To find Loni, Raim followed the sound of bleating goats. Sure enough, as the dust began to clear, he saw his grandfather, heels dug firmly into the ground, trying to coax one of the beasts into motion.
‘Where’s . . . Dharma?’ Loni spluttered between heaves.
‘She’s gone on ahead.’ Raim moved behind the three oversized beasts and pushed their tails till they took small steps forward out of annoyance.
‘What? You shouldn’t have left her alone. I would’ve got them moving sooner or later.’
Raim looked into the surly yellow eyes of the goats and seriously doubted it. The people of the steppes treated their goats well – so well that they grew to the size of young horses. Raim had heard that goats were smaller and scrawnier than sheep in the South. It was no wonder. The Southerners, especially around the capital of Aqben, were well known to the Darhanians as a stagnant, lazy people, never moving, treating the land like a slave, working it relentlessly. When he thought of the South he was glad for the enormous, savage desert between them. No one except the savage Alashan and the destitute Chauk survived in the desert. And they survived only because they had no choice but to – they were not welcome anywhere else.
When the goats were all moving and the entire tribe had begun the long journey back towards the capital city of Kharein, Raim ran forward to find Dharma. The scene was organized chaos. The smell of fresh camel dung invaded Raim’s nostrils and he held his nose as he passed by a particularly stinky beast. The neat single file line had degraded as families speeded up or slowed down in order to travel side by side and gossip about the messenger and the old man they had seen being driven off in a cart destined for the Garra prison.
Raim ran up behind Dharma, surprising her by hoisting her onto the back of their camel as he grabbed the reins. Her bright giggles in turn made him laugh, and he was glad that his grandfather had a lively young girl to raise after being stuck with two serious boys. Although he and Khareh never failed to make trouble and keep Loni – not to mention the Prince’s bodyguards – on his toes, Raim’s dedication to becoming Yun meant he had always restrained himself, not daring to make a mistake that might ruin his chances. Khareh once bragged to Raim he had run so far into the Sola desert he had thrown stones at the Chauk. While Raim strongly doubted whether anyone – even a prince – had that kind of courage or endurance, Khareh certainly had the freedom. He didn’t have to worry about having Yun mentors to upset, or a grandfather to scold him. Batar-Khan rarely questioned Khareh – the scene in the royal tent had been one of the very few times Raim had ever seen the Khan confront his heir.
Raim didn’t know what had happened to Dharma’s parents; but it was well known that they were not of Moloti tribe origin, for she had arrived in the company of two soldiers. Loni knew. A new promise knot had appeared round his neck the same day she arrived. It wasn’t hard to guess, though. Men and women who disappeared without word or warning were only destined for one place: Lazar.
‘Pass me my loom, please, Raim,’ she said, patting the top of his turban with her tiny hands as he walked. He threw the reins over his shoulder and fumbled through one of the saddlebags. He had taken special care to pack Dharma’s travel loom close to the top of the pack; he knew she would ask for it. She was always weaving and the elders all complimented her on her skill. The loom was as wide as Raim’s forearm and twice as long. Dharma used it to weave squares of carpet as they were wandering through Darhan, and later the squares would all be sewn together to create walls and floors for their yurts or blankets for cold nights. Even Raim, who was no expert in such things, could recognize the intricacy of her loom work, the woven figures so lively he could almost see them moving. With her skills, she could hope to join the Una tribe of weavers, who had won Batar Khan’s Royal Warrant and were widely regarded as the most superior of all the weavers.
‘Dharma, this is brilliant,’ he said as he handed her the loom.
‘Thanks! Loni taught me how to tassel properly. It’s hard.’
‘You’re telling me.’ Raim’s own attempts at carpet weaving had failed miserably. His knots were uneven and the pattern never connected properly. He could wield a sword expertly with his hands but tiny strings befuddled his fingers.
