The same mules from her and Tsering’s earlier trip, she was delighted to realize. Including the stubborn one, but better in flight to have animals whose foibles she knew than have to establish relationships anew.
Tsering was there, to hug her and shove medical bags and one full of paper rockets into her hands. Hong-la was there, sliding flat slabs of purple salt into the bulging saddlebags of the largest mule. He handed Temur something else, as well—a small bag of undyed chamois wrapped around something that clinked thickly as Temur slid it inside his fleece-lined vest. The wizard clapped the plainsman’s arm; the plainsman bowed in answer.
He’s the Great Khagan’s grandson. That, too, was unreal—part of the storybook. Like the princess being led back to meet them. Payma seemed smaller, clad now not in billowing court robes but in a caravanner’s chamois trousers and tough boots, her hair dressed in a plain braid down her back, the tight, high mound of her belly poking a gap in her vest. Five months, Samarkar estimated. If Temur could find his aunt’s small kingdom, somewhere to the west, they should have time to get Payma there in safety.
Hong-la and Tsering helped them lead the horses and mules from the stable. Hrahima followed, well away from the horses, and skirted the wall to move out to the edge of the torchlight. She would lead them on foot. Tsering, eyes bright in the moonlight, held Samarkar’s stirrup when Temur lead Buldshak over for her to mount. Temur and Samarkar didn’t speak; there was nothing left to say.
Samarkar leaned down from the high-cantled steppe saddle and touched Tsering’s hair. “Guard yourself.”
Tsering touched her hand. “May all the little gods of the roads smooth your way.”
Payma had mounted with fair ease; now Temur floated into Bansh’s saddle. The liver-bay flicked her tail against her own flanks with a slap that echoed, as if to say At last, you’re back where you belong. Samarkar watched with tenderness that surprised her as Temur leaned forward to stroke the crest of the mare’s long neck. Bansh turned one ear back to him, shifting her weight, and stretched her dished nose forward.
Toward the gates, toward the night beyond.
“Go,” Temur said, and eased the reins to send her forward. Samarkar and Payma fell into line behind him, each leading a snorting, long-eared mule.
They crossed the Wreaking by its own light—Temur, who had seen it only by day, made a mumble of surprise at its blue-white moonstone glow, caught and refracted by its veils of mist. Yongten-la had been as good as his word; wizards and imperial guards were likewise absent. Hrahima crossed before them. Samarkar glimpsed her as a shadow against the whiteness, stooped and moving fast, before she vanished again against the stones of the other side.
The sound of falling water drowned out the ringing of shod and unshod hooves on the long white span. Temur might have called something or he might not; Samarkar couldn’t hear him over the falls. Possibly, he just turned over his shoulder to look at her and his lips moved.…
She glanced back at Payma—riding grimly forward, her cheeks bare of paint and streaked with tears, the hastily scoured shadows of kohl still blackening her eyes. Good enough. She’d keep up.
They came down the far side of the span damp with drifting spray. Samarkar let herself sigh in relief, then touched Buldshak with her heels to send her forward. The road here was broad enough for two riders abreast, and she wanted to keep Hrahima in sight if it was at all possible.
It wasn’t. The Cho-tse vanished in the night as if she were a part of it. For a long while, they walked the horses by starlight and moonlight, accompanied only by the creak of leather, the soft jingle of the tack. The night curled around them, chill and dark, dew making stones slick and wet. They came through the narrowest part of the pass before moonset, and Samarkar began to breathe easier as the stars faded slowly into a lightening sky.
* * *
They rode through the day that followed, Temur unable to shake an itch between his shoulder blades as if, at any moment, an arrow could sprout from his back. As the sun briefly made itself visible through the narrow gap of the pass overhead, he asked Samarkar if she worried about pursuit.
“Assured of it, rather,” she said, with a glance over her shoulder. “But the Citadel will slow them; if Yongten-la says he will help us, he will. They won’t come through the pass behind us. They’ll have to come around the Island-in-the-Mists, which will add a couple of hundred li to their journey. I’m not worried about them catching us unless we are delayed somehow.”
“But you are worried?”
She bit her lip and glanced at Payma, who sat huddled in bright cloaks on the back of the gelding. Payma lifted her head, pain and exhaustion graying her skin, but her expression was nothing but quiet determination. Samarkar said, “Songtsan will send pigeons ahead to the garrison at the bottom of the pass, and they will be coming for us from the front. Pigeons may fail to arrive, of course. And these mountains are full of predators. But we’ll need to leave the road as soon as we can.