I clung to it as we entered the ger.
My mother sat on the eastern side, on her makeshift throne. She wore a fine green deel, embroidered with golden triangles that almost shone against her deep brown skin. Emeralds glinted in her hair, too, as beads on the ends of her many braids. She was stooped low with her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. When we entered, her mossy eyes flickered up.
I do not think I’ve seen her more pained.
Otgar stood at my mother’s right. And there is a certain way people stand when they are …
I squeezed your hand.
My mother began signing.
“Barsalai Shefali Alsharyya,” she said, through Otgar. “Barsatoq Shizuka Shizuraaq. You stand before Burqila Alshara Nadyyasar, Grand Leader of the Qorin, Breaker of Walls. You stand in her ger awaiting judgment.”
I stiffened. This was a trial?
But, then, I deserved no less. If anyone else in the clan had done what I did, my mother would’ve put them down on the spot. This was her being gracious. This was her mercy. This was her sorrow.
“Yesterday, Barsalai slew ten people,” my mother signed. “We know this, as we have counted the remains. Ten. Only one died to an arrow. Nine, then, Barsalai slew with her own two hands.”
I hid the offending hands behind my back. My teeth felt awkward in my mouth now, as well—every time I moved my tongue, I risked cutting it open. My fingers, my teeth—alien parts that did not belong to me. Evidence of what I’d done.
“They were bandits, Burqila,” you said. “They held an entire village prisoner. Barsalai did what I would’ve done, had I not been wounded.”
My mother scowled. Her signing now was sharp and sudden.
“You would’ve drowned them? With your bare hands?” Otgar said. She could not keep herself composed. Her voice cracked; her shoulders shook. Still my mother signed. “Barsatoq, I knew your mother well, and I delivered you myself. If you had not been wounded, we’d have ten corpses with neat, slit throats. Not bits of bone and organ scattered across a floor.”
“She was angered, Burqila,” you protested. You knew better than to raise your voice—that would not help your case at all—but you spat flame nonetheless. “What would you have done if someone hurt my mother in front of you?”
My mother half rose from her seat. She raised her hand, then set it back down. Fury on her face, she finally shaped her trembling signs.
“It is not the same, Barsatoq. Do not presume. In Hokkaro, you may be an Empress, but this is my ger, and the whole of the world beneath Grandmother Sky is my empire,” Otgar translated. “I love you dearly as my own blood—but you will not speak to me in such a fashion.”
You scrunched your face in response to this. There was more you wanted to say, but you would not. For now, you would not.
A pause. My mother took an audibly deep breath. Then she continued.
“Barsalai,” she said through Otgar. “I find myself conflicted. Killing bandits is not a problem. Foul people deserve what befalls them. But killing them as you did is not permissible; you’ve known this since your childhood. Yet … yet there are other things on your mind.
“I do not know the extent of your illness. I do not know if it is permanent. I do not know if you will suddenly die tomorrow, or if you will once more tear people apart because you are angry.
“You have done many things, my daughter, my blood. In your youth, you slew a tiger. You and your cousin sneaked out to fight a demon when you were only ten. So you sneaked out again, with Barsatoq, to do the same.
“You at sixteen slew this demon, too. You have allowed the people of Shiseiki to reclaim their temple, and that is a good and noble thing.
“But…”
Otgar stopped. My mother, too, stopped, making a fist near her forehead. She screwed her eyes shut.
“You are my daughter,” Otgar creaked. “From birth I have been with you. I have kept you warm, I have fed you, on the steppes where these things have weight. I taught you to fire a bow, I taught you to read and write. At every turn, you’ve repaid me. If I am remembered for nothing in this world other than giving birth to you, I think I should be pleased.
“But there is a shade about you, Shefali. There is a cruel darkness that was not there yesterday. You are a Kharsa; you will not succumb. I know this to be true. In eight years’ time, you will break your demons and ride them into battle.
“But until that day, I cannot…”
Again, a pause. Otgar turned toward my mother. I think she might’ve whispered something. I did not hear her. Then once more they turned.
“I cannot allow you to travel with our people,” Otgar said, choking on the words. “I cannot claim you as my own. You are not my daughter when you do these things—you are the tiger’s. And you will wear her name, not mine. Barsalyya Shefali Alshar you will be, until the day we are certain you can control your outbursts.”
We Qorin were sired when Grandmother Sky lay with wolves. Long have they envied us, for Grandmother Sky favors us over them in all things. We ride strong horses while they lope through the night; we hunt with bow and sword where they must use their teeth. But at our cores, we are the same.
Wolves do not travel alone, and neither do Qorin. You hear of lone Qorin in stories. A woman who murders her Kharsa might be cast out. A man who steals a mare from the Kharsaq’s family, too, would be cast out. Deserters, killers, horse-thieves, and traitors. These are the people left to wander clanless.
And so my cousin’s voice was a bow, and my mother’s words the arrow. For the first time since my sickness, I ached, really ached; cold disbelief froze me in place. I tried to draw breath but could not.
Exile. She was exiling me. I was not going to see my family again; I was going to wander the world with only you at my side. Never again would I enjoy kumaq; never again would I dance around the fire to a sanvaartain’s two-voiced songs.
Not even to be able to hear my true name …
“You cannot be serious,” you said. “Shefali is your only daughter! And you abandon her when she needs you most!” Your voice was shrill, sharp, as if speaking such things cut your throat from the inside.
My mother rose. She met your eyes with unwavering determination. Her fingers moved in heady motions, like hammers striking nails.
“I do not abandon her,” Otgar said. “I leave her with you. The two of you had plans to travel, did you not? Go. Travel. Return when you are yourself once more.”
You stormed toward her. “How dare you,” you said. “My mother would be—”
I squeezed your shoulder. That was not something you wanted to say. You did not want to start that fight, not with my mother, not with the woman who loved Shizuru as much as your father did. This was not a negotiation.
It was a trial, and I was guilty.
You turned toward me. I shook my head.
Otgar handed me a package: rough-spun cloth tied with twine. “This is your mother’s parting gift,” she said. “May it keep you safe from harm, Cousin.”
And that was that. It was final.
Exile.