25.

  After Zaya left as usual for Queen Boraqchin’s tent, Norjin summoned his attendant and had his face shaved. It felt good, the first time in a while. At last, he could part with the bear pelt. He slipped his arms into the sleeves of the persimmon-dyed deel, tightened the sash, and pulled on his boots. He would have preferred a slightly higher collar, but one could not complain about borrowed clothes. Simply changing left him short of breath. The attendant watched him anxiously, but Norjin nodded and sent him away.

  It should be about time.

  He had sent Zaya to Taghray. By now, the bait should have been taken. With that thought, Norjin sat on the bed for a while. Just as expected, a visitor arrived.

  “Zaya? Are you there?”

  Norjin rose slowly, steadied his breathing, and walked toward the entrance. His vision dimmed with just that effort. He tightened his focus and lifted the tent flap.

  Taghray stood there.

  He had expected Zaya. Instead, there was a man. Slender, dressed in a persimmon-colored deel, with a face strikingly well-formed. Taghray looked momentarily surprised, then a dimple appeared in his left cheek.

  “So you’re Norjin. We’ve met before. In Queen Boraqchin’s tent.”

  “Twice, actually,” Norjin replied. “Once before you left on assignment. I was having sunscreen put on my face.”

  Taghray tried to recall it, but nothing came. Norjin must not have registered at the time.

  “I heard you were injured. You look fully recovered.”

  “You brought Zaya’s cloak,” Norjin said flatly. “I’ll take it back.”

  “I’m not giving it to you.”

  “Of course not. It isn’t mine.”

  Their gazes collided.

  Norjin’s composure unsettled Taghray. This was supposed to be a soft-looking civil official—wounded, at that. Maybe he should intimidate him a little. Taghray grinned.

  “What, want to try me? Think you can? That pretty face won’t survive it.”

  “Give me a break,” Norjin said calmly. “Standing here is already hard enough. Would beating me really be something to brag about?”

  He continued, “Imagine the bruise on my face. What do you think Zaya would say? Want to find out?”

  This man had more nerve than expected. Taghray shifted tone, as if lecturing an ignorant subordinate.

  “You may not know this, but Zaya and I—”

  “I know,” Norjin cut in. “I’ve heard everything.”

  Taghray faltered. Everything? Their past, too? He steadied himself.

  “If you know, then this is simple. When the snow melts, no one will be here. We go west. You go east. A tearful farewell.”

  Norjin smiled for the first time.

  “A tearful farewell, huh. Let’s see who ends up crying.”

  Taghray thrust the cloak into Norjin’s arms, then handed him a leather pouch.

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  With that, he strode away, mounted his horse, and rode off toward the center of the ulus.

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  The strength drained from Norjin’s legs. He dropped to the ground, hands on his knees, back hunched, breathing deeply. Sweat beaded on his brow and slowly cooled. As his breathing settled, his hand brushed the leather pouch. Inside was frozen food.

  Zaya returned.

  The tent was warm, and the relief made her exhale. Norjin was sitting up on the bed, a book in hand. As she removed her cloak, her eyes caught on another cloak hanging from the chest. Her heart leapt.

  The cloak she had left with Taghray.

  Did he come here? Did he meet Norjin? Had Taghray told him about that night?

  Questions churned.

  “How did this get here?” she asked.

  “It came back,” Norjin said, glancing up briefly before returning to his book.

  Zaya hurriedly put the cloak away. She wouldn’t be wearing it again.

  “They gave me byaslag today. Have you ever had it?” she said, forcing brightness as she moved toward the serving stand.

  There sat a leather pouch and a bundle wrapped in layers of felt. Her heart jumped again.

  “Zaya,” Norjin said seriously, “don’t you have something to tell me?”

  She glanced at him sideways.

  “Nothing.” There was nothing she could say. Not yet.

  Norjin pointed at his face.

  “Don’t you notice? I shaved. No more bear.”

  “I thought you were confident in your face, beard or not,” Zaya said weakly. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

  “Let’s eat. I think I can handle meat again. You’re tired of porridge, aren’t you?”

  She had no intention of speaking. Heat flared inside Norjin, but he could taste nothing. He lay back, watching her.

  She moved briskly about the tent, tidying, preparing for sleep. She loosened her sash, folded her deel. The thick undergarments were mercifully unprovocative. She spread felt on the floor, sat, undid her braid, and ran a comb through her hair. Her slender nape was exposed. She lifted her arms to gather her hair, light catching it in waves.

  Beautiful. He could watch forever.

  Even after pulling the bedding close, Zaya could not sleep. In the darkness, Taghray’s face surfaced. She had never seen him like that before. What had happened to him?

  She had no answer.

  The next morning, she took out the cloak she had sworn not to wear again and put it on. Before going to Boraqchin’s tent, she stopped by Taghray’s.

  She did not want to run.

  Taghray was at his desk, speaking with several people. She waited. When he noticed her, he smiled. The dimple in his left cheek stirred memories of her girlhood.

  “You got it,” he said softly.

  “Yes. Thank you. You could have left it with my foster mother.”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  Silence fell.

  Her thoughts spun. Norjin had only said it came back. He hadn’t said Taghray came. Why? Then it struck her. Norjin thought this was something she needed to face herself.

  She was grateful. She wanted to settle things with Taghray herself, before facing Norjin.

  Taghray reached out. She startled. He took her hand, set it on the desk, and gently laid his bare hand over her mittened one.

  “Zaya. When we went to buy fletching from the Kipchaks, it cleared my head. How about going again? Maybe hunting.”

  Her fingers stiffened. She hesitated. She knew she shouldn’t.

  “Please.”

  The dimple appeared again. She remembered wanting to touch it once. She couldn’t sort her feelings yet, but she nodded.

  Cold air burst in.

  “You’re here, right? You can’t go anywhere yet!” Ilha peeked in.

  Norjin groaned. Whenever Zaya left, the old woman went for treatment, and Ilha took her place.

  “Close it. You’re letting the warm air out.”

  Ilha entered and plopped onto the bed.

  “Don’t sit there.”

  “Why not? This is the only place with one,” she said, edging closer, her eyes wide open and fixed on his face.

  Norjin flicked her forehead.

  “Ow! What was that?”

  “What did you think you were doing?”

  “Huh? Don’t you know? Lovers just put their mouths together.”

  “That’s what you think a kiss is? You’re telling me this?” Norjin burst out laughing, then winced.

  “Stop it. Laughing hurts.”

  She glared at him. “I don’t remember agreeing to be your lover, brat.”

  “Brat?! Listen! I’m going to grow taller than you, and when I do, it’ll be too late to ask me then!”

  “I don’t like women who look down on me. No—stop. Don’t make me laugh.”

  Though her people were tall, none would tower over him. She was precocious, but still clueless.

  “Ilha, sit here. I’ll teach you something important.”

  She hopped down and sat eagerly, eyes shining.

  “When you kiss, it just means putting your mouths together.

  Close your eyes. Tilt your head, or your noses bump.

  ”She obeyed. Norjin placed a book on her head.

  “Your posture is terrible. Practice like that. Don’t drop it.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Because you’re a child. An adult could do it.”

  He put on a stern teacher’s face. Ilha experimented, eventually settling down.

  I want this wound healed soon. Being pestered by her is the last thing I need.