Spirit Hunter (10 page)

I am Asena of the Horse Tribes: I shall not be defeated.

I reach out and pluck the knife from the air.

I catch it by the blade; my skin breaks, hot blood drips down my arm. There’s a gasp from the gathering below. The woman who sits apart is smiling.

Like this, do you, Snake-heart? Is it good sport?

Flipping the knife and gripping the handle, I rise to a crouch, balancing on the beam. The last thing I need now is to come tumbling down to the floor: they’ll butcher me. Knife clutched in one hand, steadying myself with the other, I run half-crouching along the beam. There’s a window in the far wall, shutters wide open: my path to freedom. I see trees outside, the sky. If I die, it will be beneath the sky, not in this walled-up hole. I land in a crouch amidst the bright-silk folk who squeal and gasp. They fall back like petals tumbling from a dying flower.

Now the dark ones are all around me, the Shaolin, my captor, too, for I can see his spirit-horse, just a glimmer of a tossing mane. He is one of them.

The way out is but a leap away. I hold up the knife, ready to strike. As one, the Shaolin step closer. None holds a weapon.
Think you shan’t need one? You are wrong.

My captor speaks: “You were chosen. You have passed the test: you dodged blades and arrows sightless, with your hearing and your wits alone. Greet your Empress.”

I hurl the knife to one side and leap towards him: I shall kill him with my own hands. I crash into him with the speed of a galloping horse. We fall to the ground as one, my fingers seeking his throat. He shall die for this. I will kill him. Voices rise all around us. He is stronger than me. He pins me to the floor, green-shadowed eyes fixed on mine. Again his touch burns me, as if we have both been set alight.

“Killer,” I hiss, and again I snatch away the silken scarf covering his face.
“Killer.”

His beauty still knocks the breath from my lungs, even now. Even here. Hair touched golden by the sun, high arching eyebrows blacker than scorched wood.

I cannot move but I scarcely feel his touch; I know he is trying not to hurt me. He gets to his feet, drawing me upright. I stand facing him; he grips my arms and I cannot move. I am so tired that I begin to shake from my fingertips down to my feet.

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “Forgive me.”

“Murderer.”
I spit out the word and he looks away yet does not let go of me. I grip his wrists where he holds my arms. We stand so close, like a pair of lovers. We are the same, because I am as good as a murderer, too. I let him do it. I led him to the Gathering. And one day, I will kill him. I will put out the light in his pretty green eyes.

Somewhere, I hear a woman laughing.

Yes, and when I’ve killed this pretty boy, I’ll take your life, too, Empress.

“I am sorry,” he whispers again. His hand rests against my neck, just below my ear, as if he were about to kiss me. Why do I think so? Our eyes are locked together. I want the hatred in mine to burn him. His touch scorches me and I see nothing; I feel nothing. I tumble into darkness.

D
ays and nights have passed, flickering like shadows. I have been watching the Shaolin, waiting for my chance to escape. Now I am going to take it.

Day has come once more. Their smiling god sits cross-legged against the far wall of this hall, wrought of shining metal. His sightless eyes stare peacefully at the shadows. Eighth Daughter calls him the Enlightened One. Flowers float in bowls of water at his feet. He is the chief god of the T ’ang, but he cannot be a very powerful spirit. Not even the greatest shaman of the Tribes could trap our Sky Father in bronze like that.

These stone slabs are hard to sit on, but all the same, every day at the coming of first light all of us sit here doing nothing at all, save Hano the fat cook.
We are emptying our minds,
Eighth Daughter tells me,
so we can travel along the Way – the Middle Path – and leave suffering behind.

It is the same this morning. Here they all are: Autumn Moon, Red Falcon, Eighth Daughter and Swiftarrow, too. The name suits him: he is fast, and a killer. He sits about twenty paces in front of me, cross-legged like the others. His hands rest on his knees. I stare at his back; I long for my loathing to scald his golden skin.

On the first day after the Blind Trial, Eighth Daughter spoke to me on Autumn Moon’s behalf: “We are gravely sorry for your suffering, but in our hearts we are all glad you triumphed at the Trial. You are quite safe now, and no one here shall harm you. You were chosen to be Shaolin because you move like a shadow, but you will never be true Shaolin unless you leave behind hatred and fear.”

