The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (11 page)

“She
dreams of your brother.”

“What’s
that?”

“Your
brother.” She hummed softly. “The grey coat. He has caught her fancy.”

“Hmm.
Yes. Yes, he does that on occasion. Although what he does once he has caught it
is another matter entirely.”

He
did not turn to see the smile. He could imagine it well enough.

***

“
Sleep.”

“Sleep. Sleep. How can I sleep?
Tell me that, oh wise Empress, tell me that.”

“You
shall
sleep, for if you
do not, then I shall kill you.”

“Then
I should sleep well, indeed, for fear of your claws upon my chance awakening.”

“Pah.”
Ursa rolled her eyes. “You talk
like a scholar.”

“And
you talk like a soldier.”

“Soldiers obey orders. My orders
are to make you sleep or kill you. So, sleep or die.”

With
a growl, Sireth resumed the pacing that had him moving round and round the
small chamber like a cobra wanting out of its basket. Ursa straddled the room’s
only chair, following him with her eyes and growing more frustrated with her
inability to carry out the Captain’s orders. She glanced around the spartan
chamber. There was nothing here, only the chair, a low mattress stuffed with
straw, a tray of paints and a bedside candle to break the monotony of stone.
But the sun was reaching her first golden fingers in through the long, narrow
window and somehow, everything seemed right in this small, spartan room.
Everything belonged.

It
disturbed her.

He
spun to face her, hands clasping together dramatically.

“Tell me this then, my dear woman.
Is the Captain so eager to shed my blood because it is mixed? Is it because I
have no claim to a single Race that you find yourselves so desperate to kill
me? If that is the case, then why did you come to save a man who deserves
nothing but death? Why make the journey?”

She
rolled her eyes yet again.

“I don’t have to tell you anything.
I am not your judge. The Captain is. All you must do is prove your innocence.”

“Ah
yes,” he nodded. “Yes, of course. By dying tonight. Effective proof, I should
think. If I die, I am innocent. If I live, then you kill me. Either way,
there’s one less mongrel to pollute the bloodlines of the Kingdom.”

Her
smile was as icy as her eyes.

“You see, you understand all too
well. Now,” She reached out to pat the corner of the mattress. “Sleep.”

To her surprise, he obeyed,
lowering himself down to the lumpy surface with familiar grace. He sat a
moment, looking at the floor between his split-toed sandals and nodding again
with slow deliberation.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right.
I’m tired of this, Major. I’m tired of death. I’m tired of life. I’m very, very
tired.”

He stretched out his long legs, laced
his hands across his middle and closed his eyes. It was merely a matter of
seconds before he was deep in sleep.

And
the Major did not take her eyes off him for an instant.

***

When the gong sounded for Sun
Salute and morning prayers, attendants and acolytes obeyed without hesitation.
An hour afterward, it sounded again, this time to break the long fast of night.
The kitchens served up food for 500, porridge and sweet rolls, steamed fish and
rice. Tea of course, hot and sweet, to feed the blood and purify the humors. It
was as if the day were starting as usual and the cold drifts of morning quickly
fled at the approach of the sun.

High
in a hay loft a grey lion slept, dreamless for once, his stomach only beginning
to rumble about in the absence of food.

High
in the monastery a mongrel slept, stirring only momentarily at the sounding of
the gong. The snow leopard, however, slept not at all and did not touch the tea
that was brought to her.

Deep
within the monastery, a young tigress slept while a cheetah worked, mixing
medicines of questionable nature and humming to herself in strange, exotic
keys.

And
finally in a quiet room, once the chamber of Petrus Ishak Raphael Mercouri, the
Ancient of
Sha’Hadin
, the Captain of the Queen’s Gurard slept fitfully,
restlessly as visions of his own intruded into his dreams.

Fallon Waterford
stretched
her slender arms over her head, yawning so broadly that her tongue actually
curled inside her mouth. Then she shook her head so that her hair fluffed up
from the flatness of sleep and curved about her shoulders like a river flowing
round a rock. Finally, with an exaggerated flare of nostril, she breathed in
the cool morning air, blinking as its sharpness bit the back of her throat like
her father’s sweet iced cream.

