The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (75 page)

***

It took all of them to hold him
down as first they peeled the fabric from his chest. The wound was long and
very deep in the shoulder and the blood that had soaked his tunic soon soaked
his grey pelt. They had no physician with them, no Necromancer or Alchemist
with provisions to tend him, and it became apparent that if he continued to
bleed the way he was bleeding now, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey would be dead before
morning.

Solomon had an idea.

He was a Scholar, this Jeffrey
Solomon was, but a physician first, and he asked them to help move the grey
lion to the fire. He then asked to borrow the Major’s swords and daggers, which
she was loathe to give up but was persuaded, and the Ancestor surprised them
all by plunging the blades into the flames until they grew red hot, like in a
forge. They held Kerris down yet again as Solomon wrapped cloths around the
hilts, reached with pelt-less fingers into the deepest parts of the wound, and
with seemingly great skill and knowledge, brought the glowing tip down and onto
the source of the blood.

The flesh sizzled and smoked and
reeked of burnt meat and Kerris cried out as Solomon dragged this new blade
along the path of the first, but soon his struggles ceased as sleep claimed him
in her black embrace. Solomon was then able to continue this practice until
most of the bleeding had ended. He packed it with damp tea leaves.

The tigress sat now, cradling the
grey head in her lap, stroking his forehead with her fingers.

“He will be alright now, won’t
he, Solomon?” Her voice was quiet, dull. She knew the answer to her question.
Somehow she still felt the need to ask.

The Ancestor shook his head. “I
don’t know, sweetheart. That’s a very bad wound. I may have stopped the
bleeding for now, but that’s by no means an effective treatment. Infection is
very likely and we need to bandage that up, but where in the world will we get
bandages?”

A bolt of white fabric dropped
into the man’s lap. He looked up to see the Major standing over him, a slim
silhouette against the reddening of the dawn sky. Her long marbled hair lifted
and fell on the early morning breeze.

“Will that do?”

Fallon looked up at her. “Your
cloak? You would let us use your cloak?”

“This is the desert. I do not
need it.” She scowled. “He is a spoiled, insignificant excuse for a lion.”

Fallon smiled. “But still.”

“But still.”

Solomon turned the heavy fabric
over and over in his hands, grabbed two ends, pulled. The cloth tore away in a
clean, straight strip. He smiled at her as well. “It’s perfect, Ursa. Thanks.”

The Seer appeared at her
shoulder. His own hair rose and fell on the breeze, and Fallon noticed how like
a matched pair they finally seemed. Her throat tightened, for she knew what was
coming.

“We must leave,” said the Major.
“We must find the Captain.”

Solomon said nothing. Fallon
nodded. She had a very bad feeling about this.

“We will return when we can.” And
with that, the snow leopard spun on her precariously high bootheels and headed
for her horse. Sireth lingered a little longer.

“Solomon,” he said finally. “I,
for one, am very glad that you didn’t die… tonight or so many months ago. And
I’m very glad I have met you.”

The man smiled again, reached out
his right hand. benAramis stared at it.

“Take it. Just like this…”

And so a very old tradition was
reintroduced back into the Upper Kingdom, the tradition of ‘shaking hands.’ It
is a meaningless tradition, performed mostly among men. Why it is done even
today is a mystery.

The Seer turned his gaze on the
tigress.

“Khalilah,”
was all he could say, for his throat was tight. She was
on her feet and in his arms in an instant, weeping and holding on as if she
would never let go for anything or anyone, and right then, Fallon Waterford,
Scholar in the Court of the Empress, was the saddest she had ever been in her
life.

He kissed her forehead, stroked
her now colorful cheek. “Don’t grow up too fast, little one,” he whispered, for
his own eyes were filled with tears.“And say hello to your kittens for me.”

“Six kittens,” she sniffed.

“Six grey striped kittens.”

And he stepped away from her,
from the Ancestor, threw one long last look at the Captain’s brother and cursed
Dharma for her cruel, cruel fates, and turned, his long dark desert robes
whirling theatrically, and he too was gone.

