“The quarry of the white tiger’s hunt,” jeered the shaman.
“Give me that!” demanded Silver Snow. She leapt forward to score Strong Tongue’s hand and snatch the precious letter, which brought news and counsel from Ch’in. Her dagger drew a thin, bloody line down the older woman’s hand, but, in the next moment, a shove sent her reeling across the tent to sprawl onto a pile of cushions.
Strong Tongue followed her and stood above her. “Lie like that and wait till Tadiqan comes. And while you wait, think on this!”
She tore open the letter’s bindings, which should have been opened with respect, and dangled the silk with its exquisitely clear brushstrokes before Silver Snow.
“What does it tell you, girl? To coo over the savages ”—she spat out the word—“until we are as weak as you of the Middle Kingdom and can be overrun? Does it tell you to beware of the Fu Yu, who will be as my son’s strong right hand to push you back beyond your foolish wall, then topple it on your head? And not just the Fu Yu. He who should have ruled the Yueh-chih rides with them and at my son’s command will raise an army! He has sworn to have Vughturoi’s skull as a cup, in vengeance for the ill-use of his father, and until he can obtain the skull of your Emperor! ”
“Give me that!” Silver Snow launched herself once again at Strong Tongue, and once again the woman flung her down.
“Do not try your strength with me!” cried the shaman. She snapped her fingers, and a slave brought her the skull cup that had contained what Silver Snow might—should her life turn as bitter as Strong Tongue hoped—wish that she had drunk. The shaman wiped the cup on a square of leather, then set it on Khujanga’s seat, above where Silver Snow had fallen. “Lie there and prepare to welcome my son and your new lord . . . daughter!”
Contemptuously she turned her back on the smaller woman and walked toward a fire that still burned brightly. Her path took her close beside the body of the shan-yu , and her robes flicked across his face. Laughing, she hurled the letter from Ch’in into the flames.
19
Elder Sister, Elder Sister!” Willow flung herself down beside Silver Snow. “Are you hurt?”
“Never mind that!” Silver Snow gasped. All the menace that Strong Tongue had loaded into that single word daughter restored her to herself in a way that no compassion, no tenderness, might have. Once again, she and Willow crouched in a shabby wagon, afraid of the bandits who bore the mark of the crimson eyebrows, afraid but determined to die rather than to be violated. Once again, she faced down a corrupt eunuch before the Son of Heaven.
She had been hailed as the queen who brought peace to the Hsiung-nu. What did it matter if the shan-yu to whom she was wed lay dead? She was still queen of the Hsiung-nu, and by all that she valued, she would have her say in who would be her next lord.
“Vughturoi,” she ordered Willow. “We have to fetch him.” The first prince to return and to view his father’s body would inherit his title: that was the law. So, it would be a race, Silver Snow knew, between Strong Tongue’s powers and whatever magic that Willow might summon. Or any fortune that she herself might merit.
To her surprise, Willow did not creep into a corner and enter the agonizing spasms of the change from maid to fox.
Instead, she lurched past a crowd of Hsiung-nu, matching shove with shove, staggering but somehow managing to stay upright, until she stood shaking in the twilight. A chattering, yapping sound came from her lips and was answered from all sides. For a moment longer, Willow stood so. Then she dropped to her knees and with one outstretched, shaking hand smoothed the fur of the huge fox that had emerged, seemingly from nowhere, at her feet. It—no, he—nuzzled her hand, barked once more, then vanished into the night.
Then, slowly, Willow started down the slight slope on which the great tent had been pitched toward where Basich lay. Roused by the shouts and the uproar in the great tent, he had seized his own weapons and now hurried, as best he might, limping, as Willow did, upslope toward her. He seized her by one arm, and ushered her, protesting, back into the tent.
Silver Snow went over to the body of the old shan-yu. She herself had tried earlier to turn him over, and succeeded but partially; now his eyes stared up at the roof of the tent, and his arms were flung wide. He was an old man; he had been a good man in his way, and a friend to Ch’in; and he had been kind to her. It was neither proper nor dutiful to let him lie there asprawl, lacking the dignity of mourning and attendance. She knelt and held her hand over the glazed eyes from which all cunning and all humor had fled forever until they stayed shut after she took her hand away. Then, with a corner of her sleeve, she wiped the grime and dried spittle from his face, tried to array the sparse beard on his chin, and to ease the dreadful, contorted expression on his face.
Then it was that a drum began its insistent pound . . . pound . . . pound. Strong Tongue had wasted no time in repairing that damnable spirit drum of hers.
And whose was the skin that she used this time? Silver Snow shuddered.
Always before, Khujanga had risen to her defense when she was in danger. Any hope that she might have had that he had but swooned was fully dead now. Her eyes filmed over, and tears fell onto her hands as they worked, straightening out the twisted limbs, easing the shan-yu ’s body into a posture that was more seemly.
Drops of blood sank into the dusty carpet beside him. Silver Snow let out a tiny scream as Basich dropped down beside her. Raw scores on his face showed that he mourned his dead leader according to the custom of the Hsiung-nu, who drew their knives and gashed their cheeks to display their grief. They wept, not with tears, but with blood.
“Permit me, lady.” His voice was husky, and he averted his face as he stooped, picked up Khujanga’s body, and bore it to the rugs before his usual seat where he laid the old man out in state. He glanced upon the grisly cup and grimaced.
Silver Snow drew up a cushion at the dead shan-yu s side, just as she had often done when he was alive. She felt no fear, no abhorrence of the dead.
“She”—he gestured with his chin at Willow—“says that she has done what she might to fetch my prince. I too shall ride ...”
“Ride?” Silver Snow asked. “You can barely walk!”
His blood-smeared face gleamed with sorrow and a kind of cold pride. “You forget, lady. I am Hsiung-nu, and we ride almost before we walk. My mare’s back is better than a bed to me. I shall fetch back the prince to ward us.” He let out a wordless shout, and staggered from the tent.
Silver Snow’s women came and crouched down beside her. Ringing them were the oldest men of the tribe, those too old to fight. The younger warriors, those who had not ridden out with Vughturoi or Tadiqan, watched, their eyes avid, curious. All bore bleeding gashes across their cheeks; all carried blades or bows; and all had their private allegiances—whether to the shan-yu who was dead, to the elder prince, or to Vughturoi, Silver Snow forced herself not to guess.
What if I ordered, “Kill me that witch?” she thought.
As clearly as if she knelt at her father’s feet, his face floated into her thoughts. She must not give orders that would not be immediately obeyed—or that she could not herself enforce.
She was but queen to a dead shan-yu, and she bore no child; the time to obey her would be the time when the Hsiung-nu could determine whether she would have the power with their new ruler that she had enjoyed with the old.
Yet, Strong Tongue tried to poison me. She as much as admitted it to ... my husband.