I had the blue silk scarf Checheg had given me.

Somewhere in the depths of my battered canvas satchel, I had a crystal bottle of perfume that had been Jehanne’s parting gift.

I had a signet ring my mother had given me so very long ago, etched with twin crests-the boar of the Cullach Gorrym in Alba and the swan of House Courcel in Terre d’Ange, signifying my dual inheritance.

And I had the yew-wood bow my uncle Mabon had made for me, still resilient and sturdy.

It was enough.

ELEVEN

Twenty-one of us rode to the gathering of the tribes-twenty Tatars, plus me. Among the Tatars, there were sixteen men and four women.

It seemed I fell somewhere in between.

I had not come to know any of the women outside Batu’s ger well, and nothing changed on our journey. When we made camp at night, the women demurred politely, refusing my assistance. We travelled lightly, subsisting on dried meat and chunks of hardened cheese aged to the point that it took forever to soften in the mouth-at least when there was nothing better.

During the day, the younger men invited me to hunt with them as we rode, shooting at the thick-furred groundhogs that had emerged from hibernation. These were cooked by virtue of slitting their bellies, removing their entrails and inserting heated stones inside the carcasses.

It was not very tasty.

I didn’t care.

We rode beneath the blue sky, and slept beneath the stars. And with every league that passed, my diadh-anam sang inside me.

I didn’t even care when I sensed Bao on the move once more. Wherever he was, he was travelling slowly and in the same direction.

“Yes,” Batu agreed when I remarked on it. “If he is with General Arslan, he is going to the gathering of tribes.”

“What happens there?” I asked, curious.

He stroked his chin. “There will be feasting and games. There will be delegates from other nations. Strategy is discussed. The Great Khan will make his wishes known to us.”

I raised my brows. “Oh?”

Batu’s shoulders moved in a faint shrug. “Do not be concerned. I do not expect there to be talk of war, Moirin. The Emperor of Ch’in’s hand has been strengthened in this last year, in part thanks to you. Of that, I will not speak at the gathering. But we have agreements with others regarding securing the overland trade routes. Vralians, perhaps even northern Bhodistani. Some will be present.”

“Oh,” I said a second time, frowning. I knew the names. Bhodistan-that was the birthplace of Sakyamuni, the Enlightened One, whose followers travelled the Path of Dharma.

Vralia…

I knew that name, too.

Berlik had fled there-Berlik the Oath-Breaker, the last great magician of the Maghuin Dhonn.

The last shape-changer.

He had met his death in the northern wilds of Vralia, hunted down by the relentless D’Angeline prince he had betrayed. In the end, Berlik had sought out his death, seeking to make atonement. He had knelt in the falling snow and bowed his head to the sword. Prince Imriel had slain him and wept at the deed. When I was ten years of age, my mother had taken me to visit the green mound in Clunderry where Berlik’s severed head was buried, a reminder of my people’s folly.

I shivered.

“Do not be afraid, Moirin,” Batu said, mistaking my unease. He leaned over in the saddle and patted my shoulder awkwardly. “I promise you, no one speaks of war this year, only treaties and strategy.”

“I am glad,” I said sincerely.

He lowered his voice. “So am I.”

Eight days into our journey, Bao stopped moving and stayed in one place.

Bao knew I was coming; he had to know. The spark that burned in me, burned in him. And at least he was not fleeing it.

That was something.

Much of the entry into the campsite is a blur in my memory. There were gers and tents erected, that I remember. There were Tatars, more than I could count-and other folk, too. Vralians in thick, woolen clothing trimmed with a great deal of fur. After so long among the Ch’in and Tatars, it came as a shock to me to see Western features, and fair skin and light eyes and hair on many of them. There were others I thought must be Bhodistani, with warm brown skin, clad in many layers of bright attire.

Bao.

I felt his presence like a drumbeat in my heart-in my heart, and on my skin. So close; ah, gods! I barely took stock of the camp, wandering like a blind woman, driven by my diadh-anam’s insistent pulse.

Batu understood. “Go,” he said gently to me. “Go, and find him.”

I went, following the call of my soul.

There were folk milling everywhere-folk, cattle, horses, and dogs. Astride Ember, I picked my way through them. Even here, people paused to stare. The Vralians in particular whispered and murmured amongst themselves. I wasn’t sure why, since it didn’t seem green eyes would be unusual for their kind. I supposed it was because I was dressed as a Tatar, despite my green eyes and half-D’Angeline features.

It seemed the games had already begun. Outside the perimeter of the vast campsite, I caught glimpses of boys racing on horseback. Within the camp, I passed men wrestling, stripped to the waist and grappling with one another.

I heard the sound of staves clattering.

My diadh-anam flared inside me.

Even at a distance, I picked Bao out of the fighters. Although his back was turned to me, there was no mistaking his acrobat’s agility, his quickness and grace, coupled with the sense of unbridled glee with which he fought, toying with his opponents. The air felt thick and dense around me, and I struggled to draw breath. Forcing myself to breathe the Breath of Wind’s Sigh, I approached slowly. Some yards from the makeshift fighting ring, I drew rein to watch.

Bao froze, his head tilted.

He knew I was there. Although he did not turn around, he knew it. I saw it in the tension of his strong, lean shoulders, the taut cords at the back of his neck.

The two husky Tatars he was fighting shouted and converged on him, staves whistling through the air.

In the blink of an eye, Bao went from utter stillness into blurred motion, spinning and vaulting. No longer toying, he dispatched his opponents with ruthless efficiency. One went down with a hard blow to the back of his skull, sprawling to measure his length on the trampled grass. The other, Bao tripped and laid flat in a move too quick for the eye to see. Seeing the butt of a staff poised to crush his throat, the man called out an urgent surrender.

Bao took a step backward, whipping his bamboo staff upright. He planted it in the dirt, standing with his head bowed.

I swallowed hard and dismounted, my heart thundering in my breast.

With his head lowered, his unruly black hair hung over his brow, obscuring his eyes. Absurdly, I thought how much it had grown since I had seen him last. I’d shaved it myself when Bao and Master Lo Feng and the others had taken on the guise of travelling monks sworn to the Path of Dharma.

He was clad in felted trousers and thick Tatar boots, bare-chested save for a woolen vest with ornate embroidery. His chest rose and fell swiftly, and sweat glistened on his sleek brown skin.

His knuckles were pale where they gripped his bamboo staff. I knew that staff well, bound with metal, carved with characters. It had been broken in two during the battle for White Jade Mountain.

I had made it whole.

I did not know how to do the same for us.

There were onlookers idly cheering Bao’s victory. Sensing the rising tension in the air, their cheers faltered and fell silent. Without looking at me, Bao gestured to his second opponent. Nodding, the man helped his fallen fellow to his feet, slinging one arm over his brawny shoulders. Together they limped away. Everyone else kept a safe distance.