And the first beams of the sun
sliced through the tall, forested peaks of the city.

***

He rode.

He rode.

He rode.

He had no idea where he was going
but still he rode.

alMassay’s powerful legs tore up
the rocky plains, and at a full gallop, he rode.

Head spinning, heart pounding,
voices raging inside, warring and accusing and cursing and weeping, and yet, he
rode.

The rising sun was shaking her
head at him but he rode.

Trees flashed, forests came and
went, the land rose and fell, but he rode.

Voices raging, growing louder,
wailing, howling, barking like dogs inside his head, and still, he –

alMassay gone from underneath him,
sailing through the air, hitting the earth hard, rolling, spinning, aching,
breaking.

alMassay squealing, thrashing
great powerful legs in an effort to stand, and he watches as if underwater the
great horse shake his head and neck, and shake it again, to rid it of the shaft
of an arrow, buried deep within the flesh.

He bolts to the horse’s side as
another arrow slices the air, and then another, thudding into the massive chest
and ribs. He pulls out the first, as alMassy cries again, tossing the proud head
in agony. He hears laughter and figures appear from over a ridge and he reaches
for his katanah, but it is gone, left behind after tasting his brother’s blood.
And now, it is alMassay’s blood that is
spilling, streaking the great Imperial coat, dripping onto the rocks and his
best friend sinks to the ground, groaning and shaking and he is helpless to do
anything.

More dependable than soldiers, more faithful than men.

With a snarl and lash of his
tail, he hikes the short sword.

***

“Idiot!” she snarled, long
marbled hair whipping in the morning wind, for he had pulled his horse to a
halt behind her. “Are we lost?”

benAramis closed his eyes,
opening his soul to the sensation that had just shaken him almost off his
horse.

“No,” he murmured. “Not lost. Late.
We are too late.”

He opened his eyes, leveled the
good one at her. “The Captain has fallen.”

She set her jaw. “Dogs?”

“Yes.”

“Is he…Have they killed him?”

He cocked his head. “That, I
cannot see.”

“The falcon—“

And he called her silently, felt
her answering thoughts, let her lift him from his horse, take him so very high
above the land. It always amazed him, the things she saw, how the mountains
rose and fell all along the coast, how the water veered away from plains and
wrapped itself like a serpentine ribbon southeast, how the land looked so very
much like a blanket, stitched together with many differing cloths. She angled
and soared away from the tents, with fires burning brightly even in the morning
sun, cast her sharp eyes for any sign of Imperial gold.

She dipped a wing, dropped
through the clouds to better scan the terrain.

She heard it whistle a moment
before it hit.

The impact sent her violently
backwards before beginning the spiral downwards. Her one wing was leaden, the
shaft of the arrow piercing her breast on the right side. It was causing a
downdraft, its weight catching the wind and dragging her earthward. Even still,
she angled the left wing, desperately trying to glide, to stay airborne, but
the ground met her far too quickly and she hit hard, tumbling head over tail
into a patch of dry pines. So there she lay in an awkward position in the
scrub, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, when a shadow fell across her,
blocking out the sun.

Rough hands with short pointy
claws reached down to grab her.

Lifted her from the pines.

Turned her over in their grasp
and yanked the arrow from her breast.

She chirruped once, stabbed those
rough hands with her sharp hooked beak.

The hands moved to her neck and
it was the last thing she knew.

He was on the ground, on the
rocky ground nowhere near a patch of dry pines, and he felt her hands on him,
heard her voice as she pulled him to her. He buried his face in her hair and
wept.

***

Fallon Waterford awoke as the
body in her arms began to stir.

“He didn’t do it,” he was
muttering. “He didn’t do it. ”

He was trying to sit up, eyes
rolling, breath catching.

“It’s my fault. I said do it. He
didn’t do it. It’s my fault.”

Carefully, she pushed him back
down. “Hush, Kerris. Please lie still. I’ve made some tea—“

“He didn’t. The coward. It’s my
fault.”

