She had her reward in the next moment, as Vughturoi’s eyes lit at the sight of her, and he gestured for her to approach. He could not seat her in his own place nor rise for her; nor did she expect such immoderate attentions. Still, he saw that she sat beside him, that she was well and speedily served, and that the"messengers, both of Vughturoi’s own following and from other clans, who rode in and prostrated themselves before him paid her proper homage, too. Just as important, he insisted that the men from the other clans, when they hesitated to disclose their information before a woman of the Han, speak before her.
She sat quietly, eyes downcast in the assumption of modesty that gave her time to deliberate. So. Tadiqan’s friends among the Fu Yu had ambushed his guards and allowed him to ride free! In that case, he must be on his way back to the people whom he hoped to make his own.
Hoofbeats rose almost to a frenzy outside the tent, and a horse screamed, then grunted in exhaustion. Vughturoi’s guards leapt to watchfulness, weapons drawn, as a single rider staggered in. He was coated with yellow and black dust, and his eyes were red from sleeplessness. For the first time in her time among the Hsiung-nu, Silver Snow saw a man who looked like the picture that fear and ignorance had painted of her adopted people. Yet this man was perhaps the most trusted messenger that Vughturoi had with Basich gone.
He flung himself down, more a collapse than a prostration, before the shan-yu , and gasped out news of a column advancing westward from the Ch’in garrison.
“What of the Fu Yu?” demanded Vughturoi. His hand grasped the shaft of a spear and suddenly tensed.
Seeing that, the man went utterly still, and Silver Snow reminded herself of a story of the pale barbarians of the Hu, who dwelt so far to the west. Their ruler, it was said, would execute the bearer of bad news rather than reward him as a source of intelligence.
“It does not matter,” Vughturoi mused to those advisors who sat closest to him, “what the Yueh-chih pretender wants. Tadiqan wants this place, these tents; he will not destroy what he seeks to rule. Let us confront them all, however, with what they regard most highly.”
He gestured at a servant. “Bring in my father’s trophy, the skull of the Yueh-chih’s chieftain.” Then he turned to his warriors. “Three of you, fetch me Strong Tongue.”
Warriors as they were, fearless as they were reputed to be, the men looked uneasy. None of them wanted to confront the imprisoned shaman, the mother of a traitor-prince. Vughturoi had not gained the loyalty of his men by ignoring such signals. He nodded, paused, and, finally, looked down from his cushions at Willow where she knelt slightly behind her mistress. “The tribe’s new wise woman shall accompany you—if she will. See that Strong Tongue has what she needs to make a journey.”
So it would be exile? thought Silver Snow. Unwise, unwise, to leave the likes of Strong Tongue and her son alive; yet it made sense. Vughturoi, too, feared to slay a shaman.
Strong Tongue glowered as she walked before her guard into the great tent. She folded her arms over her broad bosom and almost contrived to make them appear to be a guard of honor for her, in her robes of hides and rare snakeskins and bits of glinting crystal. By contrast, Willow appeared to be insignificant; but in her hands lay Strong Tongue’s spirit drum. Most noticeable about Strong Tongue, however, was that a strip of hide had been tied over her mouth so that she could not use what gave her her name to curse the guards.
“Well done,” approved Vughturoi quietly. At a subtle hand gesture, Willow took up a place nearer to him than to Strong Tongue, who flicked one contemptuous gaze about the great tent.
“We shall await your son,” Vughturoi told her. “I have not forgotten, however, that he is my father’s son as well as your own. Thus, when he rides in, since his oath has proved to be worthless, he shall have two choices: death in battle or exile from the clan he has betrayed. Your choice shall be tied to his.”
Strong Tongue’s jaws worked and the veins in her temples bulged as she fought the gag.
“Restrain her!” snapped Vughturoi, and her unfortunate watchmen obeyed.
More hoofbeats and a cry from one of the outlying guards t(dd those in the great tent that a troop of Hsiung-nu approached: Tadiqan’s men (those whom he had not slain for opposing him), Vughturoi’s own guards, who had been sent to fetch him, and even a few of the Yueh-chih.
“I will meet them from horseback,” said the shan-yu. “Bid the warriors be ready.”
Painstakingly Silver Snow levered herself up. How she hated this accursed injury, which made her body a traitor to her will!
“You shall not ride, lady.” Vughturoi paused by Silver Snow and gently assisted her to her feet. “This is not a hunt that we await.” His eyes turned speculative, and Silver Snow held her breath.
“Do not send me away,” she pleaded. “What refuge for me can there be on the grasslands? I am safest with you.”
Her husband nodded and, though he was tense before what might turn into a battle, he smiled at her.
Indeed, Silver Snow thought, as she hobbled, leaning on her bow, after the men, there was no refuge for her. More than any other place, this was the death country of which Sun Tzu had written. Yet, for women, all battles were death country, not the games of land and honor that many men thought them. She hazarded a glance at Strong Tongue, who walked with vast disdain among her guards, who had but moderate success in slowing their pace to accommodate Willow. Her limp made her as out of place in that band as Silver Snow herself; but her pale, set face and flaming eyes told her mistress that Willow, for one, was done with hiding, done with meekness. Like a fox whose lair and kits had been menaced, she was enraged, and her rage was all the more lasting for its very quietness. In her hands she still bore Strong Tongue’s drum. And that too was proper; whoever had been sacrificed to craft that drum must also be a witness here.
None of the women had illusions that this would be a peaceful meeting. It was only the men who hoped. The women tried to prepare against catastrophe. Many would ride behind Silver Snow, armed with bows or the deadly lances of the Hsiung-nu. The eldest of the Hsiung-nu children would be with them.
“Wait, oh wait!” Silver Snow whispered to Sable. On an impulse that she could not explain, she snatched up the skull cup that she so hated, shrouding it in a square of silk that she pulled from her voluminous sleeve. Then she hastened to join the other women.
Sable it was who brought up Silver Snow’s horse; no warrior could be spared. She mounted with relief. On horseback, she was not lame. With a nod of satisfaction, she checked her bowstring, her supply of arrows, and the knife that she kept as a final weapon.
Slowly, without the usual fanfare of shrieks and spectacular riding, the mounted Hsiung-nu warriors assembled outside the camp and waited. Overhead, the sun climbed higher in the sky, straining toward zenith. The wind, as it blew across the drying grasses, tinged now with the colors of autumn, made the land appear to ripple. Silver Snow hoped that it would not run with blood before sundown.
“Sound the drum!” Vughturoi cried.
To Silver Snow’s shock, he spoke to Willow. Transformed in that moment from waiting woman or wisewoman to warrior, she struck the spirit drum, and the air seemed to shiver with the drumbeat. That was well, too; the man or boy whom Strong Tongue had slain should have his share of the judgment that Vughturoi hoped to make today. For the first time that Silver Snow had ever heard it, there was no evil in the drumbeat as it summoned the clan’s enemies.