The sky was still blue.

  Laughing and shoving at each other, Zaya and Ehau made their way toward the outer ring of the orda. The farther they walked from Boragchin’s great felt pavilion, the more the neat layout of the court dissolved. The tents grew smaller, rougher, more lived-in. They passed the commanders’ quarters, the swaying tide of livestock, the clang of the craft-tents—until the orda thinned, and the land opened.

  Beyond a drifting cloud of sheep, another shape emerged. Dark cones of cloth stood clustered tightly around a central fire pit—unlike any Mongol camp. Children’s voices rode on the wind. The melody was different from the Mongol songs of the steppe: quicker, springing, older.

  Ehau grinned at Zaya.

  And together, without meaning to, they joined their voices with the children’s.

  The wind calls—the road opens before us.

  Hold the valley in your heart,

  and walk toward the home yet to be.

  This was Zaya’s other home—her mother’s people.

  They laughed again, breath frosting lightly in the morning air, and followed the song toward the ring of black tents.

  The valley was wrapped in deep green. Mist rose from the nearby lake and drifted among the trees, blurring the red cliffs; the smell of wet, rich earth carried the weight of old abundance.

  People were gathered at the entrance of the settlement. Some held children by the hand; others shouldered heavy bundles. Five or six families stood ready to depart, while the rest had come to see them off. All shared the same traits—dark skin, long limbs, blue-gray eyes, and hair that curled gently before being tied back.

  An old woman, the shaman, embraced the young woman leading the departing group. No words were spoken.

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  Then the drums began.

  A low rhythm rose from the circle of those who would remain. A song for good fortune, for safe passage, for beginnings.

  “Go, live, and you will reach the place that waits for you.”

  The beat pushed gently at the backs of the travelers. The song steadied their steps.

  Both those leaving and those staying wept. It was not a parting of desire. The valley could no longer feed them all.

  The drums softened with distance. Then the leader of the departing families lifted her voice—strong, bright with hope. A man’s voice joined. Then others. And as the road took them, the weight in their feet grew lighter.

  There would be hardship. But somewhere, surely, there was land where no one had to fight for food or shelter. That was the purpose of the journey. They would find it.

  The wind calls—the road opens before us…

  Ehau was still humming as he stripped the tack from Zaya’s mare and brushed the dust from her coat. Men crowded around the cart, examining the goods piled upon it and dividing them for each household. The children who who had been chanting around the hearth earlier were now swarming the cart, reaching for trinkets until the adults shooed them away.

  From one of the central tents, an elderly woman stepped out.

  “Zaya…”

  Zaya handed her reins to Ehau and ran toward the woman.

  “Welcome home, child. How was the journey?”

  The old woman lowered herself onto a stone near the tent, and Zaya sat beside her.

  “Grandmother—look. Just like in the song.”

  Without waiting, Zaya unwrapped a small bundle of coarse linen. Inside lay a tiny scarab, glazed in greenish blue faience.

  “Oh… yes. This is from Egypt. A symbol of the god who carries the sun. They made charms like this to ask for his protection.”

  Her voice was gentle, warm with memory.

  Zaya’s people had traveled north from the lands of Africa, generation after generation, seeking a place to settle. Her mother had been their last shaman, their leader. To preserve the tribe, she pledged allegiance to Jochi and became his concubine. She bore Zaya, and died soon after.

  It was Boragchin who raised the infant.

  The tiny child—skin, eyes, hair unlike anyone in the court—curled her small fingers around Boragchin’s hand, and the woman’s heart yielded. She shielded Zaya from cruel glances, from whispered doubts, raising her within a ring of careful arms.

  Batu, too, had reason to keep the tribe close. Their herds were few, but their accumulated knowledge—medicine, ritual, learning, craft—was worth far more than livestock. So he allowed Zaya to spend part of each season with her mother’s people.

  Thus Zaya grew between two worlds: the black-tented valley of her ancestors, and the felt pavilion of the Jochid court.

  “Grandmother,” Zaya said softly, placing her hands atop the old woman’s. “Tell me the story again… the one about our kinswoman who became the Sultan’s wife in Egypt.”

  The woman chuckled, stroking Zaya’s fingers.

  “You never tire of that tale, do you?”

  And she began to speak—the story of those who had left the far southern lands, and of the long road they carved across the world.