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Sadu's first thought upon seeing the yol approach through the skies towards Dotharl Khaa was: I should strike that blasted thing down.

Only a few reasons held her back -- and of those, most could be overlooked. Sadu had slain yol before. It was as rude as killing a Goro's horse, but she had done that as well, without hesitation. Yol were proof of a warrior's rite of passage. Striking it dead would be a waste of a good cloudkin, true -- but hunting had been poor that week and Delger's pregnancy was not going well, and Sadu's temper sat sour in her gut, acidifying further with every second that she brooded. 

If the yol was from a hostile tribe, and its rider was simply swerving too close on its way to Dotharl Khaa on its way to another camp, then Sadu could hardly be blamed for warning them away from her tribe's territory. 

Unfortunately, the cloudkin grew steadily larger as Sadu watched, heading directly towards the oasis and making no secret of its intended destination. It was near enough now that she could reluctantly note the presence of a rider on its back, wearing a blot of color that she could not yet identify for tribal markings. Perched on one of the wooden fences loosely ringing the camp, she picked at her nails with a knife as she watched the blot of the cloudkin's wings slowly broaden, tempting her to reverse her decision with each downstroke they made.

"Khatun." It was one of her warriors, stopping beside her with a questioning glance; they hefted their spear as they looked pointedly up at the yol, and then back to her for confirmation. "Shall we prepare for an attack?"

Sadu waved them aside, scowling openly now. With the traveler marked by her people, she could no longer destroy the stranger quietly and hope that it would go conveniently unnoticed. 

"Not yet."

The yol was beginning a slow arc of descent, one that would bring them down close enough to ground that its rider would be in easy range of any missiles aimed their way. That alone ruled out the presence of an Oronir; they would have not dared to send only one warrior to Dotharl Khaa, and even if they had, the yol would have been brought high to loom over the camp first. Normally, the Oronir's excuse would have been that nothing short of a full hunting party would have properly demonstrated their strength and majesty -- but Sadu knew that cowardice was more likely. No Oronir traveled without one of their Buduga lackeys nearby, and for good reason. 

Shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun, she waited until she could glimpse the colors of the rider's clothing, hesitating only when she spotted a flash of red and rose. 

It was a Mol.

Intriguing, but the appearance of one of the godsspeakers called up different questions. The Mol had never made themselves companions to the Dotharl before; even after their victory at the Naadam, they had kept to their fields in the northeast Steppe, as far away as one could get upon the central plains before crossing the ravine of the Wound. They had -- as of yet -- seemed wise enough to not exert their temporary authority over the rest of the tribes, though that could always change. Not due to their own ambitions; if there were to be any poor decisions, the Mol would most likely be led into it from one of their allies. So far, they had shown themselves willing to obey any wish that the khagan and the Doman khan had extended, meekly trotting along behind the foreigners like a pup that had been fed once, and now could never be shaken free. 

With a sigh, Sadu pushed off her seat and dropped to the ground. "I will receive them," she decided aloud, more to convince herself than from any actual enthusiasm. If the Mol were going through the trouble of sending a yol, then it was a matter which was timely enough that they did not wish to use a horse. Delays would be of little value. "Mayhap our khagan's tribe has found a new enemy for us to fight. I can only hope we might be so fortunate."

She had enough time to finish taking a swig of kumis to fortify herself, and then their visitor had arrived.  

She was not entirely surprised to see that it was the khatun's grandchild, Cirina -- the only Mol, perhaps, who knew how to actually use a bow effectively in battle, rather than run away. Cirina had fought against the Dotharl in the Naadam, well enough that Sadu had a few fleeting memories of her presence there. But even after that skirmish, Cirina had only approached the Dotharl as one tribe to another -- either with the khagan, or in attendance to several of the khagan's companions. 

Never had it been alone, which did not bode well.

The Mol woman, at least, did not appear entirely at ease as she landed her yol a respectful distance from the camp, and approached on foot. She bowed as Sadu met her at the outskirts, her arms full with a rectangular bundle that had been wrapped carefully in ceremonial cloth.

"Greetings and well-met, Sadu Khatun," she announced. Her armaments had been left back on her yol, Sadu noted; either Cirina felt particularly confident, or particularly suicidal. Both remained a possibility. "I offer the Dotharl thanks for their hospitality."

Sadu arched an eyebrow. "Well?" she asked. After a heartbeat, she prodded, curiously, "What matter do you bring to our warriors this time? Have you another battle you wish to invite us to? I approve of the khagan's taste for bloodshed, but I have begun to wonder if they would bid us ride across the entire world at this rate."

Cirina finally straightened up, making an emphatic shake of her head that sent the tails of her hair flying. "No! Rather, this is not a matter between the khagan and the tribes, or even between the Mol and the Dotharl. This is... this is -- " 

She opened her mouth again, only to have her voice apparently desert her. Sadu felt her lips twitch several times before blossoming into a smirk.

But the Mol woman did not cower. She lifted her chin high, and then -- so soft it was nearly a squeak -- she said resolutely, "This is between myself as Cirina Mol, and you as Sadu Khatun."

"Oh ho." Delighted now by what could only be an invitation to a duel, Sadu felt her breath quicken. Cirina would be of little concern as an opponent -- but a fight was still a fight, and some light combat would do well to satisfy her blood. "Have the Mol begun to miss the feel of being crushed into the dirt, along with the rest of the dzo droppings? If you desire a reminder, I can gladly send you back home with more than enough welts to caution the rest of your tribe."

Even as Sadu's fingers tightened on her staff, however -- the pleasant buzz of aether beginning to tingle in her palms -- Cirina took a step daringly forward. 

"Sadu Khatun!" she announced. Her mouth was set in a firm, determined line. She shoved the bundle out like an attack; the intricate embroidery of its wrapping cloths was as bright as a rainbow after a storm. "As the gods decree, I present my first gift to you!"

A murmur rippled around the camp. The response was, unilaterally, one of amusement. Smirks appeared like mushrooms after a heavy rain. One Dotharl nudged her lover, jerking her head towards the display with a pointed, emphatic stare; clearly, one half of their relationship was ailing.

Sadu's sentiments were among them. But she was a khatun; she could not be careless in her response. Cirina may have been attempting to frame the matter as one between individuals rather than tribes, but any gift of value to a tribe's leader must be weighed -- personal or not.

She cocked her head at the other woman, and then swept her arm in a broad arc towards the nearest tent that had a table. "Let us have a look then!" she announced, both to Cirina and the entire camp. "Let us bask in the generosity of the Mol!"

It was a challenge, true. Sadu didn't attempt to conceal the way that her grin was half a snarl, already preparing to mock whatever petty trinket the Mol imagined was worth the Dotharl's time. She pulled off the intricately embroidered cloths with tidy yanks of her hands, careful not to ruin the fabric -- the stitching alone was valuable enough to be traded later, if the tribe needed to sell it -- but what lay underneath stripped all her mockery away on the spot.

The gift was a beautifully carved wand of dark wood: a thick branch which had been richly stained with dyes, polished and waxed until its entire length glistened in the sun. Its growth had forked several times before being cut from its tree, stretching out like mahogany lightning. Each of its ends had been capped in silver. Carvings streaked across the wood's surface, their edges already sanded down to keep from cutting a careless thumb that might grip it. Even that alone was not the whole of the wand's value; numerous glittering crimson and violet crystals had been woven to it with mythril wires, studding it like fruit.

The stones alone were enough to silence any jests. They were pure and unblemished, able to serve as healthy reservoirs of aetheric energy -- perfect matches for Sadu's magicks. Her hands already itched to pick the wand up. 

She resisted, however, searching for words to fit her tongue. Whatever taunts she had originally planned had vanished; this was no useless toy. 

"I did not imagine the Mol had either the expertise or the resources for such tools." Unable to ignore the temptation completely, she reached out to trace a finger along the base of the wand, smiling as a shiver of aether tickled her skin. "Is there a secret means of wealth you have been hiding from us?"

"We do not have many who specialize in such craftsmanship," Cirina admitted. She had been silent the whole time that Sadu had examined the gift, her hands folded before her. Now, however, Sadu could see how tightly her fingers were gripping each other, diverting her nervousness into her bones. "I had to consult with many of the traders at Reunion for its creation. As for the funds, I was able to work with some of the connections through the khagan. The crystals originate from outside the Steppe -- will that still work? Are they all right?"

The woman's sudden uncertainty was a reminder of the entire nature of the gift itself; Sadu glanced up sharply towards her, and then back down at the wand once more. Cirina was no wielder of magicks. It would have taken a great deal of investment to forge such a weapon, far outside the Mol's experience. Significant time would have been required, along with attention to Sadu's own preferences. 

Nothing about Cirina's effort seemed insincere.

Sadu stroked one of the fire crystals, finding no flaw to even pretend to lie about. "I will fight a round with you with it," she offered playfully, by way of reassurance, "if you desire."

As expected, Cirina swiftly ducked her head. "I would be of little sport for the khatun. But, I am pleased that this token is welcomed by you. May I have leave to deliver another?"

Ah. Setting aside her growing affection for the wand -- she could already feel its aether warming her soul, and the other Dotharl watching had begun to cast equally hungry eyes towards it -- Sadu leaned back against the table. Cynicism warned her to remain suspicious, but even if the Mol were intent on servile flattery, the Dotharl still profited. "You said that this task was set by your gods, yes? And -- judging by these riches -- they have decreed you offer all your wealth to the Dotharl? Mayhap 'tis a sign that we have found greater favor with them than you," she teased, half-serious as she considered the chance. "Or do your gods often order you upon such foolishness?"

It was a more careless taunt than she intended, a crueler slip of her tongue -- and Cirina did not miss it. Instantly, the woman glanced up, her gaze fierce. Though there was no bow upon her back, her shoulders were as rigid as if they carried a quiver at the ready.

"It is not foolishness," she said crisply, a real anger in her eyes now: the heat of battle brewing, willing to be unleashed. A warrior's spirit. "It is faith."

At this, the onlookers around them finally quieted, shifting their feet uncomfortably. A few of them muttered discreetly; they knew what such words meant. 

They had said them before, many times. They had said them on behalf of themselves.

Sobering as well, Sadu straightened up. The misstep was ungracious in the face of such a gift -- as well as such honesty. "I did not mean to call your beliefs mere foibles." Pausing to search for her next words, she was pleased enough to see Cirina's shoulders already beginning to ease in their tightness. "Understand that we Dotharl have heard much on the subject of faith from the other tribes. Some are curious, but bring us no harm, such as the Goro and their horse-worship. Others, such as the Gharl, we are grateful for, as they keep the Nadaam renewed by reminding us that all the land is one -- if naught else, from their travels alone. And then there are the Oronir, who use their faith as professed law, bestowing themselves with false divinity so that they have cause to preen and puff themselves up like a fattened bird for the pot. They use their beliefs solely for themselves. Even should Azim himself descend upon them in some form," she added harshly, casting a glance in the direction of the Dawn Throne as if her eyes alone could impale it, "I doubt they would heed his word, but would instead think themselves his better as well."

