If I gave up, I would see her again. See her face alight with joy, hear the lilt in her voice as she called me by the old, familiar endearment in my birth-tongue, a tongue I’d not heard spoken since I left.
I’ve missed you so much, Moirin mine.
Just the thought of it brought tears to my eyes-and yet my diadh-anam flared in violent alarm.
Far, far to the south, its missing half flickered feebly.
I couldn’t give up. As appealing I might find the notion in a moment of weakness, I couldn’t. I couldn’t turn away from the call of my diadh-anam. I couldn’t leave Bao to suffer and die at the hands of this bedamned Falconer fellow and his Spider Queen.
So I gave myself a moment to wallow in self-pity; then I wiped my eyes and summoned my resolve.
Emerging from my reverie, I realized there was a Tatar boy some twelve years old staring at me with disturbing intensity, his dark eyes scrutinizing every detail of my person. When I returned his gaze, he turned around and raced away, dashing through the corridors of tents.
That didn’t bode well.
My thoughts were a jumbled mess. I glanced around, spotting the nearest encampment of Ch’in traders, wondering if it would be wiser to flee, or to ask them to grant me sanctuary based on the Imperial medallion. Technically, I was still in Tatar territory, but this was land that had been often disputed and currently existed in a state of uneasy truce for the purposes of trade.
If I fled…
I could summon the twilight and conceal my camp, but for how long? And how would I ever cross the desert if I did?
Torn between bad options, I hesitated too long. Quicker than I thought possible, the boy returned, tugging a much older Tatar man by the hand. Sighing inwardly, I unslung my bow and nocked an arrow. “If you mean to betray me to the Great Khan, I am warning you, I will go fighting!” I said in a fierce voice.
Both the boy and the old man raised their empty hands in a peaceable gesture, shaking their heads hard. The old man clicked his tongue and made the “Ha, ha,” sound the Tatars used to soothe animals.
“No, no, no!” the boy said. “You don’t understand!”
I lowered the bow a fraction. “What do you want?”
The old man peered at me, his eyes rheumy. “I do not see colors so well anymore, but my grandson says you have green eyes, as green as grass, and a blue-green jade bangle around your wrist. Some months ago, we escorted a rather desperate young man across the desert. He was looking for a young woman of your description.”
My heart gave a leap. “Oh?”
They nodded. “He described her to every trader we passed,” the boy said. “No one had seen her. But it sounded just like you. Was it? Are you looking for him?”
“Why do you want to know?” I asked.
The elderly Tatar rubbed his hands together. “He paid very well for a swift passage, the swiftest we could manage. Instead of coin, he paid with a tonic made from a dried root worth more than gold or gems. I was able to sell it at great profit, after I tried it myself to see how potent it was.” A gleeful grin split his wrinkled face. “My wife was very surprised!”
I couldn’t help but smile a little in response. “I believe it.”
“Do you have more?” he asked hopefully.
I shook my head. “No. But I do have coin, and I am seeking passage across the desert, the swifter the better.”
“Eh.” He looked disappointed.
The boy tugged at his sleeve. “It’s for Bao, grandfather!” There was a clear note of hero-worship in his voice. “We have to help her. She’s Bao’s Moirin! You are, aren’t you?” he added, glancing at me.
“Aye,” I said ruefully. “I suppose I am.”
The old man sucked his teeth. “Eh, come along, then. If you’re willing to put your bow away, I’m willing to discuss the price of passage.”
I hesitated.
“We’re not going to betray you to the Great Khan!” he said in an irritable tone. “My grandson says you wear the blue scarf of kinship, and I am offering you the hospitality of my roof. We’re desert folk; we honor the sacred laws.”
“Batu’s tribe, right?” the boy asked, his eyes gleaming. “I remember!”
“Vachir’s tribe,” I said softly. “But you’re right, I did wear a scarf given to me by Batu’s wife. It was taken away from me in Vralia.”
“Vralia!”
I nodded. “Bao was misled. The Great Khan sent us in opposite directions. And now I fear Bao is in trouble.”
The boy caught his breath. “The Falconer and the Spider Queen?”
“You know of them?” I asked.
“Everyone knows!”
The old man cuffed the boy’s head without malice. “Everyone knows tales,” he said absentmindedly. “No one knows the truth. Well, child?” He turned his rheumy gaze on me. “Are you willing to trust my word, or do you doubt me?”
I paused a moment longer, then returned the arrow to my quiver and slung my bow over my shoulder. “No, Grandfather. I do not doubt your word.”
“Good.” He sucked his teeth again in a meditative manner, eyeing me beneath wrinkled lids. “You’re sure you’ve none of the dried root to barter with?”
“Very sure,” I said.
“Pity,” he said with regret. “I should have saved more for myself.”
FORTY-NINE
The old man’s name was Unegen, which meant fox-and he was indeed an old fox. The boy’s name was Dash, which meant good luck.
It was appropriate.
It was a piece of luck that he had spotted me, a piece of luck that he recognized me from Bao’s oft-repeated description. A piece of luck that he had developed a boy’s hero-worshipping attachment to Bao and begged so strongly on my behalf.
The bargain we concluded wasn’t a perfect one. I didn’t have enough coin to purchase the sort of exclusive, swift escort Bao had bought with the aphrodisiac tonic of dried Camaeline snowdrop bulbs.
No, I would be travelling across the Tatar desert with a larger, slower caravan under Unegen’s supervision, a group of northern mountain-folk called the Tufani who had concluded a successful trade and were returning home laden with Ch’in silks.
Still, it would get me across the desert.
“After that, you’re on your own,” Unegen warned me. “Just like your young man. You’ll need to find someone else to get you across the Path of Heaven’s Spear.”
“Who did Bao find?” I asked.
Unegen shrugged. “Not my concern.”
So be it, I reckoned. I would deal with the next step when I came to it. For now I would cross the desert.
It was not a pleasant journey.
To spare the horses, we rode on tall camels, which also carried the bulk of the Tufani’s cargo. That part I didn’t mind once I grew accustomed to the strange, swaying gait of the camels. They weren’t the friendliest creatures I’d ever met, but I had a good rapport with animals, and mine carried me willingly enough.
But I was not a child of the desert, not by any means. I was a child of the woods and forest. So very, very little grew here, it made the grasslands of the steppe seem lush by comparison.
And it was dry, so dry.
During the day, a hot, dry wind blew endlessly, scouring the barren rock and coating everything with dust. If there is one memory that defines that harsh passage for me, it is the memory of dust. Dust in every fold of my clothing, dust in my hair, dust making my eyes gritty, the taste of dust on my tongue, gritting between my teeth.
Washing was seldom an option. There was no water to spare. The river we followed at the outset quickly vanished. From time to time, it would resurface, and when it did, it was cause for rejoicing. We would water our animals and replenish our stores, and wash the ever-present dust from our hands and faces, even though we’d be coated anew within half an hour’s time.