The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (99 page)

“What is his name?” he said
after a while.

Nevye did not look at him.

“What is his name?” the Seer
repeated.

“Hunts in Silence,” Nevye said.

“Hunts in Silence,” said Sireth.
“Fascinating.”

“He is young. His mate was
killed by an eagle this summer, before their eggs hatched. He is alone. But he
hunts well and will find a new mate in the spring.”

“He talks to owls,” Sireth
muttered under his breath. The world was a wondrous strange place. “Can he hear
you?”

“What?” Now the jaguar did look
back. He seemed preoccupied. “What’s that?”

“The owl. Can he understand you
when you speak?”

The man snorted again. “I don’t
speak to owls.”

“Have you tried?”

“Of course not. Don’t be
ridiculous. Seers of
Sha’Hadin
speak to falcons, not owls.”

“You
don’t speak to
falcons,” grumbled the Major.

“Try,” said Sireth. “Tell him to
look at you.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Tell him.”

The jaguar tugged the yak hide
higher onto his shoulders but in the firelight, Sireth could see his yellow
eyes dart to the distant brown shape, now busy tearing at flesh and sinew under
its talons. The bird was quite intent and the snow was growing dark with blood.

“Call him by his name.”

Nevye’s tail whapped under the
hide but he said nothing.

“I am going to sleep,” said
Ursa. “Wake me when the idiot dozes off. I will kill him then, toss his body to
the owls.”

And she bundled down in the
snow. She looked like a small yak sleeping.

“Good night, my love,” said the
Seer. “I will see you in your dreams.”

“We pass
Nanchuri Glacier
tomorrow,” she murmured under the hide. He could see the slivers of her eyes,
pale like the moon.

“Yes, I believe we do.”

“Then my dreams will be sweet
and filled with blood.”

She closed her eyes, smiling.

He sighed and looked to the
jaguar. He could see his profile in the firelight, wondered what could motivate
a man like that. Wondered what Dharma had sent his way and if he was running
from her as well. Dharma was a cruel mistress. She chased many men.

Suddenly, with ribbons of pink
swinging from its beak, the owl looked at them.

It was like a bolt of lightning
but then the bird lifted from the snow, the remains of the chiwa in its claws.
He was swallowed by the darkness.

“Well, well,” said Sireth as
Yahn Nevye turned to look at him. “Perhaps many more things will change at
Sha’Hadin
before I’m through…”

With that, he sunk deep into the
warm snow, tugging the yak hide over his head.

Yahn Nevye stayed awake for much
longer.

***

The Throne Room was filled on
all sides with colour.

Ministers from every office in
Pol’Lhasa
were present. Ministers, Under-ministers and clerks as well, everyone eager to
see the presentation of the Blood and Jade Fangs to the very first
Shogun-General of the Fanxieng Dynasty. It was twilight but the many torches
and lanterns in the room filled it with gold and warmth, and while the wind
howled outside these walls, inside it was as oppressive as a jungle.

He strode down the length of it,
saw Chancellor Ho standing near the Throne, dressed in robes of Imperial Gold.
Still, he kept his eyes fixed only on the Empress on the plain wooden seat. His
heart was steady, his mind detached, for in truth, he could not believe any of
it was happening. This last week had been a dream. None of it real or possible
or true. At any time, he would awaken to find himself back in the tent of the
dogs, waiting to be cut into pieces by their blades.

The room was silent as he
reached the foot of the Throne, the ages-old seat of power for three dynasties.
Two ministers were standing at her sides, one of Arms and the other of Defense.
They were holding a sword each and he knew them instantly but could not dwell,
for he dropped to the floor, elbows and forehead touching the warm stone.

All was silent, save for the
hissing of the torches.

“We are entering a time of war,”
she said, her voice soft as swallows, piercing as the North wind. “With enemies
amassing on both Eastern and Northern Borders. The
Chi’Chen
may very
well be a peaceful force but they are still a threat to our security. And kestrels
are bringing reports of a Legion of Legions gathering in the city of the Enemy.
On the outskirts of the Empire, rats are now reported using tools in their
swarms. We are beset by enemies within and without.”

She paused, letting her golden
eyes sweep the room like brooms. No impurity could exist in the corners of this
room.

“But more than these, we are
faced with another threat, a threat more dangerous than dogs or monkeys or
rats.”

The entire room was hushed. On
the floor, Kirin could barely breathe. He was grateful for the stiff leather of
the yori. It gave him support and strength.

