Spirit Gate: Book One of Crossroads (91 page)

“We are on our own,” said Miravia, staring shocked and weeping at the fire. “Look, there! I think that’s Eliar!”

Mai could not recognize him among the throng, except that a contingent of men wearing the distinctive turbans of the Ri Amarah men could be seen bearing buckets alongside Olossi’s fire brigade. Ash hissed onto the roof garden, covering everything with a thin layer.

“I hate waiting here,” whispered Miravia with a fierce anger. “Unable to act! I hate it!”

Mai took her hand, to comfort her. She said nothing. She had trained in a hard school. Hating didn’t change things. The world went on regardless, far beyond the feeble lives of humankind. People could change only if they changed what lay in themselves.

If Anji did not return, then she must raise the child alone. She had the will to press forward, because it must be done.

“All will be well,” she said, “even if it seems otherwise now. Many will lose their homes or goods, and many will suffer, but not as they would have suffered had that army not been driven away. What will come, will come, despite our wishes and dreams. All we can do is see our way clearly. Pay attention.”

A fat drop of rain shattered on Mai’s arm. Raindrops splattered across the garden.

“We are saved.” Miravia sank to her knees and sobbed, hands veiling her face.

A cool wind drove up out of the east as the clouds surged in. From this height, Mai watched the rain front approach from the southeast, dark and grim. Horns blew, in celebration. The wind rose in intensity, pulling at her hair, and at last the storm gusted over them and the pounding rain smothered what so many anxious hands could not, after all, put out on their own.

AT NIGHTFALL, THE
troop rode up through the half-ruined lower town and in through the inner gates. Mai met them in Assizes Square. She, and everyone in town, stank of ash and burning, but also of the wet. Here, at twilight, the first downpour had slackened to a drizzle. Hooves sloshed in puddles. Feet splashed, or slipped where fallen ash had churned into slick gray mud. The crowd was, for the most part, silent as they waited in the square. Despite their victory, the mood remained subdued. Every adult appeared to be smeared with dirt and ash, or with blood, from the struggle; even many Ri Amarah men, Eliar among them, had taken up axes and staves and fought to save the warehouses. Their turbans were singed, and their linen tunics torn and dirty.

The Qin soldiers split into ranks and, at a hand signal from Chief Tuvi, halted. Anji dismounted and limped to the veranda, where the remaining council members waited. Master Feden was not among them, but Mai was. They had made room for her when she arrived with her escort of elderly male Ri Amarah “cousins.”

Anji nodded at her as he climbed the three steps up to the porch. His expression was calm; what manner of injury he had taken did not seem to concern him over-much. The blood staining his clothing might well belong to those he had killed.

“Where is Captain Waras?” he asked.

“Badly injured,” said Master Calon. “He’s not likely to survive the night. He led the first wave out of the gates.”

Anji nodded. “I bring a message from Argent Hall. It now lies under the temporary control of Reeve Joss and eagles out of Clan Hall. They have returned there to number their dead and wounded, and to await word from their Commander. A new marshal will be chosen.”

These words were met with a silence, broken when Master Calon stepped forward.

“The council of Olossi—both Greater and Lesser—has conferred, and has voted. Captain Anji, it is our wish that you accept the post of commander of the militia of Olossi.”

The rain had faded to spits and kisses. Under the veranda, Mai remained dry, but the weary folk crowded into the square were soaking and shivering as a night wind rose out of the southeast. Only the Qin soldiers remained unmoved. No doubt they had survived much more extreme temperatures in their distant home in the grasslands. Then she saw Shai; he, at least, rubbed his arms as if he were cold. He raised a hand to mark that he had seen her, and she touched a finger to her lips in reply. She wept, just a little, to see him whole and safe.

Anji wiped his forehead with the back of a hand, smearing grime. He had a splash of blood on his right cheek. These ornaments gave him a dangerous look as
he surveyed the council members, each in turn, and the sweep of rooftops where Olossi climbed the hill beyond. Lamps were lit along the length of the porch. On the streets above, within closed compounds, lamplight glimmered. At length, he looked at Mai, but she shook her head, and he smiled faintly and turned back to the council.

