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At the deer circle on the edge of the wood, leaves cling late to birches and the golden gers wear camouflage. Autumn blazes the horizon in both east and west. Batu stands beside his sister, sparing her the grave look which would otherwise pass between them. He knows her burden. She knows his mind. This is the path they walk together.
Horselord gazes upon camp direct from under the furrow of his brow. “The time for trade and allyship is upon us. Oyun and I are leaving to make contact with each of the southern kingdoms.”
“Anda,” he turns first for Khatar. “I entrust the orduu to your keeping. Ochir will see to the guarding of our far borders. Rasha, Sayana and Tselmuun shall have charge of the herds.”
He looks then to the roan-skinned bogol; the boy-man made servant to his royal sisters. “Ulya- Yelp. You will travel with your khaan to the Fujiwara Dynasty. You will carry your khatun’s vasa, and lay her ger each night we are away.”





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