Eternal Sky 01(72)
“Especially when, based on the evidence of Qeshqer and Temur’s experiences, we can only speculate that al-Sepehr has managed to reconstruct al-Rachīd’s techniques for enslaving ghosts. If Temur-tsa’s dream indeed proves prophetic, it suggests metaphorically that you may face an old enemy clad in new skin.”
“Or literally,” Samarkar said reluctantly.
Temur held very still, and she avoided looking at him.
Hong-la favored her with an encouraging grimace that smoothed away again in an instant. “Indeed,” he said. “Still, it’s early days to speculate on that. And it does not precisely answer your friend’s question.”
“What does answer the question?” Temur asked, leaning forward. Samarkar could see hope and fear at war in his face, but she did not pity him. Instead, she felt a strong new respect for his focus and determination.
“Well, if Idoj has her—which is speculation, too, because I know not what a Rahazeen warlord would want with a Qersnyk girl of no great alliances—then the thing Temur-tsa must do is find a way to get her back.”
When he paused, as if waiting for an answer—or a protest, Samarkar thought—Temur held his tongue and nodded.
Gently, Samarkar asked, “Do you have any suggestions?”
Hong-la stood, gathering his scrolls. “The first thing you’re going to need is an army.”
“An army that can fight ghosts,” Temur said. “That won’t be easy to come by.”
* * *
When Samarkar led him from Hong-la’s chambers, Temur seemed to have turned inward, chewing over what Hong-la had said—or perhaps simply chewing himself to ribbons. She thought she should respect his silence, but she also thought it would be unkind to force him to interact when he was so deep in contemplation. They climbed steps, and he leaned on the rail heavily, chest heaving so he wheezed, but he seemed insensate. Or perhaps he was stubbornly ignoring his discomfort.
Samarkar touched his shoulder lightly, so lightly he barely startled, and said, “We have a range, if you want to practice your archery.”
She watched his eyes focus, watched him decide to smile. “My bow won’t love the wet here,” he said. A moist climate could cause the laminated steppe bow to lose strength or even come apart entirely. He’d left it in his quarters, wrapped in oilskins and carefully cased. “I suppose I could borrow one?”
She nodded. As they crossed the plaza between the battlements, he stared away north—the direction of Qeshqer and the steppe. “I should leave in the morning,” he said. “This will grow no easier for the waiting.”
“This?”
“If it’s an army I must raise, well, there is only one place to do that. In my own lands, with whatever small fame and face is mine. There is no help here, and I must do whatever it takes to save Edene. If I must ride to the Teeth of Ctesifon themselves.”
He said it quietly, with a fatalism that Samarkar, accustomed to the portentous edicts of her brother, found chilling. He would, she thought. To the Teeth of Ctesifon—or to the seven gates of Hell.
“You are free to go,” she said. “Your assistance in bringing word of the fall of Qeshqer to the bstangpo will not be forgotten.”
He looked up. “Qeshqer was our city.”
She let herself smile, but only one corner of her mouth would cooperate. “But our people.”
He frowned, as if he’d never considered it quite that way before. He touched his lips, as if about to say something, and turned away. Samarkar stood rooted, wondering if she should let him walk off or follow.…
The shadow that fell over her came unheralded by any footsteps, and only the training of a once-princess kept her from flinching and crying out in surprise. It was Hrahima, of course, her black stripes glossy in the sun, her pale belly lustrous with grooming. Temur turned, his hand going to the hilt of his knife, and relaxed again when he saw who had come up on them. He stepped sideways, getting the sun to his back when he looked up at Hrahima, and Samarkar too stepped out of her shadow.
“You could try to make more noise,” Samarkar said with a smile. “You might be greeted with less screaming.”
Framed against a blue sky and snapping banners, the Cho-tse smoothed her whiskers back. “I have an audience with the bstangpo this afternoon. Perhaps you would come with me, Samarkar-la? To lend authority to my words?” She looked beyond Samarkar, to Temur, and spread her great hands. “And you, Temur? You have knowledge perhaps the monkey-king should hear as well.”
Samarkar looked at Temur. He seemed to hesitate; she imagined he had spent much of his life effacing himself, in ways that reminded her of her younger brother Tsansong.