“I am not moved to alter the bargain already sealed. My men and I will take lands west and north of the Olo’o Sea, in those regions of the Barrens where there is decent pasturage.”

Which lands happened to lie near the seeps and fissures where the fire lanterns burn.

“Is there anything else that cannot wait until tomorrow?” he asked the council. “I will arrange for guards to be posted, some from my troop and others from the militia. I believe the threat is over, but we must remain cautious.”

“No one could have survived that fire,” said Calon. “Their leaders surely are dead. Together with Master Feden.”

“He gave his life to save his honor,” said Anji. “It was a worthy death.”

He stepped forward and took Mai’s hand. “Now, if you will, I desire to rest.”

The council members, too, were stunned by the day’s events.

Eliar moved forward before any other could speak. “If you will, Captain Anji, we offer you guest rights in our house. I’ll go ahead to make sure all is ready for you.”

“I accept with gratitude,” said Anji, but he turned his gaze back to examine Mai, searchingly. He bent close, so others could not hear him. “What is different?” he whispered.

“You are alive.” She made sure her voice did not tremble. She was strong enough to do what must be done, but she was so very very very glad she need not do it alone.

“So I am,” he agreed, “although twice dead, once to my father’s people and once to my mother’s people.” Then he smiled, closely, warmly. “You have a secret.”

Remembering what it was, she smiled in answer. She could not help sounding as if she were boasting. “We will have a child.”

He was not a man prone to display, but he grasped her other hand and held it tightly. Anyone might guess what they spoke of, merely by looking at his face. “It seems we have passed through Spirit Gate into a new life.”

And of course, so they had. A parting, a journey, a battle, a new life. A fine tale, truly. There is never any reason for happiness. Yet it exists.

On the Eve of the Festival
At the Advent of the Year of the Red Goat

HANDS CUPPED AROUND
a shallow drinking bowl, Joss brooded. He sipped until the bowl was drained dry, then set it down. After pouring a fourth helping of rice wine from the carafe, he placed it back in its basin of hot water and with a sleeve wiped from the table’s top the droplets of water left behind by the pouring. But none of it helped, not the ritual of pouring, not the punch of the wine rising to his eyes, not the peace or the quiet. He sat by lamplight in the master’s cote of Argent Hall, alone except for the whisper of rains on the roof. The doors to the porch were all slid back so he could see outside, but the garden lay in darkness. At the beginning of the wet season, it was always difficult to adjust to a night sky covered in cloud, with no stars or moon to be seen, or to see by.

So it seemed to him. He was waiting in the dark. He was blind, with nothing to guide him. They had won a victory, but only by going against the code of the halls.

Reeves were meant to enforce the law, not to wage war. He could win the argument within his head, claiming they had been given no choice, and know it was true. He could rejoice in his heart that Olossi had been saved, and feel it as worth-while, a bold triumph. But in his gut, he knew any more steps taken down this road would lead to a terrible place where he did not want to go. No matter the reason, they had betrayed the reeves of Argent Hall. They had passed through that gate, and they could never go back and pretend it had not happened.

The rains lulled him. The cool air washed over him, dragging him into sleep.

The dream always unveils itself in an unwinding of mist, but this time there is no journey in the wilderness, no distant figure that vanishes as soon as he glimpses it. She walks right out of the darkness and up onto the porch, and she examines him with an expression of regret mingled with amusement. It hurts to look at her, because in his dream she seems so very ordinary and alive.

“You’re drunk,” she says.

He raises a hand to acknowledge her with an ironic salute. “Of course I am. Whenever I think of you, I drink.”

She shakes her head. “Joss. Do not carry this burden. Do not mourn me. Let it go.”

“I can’t. It won’t let me go. Oh, Marit. Do you know what we’ve done?”

“I know. That’s why I came to warn you: Beware the outlander.”

He chuckled, because the dream was agony: to hear her, to see her. Why must he
torment himself? Why throw these words at himself, as if to blame someone else for a decision he had helped plan and carry out? Or perhaps the gods had chosen his dreams as an entrance into his heart, to scold him, since in sleep he could only listen and speak but not, truly, act.

