I missed the dragon, my splendid friend.
And always, always, always, I ached for Bao’s presence. I could sense his diadh-anam burning like a beacon, near enough that I could have ridden there in ten days were it not for the deadly cold. I ached to be reunited with the missing half of my diadh-anam. That was a constant. And it frustrated me, not only because I could not go to him, but because I could not sort out in my confused heart what was real and what was the result of the binding Master Lo Feng had laid upon us.
I knew where my feelings began and ended. They began with a sneaking fondness for Master Lo’s magpie, the proud, stubborn peasant-boy with whom I had bickered and quarreled for so long, before we fell into bed with one another and began a thorny love affair. They ended with Bao walking away from me, leaving me alone and bereft, the spark of my sundered diadh-anam burning steadily inside him.
It was the missing parts in between that confused me.
There were good days and bad days. On good days, I thought mayhap it was for the best that I had this time to reflect. As harsh as they were, the frozen Tatar grasslands had a sweeping majesty to them. Although I felt guilty whenever I wasn’t aiding Checheg in the ger, I liked being outdoors, liked the impossibly vast blue sky arching above me.
I liked doing simple tasks like fetching water from the nearby river, or even gathering cow-dung to dry. I liked to practice the Five Styles of Breathing in the achingly cold air. While I still missed trees, I liked the elemental rhythm of Tatar life.
On the bad days…
On the bad days, I questioned myself. If I had not tarried in the Celestial City in Shuntian an extra week, dallying with the princess, mayhap I would have beaten the weather and gained Bao’s side before winter’s onset, so we might use these long nights to resolve matters between us.
That had been my doing, all my doing.
Snow Tiger had asked me to invoke Naamah’s blessing on her behalf, and I had done it gladly. She had not asked me to tarry. I was the one who had badgered her to let me stay, at least for a week’s time. She had agreed to it without much persuasion needed. And I did not want to regret it, for it had been a time of profound grace.
I would have stayed longer had she let me. I would have spent the winter in Shuntian with her.
The Emperor’s daughter’s face swam in my memory, her dark eyes grave. It is too easy to accept the comfort you offer, Moirin. I have duties that lie elsewhere. You have a destiny to follow.
She was right, of course. But it didn’t stop me from resenting my everlasting destiny on the bad days. It seemed unfair that it constantly drove me away from people for whom I cared deeply, and doubly unfair that the one person to whom my destiny was inextricably linked was bound and determined to evade me.
I wondered what Bao was feeling.
Bit by bit, I learned more about his circumstances. I learned that General Arslan was high in the Great Khan’s favor. Batu confirmed that he would have been the one to lead a raid on Tonghe village twenty-some years ago.
“Very good warrior,” he said slowly to me. “Strong man.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why fight and kill?”
Batu frowned and shook his head, deciding it was too complicated a matter to explain to me with my limited Tatar language. He beckoned Grandmother Yue over and spoke to her at length.
“Ah, child!” she said when he finished. “It’s the way of the world, that’s all. The Ch’in raided Tatar camps, too. When the men were away, they kidnapped women and children and enslaved them, put them to work building the wall.”
I took a sharp breath. “Put them to work building the very wall meant to keep them out? That’s a piece of bitter irony.”
She nodded. “I told you, it’s the way of the world. Arslan lost his young wife. He was only taking vengeance.”
“By raping an innocent woman?” I asked in outrage.
“I did not say I agreed with it,” Grandmother Yue said in a gentle tone. “I said it was the way of the world, Moirin. It is in the nature of mankind.”
I thought about her words when I breathed the Five Styles and meditated, doing my best to be mindful of Master Lo’s teaching and let one thought give rise to another. It was hard, and I thought mayhap there were things in the world I didn’t want to understand. In my travels, I had learned that the followers of the Path of Dharma believed that to live was to suffer. I was not willing to accept their wisdom as truth, but I could understand why many did.
Master Lo had allowed the possibility that mayhap I had my own path of enlightenment to follow, the Path of Desire.
These days, it seemed a very distant possibility.
Oh, I could have taken a lover if I had wished it. After the initial shock of my appearance, almost everyone at Batu’s camp treated me with genuine warmth. I had a way with animals, and that endeared me to their keepers. The Tatars lived closer to nature than any folk I’d encountered save my own. I continued to be surprised and pleased by their acceptance. Although I understood there was some lingering debate as to whether or not I was a forest spirit from the distant mountains, it was generally agreed that it was a good thing if it were true. From time to time, I caught sidelong glances from some of the bolder young men in the camp, suggesting a tryst would be welcome.
But my diadh-anam disapproved, and the bright lady was silent. It seemed Naamah’s gift had gone dormant for the winter.
Life held other pleasures. Living in the ger, I came to value Batu’s quiet strength, his obvious love for his wife and children. I treasured Checheg’s steady kindness and guidance. Their eldest son, Temur, spent a good deal of time blushing in my presence, but that was to be expected at his age, and he was a good-hearted lad.
Their daughter, Sarangerel, was a delight, bright and lively. Having adopted me on that first day, my small friend staked a relentless claim on me. Under her mother’s indulgent gaze, Sarangerel followed me around the ger, tugging at the hem of my coat, her little brother, Mongke, toddling in her wake, babbling nonsense words. Among other things, she insisted on teaching me a complicated Tatar game in which both players made a fist with their right hands, then shot out several fingers and uttered competing rhymes based on the total number showing.
“Nine!” she would say in triumph, waiting for me to respond.
“Mine?” I would hazard.
Sarangerel would shake her head in mock disappointment, and rattle off a string of better rhymes. I never won a single game, but it improved my skills with the Tatar language considerably. And she was unstinting with her affection, always eager to climb into my lap and rub her cheek against mine, while her little brother pulled jealously on my sleeve until I made room for both of them.
It soothed that part of me that yearned for human contact in a way I had never known before, filled with tender innocence. Growing up in isolation, I’d had precious little contact with children.
I liked it.
I liked the simplicity and purity of it. In a strange way, it was a relief to develop a complex set of relationships in which carnal desire played no part. It occurred to me that this had happened seldom in my life since I came of age, and there was probably a lesson to be learned there.
And then a month into my stay, Checheg went into labor.
I had been expecting it; we all had. Day by day, we had waited and wondered. How could we not, her belly as swollen as it was? Still, it came as a shock.
For one thing, the men abandoned us.
For another, I was left in charge.
“What?” I said in dismay. “Batu, I do not know what to do!”
Batu jiggled young Mongke in his arms, not meeting my eyes. His eldest son, Temur, lurked behind him, peering at me. “You are a woman, are you not? This is women’s business. Grandmother will help you. After all, she has done it many times before; and so has Checheg, three times. Men do not belong here.” He gave me a furtive glance. “We will return after the child is born,” he said firmly, exiting the ger and closing the brightly painted door behind him.