It was bitter enough to speak of such matters; Sadu dismissed them with a wave of her hand, dragging her own attention back to the moment. "I assumed you Mol to be much like the Uyagir, yes?" she concluded, sizing Cirina up with a pointed sweep of her eyes. "Your faith bids you be humble, and so our tribes have never crossed interests before. And yet, you cross them now with me. Your faith gives you bravery, it seems, and not arrogance. But for how long?"

The second gift was a more serious matter. 

After how roughly Cirina had been received the first time, Sadu did not imagine that the Mol woman would visit the camp again. Sadu had drawn blood freely on other warriors who had dared to mock the Dotharl and their ways; all across the Steppe, there were scars which bore her name in the gleam of their thickened tissues. She would not have stomached the same degree of insult to her tribe. 

Cirina -- despite her meek demeanor -- did not strike her as the type to swallow a blow without protest, scuttling away obediently in hopes of currying future favors. 

No: Sadu had likely provided a great enough offense to warn the Mol off. Any further exchanges between their people would surely be delivered by a different rider entirely.

But even as Sadu hung on to her doubt, she found herself casting the occasional glance towards the sky anyway -- out of curiosity, she told herself, and spoke of it to no one.

On the fourth morning, the scouts called out the presence of a yol. 

Sadu was in the middle of checking the herds when it came; they had lost three of their best ewes recently to a particularly cunning baras, and were down both milk and meat. This time, she held her tongue as she watched the Mol woman approach, Cirina's arms weighed down with a new, inexplicable offering to the tribe. 

"Here, Sadu Khatun," she murmured respectfully. "If it pleases you to accept it."

Laying her leather-wrapped bundle upon the table, the Mol undid the knots and parted the cover.

Dozens of pristine arrows were inside, bristling in clusters and tied carefully to keep the shafts from being damaged during the trip. Each one was a perfect match for a Dotharli quiver, even down to the fletching. The suitability had not stopped at merely the dyes. The breed of cloudkin which provided the feathers nested further south, closer to Dotharl territory than the mountains of the Mol -- and yet, not a single arrow came dressed in substitute feathers. Cirina would have had to seek the materials out specifically, rather than use her own supplies.

Of course, Sadu thought grimly. Cirina was an archer herself. She would have paid attention to the details. 

Like the wand, it was a remarkable boon on every level -- but Sadu could not rejoice. Rather than show any outward approval, she allowed her expression to darken, drawing in upon itself until only a grim line defined her mouth. 

Yanking the leathers shut, she crossed to the edge of the tent and glanced about, gauging to see how many other warriors were nearby. "Shar!" she called out to the first Dotharl she spotted. "Bring me a skin of kumis and two cups. Then bid the tribe to leave us be."

Rude as it was to her guest, Sadu kept her back turned as she waited at the edge of the tent, sharply aware of the Mol woman standing nervously behind her at the table. Her thoughts were already ordered. Like the movements of warriors on the battlefield, she could make a fair estimation of how Cirina might react and what motivations might be hidden beneath such gestures -- but Cirina had already surprised her once. Twice, by returning again. 

Perhaps, there could yet be a third time.

Only after the kumis had arrived did Sadu finally resume the conversation, setting down both of the heavy metal cups with a dull pair of thunks. Pulling out a pair of sitting benches from underneath the table, she uncapped the skin and poured for each of them, not bothering with the formalities. There were some advantages of outranking her guest, after all. 

Cirina, wisely enough, accepted her cup nervously, but she took her first sip without hesitation. On any part of the Steppe, kumis was not customarily given to enemies -- but the moment was not a jovial one, and she seemed to recognize its seriousness, keeping her silence and waiting for Sadu to speak.

Exhaling briskly as the slight sourness of the drink washed down her throat, Sadu braced herself for the business at hand. "I should not have to say this, but in the event that I must," she began, allowing her voice neither warmth or merriment. "You have brought us weapons, but they may well be used to your disadvantage someday, protecting our warriors even as they strike yours down. You may wish to take your gift back now, before I lay full claim to it."

It was a difficult ultimatum to make, weighed against the potential resources that the tribe could yet receive if she allowed Cirina to continue carrying on. Sadu did not truly imagine that the Mol would be so craven; if they feared retaliation from the other tribes after their reign was over and the next Naadam came, then they would be wooing the Oronir instead. The greater surprise was that Cirina's gods had sent the woman to the Dotharl at all.

But luring people on through manipulations and hollow promises was not the Dotharli way either, and Sadu grimly waited for the cost of holding to it.

"Then that is a responsibility that I will take whole." Like a bow pulled taut, Cirina's posture drew itself rigidly straight, her hands folding neatly in her lap; her entire demeanor was that of a ruler, soft, and yet resolute. Enduring, with the strength of a people who knew habitual mockery, and who yet kept to their traditions as unapologetically as any Dotharl. "As well as any reparations that must be made."

Sadu narrowed her eyes. "To arm one tribe may be seen as an act of war against another," she pressed.

It was Cirina's turn now to gather her thoughts, biting her lip briefly before rallying once more. "We Mol are a peaceful people," she began softly. "Life is difficult enough amidst the dangers of the Steppe without needing to invite more. We seek only to live our lives as the gods decree, and keep our days accordingly. To some, that alone can be seen as aggression."

A simple enough response, and one that was barely worth the breath used to speak it. Sadu did not bother to hide her scoff of disappointment, scowling into her drink. 

"And what is peace for you, Cirina Mol? And do not say it is simply the absence of battle," she added tartly. "After all, the gods might bid you to war at any moment. To conquer the Steppe itself, belike! What does such peace look like to your tribe? What do your people desire in life?"

She held her breath after asking the question, wondering if the Mol woman would balk further -- but Cirina shook her head, already opening her mouth as she rallied to the challenge. 

"I would be lying if I claimed there was no uncertainty to it." Her fingers wrapped around her cup, like pink flower petals against the silver. "The gods may choose a path for you that you never expected, and which causes you to reconsider much about what you had once thought for your life. It is its own kind of battle. But it gives its own peace as well -- much like yours, Sadu Khatun," she added, looking up at last from the weathered table to meet Sadu's gaze. "The Dotharl fill their days with the tempest of combat, and do not know when death might come. Yet, that very same battle is no longer a matter of fear. Your beliefs have become a part of your very souls, so that you are one and the same -- and so each moment is not a struggle to keep from doubting your faith, but instead an opportunity to perceive how it is already part of the world around you. You need only find a way to see it. Peace, for the Mol, does not depend on if we fight or not. It is that we have the freedom to believe."

This time, the Mol's answer was strangely satisfying. It fit like the first pole of a sturdy fence: reliable and strong, leading the direction for the rest. That same pillar lay at the heart of how Sadu had built her own life, and she was as much pleased to hear Cirina's interpretation as she was to hear the woman's acceptance of it.

"Yes," she acknowledged, allowing her expression to finally thaw into the curve of a smile. "It is purpose, after all." 

In reply, Cirina took a long draught from her kumis, silent as the liquid settled in her belly -- as if to draw courage for the question next to come. 

Then she took another sip, and then a third.

Curious, Sadu watched as Cirina focused intently on the drink, eyes lowered in concentration. Finally -- if only to prevent the Mol from drowning in her own beverage -- she spoke. 

"So you are serious, then. This decree from your gods sends you not once, but twice to another's camp, and still you obey." Tapping her nails against the rim of her cup, Sadu deliberated over which nuances might be best to strike at first. "Speak again of these terms which have bound you."

"Six gifts in full." Judging from how promptly Cirina blurted her reply, that particular question could not have been too painful. "At first, I planned to base them upon an elemental cycle, in order to honor the magicks that you weave. The wand was meant to represent Fire to start, as you wield its powers with such deftness. Yet... when I sought inspiration at your camp during my first visit, I could not imagine that further tokens of wealth or glory would suit. 'Twas daily supplies that would be most appreciated -- and which were also most lacking."

With that, the Mol woman fidgeted suddenly, her reluctance surfacing like a stone being churned from the earth. "The next element, I am told, would have been Ice. Then Wind. In the end, I could not make the pattern fit. And yet... it would have been foolish to delay further provisions for your people simply for that reason alone."

Pleased by the explanation, Sadu leaned back on her stool, tail curling in interest. The reasoning was sound -- and wise enough that she set aside her drink for the moment, drumming her fingers on the wood as she considered the implications.

"You chose my tribe's needs over flattering me," she remarked. "An Oronir would have seen such consideration as an insult."

Cirina's mouth pursed in the smallest stubborn frown: a ruckle of stung pride, perhaps, or nervousness that the drink had yet to wash away. "'Tis not the Oronir I seek to impress."

It was impossible for Sadu to hold back a smirk at the sight. She took a deep swig of her own kumis, savoring the tang. "There is the spirit I keep seeing hidden in that meek shell of yours! Very well," she relented grandly, filling both their cups back up to the brim. "I will accept this little duty of yours. Not because I think your gods have great wisdom in assigning it, but because you have the spirit to face me when you say such things. It is endearing. Like finding a sheep with fangs!"

She unpacked the first layer of arrows methodically, allowing herself the time to enjoy the bounty of them now that she had negotiated the consequences. A warm satisfaction rolled through her chest as she began to mentally dole them out across the tribe. Dagasi would benefit most; tending the herds was far from bloodless work, not when every belly on the Steppe had a hunger for meat. Mergen, too, training her son to the bow as he relearned his touch for war. 

As she sorted out the rest -- blithely taking up more and more of the table, even shoving their drinks aside -- she heard Cirina clear her throat. "You... do not find it cowardly? Some feel it so. That we hide behind whatever our gods say, and that our udgan give not prophecies, but lies clad in the untouchable mantle of divinity."

"Such people are fools." Sadu stacked a dozen extra arrows in the pile intended for the scouts; there had been word of Buduga prowling further south than they should, and Maral was still young enough to appeal to kidnappers. "Point them out to me the next time we pass them by, and I will teach them the worth of prayer as their blood cools upon the dirt."

She heard a soft, incredulous laugh. "You make it sound as if we are to visit Reunion together to frequent the stalls for market."

Sadu grinned, lifting one of the projectiles and squinting down it. "Shall we go now, and see who dares pick a quarrel with us together?"

The arrow's point drifted towards the Mol, bounding the world within a single sighting line. Cirina's face floated beyond it: a target that refused to flinch. "I would not make enemies of the Qestir," she protested -- but there was a small, pleased smile on her lips, and Sadu found herself relishing it.

Steering herself back towards the matter at hand, she set the arrow upon another pile, counting down what remained. The tribe would need more -- their stores had been gravely depleted after the last Naadam -- but these supplies were significant enough that Sadu would be able to pull back some of the hunters who had been assigned to the duty, and set them back to the business of chasing other kinds of prey. Cirina had brought the Dotharl more than mere armaments: she had brought them resources, which were too often a sparse luxury for the tribe.

