Yala, as ever, bowed properly to her father though he was not looking. “Your daughter greets you, pai.”
He acknowledged with a nod. She waited, her hands folded in her sleeves again, faintly uneasy. Her father was a tall man, his shoulders still hard from daily practice with saber and spear; his face was pure Khir. Piercing grey eyes, straight black hair topknotted as a Second Dynasty lord’s, a narrow high prow of a nose, a thin mouth, and bladed cheekbones harsh as the sword-mountains themselves. Age settled more firmly upon him with each passing winter, drawing skin tighter and bone-angles sharper. His house robe was spare and dark, subtly patterned but free of excessive ornamentation.
He was, in short, the very picture of a Khir noble—except he was not, as usual, straight as an iron reed upon his low backless chair with the standard of their house—the setting sun and the komor flower7—hung behind it.
Finally, he patted the stone step with his left hand. “Come, sit.” His intonation was informal, and that was another surprise.
Yala settled herself, carefully. With her dress arranged and her feet tucked to the side, she lowered her eyelids and waited.
Lord Komori did not care for idle chatter.
The great hall was different from this angle. The table was large as it had been when she was a child, and the cavernous fireplace looked ready to swallow an unwary passerby whole. The braziers were blackened spirit-kettles, their warmth barely touching winter’s lingering chill. Flagstones, swept and scrubbed even when winter meant the buckets formed ice which needed frequent breaking, stared blankly at the ceiling, polished by many feet. Yala stilled, a habit born of long practice in her father’s presence.
The mouse that moves is taken. Another proverb. The classics were stuffed to bursting with them.
As a child she had fidgeted and fluttered, Dowager Eun despairing of ever teaching her discretion. In Yala’s twelfth spring the weight of decorum had begun to tell, and she had decided it was easier to flow with that pressure than stagger under it. Even Mahara had been surprised, and she, of all the world, perhaps knew Yala best.
After Bai, that was.
“Yala,” her father said, as if reminding himself who she was. That was hardly unusual. The sons stayed, the daughters left. An advantageous marriage was her duty to Komori. It was a pity there had been no offers. I wonder what is wrong with me, she had murmured to Mahara once.
I do not wish to share you with a husband, Mahara answered, when she could speak for laughing.
“Yes.” Simple, and soft, as a noblewoman should speak. She wished she were at her needlework, the satisfaction of a stitch pulled neatly and expertly making up for pricked fingers. Or in the mews, hawk-singing. Writing out one of the many classics once again, her brush held steady. Reading, or deciding once more what to pack and what to leave behind.
She wished, in fact, to be anywhere but here. After a visit to the ancestors, though, her presence at her father’s wrist was expected. Brought back to endure scrutiny like a hawk itself, a feather passed over her plumage, so as not to disturb the subtle oils thereupon.
“I have often thought you should have been born male.” Komori Dasho sighed, his shoulders dropping. The sudden change was startling, and disturbing. “You would have made a fine son.” Even if it was high praise, it still stung. A formulaic reply rose inside her, but he did not give her the chance to utter as much. “But if you were, you would have died upon that bloodfield as well, and I would have opened my veins at the news.”
Startled, Yala turned her head to gaze upon his profile. The room was not the only thing that looked different from this angle. The thunder-god of her childhood, straight and proud, sat beside her, staring at the table. And, terrifyingly, hot water had come to Komori Dasho’s eyes. It swelled, glittering, and anything she might have said vanished.
“My little light,” he continued. “Did you know? I named you thus, after your mother died. Not aloud, but here.” His thin, strong right fist, the greenstone seal-ring of a proud and ancient house glinting upon his index finger, struck his chest. “I knew not to say such things, for the gods would be angry and steal you as they took her.”
Yala’s chest tightened. A Lord Komori severe in displeasure or stern with approval she could answer. Who was this?
Her father did not give her a chance to reply. “In the end it does not matter. The Great Rider has requested and we must answer; you will attend the princess in Zhaon.”
This much I knew already. The pebble in her sleeve-pocket pressed against her wrist. She realized she was not folding her hands but clutching them, knuckles probably white under smooth fabric. “Yes.” There. Was that an acceptable response?
He nodded, slowly. The frost in his hair had spread since news of Three Rivers; she had not noticed before. This was the closest she had been to her father since… she could not remember the last time. She could not remember when he last spoke to her with the informal inflection or case, either. Yala searched for something else to say. “I will not shame our family, especially among them.”
“You—” He paused, straightened. “You have your yue?”
Of course I do. “It is the honor of a Khir woman,” she replied, as custom demanded. Was this a test? If so, would she pass? Familiar anxiety sharpened inside her ribs. “Does my father wish to examine its edge?” The blade was freshly honed; no speck of rust or whisper of disuse would be found upon its slim greenmetal length.
“Ah. No, of course not.” His hands dangled at his knees, lax as they never had been in her memory. “Will you write to your father?”
“Of course.” As if she would dare not to. The stone under her was a cold, uncomfortable saddle, but she did not dare shift. “Every month.”
“Every week.” The swelling water in his eyes did not overflow. Yala looked away. It was uncomfortably akin to seeing a man outside the clan drunk, or at his dressing. “Will you?”
“Yes.” If you require it of me.
“I have kept you close all this time.” His fingers curled slightly, as if they wished for a hilt. “There were many marriage offers made for you, Yala. Since your naming-day, you have been sought. I refused them all.” He sighed, heavily. “I could not let you go. Now, I am punished for it.”
She sat, stunned and silent, until her father, for the first and last time, put a lean-muscled, awkward arm about her shoulders. The embrace was brief and excruciating, and when it ended he rose and left the hall, iron-backed as ever, with his accustomed quiet step.
He is proud of you, she had often told Bai. He simply does not show it.
Perhaps it had not been a lie told to soothe her brother’s heart. And perhaps, just perhaps, she could believe it for herself.
if you enjoyed
REALM OF ASH
look out for
THE SISTERS OF THE WINTER WOOD
by
Rena Rossner
In a remote village surrounded by vast forests on the border of Moldova and Ukraine, sisters Liba and Laya have been raised on the honeyed scent of their Mami’s babka and the low rumble of their Tati’s prayers. But when a troupe of mysterious men arrives, Laya falls under their spell—despite her mother’s warning to be wary of strangers. And this is not the only danger lurking in the woods.