“No, no. Not your fault. Um, hang
on, lie still, I need to find a cup…” And she began to rummage through the pack
they had retrieved from one of the horses, wishing Solomon were here to help.
He’d gone to retrieve the Humlander. He’d find the cup. He’d know what to do.
“I’m sure it’s in here somewhere…”

The grey lion rolled forward and
onto his knees, gasping as a wave of pain rocked him and almost sent him back
down to the ground. Fallon grabbed at his shoulders.

“No, no, Kerris. You mustn’t get
up. Please lie down…”

“I have to stop him. It’s all my
fault.”

She cursed his obstinance. There
was fresh blood on the bandages.

It was then that he spied the
katanah.

It was laying in the dirt near
the firepit, its tip dark with his own blood, and he cocked his head, thinking.
Suddenly, he lunged for it, snagging the hilt in his right hand and dragging it
to his knees.

“No, Kerris. Leave it!”

He pushed her away, tried to lift
it but found his right arm almost useless. Undeterred, he simply switched
hands, and staggered to his feet.

She was unable to stop him. She
wasn’t strong enough. So she knelt in the rubble, folded her hands in her lap,
and watched him with a heavy heart.

“If you care at all for me, you
won’t leave.”

He turned to look at her, brow
furrowed, as he tested the weight of the long sword in his hand.

“Well,” he said after a moment.
“At least now you won’t have a problem at the University.”

And he slipped two fingers
between his teeth, and whistled, a sharp shrill whistle that caused her to
wince at the sound.

Within a heartbeat, the mountain
pony scrambled into view. Kerris grabbed a handful of mane and swung up onto
the sturdy little back, the katanah tucked under his arm.

He spurred the pony into the southwest
and did not look back.

***

Some things should best be left
for the cover of night.

Those things, things such as
drinking, bedding a woman, and killing, are things that can be done at any time
during the day, but night holds a special allure for a variety of reasons. It
seems the relentless and unforgiving light of day can bind these activities.
The darkness affords more discretion for such auspicious events.

They hadn’t killed him just yet.

That was the first thing he
realized as he rose up from the blackness. They hadn’t killed him, so
therefore, killing him was one of those auspicious events being saved for
later. For the moon. Dogs so loved their moons.

The second thing was the smell of
incense. It was over everything like a shroud.

It was difficult to open his eyes
and he realized that his lids were likely swollen from the beatings. He
desperately wished to open his eyes, for the last thing they had seen was the
brutal death of alMassay. The images still flashed, unbidden, through his mind.
Dog soldiers had torn the great horse apart even as he struggled to fight.
Kirin himself had killed several with both kodai’chi and tanto before they had
beaten him to the ground and into blackness, but at the end, the last sight of
the proud stallion, thrashing as they sliced with their curved blades, carried
him away. He had welcomed the blackness then, for in it he felt nothing, no
pain, no guilt, no shame, no dishonor.

He wished for that darkness
again, for that concealing cover of night to hide what they had done, what he
himself had done, and what they were bound to do to him.

His long hair was loosed and
falling in his face. He was in a tent – a gar, the dogs called them, or
sometimes a yurt – large, high and draped with wool but given shape by a
circular wooden frame. There were several lanterns and a central hearth. They
had incorporated some tree stumps - or they had cut down some trees, he
couldn’t be certain – for some were short like stools, others taller like
poles. A lone guard sat by the entrance flap, his curved sword across his
knees. He was a red dog.Kirin had never seen one with quite the same coat, but
then again, dogs bred as they wished, having no regard for the institution of
marriage or for the Purity of their races, and all their coats looked the same
to him. He was dressed in rough leather and wool, and stared at him with bright
brown eyes.

Unnatural.

His arms were causing him
considerable pain, and it was only then that he realized that he was bound at
the wrists between two of those tall tree stumps. They were just far enough
apart to be wider than his reach. In fact, he was relatively certain that this
was their aim, to pull his arms ever so slightly from their shoulder sockets.
He pushed up with his legs, but they too were bound, only at the knees, and he
was suspended over the forest floor at an inconvenient height. He was too high
to kneel, to low to stand comfortably, and if he hung suspended from his arms,
it caused his breath to catch in his chest with the pain of it.