Traditional Hokkaran suicides are too painful, even for someone like me. Kneeling before a crowd and disemboweling myself? No. I could not and would not. The first stroke alone wouldn’t be enough to kill me, and by then I’d … I’d change again.
No. It had to be something quick. Something that would not leave behind a body. A pyre. Yes, a pyre was ideal. All I had to do was gather kindling, purchase some oil to speed things, tie myself to a pole, and light it all up. Holy flame could cleanse me if nothing else could. When everything was done, a gentle breeze would carry my ashes to the sky, where they belonged. By the time you found me, there’d be nothing left to mourn over, and you could continue your life as if I’d never been in it.
Once, my people looked on me with admiration. My mother would never want her deel back now, would she? Tiger-Striped Shefali, who won her first braid at eight years of age. Tiger-Striped Shefali, who never missed with bow or with knife. The future Grand Kharsa of all the Qorin. The girl who would lead whatever was left of our people to glory again.
But she was gone now. In her place was the tiger’s daughter, wearing her skin and clothes.
Once, you said we were gods.
What a bitter thought.
On most nights, when I see my mare, a sense of calm washes over me. During my travels, I’ve turned to her for comfort more than once. There is an old Qorin trick for anxiety—stand with your head up toward the sky. Touch your horse’s flank with your right hand, and your own heart with your left. Listen to her breathe; feel her heart beat. Try to match hers.
It’s said that Tumenbayar herself taught us this. She could speak to her horse, too, though she had to be touching her to do it. Every few generations, someone will claim to have the same ability I do—people pretend to be part of Tumenbayar’s clan all the time.
But Qorin value deeds, not words. Anyone who says such a thing is soon put to the test, and my mother has never taken kindly to liars.
I’ve never told her about this ability of mine. The thought of being tested in front my entire family, in front of the whole clan, was enough to break me out in hives. Bad enough I never missed a shot. Otgar already took bets on whether or not I’d be able to hit a bird a hundred horselengths away, blindfolded.
I always did.
If she knew I could talk to my mare—I hesitated to imagine what she’d come up with.
I’d never have the chance to see now.
But still I stood there with my head up toward the sky and my right hand on Alsha’s flank. I could not fool her; she knew my intentions.
You are leaving Shizuka behind?
“I must,” I said. “She is better off this way.”
Alsha stomped her front hoof. And I am better off with three legs, she said. Of course she was not going to understand. As much as I spoke to her, she was still just a horse.
“Will you take me, or not?” I said.
Alsha whickered. Better I take you than you go alone, she said.
Well. At least she wasn’t trying to talk me out of it. I suppose my horse can see sense sometimes. It must be because she is a good Qorin mare. Hotheaded, stubborn, yes; but protective as can be.
I tied the war mask around my neck. It would be my last duty in this world, my last good deed.
Besides killing myself.
If you called after me, I did not hear you. I tried not to think of you at all beyond how much better off you’d be a year from now. What you felt now was a temporary pain. What you felt now was weakness leaving the body. Fire put to a wound. That’s all I was. A gaping wound on your chest leaking thick black blood.
You’d heal. You always healed.
I made plans. I’d tell Ren what you looked like, so that when you came into town looking for me, she could provide you with whatever you wanted. Food. A place to stay. Company, perhaps. You deserved better company than me, deserved someone who would not wrap their hands around your throat and—
The one thing I’d ask for, the one thing I had to ask for, was oil. Otherwise, the fire wouldn’t burn hot enough. What was I going to do with Alsha? I’d leave her to you. Yes. I’d tell Ren to keep everyone away from my horse except you. Alsha liked you.
It took only a few minutes for me to settle the minutiae of my life. My brother, my father, my mother—they would find ways to cope. My mother could name Otgar the Grand Kharsa. Clearly, she favored her. It would not be so difficult. Kenshiro was a recently married man; he’d name a child after me if he was feeling gracious.
My father would not mourn.
By the time I arrived at the village, it was the start of Second Bell. If I was stared at two nights ago (had it been so short a time?), then I was gaped at now. I’d not bothered wiping the blood off my feet or pants or deel. I did not see the point. Why bother hiding it anymore? I was a monster. I met the eyes of those who stared, nodded to them. They looked away quickly. Ren was standing in the same place, near the winehouse. When she saw me, she started, but she was kind enough to cover it with her fan. She ran toward me.
“Barsalai!” she called. “Is that … Is that the mask, around your neck?”
I offered the mask to Ren.
She took it from me gingerly. I watched as she held it above her head, so that the light of the sun shone down through the eyeholes.
It is a rare thing to see perfect joy on a person’s face. I saw it then. Tears sprang to her eyes; she clutched the mask close to her chest. For a long while, she held it there. A soft smile contrasted against her damp cheeks.
What was I to say? I was glad to have helped her. But I did not want to continue existing if it meant I was going to hurt you again.
She tugged my hand. “Come,” she said. “Come, you must let me thank you.”
I drew back my hand and shook my head. “I need oil,” I said.
Ren furrowed her brow. Two lines appeared at the corners of her small mouth. “What happened to food?” she asked. “Yesterday you asked for food. Today, oil. Why?”
I did not meet her gaze. “I need oil.”
“What for?” she asked.
I could run. I could get the oil somewhere else.
But I had no money.
I grunted.
“Barsalai,” she said. There was a quiet pleading in her voice. She took my hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Please come with me. My home is not far. I will tell you the story of the war mask, and I will see that you have your oil—but, please. Come with me.”
I glanced around. Two sellswords watched us. They were concerned for Ren, I think. Part of me was happy she had people looking out for her, but most of me did not want to be bothered.
Yet when she looked at me, I felt the faintest memory of being a hero. Of Tiger-Striped Shefali.
So I sighed and dismounted, and I followed her to her home. It was the largest in the village, as it happened. On the way in, I caught sight of the stables. Yes, she did indeed have six horses: two red dun mares, one bay roan mare, a chestnut mare, a beautiful seal bay mare, and a dapple gray stallion. The seal bay and dapple gray intrigued me; I’d never seen horses of those colors outside the steppes, and these were all stocky Hokkaran workhorses.