“Ah, the mountains,” she announced
to no one in particular. “The Great Mountains. There’s nothing like mountain
life, I always say.”

 
She glanced around the rocky path, flung her arms up in desperation.

“Oh who am I kidding? I’ve never
even been to the mountains until eight months ago. I’m a jungle girl, born and
raised. These mountains are so dreadfully cold. I hate all this snow. There’re
no plants, there’re no trees, no vines or bugs or anything like home. I suppose
it could be worse. After all, they’ve amended my birthright, haven’t they? I
have status in the Court of the Empress! Won’t my father and mother and sisters
be pleased?’”

 
She smiled to
herself and pushed off the rock, resuming the stroll she had been enjoying
since her rather late breakfast. The fish and rice had been tasty, but she
found the porridge and sweet rolls very filling and it was all sitting in her
stomach like a stone. On top of it all, the odors in the Chamber of the Dead
had been dreadful so she had abandoned the Alchemist to her bubbling pots and
noxious potions and set out to clear her head and think.

Trails
led to and from the monastery like goat paths and she had not been surprised to
see the occasional patchy pelt scrambling up the rocky slopes. Her father used
to keep a few goats and she remembered they always smelled of musk. Their oils
scented everything. When she had moved to the University, she had made it a
point to wash her clothes many times over to rid herself of the stench. These
goats, however, didn’t seem to stink. Curious.

She
had seen several robed people also out for their morning strolls. Odd sorts,
these monks. She had noticed when they were doing their jobs or when they
hadn’t seen her watching, their hoods were down, faces exposed like normal
folk. But whenever they were in sight of her, their hoods went up, drawn like
curtains cross a window.
Curious,
she
thought again. She would have to ask Tiberius about it later.

Silhouetted
in front of a bank of high dark clouds, a small bird sat preening itself on a bluff.
She had never seen it’s kind before so she climbed up toward it, squeezing her
backside through a cleft in the rocks and froze.

On
the other side of the bluff, in the centre of a level plateau, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey
was working a great shiny horse at the end of a long rope. It was the Captain’s
horse, she remembered, now barebacked and sporting only its leather bridle,
reins laced high up on the neck. She could hear his voice, singing to it,
urging it onward. It cantered around him in a large circle, collected and calm,
its large hoofs seeming to spring from the ground like a hare.

She
sank into the rock, sighing.

Easy
on the eyes
, Sherah had said and she found herself agreeing quite heartily.
His hair, although not as traditional or impressive as his brother’s, seemed to
suit him, falling into his eyes and curling at the back of his neck but in need
of a good brushing. He was athletic, this she could tell, for he moved within
that circle with supple strength, keeping the horse cantering by the movements
of his body alone. He held the rope in one hand, the excess looped in the other
and she realized that those hands were not as soft as she might have expected
from a lion born to a Noble House.

“Alchemists,”
she muttered to no one in particular, “Why can’t you leave well enough alone. I
was fine. Really, I was. Now, you had to go and ruin it all. Here I am, me,
Fallon Waterford, Scholar in the Court of the Empress, ogling over a stableboy
who happens to be a grey lion from a Noble House. Look at me. Look at
him
.
Oh mother...”

As
he turned within his circle, he spotted her and waved and in her flurry to
disappear, she tumbled off the rock and onto the hard earth below.

“Hello,
sidalady
tigress!” He dropped the
line and rushed toward her. “Say, are you alright?”

“Fine!
Fine!” she shouted, flailing her arms at him to keep him away. “I’m not needing
a-rescuing, thank you very much!”

 
“You need water for diving,
sidala,”
he grinned as he pulled her to her feet. “I thought tigers
had more sense than that.”

“Well,
we do, and I wasn’t, so... so paws off!”

