The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (77 page)

***

He opened his eyes to darkness
and the first fear was that they had blinded him for good. Gradually, the very
dim and distant glow of candles appeared from somewhere outside. Then, he could
make out shapes moving about, silhouetted by lanterns, fires and the accursed
moon, but here in this tent, there was nothing. No firepit, no torch, not even
a stick of incense glowing on one end. He could hear laughter however, but it
did not sound like the laughter of cats and he realized immediately what had
happened and the memory of it flooded back in a sudden, sickening rush.

Thoughts of the Major, how she
had fought and killed so many. She moved like poetry, she moved like lightning.
He tried to move now, for he needed to find her, but his arms were behind his
back, bound together at the elbows, pulling his chest and ribs backwards at an
unnatural angle, making it difficult to breathe. He struggled to stand, but he
was literally wrapped around a pole – no, not a pole. It was too rough.
It felt like a tree, but inside the tent. He did not understand how this could
be, but it was too dark to see anything at all.

He closed his eyes again and
tried to find her, but was immediately assaulted by thoughts of Alchemy, as
five of them swept into the gar.

Five long black cloaks sweeping
the ground, taking up positions all around him, like the five points of a star.
One began walking a circle around them, pouring dark powder onto the ground,
and with a motion of his fingers, the circle erupted in flame. Sireth pressed
his back into the tree, wishing he could quiet the thudding of his heart,
wishing he could become steel one last time.

The dark figure stepped toward
him. He held out his hand – white, naturally – and a flame suddenly
erupted within his palm. The flame flickered and danced, and it illuminated
part of the tiger’s face, and his light, light eyes.

“I felt you, you know,” purred
Jet barraDunne. “It was twenty years or so, wasn’t it, when you announced
yourself rather abruptly onto the world of civilized men?”

He tried to look away from the
flame but it had him bound as tightly as these leathers.
Steel, you have forgotten…

“They all felt it at
Sha’Hadin,
but then again, you know
that. Poor old Petrus wouldn’t rest until he found you. But did you know that I
felt you as well?”

The flame rose a little higher,
burned a little brighter. In fact, it pulsed and throbbed like a beating heart.

“I was in training in
Agara’tha,
an acolyte of only twenty-one
summers. As far as we knew, there were none skilled in the Arts who were
equally blessed by the Gifts. It was simply unheard of. Not until that
afternoon, so long ago, and the cry that tore all our souls in two.”

The flame was beating stronger
and now, he could hear it. He could hear all of their hearts, beating, beating,
beating. He closed his eyes tighter still. He knew where they wanted to take
him. He dared not let himself go.

Jet barraDunne leaned forward.
“You do realize that it is because of you that the dream of Unification came
upon me. Now tell me that isn’t poetry, benAramis? It is poetry of the finest
sort.”

He could hear their hearts
beating.

…I don’t want him here, Sireth. He frightens me…

“That was the afternoon your wife
died…”

He could hear all their hearts
beating.

…just a few days love, he is my brother…

“A lion killed your wife, so you
killed the lion. It felt it like it was my own wife.”

the heartbeats were everywhere.

…dropping the canes, running as fast as his legs would take him…

“You started a fire. You burned
the lion and your wife and your little girl… Now that
is
sad, benAramis. I do feel for you…”

the heartbeats are growing very loud
he cannot think

…Shakuri dead, blood everywhere, on the bed, on the walls, on the
floor, Soladad on the bed, on the walls, on the floor…

“…but you don’t belong with us,
do you? You didn’t belong with Petrus and those others in the esteemed halls of
Sha’Hadin.
You - mongrel,
lion-killer -
belong in a prison cell.”

the heartbeats are deafening they
all step forward

…the last thing his left eyes sees before a dagger slices his face open
and pushes him into the wall…

“Why are you so afraid of fire,
sidi?”

the heartbeat is becoming histhey
step even closer

… Nemeth the firestarter, Nemeth the murderer, Nemeth’s face sprayed
with his daughter’s blood…

“What is it that terrifies you so
very much?”

it is his own heart that is
beating as one they raise their hands

“You
know
what it is…”

…he reaches in, in to his brother’s heart, into his very soul, finds
the fire, catches it, makes a fist…

“You see? You have discovered
that the Arts are strong in you too. Perhaps, Sireth benAramis, you were the
very first…Unificationist?”

the heart beat peels like thunder
as one they touch him

the room erupts in flames

***

They had come for him just as the
sun had set.