Such thoughtfulness could not go unanswered. Sadu considered her options. "Since you will not be deterred from your madcap task, then I will not waste my breath continuing the same. Here," she added, pausing in her work so that she could unbuckle one of her armlets. Dirt had been smudged across the cloth toggles, and she scowled at it in vague annoyance that the gesture was not pristine. "Wear my token whenever you approach our camps, and my warriors will know to leave you unchallenged. With it, you may come and go from Dotharl Khaa as you please, even should I be struck down before the next sun."

The offer stunned the Mol into silence; Cirina blinked several times before reaching towards the armlet with both hands, her palms cupped to receive it respectfully despite the stains. "It is an honor, Sadu Khatun," she murmured, running her thumb along the edge of one of the silver ornaments. "But one that I fear I have not earned yet."

"Mayhap I merely wish to see which sorts of entertainments you plan to bring next," Sadu tossed back breezily. "Come, then! Be our guest for the sennight so that you may return to your tribe fully rested -- and also so that you may join the hunt tomorrow, and watch these arrows of yours be put to good use."

The evenings came and went all too quickly over the next eight days. Intrigued by their Mol guest, a number of warriors had seen fit to begin friendly interrogations of their own, and Cirina had rapidly become bombarded by an alternating series of challenges and discussions of technique with the other archers, debating everything from the best wax for bowstrings to the curvature of the bows themselves. It was a realm of expertise far outside that of Sadu's purview. Still, she smirked along at how avidly the arguments rolled on, carding wool with the rest of the tribe around the campfire at night as she listened to wilder and wilder tales of marksmanship that not even the gods could match.

When Cirina's yol departed this time, Sadu was not the only one to stand and watch it go. 

It seemed that she did not know what to do first when the Mol finally returned eleven suns later -- nearly a full sennight and a half, enough to make Sadu begin directing an irritated glare at the empty skies. Even after Cirina's yol finally winged into view, a million urges quarreled under Sadu's skin. All at once, she wanted to yell a raucous greeting, or to play a joke by haughtily demanding the newest tribute to the tribe -- or to toss Cirina over the back of a nearest horse and insist they race immediately before the woman had even a chance to settle in. 

"Chotai and Dayir have been plotting to drag you away to the marks as soon as they see you," she sang out instead in warning, and grinned broadly when Cirina twisted a hip to display the fully-laden quiver of arrows slung upon her belt.

The gift this time was no less rich than its predecessors, though modest enough at a glance that it still could escape the careless eye of a thief: a small, wooden chest which was decorated with carvings of yol in flight, graceful swirls of wind and wing that had been stained dark with oil. As Sadu cracked the lid open, the smell of tobacco rose strong through the air.

Encouraged by the odor, she peeked only briefly at the contents, seeing a dark nest of well-cured leaves that had been bundled carefully to protect them from excess moisture and the risk of mold. While she herself rarely smoked, a number of Dotharl were fond of their pipes -- and other tribes would pay lavishly for such a bounty.

She shut the chest abruptly, eyes half-shuttered in deep satisfaction as she considered how best to allocate such a prize. "These little tokens grow more interesting with each visit you make. I admit, I am surprised by the degree of your sincerity. No treasure exists that will keep us from sparing your tribe -- not in the Naadam, nor any other battlefield. We Dotharl are not fools enough to stay our hand in exchange for pretty trinkets. Not even yours, little Mol," she reminded them both out loud, letting the lilting menace of it coil around their feet like a serpent. "No matter how sweet your gifts. Nor that of your own self."

All this time, Cirina had stood at formal attention near the entrance of the yurt, waiting diligently on the small rug that had been thrown down to help soak up mud from guests. Only after Sadu had signaled her acceptance of the gift did she relax with a visible sigh, shifting her boots -- though she still did not leave the entryway until she was finally waved inside, as if observing the need for an explicit invitation as rigidly as if it had been marked with a fence draped in enemy colors.

"The Mol do not hope to ingratiate ourselves," she said again. It was as baffling a claim as the first time Sadu had heard it. "These gifts are not made on behalf of my tribe, but come from my own hands -- and mine alone."

Sadu arched an eyebrow. "A strange choice, regardless. You are fond of that Doman khan, are you not?" The tobacco chest felt snug in her arms. She wanted to shove it out towards Cirina in challenge, daring the other woman to abandon her resolve and revoke the gift entirely. Even as the thought crossed her mind, however, Sadu's arms reversed the decision for her, pulling the container tight against her body. "Surely the gods should have sent you to wheedle favor from him instead."

Cirina, thankfully, left the gift where it was. "I am. Fond of him, I mean." Her fingers knitted nervously together where they were clasped at her waist, her gaze dropping away to the ground. "There is so much hope within Hien. After recovering from his injuries, he could have sought out any number of other tribes that would have gained him greater advantages. But he chose to remain with the Mol, and to live by our rules, even when he might have sought to dismiss them as an outsider. He respected our gods... and by doing so, respected us, even as others might have disparaged him for it."

She turned aside suddenly, busying herself with folding up the heavily brocaded wrapping cloths she had used to carry the chest safely all the way from Mol Iloh. "The gods do not tell the Mol to harden our hearts," she said, making each fold with rigid precision, and then pinching the fabric to crease it. "It may be that I will love him for all of my life." 

This time, Sadu looked away first. Every piece of advice within her was best suited for a Dotharl: that one should nurture such passions as fiercely as possible, so that both spirits might be brought together again in the promised years to come. The inconveniences of a single life were only temporary. The heart was eternal. So long as you kept it strong, it would only be a matter of time before you met each of your loved ones again, over and over in an endless dance of glory.

But the Mol did not embrace death, and their souls did not return a second time. Cirina would grow old, as the Dotharl did not. There would be no further chances for her. 

Such bleakness felt unaccountably like weakness. "A poor fate," Sadu declared. For once, the assurance tasted sour instead of smug. "Your soul will wither in wanting. Take him into your bed for a few evenings, and drink your fill. Then forget him."

Yet when Cirina shook her head, her smile was unexpectedly strong. "I may have affection for Hien, it is true. But I also love my people, and I love the Steppe. The stars above, the sight of horses coursing across the plains, the sound of bowstrings at the marks. The gods, and the ways that they guide us. I love all these things," she continued: so blunt, so fearless, so matter-of-fact that it felt like a declaration of battle itself. "And even if the gods released me from all my duties to the tribe, and told me I could go wherever I willed and indulge in any whim that struck me... I would stay here. Doma is not my home. To live there and be partnered to Hien -- wedded or not, it does not matter -- would take me from the rest of what I loved. I may desire him. But there is more that I desire, and I will not relinquish any part of that, either."

There was a ruthless finality to the woman's words, as heavy as a hammer; when she swung her gaze back up again, looking directly at Sadu, it was with the focus of a warrior on the field. This conviction was familiar. It shone like an inferno of the spirit, a strength of will which raged inside every Dotharl who knew the glory of the names which they carried like treasures inside them -- and who strove to celebrate their lives, regardless of the odds they were given.

Sadu exhaled slowly, something settling back into place inside her, though she did not know what.

"Good," she said at last: firm and equally unyielding. It was a rare form of praise from her lips, even if Cirina did not know it. "You, too, are that devoted to your people, though you are not yet khatun. We who lead may love freely, but our first consort is -- and always will be -- the tribe. Even the swollen, pompous Oronir child sitting upon the Dawn Throne understands that."

With that, Sadu tossed her head, heading for her personal supplies as she hunted for a safe place to store the tobacco chest. "But I grow weary of speaking of this Doman so much. Nor do I wish to ponder the Oronir, either." Cracking open a storage chest of blankets, Sadu wedged the tobacco neatly between two bundles of baras pelts, where it would not be damaged even if she forgot and jostled it. "The gods have not demanded you leave immediately, yes? Then you are ours once more to tend to. Let us saddle two horses and go hunting for as long as there is sun to see by. Afterwards, you may share a pipe with me, and then -- mayhap -- I might be convinced to let you go home again."

They pushed their steeds hard across the Steppe that week, as reckless as riders bid to carry a message of war from valley to peak. It was good to let the blood bubble; Sadu yielded to the urge of it, an open wound allowed to leak a trail behind her and excise both good humors and the bad. Together, they traveled the boundaries of Dotharli territory, investigating reports where other tribes had begun to encroach, small pockets where the Gesi had begun to graze their herds and the Bolir had thought to gather dung. Cirina kept up with her with surprising alacrity, using no trickery in her horsemanship; she was a fierce rider, as good as any Noykin, and Sadu grinned as they tore across the malms.

It helped to translate restlessness into action. Sadu's hands had struck a mutiny on her. If they had been Dotharli warriors, she would have called them out by now into a sparring ring. They kept wanting to touch Cirina, and to keep touching: playful shoves to the other woman's shoulder, pokes of her fingers, little tugs on Cirina's sleeve and belt that peppered the day like firebursts.

The first of the tobacco was doled out at the end of Cirina's visit, a portion going to Reunion for trading. Sold wisely, it would earn the tribe more than a dozen sheep: ones young enough to thicken the herd with many years of offspring. Sadu listened to the plans of her traders -- all of them experienced hagglers that she could trust with the task -- and then bid them good hunting in their own way. 

"You will come again?" she found herself asking as she walked Cirina back to her yol on the last day. A needless question, surely: the Mol had to return three times more, or else be forsaken by gods and tribe alike. 

But the flash of Cirina's smile felt like a treasure that had been awarded her, rather than a shallow politeness. "Of course, Sadu Khatun," she promised reassuringly -- and then was gone once more, a dwindling speck that disappeared all too quickly into the everlasting blue of the sky.

The time until the Mol's return passed both in the blink of an eye, and agonizingly slow whenever Sadu stopped to consider it -- which was more often than made sense on any practical level. In all the endless business that went into care of the tribe, Cirina's presence had somehow entered the lists. Sadu thought of the woman as she discussed how much felt the camp's yurts would need for repairs, the numbers coming up painfully short. She thought of her in the evenings when the campfires were lit and the Dotharl gathered together to share news of the day's events, eating supper and splitting the communal chores. At night, when she would touch the wand in its case, light glittering off every crystal.

She thought of Cirina far too much by any measure -- and yet, she did not stop.

The fourth gift that Cirina brought was more valuable in many ways than even the arrows: a fulm-high chest of medicines, whose contents were packaged carefully with wax seals and padded dividers to keep the glass vials from cracking. There were numerous remedies to aid with childbirth, for clearing the lungs of congestion and healing the stomach from rotten foods. The greatest prizes were the tonics against infection, and those were what Sadu greedily counted up first as she ran her fingers over the bottles and herbs. Far too many Dotharl died from the fevers and rot which came from a wound gone foul. A warrior might survive the claws of a beast, or the arrow of another hunter -- only to perish from poison in the blood later, shivering and vomiting their way to an ignoble death.