She snorted, pouted and dusted
herself off, slapping his hand away when he tried to dust too.

“Yes,
yes, paws off, I understand.” He was still grinning. “How’s your backside?”

Emerald eyes flashed.

“I didn’t fall on my backside, in
case you hadn’t noticed. And, and, and if you had, then then then why are you
noticing my backside, hmm? What
are
you thinking?”

 
For the briefest of
moments, his mouth hung open, bewildered. But he recovered smoothly. He always
did.

“I meant from yesterday,
sidala.
That was a long ride for someone unaccustomed to the back of a horse.”

“Oh.
Oh, well. Oh well, that’s different.” She nodded, swallowed, looked away quickly
.
“That’s a nice horse.”

“Yes
he is. Imperial bred. Just like my brother.”

“Are
you two really twins?”

“We
are. I’m just immature, that’s all.”

Again, that smile. It seemed to
capture the sunlight and wrap it up in one brilliant package, just for her.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

She
took a step to follow, but for some reason, one knee had turned to butter and
buckled beneath her. He caught her as she stumbled

“You
sure you’re alright?”

“Oh.
Yeah. My, um, foot just... fell asleep. Happens all the time. Feet. Can’t live
with ‘em. Can’t cut ‘em off.”

alMassay
nickered as they approached, and Fallon was surprised at how large the horse
was. He had not appeared so from the back of her own mount. In fact, when the
great head reached out toward her, blowing softly through wide nostrils, she
found herself hesitant.

“He’s not going to eat me or
anything, right?”

“My,
my no. He’s just checking you out. Here, scratch him right here. He likes
that.”

His
grey hand took hers and laid it high on the withers, to the arch where proud
neck met strong back. She scratched and the stallion sighed, a deep rumbling
sound that rolled around his massive chest.

“See, he likes you. Want to try
him? He’s a good ride.”

“Me?
Oh, no. No, I can’t. I’m a yak girl, really. Need that old spinal ridge to keep
me on. Besides, there’s no saddle...”

His
reaction was instantaneous, and she cursed her flapping tongue.

“Saddle?
Who needs a saddle? Grab his neck. I’ll give you a leg up.”

Before
she knew it, she was on.

And
Kerris was backing away, holding the rope and grinning.

But there-there’s no mane! It’s all
shaved off!” she yelped as the horse started to move. “And the reins are tied
way, way up his neck! How do I hang on?”

He
had resumed his position in the centre of the circle.

“You don’t stay on by hanging on,
sidala.
You stay on by balance.”

“Balance?”

Biting her lip, Fallon sat back and
began to think.

“Yes,
balance. Lengthen your legs and... yes, just like that and let your weight fall
into your feet... and... that’s right and...”

Kerris’ instructions trailed off,
for the tigress had indeed lengthened her legs, letting her weight fall into
her feet, rolling on to her seat bones, squaring her shoulders and dropping her
hands to her sides.

“Yes, um, yes that’s good. That’s
quite
good, actually...”

“It
makes sense, now that I stop to think about it,” she said, completely at ease
now on the back of the great horse. “The problem is that there are so many
things I never stop to think about.

“My life story, sadly.”

alMassay had picked up a trot now,
and the Scholar’s perfect position had not wavered as they circled around the
figure in the centre.

“So, then, if you don’t need a
saddle to stay on, do you really need reins to steer --”

Without
warning, the horse stopped, planting its fore hoofs into the sand, its body
almost buckling as its rear end caught up. But an unprepared Fallon tumbled
over the crested neck, pitching forward to the ground with a thump.

“Don’t
move!” shouted Kerris.

Naturally,
Fallon Waterford didn’t listen. She rarely did in circumstances like these, for
her curiousity almost always got the best of her. But when she pushed her face
and shoulders from the earth, she thought it best if she didn’t actually move.

“...oh
mother...”

For
a mere hand’s breadth away, a giant cobra reared its hooded head.

