A new family came on horseback and took her. One evening, beside the fire, she heard the legend of the Amazons. The following morning at dawn she stole some food and slipped out of the tent. She crossed the steppe on foot, walking into the wind and the snow, following the stars, which sang to her:

My name is Talestria. Talestria, meaning "the joys of combat."

My mother's name was Talaxia, "scarlet feather." I am queen of the girls of Siberia, who thirst for happiness: laughing makes us forget death. I know nothing of tiredness.

I would not weep if my beloved sisters died tomorrow.

Suffering has carved a deep pit in my heart for life to pour its loveliness into.

War is an evil; happiness is my combat.

The girls of Siberia love war; they also love to enjoy themselves and laugh.

Sadness would wash over us after nightfall when, in the middle of a rowdy feast, the girls started to sing. Our god was music; he had engendered words, words had engendered thought, and thought had set women free. Our songs were earthly melodies that had to reach for the skies like birds. I would weep; all the girls would: music reopened our wounds and resuscitated our dead.

War purified us; our enemies' blood wiped from our breasts the memories of little girls crying in despair.

Why was I chosen by the warrior women? Why was I their queen? Why, when my mother took me in, did she appoint me as her heir? Everyone here believed it was my destiny. Everyone except for me.

I bore a scar on my left breast. All Amazons bear a deep welt on one of their breasts to position the leather strap of their bows. Mine was a wound, but I no longer remember how it happened.

I wanted to remember only happy moments from my previous life: running through the market holding steaming hot bread in my hand; jumping up to catch a dragonfly; dancing round a fire while in the shadows eyes watched me and hands clapped out the rhythm as I spread my arms and twirled, flew, reached the very stars.

I, Talestria, was born and became queen the day my mother Talaxia's body was brought back to the camp. In her left breast was an arrow topped with blue and green feathers.

I was brought up by my mother's servant, whom I called my aunt. Her name was Tankiasis, "the fragrance of white chrysanthemum." She was strict and gentle, recounting old legends to me while she rocked me in her arms. The first time I rode a full-sized horse, she made me gallop for days on end. On my first birthday, a year after my mother had died, she gave me more weapons honed for the survival of our tribe: the language of birds, the writing in the stars, the magic of numbers, the gift of healing.

She had a little girl with white skin and golden hair. My mother, queen Talaxia, had told me:

"Tania is your sister; she will be your servant when you are queen. You will make war, and Tania will watch over the flocks. She will raise your child and will be your regent if you die in combat. She will raise a servant for the new queen and will disappear when the two little girls have become women."

Tania was silent and shy, calm but always worrying. She would back away and scream if a frog leaped up, a bird flew off, a snake spat, or a caterpillar was simply too brightly colored. She was haunted by a nightmare and she wore its terror like a tattoo: she saw herself sleeping in a bed, surrounded by soft cushions and glittering cloth, and a white breast came toward her to give her milk. When she tried to look up at the face of the woman nursing her, men loomed into view, slicing sabers through the air. Their bellowing was like the roar of thunder. One of them tore her from the breast and threw her from the window.

As Tankiasis had for Queen Talaxia, Tania and I constituted day and night. Where I was courageous, she was fearful; where I was impulsive, she was cautious; where I advanced, she retreated. In areas where I felt weak, she found her strength. Every queen of Siberia has a servant, a sister, to complement her wisdom and perfect her virtue.

For a queen must never make a mistake.

She is the survival of the tribe of warrior women.

In the terrestrial world, war is an evil. But evil applied to evil forges good.

One night I was woken by muffled screams. The pine trees outside were in flames, and sheep ran hectically past my tent, bleating in fear. Some of my sisters beat drums to warn of the men's attack, while Tankiasis was already launching herself at the warriors with a weapon in each hand. One after another the girls threw themselves into the flames. I would have liked to follow them, but Tania had been given orders to take me to a shelter dug into the ground, and all through the night we listened to the clash of weapons and whinnying horses.

Tankiasis woke us at dawn, covered in blood, wild-eyed, and stinking of warfare.

She took us by the hand and led us to the battlefield, where bushes were still burning and the ground was strewn with bodies. She ordered us to kill any man still alive.

I found a young warrior still breathing; his clothes were lacerated, and his right shoulder was completely missing. He was slumped against his panting horse, gazing at the sky as if it were the most beautiful view. When he saw me coming over, he smiled at me; he had the darkest eyes and a face as pale as a lily. He was so ravishing, with his curly hair and the blood emptying peacefully from his body! I put one knee to the ground and drew my dagger. He stared at me intently, his eyes caressing my face and carving into my heart.

In a flash I sliced his throat: his body twitched, his lips quivered. Little flames flickered and then expired in his horrified eyes. Where was he from? What was his name? What was his horse called? How often had he ridden out across the steppes?

Death is not beautiful, but there is beauty when the warrior spirit leaves a body.

I had killed my first man. I had become a woman. I too was ready to die in battle.

Men, we called them zougouls! I was obsessed with them!

As I walked along the banks of the Iaxarte, close to my mother and holding hands with Tankiasis, I no longer thought of men simply as adults who beat children. Now that I was an Amazon, I had learned to see them as haughty and cunning horsemen.

"When you grow up," Talaxia told me, "you will be stronger than these men."

"Males have no udder to feed their young," Tankiasis added. "They have no bellies to bear young. That is why they constantly chase females to make them bear their progeny."