Grim, though he does not see it as this. The road, for all its privations, had been enlightening— showed the nomad that no single god or way of living is correct, and he would never be compelled into war for Tengri’s dominion. A man must decide for himself what god it is he prays to. And so in alukhai no single idea would be blunt because they could absorb something from everyone.

Would it make them stronger, and not weaker? Would it save the nomads from these nearsighted failings of the Nazgur?

He sees the failings of wolfkind reflected in the bay’s flattened ears and the way she grunts stern and low, warding her babe. She is not his, anymore than the wind could be caught and cradled, and he eases his stride until it scarcely stirs the stalk of grass.

“Chhh, Tsetseg.”

The colt is more curious than his dam, drumming a little dance around the wolves. He must have been born after the war which has taught his mother wariness. Through great brown eyes he stares, starts, stamps, darts out to Tzookhor, and repeats.

Batu cannot help but warm to him.

And by the heavy barrel of her flanks, the bay will be mother to a second in a few months time.

"She's carrying again,” khaan whispers to Sayana, treading forward still, to see if Tsetseg would allow a closer inspection.