Silver Snow shivered at that line of reasoning, and drew her robes more closely around her despite the warmth of the great yurt. Her thoughts made her feel as if a thick outer coat had been ripped from arms and shoulders, leaving her to shiver unprotected in the winds that swept from the Roof of the World east to the Wall itself. Surely, she told herself, Khu-janga is in good health; he might yet last for years, or at least for long enough . . .
“Today is a day of feasting,” the shan-yu told Silver Snow. “My son Vughturoi’s notions”—he shook his head in fond amusement at that younger son—“are well known; he holds with me on the Middle Kingdom. Always, however, Tadiqan has pulled against the traces. Today, though; today, he agrees that we should work with Ch’in against our enemies. Perhaps, if we did that, the men of the Han would no longer need to dwell in those drafty fortresses and could rove free in their homes, just as we do now.”
Silver Snow almost gasped in horror. Who had put that idea into Khujanga’s head? It was diabolically clever: precisely what Li Ling feared that the Emperor might agree to. Let the forts be emptied; let Tadiqan have the run of the garrisons and the manning of them; and Hsiung-nu “protection” could rapidly become invasion. Ch'ang-an must know of this! she thought.
“Drink, my father!” cried Tadiqan. The men who followed him cheered as the eldest prince strode toward his father with the graceless stride of one who spent more time in the saddle than on foot. In his hands shone a cup wrought of silver and of some yellowed substance . . . ivory, perhaps? From the yell of triumph and bloodlust that went up at the sight of that cup, however, Silver Snow knew what it was: the very goblet that had been fashioned from the skull of Modun of the Yueh-chih, last of the enemies of both Khujanga and Yuan Ti. A curdled, pinkish liquid sloshed in its bowl— mare’s milk and blood.
The shan-yu heaved himself up to his feet, snatched up the cup, and drained it. “Ahhhh!” he cried, and tossed it back to his son. A few drops scattered over the priceless furs and carpets.
“Thus to all enemies of the Hsiung-nu!” he shouted, to cheers that seemed to ripple the fabric of the yurts as much as the winter gales.
“To all enemies of the Hsiung-nu!” repeated his eldest son. “I myself shall hew off their heads and make their skulls into cups!”
Screaming rose to a feverish pitch, intensified by the beat-heat-beat of what Silver Snow identified with loathing as Strong Tongue’s spirit drum.
“That is,” Tadiqan said, turning his face toward Silver Snow so that she might read his lips, “all but one of them.”
If I do not flee, I will be sick, she thought, then admonished herself fiercely. You will stay, and you will not be sick, and tonight, you will not rest before you write an account of this to your father, Li Ling, and the Son of Heaven.
The letter that she had previously drafted and painstakingly written must be discarded.
But how should she get it to them? That was a question for which she had no answer. Nor had she one when, finally, her eyes burning, she sought her bed-furs, nor that dawn, nor the days after, days that steadily lengthened as the time drew toward a frigid spring.
Finally Silver Snow saw only one way to solve her problems. The shan-yu indulged her; let him give her a messenger to carry her letter to her father, his old captive/guest.
“Or,” Willow hinted at her shoulder, with her usual skill at fathoming Silver Snow’s thoughts, “Sable’s brother might ride out for you. Since his wife died, he has been most devoted to his sister, who now cares for his children.”
Silver Snow nodded. Sable’s brother Basich—young, dashing (for one of the Hsiung-nu), and rash almost to madness—might indeed carry a letter for her. Moreover, he was as loyal to Vughturoi (or so she thought) as his sister was to Silver Snow. Yet, it might be best after all if she asked the shan-yu, who prided himself on being an indulgent husband to her. Throwing on her most colorful garments, since the old man’s weary eyes brightened at the sight of finery, she beckoned to Willow, picked up her carefully sealed silk packet, and hastened toward the great tent.
“Hold!” came a shout, accompanied by raucous, ribald hoots and hoof beats.
That was Tadiqan’s voice.
So, is he dead, that old man who was kind to me? Silver Snow thought, while panic shrilled in heart and nerves. And does Tad-iqan give himself the powers of the shan-yu so soon, so soon after his father's body cools? I have avenged my father and honored my oaths; before I let him despoil me, I shall hang myself with my sash.
Willow tugged at her sleeve, as if eager to get her into some safekeeping before the hunters came. “You go, Willow,” hissed Silver Snow. The less that any kin of Strong Tongue saw of Willow, the better. “ You go.”
Willow, however, stood her ground, and Silver Snow bit her lip in dismay. Inspiration seized her, though, and she thrust the letter into Willow’s cold, strong hands.
“You must go. Take this letter to Sable and tell her that Basich must carry it, and ride unseen!”
At her best pace, half run, half limp, Willow retreated toward Sable’s tent, and Silver Snow had perforce to stiffen her knees lest relief make her unable to stand proudly as Strong Tongue’s son rode at her in arrogant, terrifying parade.
The horses pounded forward. Still Silver Snow held her ground. Then, with a shriek that Silver Snow thought must surely shatter ice, Tadiqan fired a whistling arrow; his men’s arrows buzzed and whined in her ears as the troop of them thundered past her on either side.
Silver Snow stood, while people emerged cautiously from their yurts to discover who, this time, Tadiqan and his men had slain. Only shock, which had frozen her, kept her upright; the instant that the joints of her knees melted, she feared that she would fall.
Tadiqan rode toward her, and Silver Snow forced herself to open her eyes. His eyes, as they raked over her, felt as intrusive as hands fondling her against her will.
“For the first time,” he told her, his voice a feral purr, “my mother has been wrong. You have courage, at the very least. I like that, lady. Remember what I have said. I like that very much.”
16
The rest of the winter was a time of waiting: waiting for spring; waiting for Sable’s brother Basich to ride with a few chosen friends back into camp and for Sable to report that her letter had been delivered to the garrison; waiting for Prince Vughturoi to return; or for Strong Tongue to show her hand. To Silver Snow’s amazement, even her time of immurement in the Palace now proved to be usefuclass="underline" she knew well how to wait, even unto despair.
The frozen grasses had begun to thaw by the time Prince Vughturoi returned, riding back from the camps of the Yueh-chih. He entered the great tent, prostrated himself as was fitting before his father, then rose eagerly at the invitation to sit beside him and feast.
Silver Snow had bent over her handiwork, aware that his eyes had gone straight to her, had approved the fact that she sat calmly among them, accepting and—to all appearances— accepted. The warmth she felt had nothing to do with the heat of the tent, a thing of close-packed bodies and warmth bound together by layers upon layers of felt. If anyone among the Hsiung-nu was a link between her past and her present, it was Prince Vughturoi, who saw her resplendent in Ch’ang-an, refused to accept another princess in her stead, and, even now, did not disdain her. Together, they had driven off the white tiger.