“Now like many others, this land had been conquered by the Great Khagan, and the people owed him tribute.…”
She told a story, Temur realized with a smile, that he almost knew—and knew as history. In listening to it, he forgot for a little the cold fear that wanted to creep in and numb his limbs. The woman she described, who through trickery had saved her land from a bandit prince and her mother’s machinations towards rebellion, was Temur’s kin, for she had married his uncle Toghrul, and with Toghrul defended the borders of the Khaganate with great success. If his memory served him, her name was Nilufer, and unless news had missed him, she was still alive somewhere to the west in her holdfast called Stone Steading, in the foothills of the Steles, where she had reigned since long before Temur was born.
The wall under his hand had been smoothed by many hands before. The light was good, and even if they had had no light at all, there would be no great difficulty in walking; the floor was polished smooth—to ease finding one’s way in the dark, Temur thought, should one, in fleeing for one’s life, neglect a torch or lantern.
Eventually, Samarkar finished her story. Everyone—even the Cho-tse—breathed more easily. Wizard, Temur thought, with a fondness it would have been foolish to express openly. They were allies of convenience, he knew, and she of as royal and devious a line as he. They could never truly be friends when their houses were at war.
Could they?
After the story, they walked in calm quiet for a little while longer, until the tunnel began to slope up. Payma said, quietly, so Temur knew it had been gnawing at her for a good while, “Where will I go from here?”
“To the Citadel, first,” Samarkar said. She must have been thinking on the same lines, because the answer came naturally. “But we will not be able to linger there. Yongten-la will not allow even the bstangpo to drag a wizard from the Citadel, but if we are so unfortunate as to be trapped there … we will never leave.”
Temur bit his lip. This was where he should speak. The secret of his birth weighed on him suddenly, when before, keeping it to himself had only been a matter of modeling the life he intended to adopt. He had never felt Qulan’s passion to become Khagan, or even Khan.
“I will return to the west,” Hrahima said, and Temur’s courage failed him. “You may accompany me. Whether your monkey-king will fight or no, I assure you, there are those who will not turn away able assistance in the coming war.”
“Into exile,” Samarkar said bitterly. Her voice held so much experience that Temur understood instantly that this would not be her first such journey. “Well, better that than burning.”
“Don’t say it,” Payma begged. Temur felt a spike of pity for her, and by extension for every woman murdered in games of power where she was awarded no control. But perhaps that wasn’t fair to the women: His mother might have been traded away as a spoil of war, but she had risen high in his father’s councils and consideration, and certainly the Great Khagan had never scrupled to ask his mother’s advice.
And Nilufer, as Samarkar had so aptly reminded him—she had taken on bandits, rebels, and her own mother to make a safe haven for herself. No, women were as capable—and as dangerous—as any man. Sometimes more so.
And a good thing, too, since you are stuck in the dark with three of them. If Hrahima could be reckoned as a woman, in this accounting.
He stopped, so abruptly that Payma almost walked up his heels. He turned to face them—Samarkar stooped, Payma leaning on her for support anyway, Hrahima crouched behind.
“Temur?” Samarkar asked.
He said, with as much conviction as he could muster, “Nilufer—the woman you just told the story about—her name is Nilufer. Her estate is called Stone Steading. She is still alive, or if she has died, she died recently.”
Samarkar watched him patiently. “I see.”
“She’s my relative. She married my uncle, Toghrul Khanzadeh. My father was Otgonbayar Khanzadeh, son of the Great Khagan.”
Payma’s hands tightened on Samarkar’s arm, rumpling the fabric of the wizard’s coat, which took on an emerald gleam under the light that surrounded her. “You’re the Great Khagan’s grandson?”
“One of.” Temur snorted. “There were hundreds. Qori Buqa has been killing his way through every one of us that he can find. But I am the one he should not have hammered on the anvil until I was forged into an enemy.”
He took a breath. The words that were coming out of him had the ring of portent, the air of a gathering storm. But he had not rehearsed them, and he did not know from what reservoir within him they sprang. “I am Re Temur. I will help you fight your Rahazeen warlord, Hrahima. And I will take back from him in turn what he first took from me. And then I will come back and see Qori Buqa put out of the place that was rightfully my brother’s.”