“You’re sure?” she asked, aware it was stupid, but needing reassurance in her horror.
I have read, Hsiung wrote, the writings of the Joy-of-Vultures. I am certain.
It was the Song name for the Carrion-King, the one the Uthmans and Qersnyk called the Sorcerer-Prince. Samarkar fearfully swallowed saliva and leaned forward to see what else he wrote.
They had heard, too, that a great bird, large as an Indrik-zver, hunts the plains.
“A terror bird?” They were not unheard of, deadly, flightless things whose shoulders stood as high as a man, which could stalk human children as a hen stalked grubs.
No. One that flew. He laid the brush down beside the block of ink and spread his hands, illustrating a vast wingspread.
Samarkar stepped back. She glanced at Hrahima and saw the Cho-tse’s ears laid flat. “Rukh,” Hrahima said.
Beside her, Payma hugged her arms to herself. “A what?”
“A kind of western devil-bird,” Samarkar said. “Supposedly, it can carry off an elephant. To feed its young.”
“It can,” Hrahima said.
Samarkar almost asked, but this didn’t seem the time for a digression. She looked back at Brother Hsiung. He had picked up his brush again and appeared to be waiting.
Nilufer asked. “So, what is an Uthman monster doing on the steppe?”
Samarkar had to wet her lips before she spoke. “It’s said they can be tamed,” she offered. “And used in war. If you can find one.”
Temur’s chest rose and fell once or twice, as if he fought to control his breath. His hands were clasped. Samarkar wondered if it was to control the shaking. She’d pulled her own into the sleeves of her coat, as if she felt a draft, though the room was warm. The witch rattled beads, and when Samarkar looked up, she saw that the old woman had cast them across the table and was studying the way they fell.
She grunted. When she stood, everyone in the room turned to her, and Brother Hsiung started up. She ignored them all, though, stumping to the doorway with her mossy cloak sweeping the floor by her ankles, shedding raveled threads.
She must have found a servant when she opened the door and leaned out, because Samarkar heard her ask for tea in tones of surprising normalcy.
It was curious to watch, everyone else standing around the room artlessly, twisting their hands, waiting for some instruction or direction. The old woman settled herself again and set about sweeping together the beads she’d cast.
“What do you see?” said Nilufer.
The witch looked up. “I see red,” she said. “Come and sit. All of you.”
Peremptorily, she waved Brother Hsiung back to his place. He folded himself up and set his hands on his knees, assuming an attitude of waiting.
Samarkar sat beside him. Three beads remained before her place—crazed glass, moonstone, and a nugget of copper. She brushed them lightly with a fingertip and felt a tingle.
“Give those here,” the witch said.
Samarkar obeyed, and around the table the others helped sweep together bright jackdaw baubles and pass them to the witch. By the time the tea arrived, the surface was clear.
Samarkar watched carefully, unsure of the etiquette. The servant placed the tray before the witch, and the witch poured tea into tall-sided bowls and passed them around. Samarkar took hers from Brother Hsiung after first passing one to her right, to Payma. The thick clay was ridged where fingers had shaped it, glazed softly in browns and grays. She realized her hands were aching only as the heat eased them.
“Drink your tea,” the witch said. She demonstrated, downing the steaming fluid almost to the dregs. She swirled those in the cup, then quickly inverted it.
Nilufer did the same, and so Samarkar and the others copied her, some with more grace and some with less. The witch gestured for the upturned cups, and all were returned to her.
One by one, she righted them, and studied what lay inside.
She looked at Payma first. “It is a girl,” she told the woman. “And healthy. You will stay here, of course.”
“Of course,” Nilufer echoed, with a raised eyebrow that Samarkar interpreted easily: Am I not mistress in my own house?
The old did what they would.
Payma looked down, nodding. “Thank you,” she said.
The witch frowned at Samarkar. “You will need all your strength, Once-Princess and Wizard,” she said. “It is upon you that the outcome rests.”
“What outcome?” she asked, unable to stop herself.
“The outcome of the war.” The witch looked at Temur. “You cannot be Khan without a sworn band. You will not find them in the west, but it is to the west you must go. You are hunted.”
“I had gathered,” Temur said. He softened it with a smile.