“What are you?” he asked her. “Are you real? Or only a dream, as I fear?”

She displayed both hands, palms facing him. Strong and subtle hands, whose touch he recalled too well. “I am a Guardian now,” she said sadly.

He sighed, feeling the pull of the dream as it slid into impossibility, the place where he was forced to acknowledge that none of it could be real. “The Guardians are gone . . . or else this is their way of punishing me for walking onto forbidden ground . . .”

Twenty years ago, back when he was young.

And he woke, startling out of sleep at the clop of feet on the porch steps. He rose too quickly, and knocked the bowl onto the floor.

“Marit!” he called.

“Oh, the gods,” said the Snake, who was standing on the porch in the soft morning light together with a half-dozen reeves. “He’s drunk. Again.”

“You bastard,” said Joss, picking up the empty carafe and hefting it. “This will make a nice sound, shattering on your head.”

“Enough of that!”

Blinking, he saw who had come with Volias and the others. Leaning on her stick, the commander limped into the room. She had already taken off her boots; all of them had, which meant they had stood on the porch for a while watching him sleep, and babble in his sleep, no doubt. He flushed.

“Set that down, Joss,” she added. “It’s a fine piece of porcelain. It would be a waste to throw it away so lightly.”

Still gripping the carafe, he moved aside, and bumped his foot on the bowl as he got out of her way. The wine had soaked the pillow, but she levered herself down regardless and winced as she got her leg turned the best way. Picking up the bowl, she set it back on the table, then extended a hand. After a moment, Joss gave her the carafe. She placed it beside the bowl.

“Tea, if you will, Volias,” she said. “Send someone, if you would be so kind. All of you, then. Out.”

The Snake smirked. “That’ll be a good dressing-down, if it must be delivered in private.” But he made the words lascivious, and mocking.

“To the hells with you,” snarled Joss.

“Go,” said the commander.

They went. Kesta, at the rear, cast him a look that might have been sympathetic, or gloating, or disgusted; he was just too exhausted to tell the difference.

“This must go quickly,” said the commander. “Don’t sit.”

“My head aches.”

“All the better, for it will ache more after you’ve heard me out.”

He rubbed his eyes, but the ache—and the commander—did not disappear. They were no dream.

“You may be surprised to see me. After the report I received three days ago of the events here at Argent Hall, and in Olossi, I had to come see for myself.”

“What do you mean to do?” he asked wearily. “I’ll take full responsibility. The other reeves were only following my orders.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” she said without smiling, without mercy. Pain had cleansed her of humor. It had been years since he had seen her laugh, and she did not look like she’d be laughing now. “I fear the worst. You made a terrible choice, one that will haunt us in the days to come.”

“I know.”

On she went, unsparing in her litany. “In the meantime, Horn Hall’s reeves are still missing. The north is still closed to us. Our control over our own hinterlands shrinks every day. High Haldia has fallen in blood and flames. Toskala and the lands along the river lie under immediate threat. Here, Olossi’s lower town lies half in ruins. Yet Olossi’s council members praise your willingness to act to save them, despite some misunderstanding that, it seems, led you to be imprisoned in a cell beneath their Assizes Tower for several days. This captain they hired, who will be settling in lands to the north and west of here within Argent Hall’s territory, speaks most highly of your leadership and levelheadedness. It seems you have led them to believe you are capable and trustworthy.”

“Eiya!” he said, for the words came at him like a dagger’s point. “Did you mean that to prick quite so much?”

“Just to make sure you are awake to hear the rest of it: I’m assigning you to become marshal here at Argent Hall.”

The shock of the statement made him stammer. “But . . .”

“I am aware that each hall chooses its own marshal from among their own people, although there are exceptions to this custom, which I invoke now. I am aware that Scar will have to uproot for a second time from his accustomed territory, but he is stable enough, and tough enough, to withstand the challenges and make the accommodation to a new territory. Whether
you
are remains to be seen, but I have spoken to the council in Olossi, and I have spoken to the reeves here, and it is obvious to me that, for the present time, you are the only available and acceptable choice.”