Why was she so moved?
“The Yellow Scarves have been rampaging through Shiseiki for years now,” she said. “They come, two dozen, three dozen at a time, into the winehouse. They drink more than any ox I’ve ever met, talk more than any hen, and stink worse than pigs. Do they pay? Of course not. On a good day, they don’t kill anyone. That is payment, to them.”
And it occurred to me then what her line of work was. It occurred to me who would have the most coin in a town like this. Even before she continued, my heart ached for her.
“Then they bluster into our rooms, throw coin at us…”
She shook her head.
“No one stands up to them. The guards are too afraid. Foolish youths run off to join them every day; how else is anyone supposed to make a living, when the Yellow Scarves take it all?”
She squeezed my hands tight. There was such pain on her face, Shizuka. How long had the commoners been dealing with this? How long had she been dealing with it?
“Only you,” she said. “They call you the Demon of the Steppes, but you’re holy as a shrine maiden to me. You saved my brother. You made the Yellow Scarves fear again.”
I thought I must be dreaming, or else the demons must’ve figured out a way to make me live through illusions. A Hokkaran girl, a pretty Hokkaran singing girl, was thanking me for the monstrous display that made my own mother exile me. I was holy to her.
And I believed it. There is a certain way a person looks at you when the light of admiration shines within them. I’m certain you see it every day, Shizuka.
But for me?
For me, that might’ve been the first time.
“Please,” she said, bowing to me. “Tell me your name, that I might thank my ancestors for sending you to me.”
I licked my lips.
When we were children, you said we were gods. It was in that moment, with a woman I’d never met holding my hands and saying such things, that I began to believe you.
“Barsalyya Shefali Alshar,” I said. I didn’t like the way that name tasted on my tongue. Tiger’s daughter. My mother’s name, unadorned, abandoning me. It was a good thing Hokkarans know nothing of Qorin naming conventions, or—
“Alshar?” she said, a note of sympathy in her voice. “That was not always your name, was it? Come. Let us hear it, your real name. The one you earned.”
Barsalyya was the name I’d earned. The pox I wore for what I’d done.
But … for a little while, I wanted to pretend.
“Barsalai Shefali Alsharyya,” I said. How did she know Alshar was not a proper mother’s name?”
She bowed again. “Barsalai-sur, I will light prayers for you every night of my life,” she said.
I stood awestruck. My mouth hung open. For once, everything was silent. No chorus of demonic voices. No laughter. No screaming, no crying.
Only the girl standing before me with a tear-streaked face, swearing she’d light prayers on her altar for me.
“Thank you,” I muttered. “I am honored.”
“No, no,” she said. “I am the honored one. So honored, I’ve forgotten to give you my name. If it pleases you, Barsalai-sur, you can call me Ren.”
“Just Barsalai,” I said. Yes, Barsalai, the tiger-killer and not the monster.
Ren. I can see you shaking your head as you read this, Shizuka, wondering who on earth names their child after such a flower. I will tell you: she herself picked the name. This she told me later, when we were—
But I suppose I am getting to that part.
“Barsalai, then,” she said. How nice it sounded to hear it. She had the best Qorin accent I’d ever heard from a foreigner. “Is there anything I can do for you? If you want company—”
I shook my head. I flushed red, but I shook my head all the same.
“She is waiting, back at camp,” I stammered. “I … She needs food.”
Ren laughed. I imagine it’s the exact sound a flower would make laughing; it hung in the air like perfume. “Food?” she said. “Is that all?”
I scratched at my head. That tone.
“Is my fruit not tempting enough?” she teased.
I consider myself lucky in that we never experienced this phase of courtship. Not once did I have to maintain my composure while you whispered something so … while you whispered anything like that into my ear. I am not a woman built to flirt. I can string a bow blindfolded, with one hand. I can skin almost any animal you put in front of me.
I cannot flirt.
“It is … I … You are sweet as plum wine, and beautiful as your name,” I said, each word more tremulous than the last. “But I love another dearly, and my condition … I would not want to hurt you, or her, or anyone. I cannot. My heart is hers, I cannot.”
She covered her mouth with her fan. More heady laughs left her. I palmed my face to hide my shame. Thank Grandmother Sky we met so young, Shizuka; if we had had to court each other, you never would’ve picked me.
“Very well,” said Ren. “You are shy as a virgin, Barsalai! But if food is what you want, I will provide. Return in the morning with your packhorse, and I will give you all the food you can carry.”
“No rabbit,” I said. “Hates rabbit.”
“How could anyone hate rabbit?” she muttered. “She cannot be so wonderful as you say, if she hates rabbit.”
I could not help myself—I laughed. That was the voice of a woman who’d grown up having rabbit as an occasional treat. That was the voice of a woman who knew hunger.
But I had to defend your honor. “She is,” I said.
She quirked a brow. Then, more clearly: “No rabbit, then. But I have good rice, and salmon; eggs, chickens, and milk; quail and soft bread.”
When I was younger, my family would tell stories about singing girls around the fire. We do not really have them, as a culture. If a man wishes to sleep with a woman who is not his wife, then who cares, so long as his wife and her husband are not home? If, later, that man should decide he wants to seriously court that woman, he presents her husband with a bottle of kumaq wrapped in wolfskins.
I suppose I’ve upset you with this part of the story already. But it is important. And I will remind you, Shizuka, that I never strayed from you in those days. I may have been raised Qorin, but I have Hokkaran blood in me, too. And sometimes it is good to stop moving. Some people are worth stopping for.
At any rate, my family told stories about singing girls, for some of them had never met one. Surely, a woman who can have others pay her for a bedding must be beautiful beyond compare. Surely, she must walk draped in gold; surely her fingers glitter with precious stones. We call them Altanai. “Golden ones.”
I’d seen singing girls before. I knew the stories about Altanai weren’t true. But hearing Ren list off the food she could give us, I almost believed them.
“You may have all this and more, Barsalai. Anything you wish from my home is yours. But in return, I must ask you a favor.”
I crossed my arms and nodded.