The man’s face cleared with understanding. He nodded in approval and called over the boy who had first discovered me. The boy went to work straightaway at unloading Coal’s packs, blowing on the frozen buckles to thaw them. With an elaborate series of gestures, the man indicated that the boy would unload the horses and carry my gear and supplies to the hut, then turn the horses loose to graze on the frozen plain. He finished by echoing his wife’s gesture with the imaginary spoon.

His wife didn’t wait for my reply. Grasping the fur-trimmed cuff of my sleeve, she tugged me firmly toward the encampment. Wrapped in a warm blanket and their generosity, I went willingly.

There were some two dozen of the felt huts, which I later learned to call gers, in the camp. At close range, they were much larger and more substantial than I had reckoned, and infinitely more sophisticated than the simple tent that the storm had snatched away from me, thick felt layered on dome-shaped lattices. All the gers faced south, with brightly painted wooden doors. Smoke drifted from a hole at the top of each dome.

My hostess led me to the ger with the most elaborately painted doorway, ushering me inside.

Warmth struck me—warmth, and the smell of the rich, salty tea she had brought me. There were thick woolen carpets woven with intricate designs covering the floor of the ger, keeping the cold of the frozen ground at bay. Overhead, the poles of the lattice framework radiated like the spokes of a great wagon-wheel. Beneath the smoke-hole, two pots simmered atop an iron stove. I inhaled deeply, letting the blanket slide from my shoulders. My hostess smiled and took the empty bowl from my hand, then said somewhat in a formal tone.

I bowed in response. Even if she couldn’t understand my words, it seemed important to speak them aloud. “May all the gods bless you for your hospitality and generosity, my lady.”

“Eh?” On the far side of the ger, a seated figure lifted a wizened face, cupping one ear. Her bright eyes squinted in a parchment map of wrinkled skin. With an effort, the oldest woman I’d ever seen in my life, older than Old Nemed of the Maghuin Dhonn, dragged herself to her feet and hobbled across the carpets.

My hostess offered her what sounded like a bemused explanation.

The old woman nodded absently, peering at me. She had to crane her neck since a hump atop her spine wouldn’t allow her to stand entirely straight. Licking her weathered lips, she essayed a question, starting and stopping several times, pausing to search her memory. At last she got it out, each syllable rusted and creaky. “Did I hear you speak the scholar’s tongue of Shuntian?”

I blinked in surprise. “Yes, Grandmother.”

“Thought so.” She poked me in the breast-bone with one gnarled finger, her eyes sharp and inquisitive. “Who are you? What are you? And why in the world are you here?”

My hostess glanced back and forth between us, perplexity on her kind face. A boy toddler wobbled over to clutch at her coat; another child, a young girl, sidled up behind her, peeking out at me.

“I am Moirin,” I said politely. “Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn. And as to what that means and why I am here, I fear it is a very long story.”

“Oh, good.” The old woman doubled over and coughed deep in her chest, then straightened to the best of her abilities, dark eyes glinting at me in her wrinkled face. She yawned widely, covering her mouth to hide it. “And after I’ve finished my morning nap, you can tell it to me.” She turned to hobble away, offering one last comment over her shoulder. “And take your time about it, because it’s going to be a long winter.”

EIGHT

So it came to pass that I wintered amongst a Tatar tribe.

It wasn’t my intention to stay with them, but from the beginning, it was obvious that the weather gave me little choice. Once winter arrived in earnest, even the hardy, nomadic Tatars with all their knowledge of surviving on the plains settled in for the duration.

On that first morning, I sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the ger, feeling awkward at my unintentional imposition, trying to stay out of the way while I waited for the old woman to finish her nap. My pregnant hostess brought me a bowl of hot, stewed meat to eat. I accepted it gratefully. When I had finished, the little girl—her daughter, I guessed—approached me shyly at her mother’s urging. With gestures, she showed me I was meant to wipe the bowl clean with my fingers, gathering the last of the juices. She bobbed her head in cautious approval when I obeyed.

The boy tending to my horses entered the ger along with a blast of cold air, staggering under the weight of my packs and gear. He darted back out before I could even thank him.

