Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [31]
It seemed I fell somewhere in between.
I had not come to know any of the women outside Batu’s ger well, and nothing changed on our journey. When we made camp at night, the women demurred politely, refusing my assistance. We travelled lightly, subsisting on dried meat and chunks of hardened cheese aged to the point that it took forever to soften in the mouth—at least when there was nothing better.
During the day, the younger men invited me to hunt with them as we rode, shooting at the thick-furred groundhogs that had emerged from hibernation. These were cooked by virtue of slitting their bellies, removing their entrails and inserting heated stones inside the carcasses.
It was not very tasty.
I didn’t care.
We rode beneath the blue sky, and slept beneath the stars. And with every league that passed, my diadh-anam sang inside me.
I didn’t even care when I sensed Bao on the move once more. Wherever he was, he was travelling slowly and in the same direction.
“Yes,” Batu agreed when I remarked on it. “If he is with General Arslan, he is going to the gathering of tribes.”
“What happens there?” I asked, curious.
He stroked his chin. “There will be feasting and games. There will be delegates from other nations. Strategy is discussed. The Great Khan will make his wishes known to us.”
I raised my brows. “Oh?”
Batu’s shoulders moved in a faint shrug. “Do not be concerned. I do not expect there to be talk of war, Moirin. The Emperor of Ch’in’s hand has been strengthened in this last year, in part thanks to you. Of that, I will not speak at the gathering. But we have agreements with others regarding securing the overland trade routes. Vralians, perhaps even northern Bhodistani. Some will be present.”
“Oh,” I said a second time, frowning. I knew the names. Bhodistan—that was the birthplace of Sakyamuni, the Enlightened One, whose followers travelled the Path of Dharma.
Vralia…
I knew that name, too.
Berlik had fled there—Berlik the Oath-Breaker, the last great magician of the Maghuin Dhonn.
The last shape-changer.
He had met his death in the northern wilds of Vralia, hunted down by the relentless D’Angeline prince he had betrayed. In the end, Berlik had sought out his death, seeking to make atonement. He had knelt in the falling snow and bowed his head to the sword. Prince Imriel had slain him and wept at the deed. When I was ten years of age, my mother had taken me to visit the green mound in Clunderry where Berlik’s severed head was buried, a reminder of my people’s folly.
I shivered.
“Do not be afraid, Moirin,” Batu said, mistaking my unease. He leaned over in the saddle and patted my shoulder awkwardly. “I promise you, no one speaks of war this year, only treaties and strategy.”
“I am glad,” I said sincerely.
He lowered his voice. “So am I.”
Eight days into our journey, Bao stopped moving and stayed in one place.
Bao knew I was coming; he had to know. The spark that burned in me, burned in him. And at least he was not fleeing it.
That was something.
Much of the entry into the campsite is a blur in my memory. There were gers and tents erected, that I remember. There were Tatars, more than I could count—and other folk, too. Vralians in thick, woolen clothing trimmed with a great deal of fur. After so long among the Ch’in and Tatars, it came as a shock to me to see Western features, and fair skin and light eyes and hair on many of them. There were others I thought must be Bhodistani, with warm brown skin, clad in many layers of bright attire.
Bao.
I felt his presence like a drumbeat in my heart—in my heart, and on my skin. So close; ah, gods! I barely took stock of the camp, wandering like a blind woman, driven by my diadh-anam’s insistent pulse.
Batu understood. “Go,” he said gently to me. “Go, and find him.”
I went, following the call of my soul.
There were folk milling everywhere—folk, cattle, horses, and dogs. Astride Ember, I picked my way through them. Even here, people paused to stare. The Vralians in particular whispered and murmured amongst themselves. I wasn’t sure why, since