“Tell your mistress I wouldn’t hate anyone had my kinsmen not been murdered, my father lost.”

Autumn Moon shook her head, smiling sadly, and the girl spoke for her again: “The truth of it is we create our own suffering, or at the very least we worsen it. We cannot choose what befalls us, but we can choose to face life with calm and bravery, rather than misery and terror.”

I have never heard such drivel. Of course I cannot trust the Shaolin. How can they expect me to believe that I am safe here after the Blind Trial?

I am going to get out of this temple, out of Chang’an. There must be a merchant going west who will take me with him – I can mend broken bones, brew healing herbs to pay my way. And if I ask at every trader-inn, perhaps I will hear news of Baba. If he is still alive, I will find him; I swear it. If he survived the ambush, he will be looking for me.

As I watch, the Shaolin sit while the morning dies around them. It is so quiet I can hear them all breathing slowly. The smell of boiling soup and wood-smoke drifts from the far side of the courtyard, along with the dank scent of standing water from the well. When the wind changes, I smell the city, too – dung, more smoke, rotting plums. A bird sings; it must be sitting in one of the mulberry trees clustering at the far end of the courtyard.

From across the courtyard, I hear the clatter of a wooden spoon dropped on the floor, followed by the thud of a heavy knife slicing through the roots and leaves these people eat. So the fat cook is busy.

What if I just get up and walk away?
I rise. I’m on my feet. Not one of the Shaolin stirs. Slowly, slowly, I cross to the door, left just ajar. The smell of frying onions drifts inside. Oh, what I would not give for some meat: the Shaolin eat nothing but food fit for sheep, and not at all after midday. I am hollow. My bare feet make no sound on the floor. The old, worn stone is cold against my skin. I turn, looking back at the hall. All four Shaolin sit still, like rocks fallen out of the sky, clothed in black silk. Again, hatred seethes in my belly as my gaze falls on Swiftarrow. His head is slightly bowed; his hair has fallen over his face.

Killer.
I cannot look at him.

If I do not try this now, I never shall. I run to the door and stop here, waiting. Nothing. They did not hear; they did not see. I look back into the hall. No one has moved. Now is my chance. I am going. I am leaving this place. I run across the courtyard. The inner gate is open; beyond it, I find myself in a forest of tall, green trees that look more like monstrous grass. Eighth Daughter says there is no word for this tree-grass in the tongue of the Tribes. In T ’ang, it is called bamboo, she says.

I stop, listening hard. I hear the calling of a bird, wind rustling through the bamboo, the cook’s knife chopping a steady beat. The first thing I will do once I have left Chang’an is find some real food: fire-hot meat and cool yogurt, salty tea.

Softly, softly, I close the gate behind me. It squeaks like a mouse.
A thousand curses!
I wait, cold with fear. Surely they heard? Surely someone will come? But no. Chop, chop, chop. The cook is still slicing sheep’s food for the pot; he does not even pause.

I must take my chance.
Which way is the city?
Closing my eyes, I listen. I hear the far-off hum of many voices, an ass braying, chickens squealing, the bark of a dog – all half veiled by the endless song of wind rushing through bamboo. I run towards the clamour of Chang’an, south-west through the green forest.

The bamboo is behind me now; I run across a bridge over a pool fringed with willow trees. Fat lily-flowers float on the water’s skin, which is dappled with bubbles where fish like shards of gold snatch flies. Is that laughter I hear, just faintly, borne behind me on the wind? I have no time to stop; I must run. The sounds of the city grow louder with every step; I am getting near. I hear a rush of voices, the squeak of wooden cartwheels; a child cries out. The smell of wood-smoke and dung has grown stronger, tickling the back of my throat. To the south, the sky is hazy with smoke. There it is again: laughter, yet the sound does not come from the city, but from behind me.
Am I followed?

Think of nothing and you shall be as nothing.

I have no time to fear; through the trees I fly. The rich scent of bark and sap lights a flame of longing for home that burns my heart. Tears stream down my face as I run.
Mama, O Baba. Baba, I shall find you if I can just get away—

Darken your mind and you shall not be seen.

