These shaman healers had their souls washed by the Eternal Blue Sky. Who was I to try where they had failed?
"My lord —," I started.
"Please." The khan rubbed his eyes so I couldn't see his face, but I could hear how his voice was worn to crumbling. "Batu is my friend, but he's also my chief of war. Khasar is on the move, set to tear out the throat of my army, and I can't lose anyone else. Please help him, Dashti."
Right then, I would've scaled the forbidden heights of the Sacred Mountain for him, but I didn't know how to do what he asked.
The healing songs help things be as they are at first, as they want to be again. I wondered, could I sing to the man's very soul? Help it return to his breast and sleep peacefully again? If there's a song for souls, my mama never taught it.
I wanted to run away, I felt so useless and ashamed! But I couldn't. Khan Tegus had given me a pine bough and My Lord the cat, he let me sing the pain out of him, he remembered my name. I had to try.
I took Batu's hand, closed my eyes so my whole world was touch and sound, said a silent prayer to Evela, goddess of sunlight and songs, and began to sing. I didn't know what song would come out of my mouth until I heard it.
"Little bird, little bird, that twits and flits and flies. Little bird, little bird, unfold your feathered skies."
It's not a healing song, it's a play song, one the mucker children sing in the spring, racing in a circle, leaping over stones. I almost laughed to hear myself sing it. I don't know why that song felt right. Maybe because it makes such a happy noise; the tune likes to skip on my tongue and tickle my throat.
The shaman glared at me through the tassels on her hat, as though saying, That'd not a reverent dong for the dying! I glared back, as though saying, The whole point is to stop the dying! I think Khan Tegus must've noticed the abundance of glares, for after a minute he dismissed the shaman from the room. We were alone now. I kept singing.
Sing to his soul, I told myself. So I sang more happy songs, things to remind him of how rich is living, how blue is the Eternal Sky, how good roasted meat tastes with a sprinkling of salt, how the steppes fill with thousands of yellow heartsong flowers after the frost breaks. When I began the lighthearted song that goes, "Bread on the stones, Mama, and how the belly groans," her khan joined in, knowing that one from his own childhood, I guess. Beneath my own voice, his felt like a horsehair blanket, rough and warm.
After a time, I let her khan sing that one alone, while I wove in "the earth breathes, the earth sings, its soul moves in the rivers," and other healing songs for sickness and injury.
Batu's breathing slowed, his voice mumbled sleepily in his throat, and if I were smart enough to know such things, I'd say his soul slipped back inside, curled up like a cat in his chest, and purred to be home.
By then, her khan was sitting on the floor beside me. He leaned his back against the couch, stretching his legs out before him. I leaned back, too. We both knew Batu was better. We didn't have to say it.
"You may return to your room, if you wish," he said.
I shrugged. "I won't sleep any more tonight."
"Neither will I." He watched the flames in the hearth. "It's a wondrous gift you have. I can't help wonder how muckers know songs that shamans have never heard."
I sighed before I talked, just because it felt right. "The people of stone walls, the ones who live in cities, they have healers to call and shamans to bless them. But the people of the felt walls, alone with the wind and grass, would die if Evela, goddess of sunlight, hadn't taken pity on us. She gave muckers the healing songs to help us keep living beneath her sunshine. Or so my mama said. And I believe her. You'd be a fool to doubt her. The grasses themselves bowed down before her foot touched them."
He chuckled, and when I asked him why, he said he'd had such a mother, too. She'd gone to the Ancestors' Realm seven years ago, but was such a powerful presence he still thinks to check that his sash is tied straight each morning so she won't scold him.
"And she named you Tegus," I muttered.
"What was that?"
"I was just thinking," I said, "how you can tell something about a woman by what she names her children. Tegus means perfect in the naming language."
He made a face. "I haven't always relished that name. My cousins gave me much grief about it growing up."
"I think it's lovely. I mean . . . " I returned my gaze to the fire, because it was easier to talk to him that way. "What I mean to say is, it's lovely to think of your mother holding her first baby, and looking at your fingers and toes, your eyes, your lips, and saying, 'Perfect. He's perfect. My Tegus.'"
