“Barsalai,” she said. “Crawl out of your lovesick cave for one moment and listen to what I am saying. Your mother loved Naisuran. Loved her.”
“Obvious,” I repeated. Anyone could see what good friends they were. The two of them used to exchange war stories though my mother never spoke. Shizuru never learned a word of Qorin, but she still knew what Alshara wrote or signed just from reading her body.
Otgar tugged at her hair. “Barsalai,” she said, her voice curt. “Your mother wanted to bed Naisuran.”
What?
No.
No, no, no. That could not … no. My mother had two children. My mother had never in my sixteen years brought a lover into the ger. Certainly she and my father did not speak, ever, but that did not mean they were unfaithful. I’d never seen my father with a lover either. No, I did not see him as often, but … it just could not be. Not my mother. Not Burqila Alshara.
“Why do you think,” Otgar said, “I had to go fetch her after Naisuran died? Because she wanted to go on a trading trip?”
No, she was just mourning her only friend—it was not that out of the ordinary!
I must’ve been gaping. I cannot imagine the look on my face. You will have to imagine it. I’m certain you know it better than I do.
Otgar pinched her temples. She took a deep breath. “Your mother keeps a clipping of Naisuran’s hair with her to this day,” Otgar said. “She wears it beneath her deel, where no one will see. It is the only such favor she received.”
As she spoke, her voice rose higher and higher.
“No matter what Burqila did, she could not win Naisuran over. Her many fearsome deeds, her prowess with a sword, her skill as a Kharsa, her beauty—none of these caught Naisuran’s attention. A poet did. A poet, Shefali! A man who never saw a day of battle in his life, over Alshara!”
Alshara.
Otgar used my mother’s birth name.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. This was not how one spoke about an aunt. The demon’s words echoed between my ears: Your mother lies with your cousin, Steel-Eye.
Otgar’s eyes went wide. She covered her mouth, as if to try to hold in the words she’d already spoken. “It … It is a very sad story,” she mumbled. But she did not meet my eyes. “I only meant to say that you must be careful, Shefali. If her people find out, they will not be so accepting. Remember how her uncle hates us. He could have you executed.”
I grunted. Though birds soared overhead, though the wind rustled tree branches, I heard only screaming. Laughing.
“You should trust us more, Steel-Eye!” they said.
I screwed my eyes shut. My cousin meant well, she did. I am certain she set out to do nothing more than berate me, possibly congratulate me. But she did not know what was going on in my mind at the time. She could not have known what a storm would envelop me.
My mother loved your mother.
My mother wanted to bed your mother.
What did she think, then, of the two of us?
And why did Otgar use my mother’s birth name?
We rode the rest of the way in silence. When we reached the barracks, the guards questioned me. Who was this other … woman? A pause there. They meant to say “barbarian,” of course, but they did not know if Otgar spoke Hokkaran.
“Dorbentei Otgar Bayasaaq is my name,” she said, sounding for all the world as if she were born and raised in Fujino. “I am Barsalai Shefali’s cousin.”
“True cousin?” said the guard.
“No,” said Otgar. “False cousin. I was created from a vat of clay by my mother, who happened to be Burqila’s sister.”
The guards blinked.
“Yes!” snapped Otgar. “I am her true cousin!”
It was only after some muttering that they let us in. I had Otgar wait outside while I spoke to you. I found you pacing our rooms, racked with worry. You, too, held me tight; you covered my face in burning kisses; you smelled me; you whispered into my ear that you missed me. In your embrace, I felt human again. Something about your voice drowned out the chorus of insults.
“Fool Qorin,” you said. “Leaving in the middle of the night. I thought…”
I squeezed your arm. I was here. That was the important thing.
“Did you get any rest?” you said.
Pain in my chest. You fell asleep so quickly, and so deeply, that you had not noticed I left most nights.
I did not want to lie to you. If I did, the demons would approve. Nothing they approved of was good. Beyond that, it is hard to look at you and lie. It is as if the truth shines from your eyes.
But all this was becoming so heavy. My mother and her feelings, whatever they were. Otgar’s strange outburst.
The demon blood coursing through my veins.
I could not do this alone.
“No,” I said. “I do not sleep anymore.”
Your amber eyes widened; you paused. You looked as if someone had struck you. I regretted speaking—I hated seeing you like this, knowing that my state of existence brought you pain.
“Shefali,” you said. You cupped my face. “My love. We will find some way to heal you, and we will leave this place soon. You and I will find some place all our own. We will find somewhere quiet, somewhere you can ride your horse, and I will be safe from the court’s prying eyes. And we will find a way to heal you. This I swear.”
The only way to cure me is to kill me, I think, but I did not say that to you then. For you were so full of hope. Gods, Shizuka, it is so hard to look at you sometimes. I feel as if my whole being bends to your will; as if I have no choice but to follow wherever you may lead. What a terrible thing, to love someone so completely! What awful joy!
“We should leave today,” you said. “Before your mother arrives.”
“She has,” I said.
You winced. “Do you want to tell her?”
I shook my head. Truth be told, I was not sure I wanted to return. My mother keeping something so important from me for so many years left a bad taste in my mouth, and my stomach twisted at the thought of seeing her and Otgar in the same ger.
This was my family. This was my home. And yet it felt alien now, or the people did. As if I’d been living with strangers my whole life.
“Shefali,” you said, “she will hear, one way or another. Would you not prefer she heard it from you?”
I’d prefer she never learn that her daughter found the sight of blood appetizing, but I knew that was unlikely.
I looked at my feet. “Shizuka,” I said.
You instantly looked up, stopped pacing, and came near to me. “Yes?” you said. “Is something wrong? Did something happen? Say the word, and I will find whoever—”
“My mother is like me,” I said. “With women.”
You tilted your head, squinted. “Like us?” you said. “How are you sure?”
“Dorbentei,” I said. “Dorbentei told me. She said—”
The words stuck in my throat. What I wanted to say: She said Alshara loved your mother. But what left me was a strangled sound, a whimper. I laid my head against your shoulder; you ran your fingers through my hair.