The garden wall rises up before me – crumbling old mud bricks stitched with sun-baked weeds. Easy to climb. I fly at it, digging my fingers and bare toes into the cracks. It’s a long drop down to the street, but I have no choice. Just below me, a man is selling fish from a basket; a dog noses through the dust. Gasping, I land a hand span away from the fish-seller – who does not see me. The dog looks up and howls. He backs away, showing his teeth.

I am not here; I am not here
. I cannot help smiling at the thrill of it, even though my heart drums faster and faster with fear. The dog whines.
Well, never mind, my friend, I shall soon be gone.

I dodge market stalls selling bales of cloth, heaps of gnarled roots and barrels of spices. A crowd has gathered around a boy beating a jackass that will not move; they’re shouting, laughing. I can’t understand what they are saying, but you can safely wager they’re all yelling useless advice. It is always the same in trader-towns when there is a beast that will not be moved; wall-dwellers never think to ask the animal why he wishes to stay where he has been put—
Wait? What was that?
The back of my neck prickles. Is someone watching me? I glance over my shoulder but everyone is still looking at the boy with his flea-bitten jackass. A pair of young women walk by, giggling over some secret joke – their eyebrows have been shaven off and drawn in higher with greenish-blue paint, giving them an odd, surprised look. A little girl runs past with a bucket full of water, splashing my legs. None of them see me, yet I can’t escape the sense that someone is watching. It is just like in Samarkand—

A hand rests on my shoulder. Cold fear drenches me from head to foot. I turn, looking up into the face of the fat cook from the temple. Hano. It is as if he has just stepped out of – nothingness. So he is true Shaolin, more than just a servant, after all. He smiles at my shock, shaking his head. I am caught. His grip is not heavy, but it is sure. He takes my hand, as if leading a child. I will not get away from him. He speaks to me gently in T ’ang: I do not understand the words, but his voice is so kind I weep.

Baba. Mama. How will I ever see you again?

Tears stream down my face but I no longer care enough to hold them back. I understand now: the Shaolin will never let me go. I cannot escape them.

I am trapped.

S
wiftarrow knelt, bowing so low his forehead rested against the Persian rug. Ringing with voices, the chamber was heavy with the scent of perfumed courtiers and wet silk. A servant had drenched the silk in clean water and hung it from the window-shutters, but even so the warmth grew more oppressive with every moment. He was half fainting in the heat.
How much longer?
He listened to the dripping water, trying to ignore the ache in his legs from kneeling so long. He caught hold of snatches of talk, and let go again, breathing deep.

“My dear, you
must
have heard what Lady Jeng did to her poor maidservant” … “Four cartloads of purple silk, spilled all over the highway. Imagine—” … “She cut open the girl’s eyebrows and filled the wounds with ochre. Well, it doesn’t do to let one’s maidservants look too pretty, does it?” … “He was caught in her chamber by the oldest son. Can you bear it?”

Keep to the Way,
Swiftarrow told himself.
Don’t stray.
They were nothing more than brightly feathered birds, these courtiers, these fluttering fools. They ignored him, stepping around him as if he were a wooden stool. He could smell the camphor they rubbed into their feet to hide the stink of summer sweat, the dried herbs their costly robes were packed in over winter to keep out the moths.

He thought of her. Asena.

She had tried to escape, of course. And of course she had failed, brought back to the Forbidden Garden by Hano, dusty and defeated. He had felt the depth of Asena’s despair before they even came in through the courtyard gate. He had seen bottomless hate in her eyes when Hano led her in, telling her kindly to eat, for she had earned a good feed by running so fast. But Asena had eaten nothing, just knelt by the table, staring dead ahead, looking at no one as tears streamed down her face, not even blinking when first Autumn Moon had tried to comfort her and then Eighth Daughter.

She is good,
Eighth Daughter had whispered to him later, once she had garnered the full tale from Hano.
She got all the way to the market before he caught her. Sister Autumn Moon had is pleased with you for finding such a talented girl.

Swiftarrow suppressed a sigh. He was ready to be hated. He knew he deserved it. But now if they passed by one another in the courtyard or the hall, Asena looked away or stared straight beyond him. It was worse than being hated. He would have to get used to thinking of her as Asena, not just a nameless girl, a prisoner.