"I can imagine her saying those very words." He was quiet a moment. "Dashti. That means 'one who is good luck,' doesn't it?"
"Another name that caused teasing. It's not an easy thing to wear a mark of bad luck on my face and have a name that means good luck. The story goes that a clan sister helped with my birth, and when she save me, she told my mother, 'She should be called Alagh,' meaning mottled, you know. My father save me and said, 'You must call her Alagh so all know she is destined for bad luck.' So my mama said, 'Her name is Dashti.'"
He raised his bowl of milk tea. "Let's drink to stubborn mothers."
He took a long sip, then offered the bowl to me. The same that he had drunk from. He shared a drink with me, gentry with commoner. I took it with both my hands to show my reverence, and when I drank, the warmth seemed to fill not just my belly, but my entire body down to my toes.
We kept watching the fire and talking about mothers and other things. I tried to keep in mind his status, but I was drowsy, and the sight of a fire sings its own kind of healing song, one that seems to say, "Easy, slow and easy, all is well." It reminded me of his third visit to the tower, when he sat on the ground and leaned against the wall, and I leaned on the other side, and we just talked. And the Ancestors let us.
He looked at my feet and said suddenly, "You're not wearing shoes."
I wiggled my toes. "I guess I'm not. But at least my sash is tied straight."
"Hmph, no comparison. What would your right good mucker mother say to that, walking around in bare feet?"
I had a joke on my lips about skinny ankles and had to choke it back. So near I came to revealing myself!
"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting up at my silence. "Are you hungry? Should I send for something?"
"No, strangely. Usually I could eat a plate of anything and be ready for another, but right now I don't want to eat." And I didn't. But mostly I didn't want him to get up and call for someone who might stay. Food wasn't worth losing our bit of peace.
He mumbled agreement and relaxed again, his back against the couch. Our shoulders almost touched. The heat between us mingled.
"May I ask you something, honored khan?"
"If you call me Tegus," he said. "You helped save Batu. You earned the right to say my name."
"Tegus," I said, and the name in my mouth tasted wonderful, so in my heart I quickly asked forgiveness from Nibus, god of order. "A few weeks ago, when I sang to your deep pain, what was it? What old hurt were you carrying?"
"Nothing I didn't deserve." His eyelids half closed and I thought he wouldn't answer, and rightly he shouldn't have — it was an impertinent question. But soon he went on. "I was in love with a lady once. I thought I didn't have the power to save her, so I didn't even try. And she came to harm because of my reluctance, my stupidity."
I didn't argue with him about the stupidity part, Ancestors forgive me. I did wonder, Why didn't you come back for us? Back for her? But I didn't dare ask her khan that, and I couldn't ask Tegus. The song of the fire's snaps seemed a bit sadder now, as though it realized it was dying and was sorry to go.
Behind us, Batu stirred in his sleep, and at the same time Tegus and I both placed a hand on the war chief's arm. Tegus smiled at me when he save that my instinct to comfort had been the same as his, and he didn't withdraw. The moment made me imagine how her khan will be as a father, how he'll sit
up at night and hold his wife's hand and talk to her as she rocks the baby to sleep.
Saren could only be happy with such a man.
He said he was in love with her. I am her maid. I must do what I can.
Day 115
Today I managed to get my half day free during Saren's time off. We walked through the streets where folk who escaped from Titor's Garden and Goda's Second Gift pitch tents and sleep on doorsteps. Saren kept her arm in mine, leaning as if she needed the support, all that air and sky making her feel unsteady.
"I've spent some time with your khan, my lady, and I know he's a good man. He's safe." It was hard not to laugh outright as I added, "He's not plotting to kill you with arrows and knives."
She frowned but didn't argue, so I went on.
"I'm going to say something that you may not want to hear —being in the tower did you harm, made you believe things that just aren't real. I'm sorry it's so, but it's true."
"I know," she said, really quiet, but she still said it.
