Silver Snow let out a laugh of relief.
“Think you so, daughter}'1'' Strong Tongue snapped at her. “My son may be no runner, but he is an archer unmatched among the Hsiung-nu.”
Indeed, Tadiqan had strung his bow, was reaching for an arrow; and Silver Snow remembered. Tadiqan had in his quiver some wondrous arrows that shrieked and whistled as they flew. That sound was the command for all of his men to draw and shoot at their master’s target. Should he aim at Vughturoi or his horse, the younger prince was doomed.
“Get down!” Silver Snow’s control broke, and she screamed that. Now it was Strong Tongue’s turn to laugh scornfully, then fall silent as she watched.
A whistle broke that silence, and Silver Snow pressed one hand to her mouth. With the other, she edged her dagger free of its sheath. A cheer rose from Vughturoi’s friends in the camp as their prince made his horse curvet sharply, missing the deadly flight of arrows that followed his half-brother’s shot. That dodge was a fortunate one, Silver Snow thought. How could he continue to evade arrows as swift and as le-thally aimed? He could not, especially not at the pace that he was traveling. He must either dismount or hide; and then Tadiqan would reach the tents first.
Strong Tongue muttered something, and beat a new rhythm on her deadly little drum. The Hsiung-nu gasped in horror and fear, and Silver Snow followed their appalled gazes. A wall of flame, the fear of every grasslander, had sprung up between the camp and Prince Vughturoi. It danced and crackled; about it, the air seemed to be thicker, curdled from the heat of the blaze.
Vughturoi’s horse screamed and reared, panicked, as were all of its kind, by its nearness to fire.
“That fire will burn out of control, sweep across the plains, and wipe out the herds. Even the few beasts that will survive will starve,” Silver Snow shouted at Strong Tongue. “How can you doom the very people whom you want your son to rule?”
Strong Tongue turned to sneer at Silver Snow without ceasing the deadly, insistent rhythm of drumbeats. “Fool,” she said. “That is not real fire, nor will it burn out of my control. It will cease when a living creature touches it. Of course,” she added, “that creature will speedily cease to walk among the living; but we cannot be greedy, now, can we?”
Whatever creature touched that blaze would douse it, and Vughturoi rode in the lead. He would touch the flame and die! Silver Snow lifted up her long skirts and prepared to run down the slope toward the fire, but a fox with glossy fur and a slight limp ran between her and her chosen path, then took that path itself.
Willow, get back! At least Silver Snow preserved enough judgment not to shriek that, though, at the time, she thought that a shriek of rage and despair would assuage her better than a silver cup of icy water at high noon.
A deep, man’s voice echoed that cry: Basich, from his precarious seat on horseback. Even as he saw his lord gallop closer and closer to what appeared to be a wall of true fire, he flogged his horse into one last burst of energy that outstripped that of Prince Vughturoi’s flagging mount and cut across his path. Rather than ride him down, the prince swerved, and Basich drove his horse ever closer and closer toward the wall of fire.
His horse screamed and fought him as they neared the flame. Surely he would not ride the poor beast into the flames, Silver Snow hoped. At the last moment, when it looked as if man and beast would be consumed in the high wall of flames, Basich flung himself from his horse’s back into the fire.
He had time to scream once. The fire rose, then burnt down to nothing, leaving not even a path of charred grass to show where it had passed. His horse ran free, in a wide, wild circle across the plain.
Forsaking the stoic silence that was Hsiung-nu custom, Sable let out a wail of grief. Her knees buckled, and she fell.
“Quick, take her away!” commanded Silver Snow and was obeyed quickly, as queens are obeyed. There would be no marriage arranged now between Willow and Basich; no man to provide for a widowed sister’s children; and a warrior’s children left orphaned. I shall take them under my protection, thought Silver Snow, and knew that thought for one of hope.
In the next instant, she shuddered. What if, even now, Tadiqan shot one of those deadly, screaming arrows of his and struck his younger brother in the back? A shriek of greeting, almost indistinguishable from terror, rose, and Vughturoi’s own guard rode into sight, chasing after the master who had so far outstripped them. Let Tadiqan fire now, and, if he lived, he would rule only over a clan stripped of its warriors.
» He cast his bow down and trudged, head lowered, toward the tents. Twice he almost fell as beasts erupted from hiding in the tall grass to nip at his legs, then flee before he could kick at them or draw weapon.
Up the incline on which the shan-yu 's great tent was pitched rode Vughturoi. At the sight of him, Silver Snow’s knees threatened to go unstrung, as had poor Sable’s, but she forced herself to keep her head high, though her long hair tumbled down her back and had not been combed for a day and a night.
She turned and walked back to her place beside the dead shan-yu. Let Vughturoi find her at his father’s side, as was fitting: Khujanga had been a great ruler and should not be left to lie unaccompanied. Her lips and hands were shaking, and her breath came too fast. She told herself that what she felt was gratitude at her delivery, either from death at her own hand or from degradation at Tadiqan’s more lustful ones.
A murmur of greeting, rather than the usual exuberance of the Hsiung-nu, and the thunder of hundreds of hoofbeats and footsteps heralded Vughturoi’s approach. Covered with dust and travel stains, he walked toward his father’s body, drew his knife, and slashed his cheeks in Hsiung-nu grief. Then he prostrated himself before Khujanga one last time.
When he rose, tears had partially washed away the blood that he had shed. Silver Snow had not known that Hsiung-nu could weep. His wearied eyes met Silver Snow’s briefly and seemed to warm at the sight of her. Immediately she flushed, then went cold. Once again the rugs and hangings seemed to melt into one another, a too-bright, almost-sickening blur of gaudy hues. She flung out a hand to save herself from falling.
“Tend to your lady,” Vughturoi commanded, and Silver Snow felt herself enfolded in a familiar, affectionate embrace: Willow! The maid helped her to rise, and steadied her. Silver Snow wanted only to sleep now, then, perhaps, to wash before she faced what she knew she must now see. Yet clamor outside the tent made her steel herself for what would come next.
“My brother, that laggard, has arrived,” Prince Vughturoi, now the shan-yu , observed. “Let him and his mother approach.”
He turned toward the shan-yu's throne and saw the skull cup resting atop it. “Someone take that thing away and house it safely!” he commanded, and sat down in the seat that was now rightfully his.
When two of his guard hesitated, clearly afraid of what mischief Strong Tongue and her son might yet work, Vughturoi clapped his hands. “Bring them before us!” For the first time he spoke as befitted a ruler, and his warriors hastened to force a path down which Strong Tongue and her son could walk until they faced him.
“Well?” demanded Vughturoi.
Tadiqan flung up his chin, clearly prepared to fight to the death his younger brother’s claim upon his father’s power, until Strong Tongue held up a hand.
“What is it you would have?” she spoke with her old authority as shaman.