***

The chamber of Petrus Itshak
Raphael Mercouri was small, too small the Captain thought, considering the
man’s station. But then again, life in
Sha’Hadin
seemed to defy the
usual conventions and he found the simplicity of things appealing. He could
understand why people lived this way.

It
was almost noon. The sun was high over the ravine, sending light in straight,
strong shafts through the clouds and into the room. The window was oblong and
open with no glass. He had thought it a curiosity, for this place must surely
grow very cold in winter. Even now, this late spring morning was cool enough
but the blankets were thick and warm. Again, the simplicity of necessity. The
monks here wore robes, not for aesthetics, not for dramatics but for the simple
fact that the long, swirling layers caught the warmth the way no doeskin nor
tunic nor legging could. Everything seemed to have a place, everything
belonged, here at
Sha’Hadin.

Everything
except them.

It
disturbed him.

He
sat crosslegged by the window, a mug of hot tea at his side and an open book in
his lap. It was a journal, the last entry dated only yesterday. Under normal
circumstances, he would never violate the privacy of a man’s journal for he
himself was a private man, keeping record of all his own deepest, innermost
thoughts in the same fashion. But these were no ordinary circumstances and he
had found the diary quite illuminating. There were several trunkloads of
journals, from a hundred summers of living and the Captain found himself
envious of time. He would have loved to sit for days, going through this
particular lifetime of stories.

The last entry read thus:

Diamont died last night within
our circle. It was the same as the others only he had no voice - the spell fell
upon him too quickly. His falcon was dispatched earlier this evening, so no
doubt it too is dead, buried in some deep mountain pass on the way to
Pol’Lhasa
. We pray that our messages have reached the eyes of the Empress, else
we too shall join Diamont within two nights and none shall be the wiser. Now,
that would be loss.

Sireth is afraid. He says
nothing but I can tell this matter weighs heavily upon him. I can understand
for he is young and I am not. I have lived long and well and look forward to
seeing what lies beyond where we cannot see. Naturally, he does not share my
sentiments. If only he would acknowledge the truth of his vision, this vision
that has plagued only him for so many nights, he might derive some comfort in
it for then to die might be gain for the entire Upper Kingdom.

Then again, it might be
devastation.

We have agreed to hold
AhmniShakra
tonight at the commencement of the Second Watch. Perhaps then, one of us can
see more clearly what it is that strikes us down with the ease of a bitter
wind. If not, then I pray that this ends with us, with the death of the Council
only, and this spectre does not find 500 monks a tempting prey.

Sireth is coming. I am ended.

Or am I begun?

Kirin stared at the last page for a
very long time. It was an old book, every one of its soft parchment pages
filled. In the bottom corner, Mercouri’s small, scrawled signature finished it
off. It seemed as though the Ancient had known this would be his final journal
and this, his final entry. Perhaps he had seen it sometime and planned
accordingly.

Kirin
closed the book and gazed out the long window.

There
were storm clouds gathering.

***

Over those strange, unfamiliar
peaks, she could see the clouds. Great masses of darkness obliterating the
usual brilliant brightness of midday. Through those masses the sun still shone,
sending her light to the earth like a hail of arrows or spears, raining down on
an unsuspecting enemy. There was war in all things, she thought. The rain
fought with the sun, the winter fought with the summer, the snow with the grass.
Life was war, for even birth was bought through death. It was the way of
things. She had always understood that simple fact.

The
Major wrapped her arms around her chest, shivering slightly and turned back to
study the walls. Paintings were lavished in many layers upon the granite
surface. By the window, a portrait glistened with brighter color and she
suspected it was the Seer’s work, for it could not have been more than several
months old. It was curious, however, for the same portrait was repeated over and
over again, growing faded and muted the farther up the wall her eyes went. The
subject was a woman, a panther with braided black hair and ebony pelt and eyes
the color of the Queen’s gold. The older, more muted portraits were lovely,
very realistic and full of minute detail. But the newer ones, obvious by the
freshness of the paint, were broader, more stylized, as if that minute detail
were fading from memory.