"So you need to trust me, my lady, when I tell you that Khan Tegus is safe. He'll take care of you. He was very much in love with you, and still is, despite his engagement. Though it's been years, my lady, he remembers you with sighs."
"He does?" She breathed in as she asked it.
"Oh yes. He still remembers the words of your letters, and I think he holds the image of your face in his heart."
She seemed confused, or maybe she was just thinking. With my lady, both attitudes appear the same. But she wasn't arguing, which was more than I'd hoped for.
"He's engaged," I admitted, "and that's another matter. But if he still loves you, and he promised himself to you first, then Lady Vachir can have nothing to say. There is a risk, but how can we keep living in his very house and not let him know?"
She stopped walking. Her face was fully in the sun, and I noticed how pale she was, how little she must leave the kitchens, how she's still bricked up in the tower. Her eyes spoke it most of all — dull, never looking far ahead.
"But . . . but he didn't come back."
I had no answer for that. "I don't know why, but I do know his heart was broken, and you have the power to heal him. How can you not?"
"I can't just go to him, claiming to be Lady Saren."
"But you are Lady Saren."
She looked at her hands. The wash water had done its damage — fingertips splitting, palms callused and bruised, skin mottled red almost as dark as my own birthmarks. Didn't I once take an oath to keep her hands beautiful? My heart turned, and if we hadn't been standing in the street, I would've knelt before her and begged forgiveness. Instead, I took her worn hands and kissed each one.
"How I've failed you, my lady. I will help you. I'll do whatever you ask to set you back in your place again."
She wrinkled her brow, thinking hard for a few moments, then said, "Pretend to be me, Dashti. Say you're me. Find out what he'd do, how he'd react, and if it's favorable, then I'll tell all."
"My lady, it was one thing in the tower when he couldn't see my face — "
"He won't know me by sight."
"It's been years, I know, but still . . . " My face. My blotchy face and arm, my dull hair, my solid mucker body, my everything that isn't like my lady.
"You swore an oath," she said.
And so I had. Oath breakers will find no haven in the Ancestors' Realm where my mama waits. And besides, it's not fair to ask my lady to risk her life against Lady Vachir's wrath. I am her maid. It should be my duty to keep her from harm and face it myself. But to pretend to be Lady Saren again, and this time not hidden in a dark tower but out under the Eternal Blue Sky. . . .
My stomach's icy cold, and I don't feel like writing anymore. I'll sketch instead.
Day 119
I wasted three days worrying, praying for the lie I hadn't yet made, and imagining Tegus's face when I spoke the false words "I'm Lady Saren." Three days wasted, and my lady remains a scrubber indefinitely, because now her khan is gone.
His warriors marched today, sudden, like when the wind shifts from west to south. They left as soon as word came from Beloved of Ris —Khasar's armies are advancing on that realm.
Everyone thought Khasar would attack Song for Evela next because he proclaimed he'd have Tegus's title of khan for himself. It seems he isn't coming for it yet, instead striking at the weaker realm first.
We may not hear news for days and weeks. I feel set to cry and kick and curse.
There's not as much scribe work now while the khan is absent, so I volunteered to go back to the kitchens. I don't mind leaving my little room so much. Privacy begins to feel somewhat like loneliness.
Day 122
No news of her khan. It's getting cold at night. I wonder if he has enough blankets.
Day 125
Still no news. I feel dog-crazy, as if I'd like to bite someone. This kitchen smells.
Day 126
Mama would scold me. All I seem to do is mope, mope, mope. No one has enough news for me. Osol set to winking at me again, but I'm all worry with no space left to sigh for a cutter boy. I wash rags as if I held Lord Khasar's neck in my hands. I scrub pots as though the faster they're clean the sooner the war will be done. Cook declared at the rate I was going I'd soon have her position. Then she laughed. Scrubber is the lowest position in the kitchens, of course.
"I'm a scribe," I said.
She laughed again.
And while I mope, my lady scowls.
"You swore an oath," she whispered at me while we scrubbed. "And then you didn't do it."
I washed my next pot a little harder.
