Eternal Sky 01(15)

Edene’s rose-gray was one of the best sprinters Temur had seen.

But Bansh, he began to realize, was an immortal.

At two yart—Temur estimated—the mares ran neck and neck. At two yart and forty ayl, their black-and-pink noses bobbed side-by side.

Another forty ayl, and the rose-gray folded. She broke stride, snorted, tossed her head. Gamely, she surged forward again, but Temur saw her rally only because he glanced back through his armpit to see her. To see her fighting the reins as Edene restrained her gently, turning her in a broad circle so she dropped into a canter, then a snorting, blowing trot, kicking out at tussocks and still protesting her rider’s counsel.

Temur settled his weight back, and Bansh too dropped into a canter. He brought her around, aware of the spring in her gait, the lightness of her motion. Having beaten the rose-gray, she was willing to stop. But she wanted him to know she wasn’t finished yet, if he still cared to run.

He stroked a hand down the sweaty length of her neck, brushing away the lather where it had collected beneath the reins. He shook her sweat from his fingers and wiped his palm on his trousers as Bansh brought him up beside the now-walking rose-gray.

“Is she all right?”

Edene nodded. Her face glowed with the wind and excitement, almost as bright as the iridescent shimmer of her mare. “Buldshak is of the line of the varnish-colored mare Temurbataar. She does not get beaten. What a horse that is! What is her line?”

“I don’t know,” Temur said, smoothing down her mane once more. “She found me on the battlefield. I don’t know her line.”

Bansh reached, teeth bared ostentatiously, for Buldshak’s neck, and he leaned down to tap her cheek. She backed off, making a performance of shaking her head. “Clown,” he called her.

She snorted and danced a step.

Edene was looking at him, hands folded on the pommel, eyes half lidded. When he returned the glance, she turned away and looked down. “Temur—”

He drew a breath. He had to say this now, before she made herself embarrassed.

“Edene.”

She met his gaze, eyes wide, and swallowed her words.

“I have no clan,” he said. “I have no one to tell my name. If you want that of me—”

Her eyes widened with pity, which wasn’t what he wanted. But then she schooled herself and grinned. Her voice was strained, but she made it come out light anyway. “I don’t need to marry you,” she said. “What if we were just friends?”

* * *



Al-Sepehr reclined across cushions before the shaded windows of Ala-Din’s stoutest tower, listening to his youngest wife read aloud from a book of histories purported to have been written by the hand of the ancient Sepehr al-Rachīd himself. The door to the hall had been left slightly ajar on purpose, and another of his wives—older and white-eyed with cataracts—sat beyond, her hands occupied with her stitching.

Al-Sepehr heard her stir as someone came up, and two women’s voices speaking in low tones. He held up a hand for the youngest wife to cease reading and found his feet. A moment later, the door swung open and Saadet entered—as slender as her twin, but not so tall. Being a woman, she was not clad in the indigo sash and veil of the Nameless, and while she carried an unseemly long knife—in case she should need to use her brother’s combat training—she did not go so far as to offend the Scholar-God by handling a sword.

“Al-Sepehr,” she said, lowering herself to the floor.

“Stand,” he said, extending his hand to her. His youngest wife snapped the book shut—al-Sepehr made a note to speak to her about respect for ancient objects—and exited the room hastily, tripping over the rug edge on her way.

Saadet rose without his assistance, holding the ivory silk of her veil across her nose and mouth with one hand. “My brother has reached Qori Buqa,” she said. “He has with him a dozen mercenaries dressed in indigo, and Qori Buqa has made him welcome. He says to tell you that he will be among the pagan dead tomorrow.”

“That is good,” al-Sepehr said. “You may go, and tell Shahruz to contact me directly when he has reached the battlefield.”

She bowed again, though this time not so floor-scrapingly, and retreated through the door. “Close it,” al-Sepehr said.

She pulled it silently to behind her, before either of his wives could reenter the room. Al-Sepehr stood for a moment and watched the empty space before he allowed a frown to crease the corners of his mouth.

His chambers were simple for a man who claimed the title al-Sepehr. A bed, the cushions, a low couch or two. The shelves that held boxes, and books, and small trinkets—but not too many. He thought better if he kept his space and his head free of clutter.