Eternal Sky 01(103)

The witch smiled, too, showing sunken gums. “When it comes time, remember to seek the dragon. In the early part of your journey, you will meet a warrior woman, with tens of chariots and tens of consorts. Ask after her ancestors; it may help you find something you need to know. And watch for the black birds. The eaters of carrion are your allies, you who will feed them so well in time to come.”

Temur frowned at her. But he was obviously wise to the ways of soothsayers, because he said nothing.

The witch gestured to Brother Hsiung. He leaned forward on his elbows, listening. “You,” she said. “Your path lies west as well.”

He nodded. Samarkar wondered, as the monk sat back, what questions he harbored and would not ask. Samarkar rubbed absently at the palm of her right hand, where a dull ache still sometimes lingered. She was healing, but healing took time. At least it took her mind off the itching in her arrow-shot arm.

But the witch had already turned to Hrahima. The Cho-tse looked … defensive. Arms crossed over her chest, whiskers slicked back.

Steadily, the witch regarded her.

“You are a tangle,” she said. “But I suppose you know that. So many threads lead in, and none out.”

“I do not subscribe,” Hrahima said, “to this ideal of destiny.”

“I had gathered,” the witch said, a dry mockery of Temur’s earlier tone, which made Samarkar bite her lip to keep the smirk in.

That was the end of it, it seemed, because Nilufer stood and moved away from the table, obliging everyone else to follow. Samarkar was surprised when the witch caught her at the end of the line and pulled her arm to bend her down so she could speak in her ear. “She may not survive the childbirth,” the witch whispered. “She is young and small. And I cannot see her future, one way or the other.”

Samarkar swallowed. She’d harbored that fear all along. “If I send Temur on ahead with Hrahima—”

The witch huffed. “You are new to your skill. I have brought more babies into this world than you have years. What can you do for her that I cannot? Your place is in the war, Wizard.”

Samarkar stared at her, then pulled away. But in her ears she heard Hrahima’s voice—I do not subscribe to this ideal of destiny—and wondered.

* * *



The beds here were very high, stuffed with straw and feathers and dressed with layers of bedclothes and hung about with tapestries to keep the draft off. Climbing the steps to the bed he’d been given to sleep in, Temur thought how like it was to a frame for a sky-burial. If he were being left for the vultures, though, no one would have given him such soft blankets.

He lay his head on a pillow that must have been filled with wool or down. Under the pressure of his head, it breathed forth a delicate scent of mint. What would it be like, he wondered, to sleep in this softness each night, to awaken to the silhouettes of the mountains against the dawn?

They hemmed him. Through the wide windows of the white tower in which he slept, he could see how their bulks shadowed the bright night sky. He could see how the snowy mountains gathered starlight, how it glimmered blue, flattened distance and made each facet of the peaks seem like a small close thing he could reach out and brush with his hand.

In the softness, he could not sleep. Despite the exhaustion of travel, despite a bellyful of Nilufer’s peculiar food, despite being scrubbed clean in an entire tub of hot water, his thoughts refused to silence themselves. His heart hummed with worry and questions, and they were enough to keep the ache of weariness that weighed his limbs from pulling him into slumber.

And so he lay and watched the stars cross the sky, measuring their stately progress against the window frame. He imagined his death and what it would be like to lie motionless and watch the stars wheel over him as he lay naked on a cold frame.

It would be easier than this, he imagined.

It was with almost a sense of relief that he saw the shadow rise above the window frame and lean in. One leg, dark clad, crept across the threshold. The intruder was only a silhouette, but Temur saw him plainly until he dropped below the level of the sill and was hidden by the edge of the ridiculous bed.

He made no sound, but Temur knew he was creeping closer. And Temur’s knife was with his kit, on the chest at the foot of the bed.

Once he moved, Temur knew the fight would be on. And perhaps death might be easier, but he found he was not ready to lie down just yet.

He gathered himself and rolled into a crouch, moving before he entirely had his balance under him. The soft bed shifted, ropes supporting the mattress creaking. The featherbed grabbed at his ankles. But he managed to jump, lunging toward the foot of the bed, and clawed the things heaped atop the chest into a clattering pile on the floor.