Day 127
I can't believe . . . the news is too big to write, I can't make my letters large enough to contain what I have to say. But I must say it somehow.
He's alive! He's here, he's strong and pretty as ever he was, and purring like to shake the house down.
My Lord the cat, my beautiful cat.
He must've escaped the wolf, must've scratched that demon's eyes and run straight home. In the way he used to know when it was morning though the tower was all darkness, he must've known how to find the land of her khan again. Cats are wise like that. They have a shaman's eyes.
Today was my half day free, and I went to visit Mucker in the stable, only he was out pulling a cart. So I just wandered, because the sun was pleasant and round above me and made my shadow look strong and straight. I was thinking how you can't tell if a person's beautiful or not by her shadow when I save a gray tail disappear into the dairy.
He was gone so quickly I couldn't be sure, so I ran after him, slipped on some spilled milk, and slid under the dairyman's legs. He hollered at me and before he could kick me out, I blurted, "Excuse me, but my cat came in here."
My Lord the cat leaped up on a stall, balancing above our heads.
"And how am I to know that he's yours?" the dairyman asked.
Khan Tegus gave him to me, I wanted to say, but of course I couldn't. If I'd thought of a good lie, I would've spoken it just then and let the Ancestors strike me dumb, so desperately I wanted to hold My Lord again.
I'd started to stutter something when My Lord leaped down onto my shoulder and wrapped his tail around my neck, just as he used to do in the tower. The dairyman laughed.
"Looks like he's yours, right enough. Get him out of here, then."
He remembers me. Don't these letters I'm writing fairly dance off the page? He's alive, and he remembers me!
These past days, it seemed I could scarcely draw breath for feeling so gray, and then today . . . well, the change makes me think about the sky over the steppes, cloudy one moment and Eternal Blue Sky the next. There's never a day that we don't see some blue sky. That's the way with a mucker's emotions, too. My mama used to say, "Are you sad? Then just wait a minute."
Day 128
My Lord the cat slept beside me last night. I didn't wake up once.
Day 129
All the girls are utterly smitten with My Lord, o
f course. He sits on my shoulders, and they gather around and coo. Qacha can't help petting him whenever she passes by, even when her hands are sudsy. A wet coat puts My Lord in grumpy spirits, but he never shirks the attention. Cook complained about him at first, but soon she was saying things like, "That cat's prettier than a man," and "I'd eat my own toenails before I'd cook that one up."
Day 131
I love My Lord the cat! I love him, I love him. He sleeps again in the curve of my belly, he purrs when I wake in the night for wondering about the war and her khan and the lie I must tell. His rumbling song soothes me back to sleep. He is even better than windows.
Day 133
Last night as I lay down by the kitchen hearth, My Lord loped in from somewhere and took his place against my side. Snores already surrounded us. As I settled in, I noticed that my lady was awake, watching me. Watching us.
She whispered, "Why is he your cat? Didn't Khan Tegus give him to me?"
"Well, he gave him to me — "
"After you told him you were Lady Saren."
I didn't answer. My heart felt like a furnace spitting fire.
"I think he should be mine." She reached out and grabbed him from my arms and pulled him to her own side. He writhed free and came back. Again she grabbed him, and this time in the struggle he clawed her arm and made an angry "raver!" that provoked Gal to snort in her sleep.
"I'm sorry, my lady," I said, though I wasn't. I liked very much that My Lord preferred me. I rather felt like clawing her myself.
I hadn't even realized until that moment how over these past weeks, I'd begun to bubble with dark things, and my heart was boiled hard like tough mutton. I don't think I've ever truly hated a thing in my life like I hated Saren then. Hated everything about her—the whine her voice took as though she thought herself a child of six, her perfect face and shiny black hair, her honored father, her smell, her shaking hands when she stood under the sky. Her cowardice, her slowness. Her everything. I hated her.
I curled back up with My Lord alongside my body and pretended to be asleep. After a time, I heard sniffling. There's nothing more aggravating in the world than the midnight sniffling of the person you've decided to hate.