For this round, Sadu had received Cirina in an open-aired tent without making a grand display of it; she was glad, too, for the sight of such remedies might only spur the tribe to a false sense of strength. Many of the infusions were already sorely needed. At least five bottles could be immediately dispersed across the tribe, and that was not counting the warriors who had been quietly nursing their wounds for lack of any known relief.

Sadu could not imagine how low the yol must have flown in the sky with its bounty clutched in its talons, or how carefully -- but flown it had, its rider determined to bring every single vial of medicine to them intact.

She shook her head at it, closing the chest and smoothing her hand across the lid approvingly. "You honor us. As thanks, I will kill any beast upon the Steppe that you wish to dine on for your meal tonight. Do you wish a fine haunch of manzasiri? Or a roast tail of anala, baked in a crackling of its own scales? 'Tis difficult to cook an elemental, but they are savoury enough to make the effort worthwhile."

Cirina had been watching her reaction with a pleased flush on her cheeks, but at the question, her brow furrowed. "We do not often have the chance to enjoy anala at Mol Iloh." She pursed her lips, a thoughtful, calculating expression stealing its way across her face. "How does it taste in... buuz?"

Delighted by the interest, Sadu reached for her staff without further prodding. "Let us go, then!" she crowed. "For as long as there is daylight to spare, we shall chase down the largest anala on the sands. If there are none suitable, I will challenge every last one until they bring their greatest forces out to play -- or else, forfeit all their lives together." 

She strode eagerly towards the horses -- only to pause when Cirina lingered, wavering at the very edge of the tent's shadow. "You need not brave such risks on my behalf, Khatun," the Mol deferred. "I know you fear no foe, nor death itself. But I would not wish you to perish on a mere hunt, either."

Sadu shrugged; the possibility had not even occurred to her. "To be slain when you have only one life must be a terrifying prospect. But a Dotharl has no such limitation. Instead, it is the denial of being reborn that is frightening. Others shy from battle. For us, that is our form of peace."

She waved them both forward, eager to begin the day's work, and Cirina reluctantly began to follow as they made their way to the horses. Her voice was softer now, nearly lost within the noises of the camp. "You have told me that your hand would not stay from violence, should we face each other again. If it came to it... would you kill me as well, Sadu Khatun?"

The answer should have been easy. Sadu had no more reason to think about it than if any other outsider had asked: a glib assurance of death on at least one side, and possibly everyone else within a five-malm radius.

Instead, she frowned. "A curious question." Buckling her horse's saddle in place, Sadu swung the reins around, slapping them against the cushion. "If I said no, it would insult your strength. If I said yes," she continued, "then I believe you would not consider it an honor. Unless your gods told you that day that you would perish? I suppose death would be seen as a service to them under those circumstances. So tell me first, should you have such decrees. Else... I suppose I will have to kill any who seek your life otherwise, so you will not betray your gods with such disloyalty."

Cirina absorbed the breeziness of the logic with only a blink, not showing any signs of being offended. Then her lips twitched, softened by wry humor. "I cannot say I wish to see you dead either, Sadu Khatun. Even if it is a glory."

Sadu snorted; her horse, caching the sound, echoed it noisily. "Do not forget that we Dotharl are immortal, Mol. My true death will come only on the day when my soul abandons its courage -- and should that day come, then it would deserve to lose its way back on the road."

Completing a final check of her riding tack, Sadu whirled back to Cirina. "Ride with me," she announced: half a demand, half an invitation. "We shall air out the furs and I will hunt in your name all sennight. Should you wish to sup upon naught but anala, I will empty the desert itself. Simply tell me what you wish slain, and I will bring its cooling body to your feet."

For a moment, Cirina's face was inscrutable: like the stone face of the Dusk Mother watching over them from Her Throne, filled with secrets best suited for the night. 

"How could I refuse?" she whispered, and then they were off.

The desert gave them several anala early in the day, large enough that Sadu had been finally forced to call a halt; the meat would not keep for long, thanks to the nature of the elementals. At Cirina's request, they moved north to the plains for the rest of the week, prowling through the grasslands instead. The pickings were unremarkable until the very last afternoon, when Sadu took down two gulo gulos too bold for their hunting grounds -- but Cirina snatched three cloudkin with her bow, deftly rising in her saddle and turning with the grace of a silk banner rippling in the wind. The woman had been as steady in the stirrups as if she were one with the horse itself, eyes intent only on her targets, fearlessly trusting her steed. 

It was not a grand victory, or at least not one worth remembering in any song. Still, Sadu found herself strangely proud of it. The week had been satisfyingly productive, and Cirina made no sign of wishing to hurry back home across the Steppe. There had been plenty of opportunities to stretch out during each visit and speak idly with the other woman, enjoying every fork that unfolded in their conversations. 

They had just finished taking their evening meal in private together when Sadu thought to present her question -- spurred, perhaps, by the satisfaction of rich meat in her belly and sufficient blood already shed. The claws, teeth and pelts of their kills were being stripped by the leatherworkers of the tribe; the feathers, for fletching. The air in her yurt was saturated with spices from their supper. Hunger had wiped the dishes clean, bread speaking up the last of the sauces and oils. Every ache of Sadu's body felt satisfying, proof of a day well-spent. Even Cirina had relaxed enough to begin tending to her bow, humming an idle tune under her breath as she studied the string. 

Sadu checked the tea to determine how much was remaining, and poured for them both. Dark fluid guttered into their cups, strong and bracing. "Tell me, Mol, who has lived the longest in your tribe's records? I would hear more about how dutifully the elder gods attend to your people throughout your years."

It was not a common question for Sadu to ask of another xaela -- nor even to find interesting by the slightest degree. And yet, the more that she mulled over the Mol's beliefs, the more that curiosity had continued to brew within her gut. To have a god plotting over you for longer than a few decades seemed like an excessive amount of meddling, like a needy cousin who insisted on having all their fingers in your affairs. She did not wish to openly call it ridiculous -- not when Cirina had shown nothing but deference to the Dotharl so far -- but no matter how much Sadu wrestled with it, she could not imagine any diety bothering to care for more than a few years at a time.

Surely even gods had better things to do than scrutinize someone's sheep herding for that long.

The furs had been spread around the central firepit, at a far enough distance to keep them safe from stray sparks. Cirina herself had nestled beneath them, oiling the wood of her bow -- but at Sadu's question, she glanced up, looking more thoughtful than offended.

"Among the Mol, our oldest by far was Odgerel Khatun -- she of the Ninety-Nine Thaws, who led us countless generations ago. It was said she was blessed with an uncommon sensitivity to the wishes of the gods, so that she could hear their whispers on the slightest breeze, and watch truths from another's soul unfurl before her like embroidered stories upon a cloth." Shifting her posture unconsciously as she recited the tale, Cirina's hands folded neatly over the bow in her lap, going still and forgotten in favor of the legend. "As befits her name, it was said that Odgerel Khatun lived to see ninety-nine years of age, beloved by the gods and fully devoted to their will. On the eve of what would have been her hundredth year, the gods called her to them even as the moon reached its apex in the sky, and she passed into their care before the dawn."

Balancing her cup of tea in her hand, Sadu sprawled back out over the pillows, stretching out her legs luxuriously in relaxation as she digested both food and words. To come so close to such an achievement, and then to have it stolen away -- even for a Mol, that could not sit well.

"I would have fought the gods for that," she remarked, wrinkling her nose at the spotted leather stretched across the underside of the yurt's roof. "They would have had no right to steal that glory from me."

It was, Sadu recognized, a potential insult -- as rude to a Mol as the contradiction of a Dotharl's name. But Cirina laughed unexpectedly, the sound of her merriment like the tiny chiming bells set to adorn a dzo harness. "You are not the first to say such a thing. The story of Odgerel of the Ninety-Nine Thaws is a lesson we are given in childhood, so that we can consider how best to understand the gods, even when we may imagine they may be punishing us instead. The conclusion that many of us come to is that it was a gift to honor the vast amount of what Odgerel Khatun had lived, rather than a denial. In ending her suns in such a way, she would not have to feel the unspoken need to survive another hundred years, and consider how the world had changed in that time. That way, the wealth of her experiences was preserved as it was, without measuring it against what had either been gained or lost after a full century." 

Deftly coiling up the string of her bow and tucking it away in its pouch, Cirina cocked her head towards Sadu. "And what of your tribe? What is the longest that a Dotharl has ever lived?"

The question reversed was more difficult than the asking of it; if the ages of other tribes meant little, they were worth even less to a Dotharl. "Thirty-seven, I think, was the last anyone cared to count. Ancient, by our ways." Sadu shrugged, and swallowed down a sip of her tea. "After a time, the body begins to grow weary. It becomes used up -- all the faster if you have pitted it against the dangers of the world. Your reflexes become dull, slow. But once you are reborn, all is restored. Why yearn for the frailties of age, when valor will renew you in flesh as well as soul?"

With that, Sadu wiggled her toes impishly against the furs, pleased with their softness along her skin. Her belly was full of stew. It was a good moment to be in: her yurt was secure against attack, there were no pressing errands to attend to, and she had the pleasant company of another. "The only regret I have is that I must waste so much time growing skilled in battle again after being reborn. But we will see how far my strength can carry me this time. Mayhap I may still be slaughtering fools upon the plains even 'till the venerable age of thirty-nine. Ha!"

"Venerable?" Cirina was still blinking at that number, clearly taken aback. "I am but twenty-one, and there are many times when I feel that I would need twice those years before I can even begin to lead the Mol wisely. This elder you speak of, were they one of your other leaders -- or yourself as khan or khatun?"

Sadu shook her head, brushing aside the possibility like a gnat. "I believe I died at twenty-eight summers last time. Before that, I forget. The battles were glorious, however. In my last life, my own flames consumed me as I burned over thirty Hotgo to ash." Memory lit her face in a wolfish grin; as a child, Sadu had thrilled to hear the story each time from anyone fortunate enough to survive it, until she had memorized each retelling by heart. "I did not die when we conquered the last of them in this life, of course. If I cannot match that same brilliance with my next death, then I will shame myself beyond imagining. Mayhap I will be fortunate enough to roast the Dawn Throne to char, so that with each fall of rain that visits the Steppe for years to come, the stones will weep black into the waters below."

But -- perhaps due to Mol squeamishness -- Cirina did not seem nearly as enthusiastic at the prospect. She frowned, and then smoothed out her expression in an attempt to hide it, though her brow remained knitted. "That... does not give you many more years to live, Sadu Khatun."

"Aye. Make certain that you live long enough to rival your legendary udgan," Sadu demanded loftily. "That way, you may witness it all and tell it to me upon my return -- again and again."

She thought the matter settled there, content to mull over warm thoughts of slaughter and glory to lull her into sumptuous dreams, but Cirina made another disheartened noise, and Sadu stifled a similar sound of her own.

"Twenty-eight." The woman had not stopped brooding. "Then, you must have very few years left with us now in this life. It seems as if you have barely had a chance to... to --"

The Mol caught herself before she could misspeak too ungraciously; she pressed her lips firmly together, and then picked out her words carefully, like fishing for the best feathers to strip from a slain cloudkin. "I know you do not fear death, Sadu Khatun. But do you ever wish for the chance to see... more in each lifetime, if only to witness for yourself how events turn out?"

