattering of hooves. I did my best to tuck you in tight.
A few seconds later, my mother threw open the red door. There were dark circles underneath her eyes, and a halo of frizz crowned her head. As a caged animal finally set free is wild and crazed, so was my mother’s expression. In her hands was a dripping waterskin.
I tried to stop her, but she barreled straight for you.
“Mother—”
She knelt next to you, slipped one arm beneath your shoulders, and sat you up. When she saw that you were naked, she scowled at me.
My cheeks flushed. “She was cold,” I mumbled.
My mother tilted her head. At times my mother’s muteness is no obstacle to communication. I read her look easy as Qorin letters carved onto a cliff.
We will speak of this later.
I cleared my throat and averted my eyes as if I had not already seen you. As if I were the shy virgin I had been last night.
As she jostled you, you stirred, your eyes adjusting to the half light. My mother tipped the waterskin to your lips before you could protest; you choked as the water trickled down your throat.
“Burqila,” you gasped, clutching your chest.
She slapped you hard on the back. Then, with unexpected tenderness, she took your temperature with her hand. A sigh of relief left her. She touched her fingers to her lips and held them to the sky in praise. I took the opportunity to drape the blankets around your shoulders.
Otgar came in not long after that—a good thing, too, as my mother had many questions for you.
“Did you lose a duel with your clothing?” Otgar teased.
“I won the duel with the fever, that is all that matters,” you said. I must admire your aplomb; the question did not faze you in the slightest. Your princess’s dignity shielded you from shame.
My mother interrupted us with a raised hand. Signing followed. Otgar let out a small laugh.
“Burqila says that if you allow yourself to get so sick again, she would treat with demons to revive you just so she can kill you again.”
We called the sanvaartain in to check on you. She affirmed your health the same way one might declare a woman pregnant.
“Give thanks to Grandmother Sky,” she said, “who shielded you from the Mother’s grasping hands.”
When we were eight, we faced a tiger. From it we received our names, and I received a scar. The image of it is still vivid in my mind—the way it sank low to the ground with its hindquarters raised. I remember its golden eyes and the proud, sagacious way it regarded me just before it attacked.
So, too, did you regard the sanvaartain. “I will thank no one save Shefali and Burqila,” you said, “for they are the ones who aided me. If the gods wish for me to thank them, then they shall come into the ger to speak to me.”
Skies darken over the Silver Steppes. It is the moment before a thunderstorm. Animals run for shelter; Qorin hurry to their gers, leaving bowls and cups to catch the rain. If anyone were outside, they would hear the perfect stillness in the air—the worried whisper of the grass.
So it was after you spoke. Otgar, my mother, and the sanvaartain all spat on the ground. Even I, who knew you so well, found myself staring blankly at you. Qorin and Hokkarans may hold different gods, but you challenged all of them to speak to you. A mortal.
But …
If the gods spoke to anyone, perhaps they would speak to us.
You did not wait for mortals to chide you. Instead, you wrapped yourself in your robes and got to your feet.
“Barsatoq,” said Otgar, “has it occurred to you that you are daring the world to slay you?”
“I will dare and dare again,” you said, “since I cannot die.” You tied your robes closed and tucked your sword into your belt. “Not until I finish what I was meant to do.”
And as you spoke, your eyes met mine. Our night together played out again in my mind, bringing a flush to my face I coughed to conceal.
“Let all the gods of man and beast face me, if they so wish,” you continued. “I cannot be humbled by my equals.”
Honey-sweet lips summoned thunder and lightning. When you opened the red door, light crowned you.
I did not know what to say. What is there to say to such a thing? Boasting was as natural to you as archery is to me, but you’d never insulted the gods like this before.
You stood silhouetted by the dawn in the doorway. I thought of the second time we met—when you stood like this at Oshiro’s garden gates, cloaked in golden silk, a thousand flowers swaying behind you. Now there was only the tall silver grass and the Eternal Sky.
But the image was no less striking.
“Shefali,” you called, “you are coming, yes?”
“She is not,” cut in Otgar. Strange. My mother did not sign anything for her to translate. “We have much to discuss.”
You wrinkled your nose. “You intend to leave me alone?”
I opened my mouth, but Otgar spoke first. Again. She had a knack for that. “Well, Barsatoq, if you are so comfortable threatening the gods, then being alone should be no problem.”
I stood. My quiver, bow, and whip were within easy reach; I needed nothing else to survive. I walked to the red door.
“Shefali, your mother wants you to stay,” Otgar said.
But I looked to you crowned with daylight’s glory.
When I met my mother’s and Otgar’s gazes, I shook my head. I was sixteen. If I wanted to disobey my mother, I could. It did not matter that my mother happened to be the greatest fear of most Hokkarans—at the time, she was keeping me from the person I wanted to be with.
So I said nothing, only shook my head, and left out the red door. I did not look behind me as I left, but I imagine they were frustrated. They did not chase after me, however. Whatever words we were all going to share would wait until you and I returned from wherever we were going.
Come to think of it, I did not know where you were leading us.
But as we made our way through the camp, you laced your pinky through mine and I decided not to think on it too hard. Better to savor the moment. Better to savor the way the wind tousled your hair, the simple sight of you on the steppes. I cannot say you were ever truly at home there—more than once, you complained of the smell, or longed for a proper shower—but you were here among the rolling hills of my childhood. For that sight alone, I am forever grateful.
Watching you, it occurred to me you might not remember what happened the night before. Sometimes fever claims one’s memories. And what if you didn’t remember? What if you woke naked and confused?
As you approached your stocky red horse, I summoned my courage. I could not bear the thought of you not knowing.