“More than these, there is the
threat of Ancestors.”

He could hear nothing. No one
was breathing. No one could believe.

“Ancestors are alive in this
world, far far to the West. The star in the Year of the Tiger awakened them and
we have sent our dear Kaidan, ambassador of the Upper Kingdom, to verify this.
He is back now with an Army of
Chi’Chen
soldiers at the Gate of Five
Hands. For this reason, we have commissioned a new Shogun-General. Kirin
Wynegarde-Grey, formerly a Captain of the Imperial Guard. He alone has
experience with Ancestors.”

He wanted to crawl away, hide
under a table, a chair, anything.

“The Council has approved this
commission and so, without delay, I have ordered the presentation of the Blood
and Jade Fangs. Ministers…”

He could hear their feet move,
drew in a deep breath.

“Captain Wynegarde-Grey, look at
me.

His head was spinning. He
couldn’t believe.

It seemed someone else was
lifting his head.

“Kirin Balthashar
Wynegarde-Grey, you are a lion born of a noble house. You were Captain of the
Imperial Guard, like your father before you. This is not enough. The
Brotherhood of the Fangs is an historic one, a complex one. The Sword of Blood
is violent and thirsty. It has slain over one thousand dogs in its history,
twice as many rats. It longs to kill, it lives to sow death. Are you worthy of
the blood, Kirin-san?”

He could see the Minister of
Arms holding it out before him. It was a katanah, its long steel fashioned out
of Khamachada iron. It gleamed red in the lantern light.

No,
he said with every
thought, every sinew, every muscle.
I am not worthy.
Yet his mouth was
silent.

“The Sword of Jade is poetry
unmatched. It sings when it moves, it dances when drawn. To die by the Jade is
a death of music, of beauty, of art. Are you worthy of the Jade, Kirin-san?”

The Minister of Defense stepped
forward, holding out the short sword, a khodai’chi of Khamboh’jah iron, oily
green in hue.

“Are you worthy of the brothers?”

Are you worthy?

He didn’t understand.

“Are you worthy of these blood
brothers?”

Her golden eyes pleaded with him
to answer, but he didn’t understand the question. Was he worthy? Was he?

He was kneeling here before them
all, unrecognizable because of the yori and kabuto and suddenly he remembered
the leopards One and Two. He smiled to himself. They had been very clever.

Slowly and with great care, he
raised his arm and lifted the helmet from his head, allowing the single queue
of golden mane to drape down the back of his neck. The pelt of his head,
unmaned by dogs, visible for all to see. The pride of lions gone in service to
the Empire.

There was a gasp from the
Ministers, from the Under-ministers and the clerks. Indeed, from everyone in
the Throne Room of the Empress, including Chancellor Ho. Once his shame, now
his glory and to his utter surprise, the entire room dropped to their knees
now. One by one, elbows and foreheads to the floor, they bowed before him, the
very First Shogun-General of the Fanxieng Dynasty.

He met her eyes now, could hear
her songs dancing inside his head.

“Yes,” she said. “You are
worthy.”

And she smiled.

The Enemy

“Sweetling of days,

Sweetling of days,

The nights have grown colder

And you have grown older,

Sweetling of days,

Remember my song.”

It was a scrap of memory from
childhood and filled him with warmth and the ache of loss.

“Sweetling of days,

Sweetling of days,

The River has dried up,

Our tears have all cried up,

Sweetling of days,

Remember your home.”

It was not his grandmother’s
voice and when he opened his eyes, he was not surprised to see tree boughs,
frost and drapes of dark silk.

Setse was singing.

He flexed his shoulder where he
remembered the arrow had struck. It was tight but there was no pain. Vaguely,
he remembered a second arrow and he drew his knees, causing the bearskin to
bunch and fall.

“Good morning, Rani,” sang his
sister. Her voice was music on the wind.

Smiling, he propped himself up
onto his elbows, mindful not to sit too high. The boughs were low and would
likely drop snow all over him if bumped. There were candles still in the centre
of the little gar and he could see Setse across the flames. She was rocking
something in her arms, beaming like a spring morning.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Alive.” He remembered the sound
of her falling, the crunch of her body in the snow. “And you?”

“Very well. She is a good
healer.”

“Who, Setse? Who did this?”

“Rah. She’ll be back soon. She’s
gone to collect roots for medicine and pine needles for tea.”

He sat up straighter, ran his
hand along his neck and shoulder, finding a poultice of moss, tree sap and
mustard seeds.

