But my cousin did not know that.
She did, however, know that I was not happy with her. If we had been engaged in such activities, then I would’ve done my best to be as loud as possible out of spite. But we were not, and so we prepared ourselves to leave.
“We will not tell your mother,” you said, “but I think traveling with her would be wise. At least until we reach Xian-Lai.”
Yes, that did sound like a good plan, though I was not sure how to behave around my own mother anymore. Was I going to speak to her about Otgar? About Shizuru? What would I say? What a strange conversation it would be. Either I had to wait for her to write her answer on her slate, or Otgar would translate.
And I was not so sure I wanted to see Otgar around my mother.
Only after a few seconds did it occur to me what you’d said. “Xian-Lai?” I said. “Kenshiro?”
You nodded. “As good a place as any to hide from the court.”
The thought of seeing my brother, too, made me feel lighter. Ten years had passed since I last saw him. He was married now, and a magistrate, too. I wondered if he still spoke Qorin or if he’d forgotten it. He’d better start practicing.
We left the room, you and I, and we took our meager belongings with us. Otgar greeted you and said she was happy you were safe. She did not bring up our relationship, not with so many people near. But she did not bring it up on the ride to camp, either.
As we rode, we spoke of things that did not matter: the beauty of the Hokkaran countryside, the food, the lack of kumaq. I said nothing, and you as little as you could. Your eyes kept darting toward me.
When we arrived at camp, the feast had already started. There was nothing to do to get out of it. Qorin feasts involve everyone around them, whether they know it or not.
And so we sat on the eastern side of the ger, near to my mother and near to Otgar, and I watched Otgar speak for her, saw the way she looked at my mother, saw things that were not there. And when we danced around the fire later that night, I held on tighter to you than normal, and when you asked in hushed tones if I was all right, I told you that I would have to be.
Long after kumaq sent the toughest to their beds, I lay awake inside the ger. The scent of burning singed my nostrils. My stomach felt swollen and heavy, though I’d had only one cup of soup. You slept in my bedroll, curled up against me, and I counted the bumps of your spine to pass the time.
And so it became the pattern of our days. In the morning, we rose with the clan and broke our fast. We’d ride for a few hours after that, careful to keep from straining our horses. My mother chose to avoid towns when possible. I do not blame her for this; whenever we so much as used a main road, we were met with derision. It is strange how highway patrols never appeared when it was just you and I traveling—but when we traveled with the clan, they were everywhere.
“Who among you speaks Hokkaran?”
That is how it would start. And before Otgar could open her mouth, you’d go to the front of the caravan.
“I do,” you’d say. “And I imagine I speak it better than you do. What seems to be the problem?”
The patrolmen were never comfortable with the sight of you. When they spoke, they asked two questions, but voiced only the one.
“Where are you going?” they said out loud. Are you traveling of your own will?
“We are traveling south,” you’d respond. “Is it suddenly illegal for a caravan to travel south on a public road?”
“Barsatoq, I think it might be illegal for Qorin,” Otgar piped in. She rode next to my mother. Too close to my mother. Throughout our journey, I had done my best to avoid the two of them. With you near, it was an easy thing to do; we rode ahead of them, and I listened to your golden voice. But when we were all together in the ger at night, when I had to watch Otgar voice my mother’s words, my stomach twisted.
“Forgive us our caution,” said one of the guards. “We have had reports of bandits, given the Troubles.”
And even though I go cross-eyed whenever I try to read it, I know that in Hokkaran a single character may have a hundred different meanings. A skilled poet bears this in mind when he writes. Your father, for instance, was famed for writing poems that could be read three different ways, and be beautiful in each one. Yet if your father tried to wrangle the many meanings of “Troubles,” his head would spin. From crops withering overnight to bandits to stillborn babes—all things were Troubles in those days.
“You will find no bandits among us,” you said.
“Do we have your word, Noble Lady?”
Our word, of course, was not good enough. They had to hear it from you. Even though they had not recognized you as the Imperial Niece, though they knew nothing of you, they valued your oath above ours.
“Yes,” you said, exasperated. “You have my word. What is your name?”
“Kikomura Kouta, Honored Lady,” he said.
“Very well, Kikomura-zun,” you said. “To whom do you report?”
“Honored Shiseiki-tur,” he said.
“Keichi, or Toji?” you asked. By now, Kikomura was shifting his weight on the balls of his feet. You were not using honorifics. That meant you stood above both Keichi, the son, and Toji, Lord of Shiseiki. He could not answer using their names—that would be a great offense. You’d put him in quite a position.
You sat, preening, on your saddle.
He bowed. “With respect, Honored Lady, it is the younger Shiseiki-tur I serve.”
Impressive for a guardsman.
“You may return to Keichi-tun, and you may tell him O-Shizuka-shon gives her word she will not raid any villages,” you said.
To say he turned the color of milk would do a disservice to milk. I have never in my life seen a man bow so low to the ground. Up and down, up and down, like a bamboo fountain, until his forehead was covered in dirt. My clan laughed. I almost did, too, but I felt a measure of sympathy for him. How was he supposed to know he was speaking to you? It was not as if you wore your name around your neck for all to see.
But after some time, you dismissed him, and we continued on our way.
Three, four times this happened. Guards stopped us. You, or sometimes Otgar, would explain that we were just passing through. They’d ask for our word that we meant no harm. They’d leave, and we would grouse. One would think the highway guards would communicate a bit more; they’d save themselves an awful lot of trouble.
But no. Again and again, it happened.
So it was that the eighth time we were stopped along the road, we did not bother listening to the guardsman.
“We mean no harm, you have our word,” you snapped. “We are simply traveling. Go. Do not trouble us further, or my family will hear of it.”
This man did not recognize you either, but he recognized your sharp dismissal.