My hostess bustled around, scouring dishes and stirring pots. When I offered with gestures to assist her, she smiled and shook her head. She pointed across the ger to the pallet where the old woman was now snoring deeply, made a circling gesture with one finger that indicated time passing, then mimed two mouths talking with both hands.

“I understand,” I said. “We will speak when she awakes. I only wanted to help in the meantime.”

She pointed firmly at the carpeted floor and said something in a stern tone. Although she couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve years older than me, it sounded for all the world like a mother’s reprimand.

I sat, chastened.

My hostess smiled and went about her business.

Lulled by the warmth of the ger and the hot stew in my belly, I felt the weight of my exhaustion settle over me. Although I’d no intention of falling asleep amongst these strangers, hospitable though they seemed, my head grew heavy, my chin sinking to my chest. I fell into a light doze.

I awoke to find the family gathering around a low table for a mid-day meal of more stewed meat.

The old woman glanced over and gave a creaking laugh. “Aha! The slumbering forest spirit is awake.” She beckoned to me. “Come, come, eat,” she said, adding something in the Tatar tongue.

My hostess rose with ungainly grace to fill another bowl for me.

“Thank you.” I accepted it with a bow, then took a seat at the table at her insistent gesture. “You’re very kind. Grandmother, will you thank her for me?”

“She knows.” The old woman’s mouth worked as she chewed. “You’ve been bobbing up and down like a courtier since you came through the door. So! Begin your story, will you?”

I paused, the spoon halfway to my mouth.

My hostess spoke gently to the old woman, who sighed. “Oh, fine! My granddaughter says eat first, talk later.”

They waited patiently for me to finish. There were six of them present: my hostess and her husband; the young herdsman, who I guessed to be around thirteen and their eldest son. The little girl’s age I put at six or seven, and the toddler at two or three; and of course, there was the old woman, whose age I couldn’t begin to guess. All of them gazed at me with polite curiosity while I ate.

After I had finished and wiped my bowl with my fingers in the prescribed manner, my host addressed me in a formal tone.

“My grandson Batu welcomes you into his dwelling,” the old woman translated. “He hopes you find it a place of peace.”

“Batu.” I echoed his name. “Yes, thank you.”

“Good.” The old woman took a noisy slurp of tea, fixing me with her sharp gaze. “Now tell me who in the name of the ancestors you might be, and what in the name of all the gods and the great blue sky you’re doing here.”

I did my best.

It wasn’t easy. There was far, far too much to explain, and I didn’t know how much of my tale might give offense. The Tatars and the Ch’in existed in an uneasy truce in the best of times, and I did not care to reveal myself as an Imperial favorite. So I simply told her that I had come from faraway Terre d’Ange, travelling to Ch’in to continue studying with my mentor, the venerable sage Master Lo Feng. That I had fallen in love with a fellow student, who had fled after our mentor’s death, venturing into Tatar territory to seek his father; and that I had set out in pursuit of him, driven by love.

She listened, drinking salty tea and pausing from time to time to translate for the benefit of the others.

Batu interjected a comment.

The old woman’s wispy brows rose. “Huh! Was this young man carrying a powerful medicine?”

“No….. wait. Aye, mayhap.” I remembered the Camaeline snowdrop bulbs that Master Lo had transported all the way from Terre d’Ange. Only three of them had survived, and I had planted them atop White Jade Mountain, where the dragon had promised to guard and cherish them. The rest had been sacrificed, left to dry in the lodgings we had rented in Shuntian. When I had gone there to ask after Bao, the new tenants told me he had returned to retrieve the bulbs, which were capable of being rendered into a powerful aphrodisiac. “What manner of medicine, Grandmother?”

The old woman cackled. “The kind of tonic to stiffen a man’s spear!”

I flushed. “Ah….. yes. That would likely be Bao. Although he might have been calling himself Shangun. I do not know.”

She eyed me. “Lightning Stick?”

I shrugged. “It is a name he took for himself when he was young and foolish.”