"A Dotharl cannot afford to live much longer than that." From anyone else, such words might have earned a lashing in the sparring ring, and deservedly so. Sadu knew better of Cirina by now. Stretching out an arm, she fished for the teapot, weighing it gingerly to evaluate how much water remained. "All too quickly, the body fades. It whines and complains, and then refuses to obey when you tell it to work. If you cannot join the battle and become invigorated by it, then your spirit will not have the fervor it needs to struggle through the shroud of death to be reborn. Better to throw yourself into the fight while you still can, and win your next rebirth before your flesh loses the chance for you."

But Cirina's gloom did not abate, even when Sadu waggled the teapot towards her in an offer to pour -- until finally, she was forced to make a noise of exasperation, kicking off the furs as she aimed a finger at the other woman to get her attention. 

"Do not act as if my body is already cooling on the sands! Our numbers are far too few after the Hotgo to act impetuously. Even the brightest soul cannot be reborn without flesh to house it in. And tossing a warrior who is still a child into battle earns them more scars than celebrations," Sadu added ruthlessly. "We must die in glory to live again, it is true. But it is in living that we create those chances for glory to open that road to us. I do not mean to waste my blood on the nearest bara's claws! You will have to suffer my presence for a few years more until the Dotharl are once more fortified, and I can seek my rebirth with satisfaction."

Cirina ducked a nod, her fingers couching themselves in the blanket stretched across her knees, hiding like field mice. Her voice was equally meek. "But you will still be gone."

"And you will be alive. Mayhap, as the next great ancient." Lifting the lid of one of the supper dishes to see if any dumplings remained, Sadu brightened as she spotted a few choice morsels. She turned the platter promptly towards Cirina's direction, expecting to earn a hungry cry of delight at the display. "It is only a matter of time before you and I will meet again," she promised. "Ninety-nine years, hah! You would see more than three of me! I will have to do my best to astound you further with each life."

But even the temptation of more buuz did not alleviate the gloom. Cirina's gaze had lowered to the blankets, too heavy to even notice the food. "I suppose I cannot ask for you to grow old alongside me, can I?" Her tone had the resignation of one who already knew the answer, but who could not keep themselves from hurling their spear directly into a headwind anyway. "Not even with the promise of a worthy enough battle at the end?"

Sadu smirked. "In light of your otherwise good sense, I shall overlook this insult," she announced lazily, rolling back onto the furs and scratching at her belly. One of her scales was irritated, a patch of dry skin alongside it from a nearly-healed cut that she could not remember getting. "You are not allowed to die young, and I am not allowed to die old. Any other arrangement would be foolish."

Picking at the scale in distraction, she tossed out her next question without bothering to consider it: "Shall we be friends again, when I am reborn?"

"Ah!" Instantly Cirina's head jerked up -- but she looked down again just as guiltily, the rose hue of her skin deepening even as her mouth made a small curve. "If the khatun would honor me so. Are we, then? Friends?" 

The reaction was unexpectedly pleasing; though normally Sadu might have scoffed at such uncertainty, Cirina had already proven herself as a boon to the tribe. "We are not enemies yet. For the moment, at least," she warned amicably. "Mayhap your gods will be the ones to change their minds. We Dotharl are ever steadfast, after all." 

Outside the tent, the sentries posted for the evening watch were exchanging places with those from the afternoon; the muffled rattle of weapons and footsteps were notes in a familiar song, its cadence forming the heartbeat of the camp. Sadu glanced over at Cirina, who was already sinking back into the dourness that had threatened to claim her the first time.  

"It is late, little Mol," she sang out. "Soon, it will be too dark by far to ride your yol all the way across the Steppe and hope to avoid danger. Do your gods insist on you being back in Mol Iloh before dawn? If not, you should stay with the Dotharl for yet another night. A ninth day will not see the world ended. We are more than able to feed you as a guest."

Startled, Cirina rose to her feet and padded over to the yurt's entrance, where a peek outside verified Sadu's estimation. "I do not wish to impose on the khatun's hospitality," she ventured -- and then wavered, her fingers lingering on the wooden doors as she cast a plaintive glance at the dusky sky. A few stars were already beginning to bud, peeping through the clouds. "But it is a long flight. If... it is not too much trouble for you, I would be glad to remain."

Stretching languorously, Sadu hefted herself to her feet, setting aside the teapot on a table and beginning to collect the dishes. "My tent is safe enough for the Mol khatun's heir -- even the Buduga are not fools enough to think to breach it. Use as many furs as you need to stay warm. Let us unroll the bedding for you, and you can tell me more stories of the elder gods as we find our way to sleep."

By the time of Cirina's fifth visit, matters had largely settled down. Without any interesting quarrels threatening to erupt, the novelty of the Mol had quickly worn off; the tribe had taken her measure and had accepted her presence among them. No one expected her to skitter away like a terrified rodent anymore, and several children had grown fond of her yol, which had an equal fondness for being fed bristlehair nuts from their hands.

It left Sadu with an easy excuse to take Cirina out on even more trips across the Steppe. Despite her dismissal of the risks, Sadu rarely scouted alone; sending a khatun out on their own into the wilderness was outright begging for their assassination, and she did not enjoy the need for a procession whenever she stepped out of the camp. Her warriors had their own patrol schedules to manage already. Sadu did not need to disrupt them on behalf of personal whims.

But Cirina was a convenient reason for Sadu to roam wild and see the grasslands rolling out before her, roaming the loose boundaries of the tribe's territory and investigating whatever struck her fancy. The Mol woman was equally comfortable on horseback, and did not mind riding a Dotharli steed; her eyes were always roving, bow in hand and arrows ready whenever she spotted prey. Cloudkin and beastkin alike fell to her quick reflexes, and Sadu counted up the tally of Cirina's kills each afternoon with pride at the other woman's prowess.

The latest gift Cirina had brought with her had been as pragmatic as the rest: a massive bundle of leathers that had not yet been trimmed down, meaning that they could be turned towards any number of purposes. It had been bulky enough that Cirina had been unable to carry it herself from her yol to the camp, even with assistance. One of the sentries had done his best to be hospitable by trying to haul the entire bundle himself, though it had clearly outmastered him. 

"For the guest of the khatun," he kept groaning as Sadu caught up, staggering with each pained step. 

Sadu tilted her head in curiosity as she watched the man inch forward, wondering how long the sentry would be able to last. But by then, Cirina had already spotted her; the Mol burst into an enthusiastic wave, her sleeve streaking gaily in the air.

Then the Mol seemed to recall herself and her surroundings, dropping her arm to her side as she made a precise bow. "My apologies, Sadu Khatun," she called out, and then cleared her throat as she cast an apologetic look at her Dotharli assistant. She gestured for him to set the burden down, and then set a hand hesitantly on the bulging pile, as if debating the value of trying to drag it the rest of the way herself. 

"Have you a corpse in there?" Honestly intrigued by the possibility, Sadu sauntered over, waving at the sentry to return to his duties. "Well, let us have a look at it, then! It makes as much sense to unpack it here as anywhere else."

The leathers were a delight to sort through, each of them sturdy enough to be turned to any number of uses. Several lengths of fur had been included as well, adding to the bounty; they would do well across the entire tribe, fulfilling the need for blankets and padding. A smaller bundle had been laid on top, and Cirina pressed this one into Sadu's hands: a thick leather belt, broader than the width of her palm and well-suited for wearing over her clothes whenever she needed to layer up. It sported multiple ornaments in silver, providing a second level of armor across one's vitals that would be both functional and decorative.

But the crowning gift was tucked in the very center of it all: a fine, fur-lined woolen coat whose warmth would be invaluable when the seasons turned colder. Though the deserts rarely fell prey to snow -- lacking the necessary water -- the parched air was all the more bitter in winter, and the Dotharl often migrated onto the plains as well. The garment's presence did not come entirely as a surprise; Cirina herself was no weaver, and so she had asked to see one of Sadu's own coats during her last visit, measuring it upon her own limbs for comparison.

At the time, it had been humorous for Sadu to try and fit her clothing upon the Mol -- she stood taller than the other woman by half a handspan, and her coat was far too tight across Cirina's chest. Even so, the experience had been its own kind of joy as Cirina had squinted in concentration over the measurements, clearly intent on making something out of them.

The results were sublime. The coat itself was long, down to Sadu's calves, but not of such length that it would tangle with the stirrups of her horse or the saddle of her yol. The primary dyes were rich blues -- not traditional Mol colors, which meant that Cirina had acquired them separately as well -- and had been laced with yellow and oranges in Dotharl accents. Halgai fur lined the inside, providing a layer which was both soft as featherdown while also offering insulation from the wind. It would last through many years; more importantly, it was fashioned to Dotharl sensibilities, meaning that Sadu could wear the garment without looking out of place within her own tribe.  

"Do you bring these trinkets to all your favorites?" she asked deliberately, feeling a small, selfish burst of smugness in her chest -- and was rewarded with Cirina's equally delightful smile, green eyes creased with happiness.

Sadu kept the coat beside her as they ate dinner that night, nestled near her leg like a pillow as she laughed along with Cirina, trading stories of other hunts and seasons. She could not help but trace her fingers over the wool; her mouth warmed every time she touched it.

You are mine, she thought fiercely, not knowing if she meant the clothing, or Cirina herself. 

Either way, it was a foolish, silly thought. The two of them were not even lovers. Even if they were, that was hardly a claim worth mentioning. 

Her fingers curled around the coat's sleeve anyway, unwilling to let go.

They went out again relentlessly the next day, this time to investigate concerns over the rivers which flowed into Dotharl Khaa; most tribes knew better than to interfere with the waterways that fed the southern oasis, but Sadu would have been a fool to neglect such a vital dependency. She took Cirina north along one of the winding streams, looking for signs of pollution or unseasonal draining, and was satisfied when neither appeared. As the sun crested at noon, they paused to water their horses, chewing on dried jerky to replenish their strength. 

Normally, Sadu would have urged them both back into the saddle as soon as they had refreshed themselves, eager to continue moving. But there was a deep satisfaction that was unfolding within her instead, like that of a rich meal being savored: a pleasure in simply watching as Cirina idly stroked the neck of her horse, wind tangling the woman's hair. This moment belonged to Sadu alone. She wished to soak in it at her leisure, drinking in the soft cadence of Cirina's voice, the shape of the Mol's hands and color of her clothes.

The other woman was equally unrushed, glancing up at the clouds drifting idly through the noon-bright sky -- before snapping her head around to stare at a pair of specks sailing towards the looming bulk of the Dawn Throne.

Sadu followed her gaze. "Ah," she scowled, and then spat. "Oronir."

Cirina left her horse's side, stepping back in order to get a better view of the yol, and then turned towards Sadu with a thoughtful frown creasing her brow.

