‘Are you coming?’ Hawah asked, again.
‘No,’ I answered quietly.
When Hawah left, I stormed into my yurt. ‘Uma,’ I demanded not for the first time, ‘Where is my dada? It’s a holy day. He didn’t thread me.’
Uma sighed and gathered a spool and needle. ‘Give me your arm.’
I yanked it back. ‘You dye my arms every Flood Festival, but now I wish for my dada to do it.’
Uma’s brows furrowed, and even that appeared soft on her delicate features. Thin and long-necked, she was graceful like a crane. Her skin was between olive and fair, and her hair hung down to her hips in thick ebony braids woven through with buzzard feathers. She tutted her tongue. ‘In all your thirteen years, have I or Babshah let you feel his absence?’
‘Uma, if I answer honestly, will you be sad? You say the followers of Prophet Father Adam must always tell the truth.’
She paused. ‘Nothing you say will ever sadden me.’ She curved the gold thread, mixed in dye and mare milk, through my forearms, smiling to soften my hisses of pain, and that kept me from crying. The burn of it stung like salt rubbed in a cut: slow, persistent.
‘If he cannot dye my arms or name me, so be it. But why have you not named me?’
Leaning over my arms, Uma shared the knowledge that was our greatest weapon: ‘My daughter, you know your dada is the emperor of Azadniabad; he forbade me from naming you when I carried you in my womb. For that, one day, the emperor will give you a name.’
Azadniabad: a vast empire to the west that ruled our vassal lands. I knew why the elder chiefs worried about my existence, for I was the daughter of an emperor who’d rejected his child... it was as if I was kinless.
‘The emperor must name me,’ I declared.
But she shook her head, dozens of black braids bouncing wayward. ‘He lives afar in his courts.’
‘Then why did the emperor wed you? And when?’
‘Powerful men sacrifice much for a greater purpose. The emperor sent his warriors through this mountain pass to ally with our tribe as a protectorate. In turn, our pastures would receive protection from his soldiers while we guard and escort caravan goods across these trade routes. He chose me to wed from amongst the khan’s sisters and I agreed to it. I am not sure how old I was. We die so young out here, age becomes frivolous. I might’ve been fifteen years.’
‘But if the emperor likes you, he could bring us to him.’
Uma’s jade eyes darkened. ‘One day we will go, God willing. But the Azadnian courts are unfit for tribes like ours.’
Uma’s hand quivered against my arm, the needle bobbing deep into my skin. A dot of blood welled up and tears sprung to my eyes. Teeth clenched, I blinked them away.
‘When you are powerful,’ Uma murmured half to herself, ‘he will accept you. Strength to an emperor is as a holy book to the worshipper. Power the only way to gain his favour.’
I stared down at my hands. What power did I have that would appease my dada, a grand emperor?
But Uma did not worry. I know now, she recalled the dream she had of my birth, the one of Heavenly light. She knew someday I’d wield the power of nur.
‘Aysenör,’ the khan interjected. We both turned as he entered the yurt. He’d been listening. Usur Khan was a stern yet young man, strong-boned and graceful like a snow leopard, with thick flushed skin that wobbled as he spoke and braided hair pulled into a rough knot.
I bowed my head. ‘Peace unto you, Khan.’
‘And you, niece.’ He patted my cap, his beard scratching the wool. ‘Indeed, the Azadnian emperor chose your uma as one of his wives. But she left out in her explanation that she charmed him with her beauty and storytelling, enrapturing him with a folktale. Cunning apprentice as she was!’
Uma ducked her head. ‘Perhaps. Although he spoke admiringly of my folktelling before our wedding, it was only because his empire has lost such customs. He would not know a good telling if it told him so. After that, I vowed to never tell a tale again.’
The khan roared with laughter before facing me.
Carefully, he relieved Uma of the needle and mare milk. She stepped back, watching him curiously. He took my arm. ‘Your dada is not here, but if he was, would he know how to thread you in the ways of our tribe?’ he chided.
‘O, Khan, we should teach him.’
‘O, daughter of my sister, an emperor is on a throne to enslave the people to his desires, not for the slaves to inflict their desires on to him. An emperor cannot be taught. Certainly not by his vassals.’
My head reeled with all I did not know, could not imagine. ‘But you are a khan. You are like an emperor too. At fifteen years old, you united the four clans between these mountains under your banner.’