The old woman conversed with Batu. Aided by her daughter, my hostess began to clear and scour our dishes. I waited.

“Yes,” the old woman said at length. “My grandson has heard of your young man Bao. With his strong tonic, he bribed his way into General Arslan’s favor before the winter winds blew. It seems that General Arslan has claimed him as a son. Come spring, you ought to be able to find him.”

I stood, so quickly it dizzied me. “Spring! I can’t wait that long.”

My hostess hurried over to me, urging me to sit with gentle hands. She and her husband exchanged worried words.

“Strange girl, you are not going anywhere for a very long time!” the old woman announced in an acerbic tone. “No one travels in winter. You barely survived a single storm. You would only die.”

My diadh-anam flared within me. “I need to go!”

The old woman sighed. “Oh, child! It only feels that way. Such is the nature of young love. It will pass.”

“You don’t understand,” I whispered.

Her wrinkled mouth pursed. “So they all say. I was young once, too. Young and beautiful. It fades, child. All beauty and passion does. Stay the winter here, and in the spring, the tribes will gather in the northwest. You will be reunited with your young man, and see how well his passion has endured. Perhaps you will be fortunate. If so, I say well done. If not, it is not worth dying for now.”

I hesitated.

Small hands tugged at the sash around my waist. I glanced down to see Batu’s daughter yanking at me. Her eyes were wary, but her face was set and determined. She said something fierce in the Tatar tongue.

Her mother echoed it, and her father nodded.

“They do not want your blood on their hands,” the old woman translated. “They beg you to stay.”

I knew myself defeated. I sank to the floor, bowing my head. The little girl climbed into my lap and nestled against me, no longer fearful. Absentmindedly, I stroked her black hair. “I do not wish to be a burden.”

“Then work for your keep,” the old woman said forcefully. “My soft-hearted granddaughter-in-law Checheg will show you how. Live, endure, and learn.”

I glanced at my hostess. “Checheg? Is that your name?”

She nodded, hands pressed against her swollen belly.

I touched my breast. “Moirin.”

“Moirin.” It was Batu who said my name in a strong voice, rising to his feet. He placed his hands on my shoulders as though to claim me, but there was only kindness in his grip. He smiled down at me, gave me a little shake, then turned me loose, ruffling his daughter’s hair. “Moirin.”

I was grateful for his kindness. “Your people are not what I was led to expect, Grandmother.”

She snorted. “Do I look like a Tatar, child?”

“Ah…..” I peered at her. With her shriveled-apple face, I couldn’t tell. The little girl on my lap plucked at the silk cord around my neck. “Are you from Shuntian, Grandmother? Is that how you come to speak the scholar’s tongue?”

“I am an Imperial princess descended from his Celestial Majesty Zhu Daoyu,” the old woman said with steely dignity. “I was given in marriage to the tribal khan Oyugun as part of a peace treaty.”

I blinked. “You were?”

She gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, it was a very long time ago. No one remembers. But you may call me Grandmother Yue, and yes, that is why I speak the scholar’s tongue.” She pointed at my chest, her eyes keen. “It is also how I know that is an Imperial seal you wear around your neck, which leads me to suspect part of your tale is either missing or a lie.”

I glanced down in alarm to see that Batu and Checheg’s daughter had pulled the Imperial jade medallion from beneath my coat and was toying with it, tracing the carved curves of the dragon’s coils with her small fingers. I felt the blood drain from my face.

“So?” Grandmother Yue asked in a sharp voice. “Which is it, child? An omission or a lie?”

I swallowed hard. “Missing, Grandmother. Perhaps you heard, there was a civil war in Ch’in. I played a role in it and won the Emperor’s favor.”

“Ah!” Her lips worked. “Now, that’s more like it. Yes, yes, we have heard rumors and gossip. A warrior princess possessed by a demon, great sorcerers doing battle in the south with dreadful weapons.” She nodded. “That’s a tale fit for a long winter. You’ll tell it in full, of course, with no details omitted.”

I looked around the ger. It was a scene of domestic tranquillity, filled with folk who had shown me nothing but generosity. “They will not take it amiss?”