“Who is she, Setse? Where did
she come from?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Witches come
from everywhere,” she said and she dropped her eyes down to the blanketed shape
in her arms. She resumed her singing.

“Sweetling of days,

Sweetling of days,

The dark days have tarried,

Our dead we have buried,

Sweetling of days,

Remember your clan.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“What is that? What are you
holding?”

“Ulaan Baator will come now,”
she said, still smiling.

His heart thudded inside his
chest and he rolled to his knees, crawled past the candles to his sister’s
side.

“He has only a few months,” she
said. “Perhaps four. I couldn’t understand her times. She’s speaks the language
of the People but her accent is strong…”

From within the folds of the
blanket, a tiny golden hand was reaching up, touching his sister’s face. He
could see the tips of golden claws, sliding in then out of the fingers in a
motion that reminded him of his grandmother kneading dough.

“Setse,” he growled. “Where did
you get that?”

“Rah. She asked me to watch
him.”

He couldn’t believe what she was
saying, even less what he was seeing.

“She’s brought him all the way
from the Southern Sea, where it rains in winter, not snow.” Setse looked up at
him. “Isn’t that strange? Rain in winter?”

“Setse, put it down.”

“His name is Kylan.”

“Put it down.”

She frowned, hugged the child to
her chest. Immediately, it began to whimper and flail.

“She asked me to watch him,
Rani.”

“Kill it.”

“No! It’s just a baby, Rani!”

“It is a child of the Enemy,
Setse. Kill it now.”

“Rani, no! Never!”

The child began to wail and he
could see tiny pinpricks of red in his sister’s chin.

“Put it down, Setse. We can
leave now and be back in the mountains before she gets back.”

He reached for her but she
shrank back, clutching the blankets tightly to her chest.

“No, Rani! She saved us! Both of
us!”

“She’s a witch, Setse!”

“That’s what they said about me,
Rani! That I was a witch! Just because I see things, because I know things!”
Suddenly, she froze, her blue eye glittering and glassy. She began to speak in
the language of the Enemy.

The flap of the tent swung open
and a wraith slipped inside.

He scrambled for his quiver,
quickly knocked an arrow, drew the string but couldn’t loose it. His finger
refused to move. For the very first time in his young life, Jalair Naranbataar
saw the Enemy standing before him.

She was wearing black leather
and a cloak of thick bearskin and her face was hidden in the shadows of her
hood. But in those shadows, he could see her eyes, gleaming like the flames of
her many candles. She smelled powerfully of incense and magic and when she
lifted the hood, he was amazed at what he saw. It was not the face of a monster.
Not the face of nightmares or legends told to frighten children. In fact, he
thought, as the arrow pointed directly between her large eyes, that she looked
less like the night and more like the sun.

“Good morning, little brother,”
she said and then she smiled.

He swallowed, redressed his grip
on the bow.

“What do you want?” he growled.
“Why did you bring us here?”

“Your wounds are healing well.”
Her voice was deep, smokey. “The arrow is not shaking.”

“I said, what do you want?”

“I want to feed my baby.” She
blinked slowly and he felt the strength draining from his muscles. “And then I
would like a cup of tea. Do you drink tea, little brother?”

“Green tea?” asked Setse.

“Of course.”

“I would love green tea,” sang
Setse, and she kissed the baby on the forehead. “We don’t get green tea at
home. Only bone tea. It’s good for strength but it tastes very bad.”

The witch moved toward his
sister and Rani followed her with his arrow.

“Don’t touch her,” he growled,
baffled as the woman folded her long legs and dropped to the snow next to his
sister. Setse passed the baby over and with a minimum of tucks and folds, the
baby was nursing happily. Setse clapped her hands.

“I knew it,” she sang. “Ulaan
Baator is coming, isn’t he?”

“He will come,” said the woman.

“You see, Rani? I knew it. Blue
Wolf, Yellow Cat. Everything will be good now. Everything will be made right.”

He had none of the gift himself,
but somehow, Naranbataar knew that it nothing would be made right for a long
while, and that before it was right, life would become very, very wrong.

***

“This is impossible,” said Yahn
Nevye as the three of them stared down the long stretch of cord and rattan that
made up the rope bridge. Far below, one of the
Shi’pal’s
little sisters
leapt through the gorge like a team of white stallions, throwing up an icy
spray that felt like daggers on their cheeks. “No horse will cross that. We
should go father.”