"It has been said that ever since you refused his advances, matters have remained difficult between you and Magnai Khan," she ventured delicately. "And I know there are many reasons to refuse his offer. Many. Yet the anger between you both seems far worse than merely that single... disagreement?"

Sadu stretched her shoulders, trying not to scoff at Cirina's tact. "The Oronir are an offense to the Steppe," she answered briskly; there was no need for her to be nearly as polite back. "We all have different ways of honoring the Dusk Mother and Dawn Father -- this is no surprise. Yet the Oronir's practice of their devotion is shallow. They follow their beliefs only so long as it empowers them to look down upon all others. Their pompous claim that Nhaama and Azim were lovers, and that his seed grants them rulership by right of birth? Bah!" She scowled, scuffing dirt over where she had spat before, as if the insult could somehow be doubled. "Magnai is the worst of them all, for he feels it gives him the right to demand a mate. That the world itself owes him one. That his lineage means he should be handed a lover who fits his ideas of what he deserves -- a trophy that he measures like a prize horse, and then deems acceptable or wanting."

Cirina did not seem surprised by the explanation -- and yet, the woman's hesitation did not lessen. She rubbed her hands nervously together, palms pressing against her knuckles. "Then you are not... secretly yearning -- " she ventured, and then instantly began to stammer as Sadu swung around, directing an outraged glare in her direction. "I only ask after hearing some of the Oronir speak in Reunion! They... insist that you merely test him, and are waiting for the right moment to make your claim!"

"My claim!" Hilarity quickly dispelled the growing miasma of irritation that had been brewing within Sadu's thoughts, whisking it away like a stiff wind after a storm. Clear-headed once more, she cocked her head at the woman and then glanced towards the river instead, gathering her thoughts as she considered how much to say of the matter.

"I have thought about taking Magnai to bed," she admitted at last. It was not something she spoke lightly of -- not from any true passion, but from knowing how quickly rumors might spread. They already had, it seemed. "Merely to put him in his place. But even as a passing entertainment, the price would be too much. As for the act itself, it would be more enjoyable to tumble a dzo. Even in the blankets, Magnai would still try to take command. I cannot imagine he would let the ground touch his back -- not without sulking the whole way through, and souring what little joy could be gleaned."

Cirina was silent for a moment. Her fingers had gradually unlaced from their distress; she lowered them to rest against her robes. After a moment, she asked, very quietly, "You said there would be a price. Do you think he would hurt you?"

"Hurt me? From pouting, mayhap. He spouts insults at me, but little more." A luxury, Sadu knew, that came from being both a khatun and a spellcaster; that, and the Oronir themselves would likely intervene if Magnai forced anyone. But there were pressures that could not be seen so easily -- expectations which another person might not have the authority or influence to defend against -- and Sadu shook her head. "I would be at little physical risk if I did choose to amuse myself with him. No. It is that we are both leaders of our tribes. You know already how there are consequences which cannot be overlooked." 

Her legs felt stiff from too much standing; for the sake of motion alone, Sadu strode towards their horses, continuing to speak even as she searched for a fresh piece of jerky in her saddlebag. "Neither one of us would ever abandon our tribe for the other. And so -- knowing how the Oronir love to twist stories to serve themselves -- any dalliance between us would be marked as the Dotharl yielding to the Oronir, as they claim Nhaama did join with Azim. It would be told again and again to puff up Magnai's pride, described as my bowing before his will. My submission to him." 

Retrieving the meat with a sigh, Sadu picked out one of the smaller pieces for herself, and then turned to the Mol woman to offer her another. "Even worse, it would not end in a single lifetime. Those tales would follow me through all my future lives, the story distorted worse with each generation -- until I could never escape it."

It was a refusal that came out with barely any heat in it: only practicality, each point considered for both Sadu herself and the Dotharl as a whole. While idle dalliances were not uncommon in her tribe, even with the occasional Oronir -- passions came and went, and there were few things better than many souls blazing at once -- she could not be foolish about them either. It was undoubtedly the same reason that Cirina herself had continued to emphasize that her gifts were part of an individual duty, and not a tribal courting. 

They each knew the responsibilities of being a leader. 

Sadu tucked the rest of the jerky away and closed the saddlebag with a shrug, checking the straps on her staff to make certain it had not come loose in their riding. "If I wished for proof of the khan's insincerity, then there is a simple test," she continued, and then cocked her head at the Mol woman in challenge. "If I had been born in a male body this time, would Magnai have even spared me a glance? If my shoulders were twice as broad and my hips narrow, and I stood tall enough to grapple a baras, would he have still extended an invitation to his bed?"

The question was straightforward enough. But a flush suddenly spread across Cirina's cheeks, darkening her cheeks to an even rosier hue as she fumbled for an answer. "No," she admitted, her eyes flicking up and down Sadu's body like agile fish in a stream. She wet her lips and continued. "But I think any shape of yours would be..."

Shaking her head quickly, the Mol woman cleared her throat. "He would not," she agreed. "As far as I have heard, he asks only for those born in female form."

"Then how can our spirits truly be meant for one another?" Lifting a hand in exasperation towards the sky, Sadu turned back towards the Dawn Throne, flicking her fingers in a rude gesture despite how it insulted the Dawn Father in the bargain. "If I returned in a male shape after being struck down and reborn, do you imagine he would recognize me then as his soul's companion? Or would he weep endlessly about his poor, lost Nhaama," she mocked, pitching her voice low and mooning before it snapped back to crisp scorn, "and deny my rebirth even to my own face? To refuse both my faith and my identity, all so that he may cling to his fanciful tale as the victim of lost love? I believe we both know his decision already."

She saw the recognition of the same truth in Cirina's face, though the woman had dropped her gaze to the grass and was refusing to look up again. The Mol's cheeks remained warm; Sadu had to fight the sudden urge to reach out and prod them teasingly, coaxing the woman's attention back to her.

But Cirina eventually found her voice again, even if it was even softer than usual, slow and tentative. "I... think whatever form you came in would be... compelling. Your flesh would... ah, I mean, your body. It... would be cause for celebration that the one you loved had returned at all," she concluded at last, rushing through the words. "Even if you could not be with them in the same manner, due to age or other ties. They are still people you have found great affection for. That is worth rejoicing."

Pleasure at the answer spread like wings through Sadu's chest, lifting her away from any other concerns. "And that is why you are here beside me, and he is not." It was impossible to resist reaching out any longer; she clapped her hand on Cirina's shoulder, causing the other woman to startle, but the reward of seeing Cirina's eyes meet hers was more than worth it. "How can I be with someone who desires not my spirit, but the mere shell it is housed in? If our spirits were truly fated to be together, then my mate would not judge such matters. I will not bind myself to one who cares only for whatever flesh I might wear for the moment. Such flesh is all Magnai desires -- that and bragging rights over my tribe, and I will grant him neither."

With that, she snorted, and untangled one of her stirrups. Their horses were beginning to dance, eager to run again. Pulling herself onto the saddle, she waited as Cirina mounted with equal ease. "I know his ilk. Having confessed his interest to me -- only to be rejected -- Magnai seeks to punish me through any means he can, in hopes I will crawl back contrite. Yet, all he has now are insults and accusations. I'll not give him more arrows to use against me, so that he can claim that after having come to his bed once, I secretly yearn for more, and find myself overcome by lust to sneak into his camp regularly so that he might relieve my cravings. Or even that I ended up being poor sport, and so my scorn is only a ploy to hide my ineptitude!" Barking a laugh, she nudged her horse forward, keeping it restrained to a walking pace. "A moment's whim will give him endless opportunities to spin a tale which degrades me. I have better options to pursue."

Cirina matched her speed, falling naturally into place on her left side, where both staff and bow would not interfere with the other's aim. "I have heard how he speaks of you, Khatun -- both to you, and of you to others. I cannot say that your concerns are... unfounded."

The report was unsurprising; even so, Sadu scowled. "Perhaps one day, with the assistance of a strong partner beside him, he will finally shed some true light of his own. But who do you think will pay the price of getting him there? Not Magnai himself. It will be other people who must take his hand and show him the way, and who will weather his displeasure as he bends himself to change. I am neither his parent, nor his teacher, nor his pet ox. But he would make me pull his cart for him regardless, and then at the end of his road," she continued bitterly, flinging out her hands in imitation, "he would leap out to display himself and shout, 'look how far I have come! Be in awe at how I have grown!'"

She dropped her arms, keeping herself steady in her saddle without needing to touch the reins. Her horse -- accustomed to battle and a mage's gestures -- continued to clop forward merrily. "No. I owe it to more than my tribe. I owe it to myself."

Cirina was uncommonly distracted for the remainder of their ride, enough that she began to miss the flash of cloudkin wings flying low in the sky, easy targets which she would have normally snapped out of the air before Sadu had fully spotted them. Even her arrows began to weave from their marks. She and Sadu made slower time along their route, forced to hunt the missiles down from where they had flown into the grasses, and lost more prey than they claimed.

Sadu did not mind. Cirina's ability to grasp Dotharli ways made her feel smug and giddy all at once, like a fine skin of kumis warming her blood, and she allowed herself the brief intoxication of it. Yet her own excitement was as perplexing as the Mol's sudden lack of composure. Cirina had accepted the Dotharl before; it was hardly as if Sadu had needed to change her mind. 

It had always been clear from the start that the woman had wished to respect Sadu's tribe. Nothing they had spoken about should have mattered either way.

Even so, Sadu could not keep from teasing Cirina for the rest of the trip, taking advantage of every moment of inattention to throw forth some manner of dare or jest, grinning madly from atop her horse. It was merely for the entertainment of it, she decided; she had never seen the Mol woman at such a loss before. Now Cirina seemed to stumble in her own words every time she looked up towards Sadu, and the sight of her flustered expression only spurred Sadu on with further laughter, like a baras loping along after the scent of spilled blood. 

They rode into Dotharl Khaa together just as evening was beginning to overtake the day, the sun resisting the horizon even as the western skies eagerly embraced the night. Their horses were more than ready for their rest, having traveled long across the Steppe; Sadu and Cirina slid down and did the work of unsaddling them, preparing to hand the steeds over to the horsemaster for the remainder of their care. 

They were each gathering their saddlebags when the horses snorted restlessly, stepping precariously close towards them both. Sadu -- familiar with the ricketiness of the fence --  chose to stumble rather than lean carelessly against it for support, but Cirina had no such knowledge. The Mol woman grabbed the nearest rail to steady herself, and Sadu saw her hiss in surprise, yanking her hand away instantly as if stung. 

Even before Sadu made her way over, she could guess at what had happened. They had both taken off their gloves after riding, and the lack of protection meant that the aging fence had had the chance to bite. An ilm-long splinter had managed to embed itself deeply into the side of Cirina's right index finger, sliding past the calluses and burrowing beneath. 

Ill luck indeed, for an archer; the placement of fingers during a thumb draw would irritate Cirina each time she nocked an arrow. It would have to be treated properly, lest it fester.  Like a proper warrior, Cirina made no whimpers aloud, only gripping her finger tightly and taking deep, measured breaths to steady herself against the pain.

