I

Shyrrell began her life on the vast high steppe of the Calradian continent, that part which formed the eastern Khergit Khanate following the first empire's sundering centuries ago into said Khanate and the Sarranid Sultanate, as well as the realms of Swadia, the Rhodoks, Nords, and Vaegirs. Though uncertain, the nearest village she recalled – or at least the one most oft visited by her nomadic tribe – would probably have been Ada Kulun. Her tribe avoided settlements other than to occasionally trade with them, and she had never been to a large town, much less a city, ere she found herself on her own, orphaned in childhood. Not that she ever looked toward marriage and family life; a restless soul, it perhaps proved fortuitous that circumstances evolved as they did, becoming leader of a warband and eventually⸻

But I get ahead of myself; all will come about in its own time, and I wouldst start at the beginning.

Despite great reticence to discuss – or blocked painful memories of – her early youth, I came to understand that Shyrrell had been held captive by steppe bandits for most of it, certainly explaining her lifelong hatred of all brigands, especially those of her native lands; indeed she did not like her countrymen overmuch withal. Although she managed to escape at some point long before she would have been considered of age by her people's custom, she remained upon the rolling steppes, managing to live on her own much as her people had for millennia, hunting animals for food and furs, gleaning other necessities from the barren-seeming semi-arid plain. She became profoundly adept at certain skills such as making and fletching her own arrows, complementing the heavy curved Khergit bow she had appropriated from her captors along with a spirited steppe pony – her first 'Tog'.

By necessity as seasons passed and she continued to grow into her woman's body, she also made her own clothing of antïlopa leather, in addition to, for making yurts, collecting felt of the huge, shaggy two-humped tüye and feral horses; animal stomachs and bladders for water bags; everything else required by a plains dweller: gut-thread, bone needles, flint or bone tools; she even concocted tattoo dyes from certain plants, minerals, and charcoal. She had virtually everything she needed, other than human company.

Though she would never admit such a sentiment, I suspect that, beyond simple curiosity and wanderlust – even outside the need to trade for the few things she could not make and one or two luxuries– loneliness impelled her to seek human habitation; doubtless, her motivations were all of these and more. So, whilst avoiding those settlements belonging to untrustworthy nomadic steppe dwellers, whatever the stimuli, she began to take game, furs, other goods into larger towns for barter. Alas, in addition to being young and naïve, Shyrrell had no head for trade, and thus, as I soon deduced, she invariably suffered fraud on almost every occasion (though she would never concede this, either). I met her upon one of these excursions, when I had cause to… assist her with a particularly roguish dealer.

"Mayhap I should discuss your offer with the guildmaster," I interjected that memorable early spring morning. A cold drizzle did not dampen the market square's custom. The trader, a thickset Khergit woman, lips pursed like a fish's, round grey eyes similarly goggling, scowled at me from beneath a deep green felt canopy and lighter-shaded merchant's headdress; wiped sweaty palms on belted, shiny yellow dress. Her victim whipped her head about; uninhibited by loosened chin strap or sun veil at the nape of a ragged once-red felt douli hat, a matted thicket of waist-length hair, black as moonless night, swirled. I felt immediately arrested by the girl's deceptive presence and exotic look, especially the odd, pentacle-shaped mark barely lighter than fine dark features, set in the middle of her forehead, eyebrow to hairline, partially covered and shaded by the broad-brimmed douli. It did not resemble a tattoo, instead seemed scarified, as if burnt into deep bronzed skin, rather than coloured in shades of blue the way her people generally decorated their persons – teri boyawı, 'skin painting'. Otherwise dressed in nondescript skins and furs, eyes the colour of smoky sky stopped my heart for stretched moments. Younger than she at first appeared, she did not speak.

The merchant did. "Begone, tentak! This were no concern of yourn."

I recalled my breath, pulling gaze from girl as I expelled it. "I make it my concern. And I repeat: Do you wish me to bring this to the attention of the guildmaster? You know you are trying to cheat this… young woman." Glancing at the young customer once more, I reached to the large piles heaped on the trader's bench for offer. "May I?" Not seeing a negative reaction, I fingered soft tanned skins and sorted through other fine quality furs, felt, and leather; hefted several bags of reasonably clean salt; inspected tied bundles of dried and salted meat and fish, all smelling smoky, pungent, though not putrid.

The girl still spoke naught nor moved, but arresting eyes did not gainsay my perusal.

In return the merchant tendered a rusty iron knife; fist-sized, melting ball of near-rancid butter; two small mouldering cabbages; and a quarter-wheel of hard cheese, worms and all. "All of this," I continued, indicating the girl's stocks, "is worth more than four-score the inferior goods you offer. I recommend you give her"—I did the accounting in my head—"two thousand denar, or merchandises such as she desires of equal value." From the corner of one eye, I discerned the young woman's expression: a mix of confusion and annoyance. Whether annoyed at my interference or the trader's lack of scruples – perhaps both – I could not adjudge.

The vendor spluttered and protested of course, but eventually agreed on 1500d; I bade the trader count out the money in front of both of us, telling her 'we' would else take the remainder of our barter elsewhere to seek better common. At which point she became – in the stereotypical manner of many merchants – obsequious. Though I left it to Shyrrell – I did not yet know that for her name, of course – she wordlessly accepted the four heavy purses of coin, then stood, glancing suspiciously from the bags to me, as if not knowing what to do with them; I suspected that she could not count, mayhap even had no experience of currency, seeing her people exclusively bartered. Meantime the seller began to produce other items, trying to reengage her interest; we both ignored her.

"Come along," I suggested to the girl. "We should not stand about the street… like this. Mayhap the tavern…?" When she cocked her striking head quizzically, the douli slanting to shade all but those eyes, I struggled for the word in her language: "Taberna?" Yet I guessed they had no such thing on the open steppe…

Though few took notice of us beyond another male patron pretending to look at the merchant's wares – albeit I could tell he was as intrigued as I with the 'outlander' girl – I wanted to save her embarrassment of explaining why she ought to stow her purses against pickpockets and other ne'er-do-wells. Moreover, standing there trying to make myself understood would be no help. Admittedly, however, I wanted to satisfy a sudden peculiar urge to be alone with her – or at least more alone than the midst of the Narra public market, the second largest city of the Khergit Khanate.

Yet the girl appeared to not understand, confirming for me that the language of local commerce – at least the dialect – might be different than her native tongue, which may also explain much of her hesitancy. I tried again, in several regional patois I had acquired during my time as a caravan guard and sometime itinerant merchant myself, asking her to accompany me to the tavern.

Suddenly, eyes went wide in alarm, head jerking back, thick tangle flying and knocking the hat askew; she began to back away, money pouches still held out like poisonous serpents, while looking as though she may drop them to reach for the short curved bow stave slung on her back – unstrung against the easing rain – or more likely the chipped one-handed Khergit executioner sword hanging from a faded red hip sash. I reassessed her at that; swords being uncommon save by nobles or otherwise wealthy, I wondered how she came by it. I would needs wait assuaging my curiosity, however, since she turned to trot through the main town gates, mane swaying, gait curiously awkward, mayhap due to unseasonable attire of thick green-brown furs and clashing red sandal wraps, all whilst lobbing me uneasy backward glances. I resisted an urge to call her back or follow; I had the bizarre notion that I had not seen the last of the youngster, along with certainty that, should my further attentions be unwelcome, she could take care of herself with that bow and sword…