The Leader was large, his pelt
thick and equally grey and black. His hair was long, it rippled and he wore it
loose and pushed thickly off his face. The points of his ears could be seen
underneath. He stared at the knives for a long time before turning his gaze on
the Captain and there was no mistaking the thrill that flashed before purpose
settled in. With hands firmly clasped behind his back, he walked very slowly
around the bound lion, as if deciding which parts to take first.

For his part, the Captain did his
best to remain unmoved. Jet barraDunne had not returned as promised. In fact,
Kirin had thought he had heard the man arguing in the foreign tongue of the
dogs earlier, but his senses were so raw that they could not be trusted.
Instead, he had slipped deep into the heart of Bushido, where pain and death
were simply duties to be embraced, and the prospect of a noble legacy still
whispered vain promises into his soul.

Kerris.

The Leader finally stopped in
front of him, reached an odd stub-clawed hand out to touch his hair. The man
was muttering to his companion, a lieutenant of sorts, all the while running
lengths of the golden mane through his fingers. The lieutenant was nodding. It
was an odd thing, very similar to the action of the First Mage and suddenly,
strange and disturbing thoughts entered the Captain’s mind. But then, the
fingers began to curl, twisting the mane into knots, and the hand began to
wrap, tugging the hair at the very base. Kirin winced, for it was most
uncomfortable, and suddenly he understood all the interest in his hair.

He was a lion.

The man stood up tall, made a
fist with the hair bound around it, and with amazing force, ripped it from
Kirin’s scalp. He could not believe the cry that escaped his lips. He could not
believe the pain that seared his body at such a thing. But he knew it was only
the beginning.

A thin river of blood ran past
his left eye. He knew what they wanted.

Only the beginning.

They moved now to the trees where
his hands were bound, pressed the palms, causing the great claws to extrude
against his will.

Only the beginning.

Kirin steeled himself as they
reached for a blade.

Death is a strange thing.

Some meet it with grace, some
meet it with fear, some with fury and some try to bargain, but eventually,
everyone meets death in their own way. It may in fact have something to do with
how one has lived one’s life, whether with grace or fear, fury or lack of
acceptance. It might also have something to do with how that death is dealt,
whether it is inherited after a lifetime of living, or whether it comes too
soon in a life not yet lived. Death in old age is a splendid thing, a crowning
achievement, a thing to be honored and desired. In the young, however, it is
most often sad, heartbreaking even. It is known of many who have never
recovered from the death of their young.

But for those of middling years,
death is indeed a strange thing. For warriors, soldiers and civil guards, death
is expected, and it is the manner of death that determines whether or not it is
a good thing. For civilians, however, it is something to be avoided, as is the
case for most civilians, life is the thing that holds the prize. Each day a
blessing to be celebrated and embraced.

One thing that Kerris was not
expecting as he wrestled with the nature and timing of his own death, was
angels.

He could vaguely remember some of
the old beliefs about them, those ministering spirits who came and went, doing
the bidding of the gods, but he had never paid much attention to such tales.
Never when there was water and earth, sticks and sky. But now, he wished he had
paid attention, for he was beginning to believe that his death, insignificant
though it may have been, was being interrupted by an angel.

The night was black, the incense
as heavy as his lids. The angel had lifted a flask of bitter tasting liquid to
his lips and when he had tried to struggle, had pushed him back down with long
strong hands. Fire had burned through his body then, and the sound of his heart
roared in his ears, the sound of the blood rushing through his veins drowned
out all thoughts. Ice next, as needles glinted in the moonlight, causing his
flesh to twitch and shiver. He wished for death now, cursed that damned spirit
who would not leave things well enough alone, but soon after, once the fire and
the ice had done their work, and he lay on the bloody rock somewhere in between
life and death and the stars, he rolled his head in her direction to ask.

“Am I dead?” His voice was barely
there. He hoped she heard.

“Not quite,” the angel answered.

“Are you an angel, then?”

“Of course.”

“Do you… answer prayers?”

There was a heartbeat of
hesitation. “I can hear them.”

Sleep was calling. Sleep or death
or stars or something, and he was very, very tired. But there was one last
thing he needed to do, one last thing.

“Please angel, spirit, whatever
you are, can you help… my brother?”