Sadu raised her eyebrows. The splinter was a thick, dark line, like a snake under the waters of Cirina's skin. "'Tis more like a spike," she admitted, impressed. "You could use it in place of one of your own arrows next."

"I will have it out in a moment," Cirina promised through gritted teeth, pinching at her finger to try and work the end of the splinter free. Her eyes were squinted up in what Sadu suspected was a pain that worsened the longer her nerves had a chance to complain about the branch now lodged directly within them. 

Sadu did not waste further time in jests, grabbing up both of their saddlebags and jerking her head towards her yurt. "I have a sharp blade in my supplies," she ordered. "Come, before you break it in half with your fussing."

She waved Cirina towards a pillow as soon as they got inside, dumping the saddlebags and heading for the firepit to heat the blade clean. It was tricky enough to open enough of the skin above the splinter without damaging too much of Cirina's hand. Thankfully, Sadu had a small set of pincers for similar accidents; they would not have to try and scrape it out, which would surely inflame the wound. 

Both of them remained silent as Sadu worked, equally caught up in focus: Cirina for ignoring the pain, Sadu for seeking to cause as little of it as possible. The wood had already begun to soften in its bed, drinking in the fluids of Cirina's body. Sadu scowled at its resistance, pulling the woman's arm closer as she turned it towards the fire's light, tugging gently on the end of the splinter to try and remove as much of it intact.

It slid out reluctantly, or as much as Sadu could see of it. The cut had been as neat as she could make it, though they would have to wash the wound properly to make certain all the fragments had been cleaned free. Pleased with the result, Sadu switched to running her fingers carefully over the rest of Cirina's hand, checking it ilm by ilm in case of injury, her thumbs making slow sweeps against the woman's skin. 

"Good," she declared, finding only the roughness of calluses. Cirina's skin was very warm. Her hand was loose and relaxed, trusting in Sadu's grip. A familiar mixture of emotions -- pride and affection both, and pleasure at the Mol's proximity -- filled Sadu's chest. "Very good. I acknowledge your bravery, warrior."

Then, not thinking twice, she leaned down to press her lips against the back of Cirina's knuckles in a kiss. 

It was a playful gesture, or so she had intended it. She was more indulgent than she might have normally been, her mouth gentle and slow. The kiss was an easy one; Sadu parted her lips just enough to lap the tip of her tongue along the skin between Cirina's fingers in a lingering tease, hoping to fluster the Mol once more. 

She did not think anything more of it, until she straightened up to find Cirina staring at her, suddenly frozen.

The woman's green eyes were wide, the pupils large and dark. Her lungs breathed in deep pulses. Her hand was still cradled in Sadu's palms, skin damp with spit. 

"Sadu," she whispered.

It was the word -- her name, not her title -- which stopped Sadu short. Like a cold dash of water to her face, it reminded her of the limits to her game. Cirina was of lower rank. She was a visitor, welcomed into Dotharli hospitality and promised safety in their camp. Not predation. 

More than that, there was an even greater reason for Sadu to halt. The only cause Cirina had for being there in the first place was due to her gods. Gods who had bid her five times already to visit -- and insisted on even more.

Whether or not Cirina honestly desired to be there at all.

Sadu straightened up, setting Cirina's hand down very gently upon the blankets. "I am not Magnai, to be rude to my guests," she announced firmly aloud. "Let me fetch some of the medicines you have shared with us, and then we will clean and bind your wound before the evening meal. In the morning, I will burn the fence down for its offense -- and you may watch."

Neither of them spoke of the kiss itself. Careful to keep her contact limited to the wound alone, Sadu finished bandaging Cirina's injury and stepped outside long enough to gather their dinner. The tribe's hunters had done well; the crowning prey that day had been a pair of baras, with paws larger than Sadu's head and teeth longer than her forearm. One of the livers -- invaluable for the benefits to one's health -- had been sliced up and added to the stew for them to dine on, and Sadu made certain to give Cirina the bowl with the larger share. 

"I worry about the khagan." Even when it was just the two of them, Cirina still ate neatly: deceptively small, precise bites which rapidly devoured her prey. "Their struggles with the ironmen continue on shores far from here. The Domans have sent word that the fight does not go well."

Sadu shrugged, gnawing on a hank of bread that the stew had done nothing to soften. "Death comes for every brave warrior. The braver, the faster. Yet to have this dance take place far from here, and deny me the satisfaction of watching that perfection unfold? No." Tearing off another bite, she mopped at her bowl with the remainder of the bread. "That is intolerable. The only one who would revel in such news would be Magnai, and that would be further proof of his unworthiness."

But mention of the man's name reminded her about their earlier conversation, and her thoughts bent all too easily back towards it: of lovers, partners, and the thousands of ways that people gravitated towards one another for companionship and for sport.

She cocked her head, wondering how best to breach the subject. Cowardice served no one; there was no better plan than to charge ahead. "I have been wondering of late, little Mol. Do your gods pick your mates for you, much like the Goro draw lots for their breeding partners? If you were matched to one as boorish as Magnai, would you go gladly to their bed?"

"N -- no," Cirina replied, her voice suddenly stuttering as she seemed to lose her nerve, fanning her slender fingers across her mouth. The rose of her skin darkened in a blush. "Rather, it can be like that at times, but... rarely. The gods provide us with direction throughout our lives, but we know that when they answer us with silence, that is because they expect us to make our own choices."

After a moment to recover her composure, the Mol spoke again. "What about your lovers, Sadu Khatun?" she blurted, the question made hasty as she sought to change the subject. "Do you take them? At all, that is, not -- not how you take them. How are lovers remembered among your tribe? Are you bound to them with each life?"

Amusement broke through the sourness of Sadu's mood. It was irresistibly endearing to watch Cirina try to remain so polite on such a matter when there was no risk of offense to begin with. "How could that be, when our bedmates return as our own children, sometimes? A bond need not be carnal to be held true in one's heart. All of us are kin when it comes to the soul." Dipping her spoon back into her stew, she shrugged. "What matters is the moment, for passions are not what we Dotharl lack. In all my lives, I have had my sport with many whom I found appealing. We take many lovers of the flesh -- but the tribe offers connection eternal."

It was not the first time she had said such words, but even so, Sadu found herself mulling over her answer. It felt lacking to share only the barest facts, ones which could be learned from any common conversation in Reunion; she wanted to give Cirina more than that, an insight that would be worthy of the ally that the woman had proven herself to be.

"There is another tradition we Dotharl follow," she began, frowning as she tried to gauge how an outsider might interpret the words. "As you might have heard, when there are not enough young within the tribe, our own people hold the souls of our fallen until there is a new vessel for them to be born into. Thus, among the Dotharl, it is customary at times to gift another with a ceremonial jar of lantern oil. It means that when I die, you will be the one I trust to carry my soul, until the day comes for my return."

Judging by the surprised widening of Cirina's eyes, news of this practice was unknown to the Mol; unsurprising, for there was little reason for a Dotharl to share it outside the tribe. "Have you ever done so yourself, Sadu Khatun?"

There were too many vegetables in Sadu's stew; someone clearly had opinions about her nutritional habits. She wrinkled her nose, pushing them around with her spoon to the very edges of the wooden bowl. "In this lifetime? No. Such gestures are deeply intimate, and tend to happen only once in a person's years. It would do little good to confuse your soul about where it should go after death, no?" Willingly abandoning her meal for the moment, she held up her fingers to illustrate the size of it: a flask that was no bigger than the circle of her hands together. "To receive such a lantern jar is a sign of unparalleled trust -- and all the more weighty, should it come from the tribe's leader. I do not wish to burden any of my people with the fear of failing such a responsibility. You are trained in the duties of a khatun yourself, no? You must know the same expectations keenly as well."

Cirina was quick to shake her head as she finished her stew, scraping her spoon to catch the last few smears. "Though Temulun Khatun is my grandmother, and I have learned what I can from her, the final decision has not yet been made. The elder gods choose our leaders from any Mol who can hear their voices. There have been times when their selection has come to rest upon those who did not expect it. If my grandmother does not hear of a successor before the gods bid her soul to their side, then it will fall to her apprentice to pray until one does."

Intrigued, Sadu leaned back on her hands, stretching out her legs as she considered that particular path of inheritance. "And what is to keep someone from seeking power this way? Even if an udgan wishes to speak true, they can still be threatened into giving the wrong name."

"Leading the tribe is not a position to covet." Grimly, Cirina stacked her spoon upon her bowl and set it back neatly on its tray, where it would not become tangled with the furs overnight. "It is a heavy weight to be the mouthpiece for the gods, for while they will speak true, your ability to hear them clearly is not immune to mortal failures. There have been many nights where my grandmother has lost sleep wondering if she understood the portents clearly. I know of no Mol who would seek that role for selfish ends -- and to deliberately lie about the words of the gods is to invite ruin upon one's self."

Such claims would have been laughable to hear from many tribes, mere lip service with the pretense of humility -- and yet now, Sadu could no longer include the Mol among them with the same confidence. "That is a degree of trust all its own," she sighed, reluctantly picking up her stew again to finish it. "But that is the same as visiting us, hn? After all, I am merely another task which has been assigned for you to endure -- no different from grazing your sheep." 

She did not know why she had thrown that jab out -- like a splinter all its own, working its way through her flesh and leaving a trail of infection behind -- except that she did not know how to go another day without voicing it. The pettiness felt like metal on her tongue. She tried to make it sound kinder than how she had spoken of Magnai; Cirina, at least, was not trying to swagger.

But Cirina's undertone was wry. "A very stubborn sheep."

Sadu watched her hawkishly for any sign of anger, but nothing showed -- and eventually, the other woman's contentment settled over her like a balm, smoothing away the last, lingering irritation from the day. 

"Well," she grumbled back. "You cannot fault me when I have such fine company to indulge me."

By the end of their meal and wash-up, Cirina was already yawning. Waving away the woman's embarrassed apologies, Sadu pulled out extra blankets for them both and handed Cirina's set over, banking the firepit to a dim glow. The yurt was snug once it had been buckled down against the cold air of the desert night; Sadu's tent was larger than the rest, but not by much, and even then, only out of the necessity of the occasional private council. 

The Mol woman was asleep within moments. Yet even though the hour was late, Sadu could not do the same. She sprawled on her pillows, wide-eyed and awake, and watched Cirina from across the other side of the coal-light. 

"You will see more than three of me in your lifetime, Mol." It was barely a whisper, and yet even that felt as if it bellowed like a gong. "Your single, long life."

Cirina did not stir, her breathing slow and peaceful. 

It was foolish to voice such things, but Sadu forced herself to continue, like a vow that had no power unless it was uttered outside the space of her own thoughts. "You will see me return endlessly," she managed, "but for myself, your death will be final when it comes. I will have to endure, knowing you have died forever. It is unbearable. How dare you become someone I would miss?"

