Zhusai added the last of the fuel to the fire. The night was not cold, but the little blaze was comforting. Who are you, Talisman, she wondered? Talisman was Nadir – of that there was no doubt. And he was past the age of manhood. Why then did he carry no Nadir name ? Why Talisman? Then there was his speech. The Nadir tongue was guttural, with many sounds created from the back of the throat, which usually made for clumsiness when they spoke the softer language of the round-eyed Southerners. Not so with Talisman, whose speech was fluent and well modulated. Zhusai had spent many months among the Nadir as her grandfather travelled widely, examining sites of historical interest. They were a brutal people, as harsh and unyielding as the steppes on which they lived. Women were treated with casual cruelty. Zhusai sat back and considered the events of the day.
When Talisman had stripped himself and dived into the water, Zhusai had been both outraged, and wonderfully stirred. Never had she seen a man naked. His skin was pale gold, his body wolf-lean. His back, buttocks and thighs were criss-crossed with white scars: the marks of a whip. While the Nadir were cruel to women, they rarely whipped their children, and certainly not with enough force to leave the marks that Talisman bore.
There was no question about it, Talisman was an enigma.
‘He will be one of the Uniter’s generals,’ her grandfather had told her. ‘He is a thinker, yet also a man of action. Such men are rare. The Nadir will have their day of glory with men such as he.’
His zeal had confused Zhusai. ‘They are not our people, Grandfather. Why should we care?’
‘Their origins are the same, little one. But that is not the whole reason. The Chiatze are a rich, proud nation. We pride ourselves on our individuality and our culture. These Round-eyes are the true savages, and their evil soars far beyond our comprehension. How long before they turn their eyes to the Chiatze, bringing their wars, their diseases, their foulness to our homeland? A united Nadir nation would be a wall against their invasion.’
‘They have never been united. They hate one another,’ she said.
‘The one who is coming, the man with violet eyes, he has the power to draw them together, to bind up the wounds of centuries.’
‘Forgive my slow-wittedness, Grandfather, but I do not understand,’ she said. ‘If he is already coming – if it is written in the stars – why do you have to spend so much time studying, travelling and meeting with shamen? Will he not rise to power regardless of your efforts?’
He smiled and took her small hands into his own. ‘Perhaps he will, Voni. Perhaps. A palm reader can tell you much about your life, past and present. But when he looks into the future he will say, “This hand shows what should be, and this hand shows what could be.” He will never say, “this hand shows what will be.” I have some small talent as an astrologer. I know the man with violet eyes is out there somewhere. But I also know what dangers await him. It is not enough that he has the courage, the power, the charisma. Great will be the forces ranged against him. He exists, Zhusai. One special man among the multitude. He should rise to rule. He could change the world. But will he ? Or will the enemy find him first, or a disease strike him down? I cannot sit and wait. My studies tell me that somehow I will prove to be the catalyst in the coming drama, the breath of wind that births the storm.’
And so they had continued their travels and their studies, seeking always the man with the violet eyes.
Then had come the day when the vile little shaman, Nosta Khan, had arrived at their home in Gulgothir. Zhusai had disliked him from the first; there was about him an almost palpable sense of evil and malice. He and her grandfather had been closeted together for several hours, and only when he had gone did Chorin-Tsu reveal the full horror of what was to be. So great was the shock that all Chiatze training fled from her, and she spoke bluntly.