The angel touched his face,
stroked his cheek, kissed his forehead, and as he slipped away again, he could
have sworn he saw the angel weeping.

***

The sun had fled this new and
dangerous land and the laughing moon came out to play.

And it is well known how the dogs
so love their moon.

Candles, lanterns and firepits
dotted the encampment, with soldiers patrolling the perimeter in pairs. Three
gars held three prisoners and the smell of blood was thick in the air. Blood
and smoke, incense and fear, but from only one tent had come sounds of battle,
of screeching and snarling and thrashing and fighting and that was the tent
that held the woman. She had killed or maimed more of them than any other
creature in living memory, but they would not kill her for she was a beautiful
thing, small and slim and silver and soft, and they were soldiers, not often
given to the company of women. They had used her repeatedly and compared scars
afterwards. The Leader could have his lion, the Alchemists their Seer, but the
Legion had their woman and they were satisfied.

Finally, even that tent had grown
quiet and they moved on to dinner.

They had roasted and eaten three
horses that night, and for most of them, life had never been so good. They were
about to instate a new Khan, their own Leader, Gansuhk Rush of the 112
^th
Legion of Khan Baitsuhkhan. He would become Khan Gansuhkhan, Fourth Khan of the
Lower Kingdom, and they would be elevated to his First Legion. Their ranks
would improve. They would be paid more. They could take more wives. Everything
would be so much better for them. Once the Leader killed that damned lion.

And once the Leader killed that
damned lion, they would be free to kill the rest of them, namely those dressed
in black. There would be no need for Alchemy anymore. It would be good
practice, and they could kill and eat their black horses as well.

Yes, for the 112
^th
Legion, life had never been so good.

***

The fire went on forever.

There had been no beginning and there would be no end, only flames and
burning, fire and blood, and the little kachkah house had trapped him forever
within its walls of red. He could hear their screams in his head, and forever
would, his wife and beloved daughter, and they echoed even now, an underscore
to the music of the fire. And his brother too, as he was held fast by his
younger brother’s mind, screaming as he burned in the same way he had burned
others, now dying in his brother’s arms.

The fire went on forever.

They would not come for him this time. There would be no soldiers or
civil guards, no magistrates or trials, no death sentence or prison or
executioner’s blade. No, this time, there would be fire and fire only and he
would live here and never die, in the little kachkah house two days walk from
Shathkira.

there was no moonlight

there was no silver

He knew what the dogs had done, what they would continue to do until
she died of it, but he was trapped in the little kachkah house, with the fire
and the screaming. He could not help her. He had failed.

And so, he abandoned himself to the flame, willing them to burn him
even more, to scald the pelt from his frame, turn him to ash like his wife,
blow him away on the first breeze of evening.

Someone was burning incense.

He could smell it, faintly at first under the smell of smoke and burnt
flesh, and he knew it was not Shakuri, for she hated incense, preferring the
scents of the jungle and the wild grass. It was not Soladad, for she smelled of
sugar, bananas and earth. Nor was it Nemeth. His smell was oil, steel, and
firepowder. No, this was different, and try as he would to ignore it, it kept
coming back.

You do not live here, came a voice.

Petrus??

You trap yourself here. That is a power they do not have.

Petrus? Is that you?

You must go to the third tent. The gar with the red door.

Who are you?

I owe you, Seer. An eye for an eye. A life for a life.

But who are you?

Come out and I will tell you.

I cannot.

You can and you will. You must.

It was a fight. The fire roared all the louder, the flames burned all
the hotter, but bit by bit, Sireth benAramis, the Last Seer of
Sha’Hadin
, pulled himself from the floor of the
little kachkah house and to his feet, and step by step, to the door now of the
little kachkah house. The door was aflame, raging with fire and smoke, but this
time, it did not burn his hands. He took one last look.

And closed the door behind him.

He opened his eyes.

He was on the ground. His arms
were free, the bindings cut, so he pushed himself to his knees to look around
the tent. The scent of fire was still strong in his nostrils, the roar in his
ears, but the tent itself was silent, still. A single wick burned before him.
No candle, just wick and suddenly he knew.

Silently, he thanked her.

Beside the wick was a bolt of
rough fabric and a dagger. He snatched both, pushed himself to his feet and
headed for the door.

***

It is midnight, and they have
built an elaborate fire in the center of the compound. They are all gathered
around it, waiting. They have been waiting for hours. One has started a chant,
which is quickly picked up by the others, and soon the entire Legion is
chanting and stomping, swords raised high into the air.