The Amarapura Mountains, their lofty snow-covered crags now Tarik’s desolate home, disappeared into the northern horizon. The tribe marched on, working their way across the flat plains towards Kharein. The steppes – their territory – stretched for miles, flat and calm like water in a bucket. Although all around it spread extremes – mountains to the north, desert to the south, dense, thick forests further east and west – when Raim stood on the steppes nothing could be seen but land and sky. And if you did not know every inch of that land and sky intimately, getting lost was as simple as closing your eyes and spinning around in a circle. There were no landmarks beyond the blades of grass and no signposts except the stars. The universe opened for miles above them. Their land was like their history: eternal.
They travelled for three nights before reaching Kharein, not bothering to build their yurt every night but instead sleeping out under the clear night sky full with stars, until it was light enough to move again.
Every step they took closer to the city, their population grew. All tribes were on their way to the capital, some with a Yun hopeful, but most simply for the annual Festival. The excitement that the festival created was a welcome change from the slow monotony of nomadic life. It was a time for all Darhan citizens to revitalize their skills and barter for supplies they would need for the rest of the year. It was a chance for young people to decide which clan they might aspire to join and to what service they wanted to dedicate their lives. And for most Darhanians, it was the time to meet and choose a partner from outside their tribe.
But by far the most exciting event of the Festival was the Yun selection. Since every man and woman in Darhan was trained in basic fighting arts, watching the talented apprentices battle to join the best of the best was a great highlight. For the apprentices themselves, to win brought honour to the entire tribe, and this was Raim’s chance to be the star.
Kharein itself was shaped like a pentagon and surrounded by a long, low wall. The wall served more as a way to section off the inner city from the masses of yurts that surrounded it than as any means of defence, as Kharein needed little defending. The flat, isolated land that surrounded the city meant that any attacking army could be seen from miles away, and would be met well before it reached the city. On every point of the pentagon stood a tall watchtower, guards keeping a vigilant eye for suspicious plumes of dust. During Festival season, the yurts were scattered around the outside of the city walls, clustered together by clan like white petals around a flower. This was the only time Kharein truly looked alive. Without the visiting population it was simply a dried up bud – the centre of royal activity, perhaps, but not the home of people’s hearts. The people of Darhan could not be settled. They moved constantly, shifting with the days of the year, the seasons, the animals. By the end of the month-long Festival even the merriest Darhan grew restless. They dispersed, seeds on the wind, and yet remained unified. It was the life of the Darhan, and had been for centuries.
When they finally stopped, Raim couldn’t even see the outer wall for all the yurts and tents that had been set up. To an outsider it might have looked haphazard, but each tribe knew its place; each clan had their own position and style of yurt. Setting up their home again took about an hour, but Raim took pride over every rope, peg and inch of frame. If things went according to plan in Kharein, this would be the last time he ever set up his yurt with Loni and Dharma. After he took the knot to join the Yun, there would be no turning back to his old life.
He was finishing up positioning one of the woven tension bands that held the felt outer covering of the yurt in place when Loni stepped out of the door, Dharma holding his hand. ‘We are heading over to visit the Una clan, to show off Dharma’s weaving skill.’
Raim patted Dharma on the head as she went by. ‘You’ll blow them away. You’re the best weaver I know.’
‘Shall we meet you in Kharein? I know you have something important to choose.’ Loni winked.
Raim swallowed down unexpected nerves and nodded, then waved them goodbye. He had to choose his promise string. The time had almost come.
When Raim was satisfied that their home was well built and the frame wouldn’t topple at the slightest breeze, he went inside. Hanging above a small shrine to the desert-goddess Sola, there was a small piece of jagged, silvered glass, which served as their only mirror. Raim stood in front of it and unwrapped the cloth turban from around his head. If he wanted to enter the city, he would have to do it not as a young tribemember of a lowly goatherder clan, but as a proud young apprentice, about to battle for his position in the Yun. Mhara had warned him that the battle could start at any time during the Festival, and that he had to be ready to be called upon at any moment. For that, he needed to be dressed and ready to go, most importantly with his head bare and open to the sky.
He was ready. But was Kharein ready for him?
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