She said it purposefully light, like a weapon blow gauged for a warning strike only: a sting that was merely a promise of how much pain it could otherwise bring if allowed within one's guard. They were words that were meant to be careless. They should not have had the capacity to hurt.

But they came faster than Sadu thought they would: faster and sharper, like a dart in battle that was already drinking one's blood long before the needle itself was felt. "If you were anyone else, pretty Mol, I would stoke the flames of your soul in hopes that you would join us as a Dotharl in your next life. We would have endless days to learn one another, renewed with each birth granted to us. Your bow would sing always at my side. I would teach those who dare to laugh at your strength a final lesson they would rarely survive," she continued, and found it coming out in nearly a purr: eager for the joy of such a victory, hungry to inflict punishment upon those who saw only Cirina's nervousness and did not know the immovable stone beneath. 

Years to share meals together. To pass a skin of kumis back and forth, debating the tasks of the day. To streak Cirina's face with the blood of a fresh kill, laughing all the while.

To dance in battle as one -- and more.

Like a firefly glittering in the dusk, Sadu let the gleam of it drift in the hush. The thought of it was beautiful. 

But it was only a thought.

"Yet, you would abandon the ways of the godsspeakers if you did, and be a Mol no longer," she admitted aloud at last. The words tasted bitter, even though her voice remained steadfast. "And that is not what you would desire. It would not be who you are. If you refused to leave your tribe for the sake of the Doman khan, then I cannot imagine you would do the same for anyone else. And so I cannot make such wishes -- for, if not for adherence to our beliefs, we are no longer ourselves. Both you... and I, as well."

There was nothing else to say. Sadu rolled over, forcing herself to stare at the yurt's ceiling instead. Even so, it was a long time to wait for sleep as she watched the flickering shadows overhead, wondering if she might hear Cirina's voice trickle back through the night with an answer.

She woke before Cirina did, the smell of night air lingering in the roof of her mouth. Dawn was just breaking, its thin light outlining the yurt's ornate wooden door. For a moment, Sadu allowed herself to lie there: listening to the quiet of it all, an interlude between lives she had yet to experience.

But with the sun came work and responsibility, and Sadu pushed herself to her feet with a groan, yawning widely even as Cirina began to stir, both of them groggy throughout the morning meal.

No amount of tea helped to make the day more palatable. The next gift would be the last one. Six total, as decreed by the elder gods. And then Cirina -- brave, insightful Cirina -- would have no more reason to return. 

As well she should not, Sadu reminded herself. The Mol and the Dotharl did not often cross in their hunting paths, and for good reason: the Mol would surely have been wiped out long ago if they did. The godsspeakers had chosen the shelter of the mountains strategically, finding sanctuary in the cooler temperatures of the north. They loved their remoteness, the calm tempo of their days -- their freedom, as Cirina said, to believe.

Cirina was not hers to demand. As fond as Sadu was of the Mol woman and all her strengths, a rebirth into the Dotharl would go against everything Cirina loved in her own life. 

The knowledge did nothing to help as Sadu waited while Cirina prepared her yol for the flight home, the woman's spring-green eyes lingering upon her. "I will be back in three days, Sadu Khatun. Will you wait for me until then?"

The question should not have felt so grave. It was only three days. Three tiny, miniscule drops of water, negligible in the great river of eternity -- and yet, Sadu felt uncertainty stirring in her chest again, an unpleasant churning like the feel of a battle turning with the influx of fresh reinforcements, victory slipping into disaster. 

Three days were nothing to her. But they were everything to a creature like Cirina: a mortal, finite spark.

"You mean to make so swift a crossing? Aye, I believe I can live that long." The bluster of it was enough to begin setting her back to rights. Sadu tossed her hair carelessly back over her shoulder as she took a step away, as if the day's schedule was so busy that her mind was already occupied by it. "And should I perish on the morrow, I will carry that promise to my next life, and you may collect on it then."

Cirina's mouth turned down into a tiny bow of unhappiness. "Please do not die yet, Sadu Khatun."

"I make no promises," Sadu lied.

To Sadu's profound dismay, there was not nearly enough time to prepare for Cirina's final visit. No matter how many disgusted noises she made at herself, her mood only continued to stew. She had no desire to stand through what would only be a token farewell on the Mol's part, now that her assigned performance had been executed to the gods' satisfaction. Such reluctance was not as cowardly as refusing a battle -- but it was like having to throw herself into a fight where the outcome was already ordained, another noxious Naadam spent unable to knock Magnai off the Dawn Throne while he smirked from above.

But she could not insist on the Mol woman's continued presence, either. Cirina had made it overwhelmingly clear: none of these gestures had been meant as a proposed union between their two tribes. The woman's faith was as fierce as Sadu's own. She had come because she had been ordered to -- just as she would have gone to anyone else, no matter where it took her.

Like a fine spear forged from chromite, it was a strength that made Sadu want to shout in joy for it, even as she knew how sharp its point felt upon her chest.

Mercilessly, she shoved aside her reservations. She had endured dry-eyed when chaochus had taken half their herd two summers ago, and again when the Buduga had kidnapped and then slain three Dotharl children after being backed into a cave: a bloody fight that had left her people afraid that those souls had been killed too soon ever to return. She had kept the tribe intact through a round of gut-rot that had made its way around the entire camp, strictly rationing out the bitter powders that were the only things keeping the afflicted alive. 

She would not be made a craven now. 

When Cirina's yol finally descended on the third morning, Sadu was there, planted defiantly at the gate. She said nothing as the Mol went through the process of disembarking and approaching the camp, only lifting an eyebrow in polite curiosity as she waited. 

You returned, she wanted to taunt -- but doing so would have been an insult to Cirina's beliefs, and so silence was the limit of her graciousness.

The cloth-wrapped bundle in the woman's hands gave no indication of what it was. The size of it was modest, smaller than even a skin of kumis. Sadu's attention flickered to it despite herself.

"What did the gods tell you to bring this time?" she laughed. Her mouth was too dry; the sound felt atrophied, as parched as the desert sands. "Did they choose a fine scarf, or a saddle pouch? Their tastes so far have been pleasing enough."

Cirina was still for a moment, her eyes refusing to lift any higher than Sadu's shoulder. Her expression showed no humor at the jest. 

Slowly, she shook her head. 

"Not the gods," she said quietly. "Each of these gifts has always been my own decision."

Like two confused dzo waiting for the other to charge first, they both stood there uneasily; Sadu shifted from foot to foot, the sun's glare suddenly hot on her skin. The camp bustled around them on the day's business, ignorant of the stakes that were continuing to mount with every second that passed.

Finally, Sadu cleared her throat. "Let us be about it, then," she announced, and held out her hands. "I am certain you have much back at Mol Iloh you wish to return to."

But Cirina did not obey. Her gaze moved to the gift within its shroud; her fingers shifted on the cloth. "When Temulun Khatun told me what the gods had asked," she answered slowly, "I did not know what to think of it. Six gifts, they said, to the one whom I desired to grow closer to. But they gave no more guidance than that."

"No?" Sadu demanded: a brazen charge that threw down a banner and dragged every fighter nearby to defend it. Her blood felt like a drum in her ears, an unnecessary distraction from the confrontation still unfolding. "Have you been wooing the Domans as well, then? I would applaud the strategy of it! Mayhap they will invite you to even more wars afar."

"No," Cirina echoed. "There were many who thought I would go to the Oronir, or to the Qestir. But the gods remained silent -- which meant the choice of it was to be found in my own heart. And so... that choice was you, Sadu Khatun. You were the one I sought."

For a moment, Sadu could not make sense of it all. "We are Dotharl," she barked automatically, a snarl in the back of her throat. "We will not spare you."

At last, Cirina looked up. Her mouth curved into a fond half-smile, a crescent moon beginning to peek through the night. "I never expected you to."

Without waiting for a reply, the Mol began to pick at the cloth that had been tied around the gift to keep it safe. "I knew you first from stories across the Steppe, each full of wild daring. Then, I learned more of you as we fought in the Naadam, and in every battle since. It was your strength that I admired at first -- but as I spent each day beside you, it became so much more than that. And so, this is my last gift to you, Sadu Khatun. Will you accept it?"

There was no opportunity to refuse. The words Sadu might have reached for were already claimed, taken up by the cry in her chest that said, this is over, this is done, she is saying goodbye. She could only watch as Cirina pulled off the last of the wrappings, and placed the object in her unresisting hands.

The shape was a series of abstractions: curves of metal, a long neck, a sloshing weight inside. A braided strap of cloth had been threaded through the handle, given a flat metal toggle on the other end that would allow it to be strung into a belt-loop to keep it secure, even while riding. The cork was secure enough that she struggled to pull it, her fingers suddenly clumsy enough that they fumbled at the seal.

A jar, her mind informed her, pushing through her numbed wits. Forged from silver. Decorated with Mol colors.

It was filled with lantern oil.

"I am not Dotharl," Cirina was saying, a melody that barely made its way through the roaring in Sadu's ears. "And you are not Mol. But if the gods allow it, mayhap I will find a way to be reborn among my own tribe. With each life that passes, you will find me there -- to look into my eyes as well, and recognize me once more."

"The gods would be fools not to. You have the soul for it." Relief was coming in too fast; it was smothering Sadu under a landslide of adrenaline. Tentatively, she ran her fingers over the jar's strap. It felt real enough. "But what if I turn out to be as poorly behaved as an Oronir, and spread far-fetched tales of how you yearn secretly for me in your bedroll, overcome by unabated passion?"

Cirina's mouth shifted again, the warmth of it creeping all the way up into her eyes: a winsome, adorable smile that rounded her face, bravely facing the world regardless of what others might think of her. 

"I do not think such tales might be far-fetched at all," the woman murmured -- and then leaned forward, carefully navigating around Sadu's horns to kiss her.

The gesture was both firm and gentle, as confident as if the gods themselves had already given their blessings -- and after the first heartbeat, Sadu reached forward gladly to answer it. She pulled the other woman closer, deepening the kiss as she tilted up Cirina's face towards her with her free hand, fingers cupping the line of the other woman's jaw. 

Only when she heard the rousing applause surrounding them did she finally stop, pulling back so that she could scowl with mock-anger at the ring of Dotharl that had gathered to watch them -- an anger which faded as soon as she glanced back to Cirina, seeing the blush that had heated the Mol's skin.

"Will you stay for your usual sennight?" she purred. Careful not to drop the lantern jar, Sadu hooked her arm around Cirina's waist, tempted to nuzzle the woman's hair. "Or have the gods set limits upon how long you are allowed to dally with me each time? I must warn you -- should they be too strict, I may wage war against them after all, no matter your fondness for them."

The onlookers hooted and clapped again, inviting a fiery retaliation. Then, Cirina's fingers made a slight tug on Sadu's belt, and she forgot everything else in favor of the woman pressed against her.

"Worry not, Sadu." Cirina's breathless whisper was as intimate as if the two of them were already alone; the sweetness of it was nearly unbearable. "I have already asked them for eternity."