Tonight they will celebrate.

Finally, a cheer goes up from the
pack as the Leader steps out of the gar and into the firelight. He raises his
arms wide as he walks, turning in slow circles so all can see the symbols of
this new Khan – the headpiece fashioned from a lion’s mane. It is long
and golden, brushed to shining and braided with golden threads, the tuft of a
golden tail woven into the locks on one side. There is a bloody necklace made
of long golden claws, still attached to bones at the first joint. He spins
again, a smile finally spreading across his face and shakes his fists to his
pack and to the cats in black robes who have joined him.

His lieutenant brings him a flask
of votchkah, the strong, biting drink of dogs and he drinks it down in one go.
Others do likewise, and the preliminary celebrations have begun. Soon, he will
call for the lion. They will all watch that.

For some reason, the cats in
black are not celebrating.

***

He hadn’t asked for it. He hadn’t
willed it.

The accursed angel had given him
his life back.

And somehow he was here, in the
middle of the night, in the middle of a forested plain, and on the back of his
mountain pony no less. She had also given him a new tunic, dark grey silk
embroidered with suns, moons and stars, sea shells and monkeys.

Now if that wasn’t divine
intervention, he couldn’t possibly guess what might be.

It was his good fortune, for he
had always been lucky, that the dogs were celebrating something, and were
gathered in the distance at the center of the camp near a roaring bonfire. They
were singing, they were drinking, and under normal circumstances, Kerris would
have taken his chances and joined them, trusting his amiable nature and his
incorrigible streak of good luck to make new friends, forge new ties and
perhaps bring a bit more stability to his proud, proud Empire. But he had a
task, an agenda. The angel had promised. Celebrating could wait for later.

Clutching the long sword, he urged
Quiz forward and together, they leapt the fire that encircled the camp and
disappeared into the shadows therein.

***

He could have sworn it was
firepowder.

The dream, he told himself. It
had to have been the dream. Everything now was tainted with fire, with smoke.
He could not tell what was real and what was memory.He had touched the woolen
side of a tent, and there was something on his gloves. The night air was cool,
although he could see from the shadows a bonfire raging in the center of the
compound.

You must go to the third tent. The gar with the red door.

There were two other tents, one
to the right, one to the left. He could see no dogs in the space between them
– they seemed to be occupied at the bonfire. He clutched the cloth
between his hands, slipped the dagger into his obi, and very quietly, moved
around the circular walls of the right tent, hoping against hope not to be
seen, and somehow find a red door.

***

He could have sworn it was
firepowder.

It flaked off in his hand as he
approached the white door. He could smell it too, but then again, he had been
not quite dead only hours ago. Perhaps some things remained a little off.

So, with a deep breath, he pushed
open the flap.

It was very dark inside, a
central hearth glowing with embers only, and he could see a figure outstretched
between two severed trees, head bowed, unmoving. His heart thudded in his
throat.

There was a sound as a red dog
lunged at him from the shadows and Kerris barely had time to duck the swing of
his curved blade. The katanah came up in parry, and as they stepped back, the
dog paused to study his new opponent. Kerris swallowed, but set his jaw and,
with both hands, brought the sword up to his face. The blade shone in the dim
light of the hearth.

The dog grinned and swung.

***

She was asleep and his heart
broke at the sight of her, unclothed, bound by hand and foot to four separate
stumps, dark stains from knee to ribcage and beyond. He was glad it was so dark
in this tent, for he did not wish to see more. Quickly, he knelt, dagger sawing
at the first of the leathers binding one wrist. It snapped free, her eyes
snapped open and she grabbed him by the throat, tossing him across her slip of
a body and rolling on top of him, claws poised in a killing grip.

“Major,
no!“

Her face was a fierce mask, fury
and violence uncontained, almost unrecognizable as her long marbled hair swung
across, hiding her from view. Her breathing was sharp but she did not kill him
and he prayed she remembered him, could control herself long enough to remember
him.

Beneath her wild hair, her brow
furrowed as she struggled to do just that, and suddenly, her violence seemed to
melt away. She leaned her forehead down upon his chest, rested her whole body
down upon him. A shudder went through her, like a distant rumble of thunder. He
wrapped his arms around her and held her as she fought her breathing, fought
her fighting, fought to allow him to help her, as raw and vulnerable as she
was.