“Idiot,” growled Ursa. “You know
nothing.”

She turned to her horse, the
blue roan from Khanisthan, cupped his long face in her hands, stared into its
large dark eyes.

“You are not a soldier, but you
are brave and strong-hearted.
You will follow me
across this bridge and I will name you Xiao.”

“Brave? You would name a horse
Brave?” The jaguar peered again over the edge. “You speak to horses as though
they understand.”

“Pah,” she snorted. “I speak to
you
as though you understand.”

Nevye looked to benAramis. The
Seer merely shrugged.

“The horses will follow,” said
the Major. “They are all brave. Watch and learn, little chicken.”

And with a hand on the reins,
she stepped a booted foot out and onto the rattan that crossed the gorge. Snow
fell from the canes, disappearing into the white spray as if home. The ropes
that formed the rails quivered and squeaked but held.

Two boots now, and she began to
cross, the bridge swinging a little at her weight. She did not turn and slowly,
the horse stepped a hoof onto the rounded shapes of the canes.

It hesitated, but she did not
stop and soon the reins were taut. Behind the men, the horses snorted and
shifted in the snow. Mi-Hahn chirruped on Sireth’s shoulder as together they
watched both snow leopard and desert horse begin to make the narrow crossing.
And still she did not turn.

“Xiao,” she cried over the roar
of the river, not looking back. “Xiao. You are Xiao.”

With wild eye, the horse took
another step. And another. And another.

The bridge was swaying with each
hoof fall, creaking under the weight, and they both grew very small as they
crossed the wide gorge over the River.
 
In fact, it seemed like hours but finally, the Major had laid a hand on
the pike of the far side and the horse scrambled up behind her. They pushed
through the snow drifts and were on solid ground once again.

She stroked its long nose, ran a
hand along its blue neck.

“Xiao,” she said. “Now and
forever, you are Brave.”

On the other side, Sireth smiled
and turned to his horse. “Well then, what shall we call you, my red desert
friend?”

Mi-Hahn cried out and left his
shoulder for the great expanse of grey that was the sky. The horse snorted and
together, horse and Seer began to cross, the bridge creaking and swaying under
their weight. A cane cracked, splintered under a heavy hoof but before long
they too were scrambling up the drifts on the other side.

Tan mongrel turned to face red
horse.

“Dune,” he said. “You move
through snow as if it were sand. I shall name you Dune.

One by one, the packhorses
followed, the bridge swinging sideways with each crossing. Another cane
splintered and disappeared into the spray of the river but none were lost until
only a jaguar and one horse were left. Across the gorge, Ursa stared at the
horse.

It shook its head, tossed its
mane, but soon, it too was following the others. The bridge creaked and a hoof
went through, leaving a hole large enough to lose a cat but it crossed. Yahn
Nevye was the only creature on the far side of the gorge.

Ursa narrowed her eyes. “Little
chicken?”

“That is madness,” he called
over. “Did you see those canes?”

“The horses weigh far more than
you.”

The man
swallowed, glanced down at the rushing
Shi’pal
far below. He looked up.
“How do I know that this isn’t a ruse? You might cut the ropes as I cross!”

Sireth smiled.

“If she wanted you dead,
brother, we would not be having this conversation.”

“I’m not good with heights,”
called the jaguar.

“We are in the mountains,
idiot.” And rolling her eyes, Ursa Laenskaya mounted Xiao and headed out,
plowing through the drifts as though the horse were a yak.

“I might fall through those
canes! Look at that hole!”

“Don’t look at the hole,” called
Sireth. “Don’t look at the gorge. Just look at me. Look…”

Nevye stared at him.

“That’s right. Just look at me.”

For once, the jaguar did as he
was asked.

“There is no gorge. There is no
river. There is only a path that takes you from the table to the chair.”

“I know what you’re asking. You
think me a novice.”

“I think nothing of the sort.”

Nevye swallowed but kept the
Seer’s gaze. “You can do this?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Not in the least.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just look at
me. That’s right. The rope is not a rope, it is a chair…”

And Nevye placed a foot onto the
canes of the bridge.

“…A chair made of rope and
rattan. Reach your hand to grab the back of the chair. Very good. Just ropes
and canes that I gathered from the forest. The paths to the rattan fields were
not smooth paths. They rose and fell with the forest floor. There are stumps
and dips and the roots but the canes were very good and worth the occasional
twisted ankle. The ropes are strong, the rattan even stronger and the chairs I
made were very fine. I made them all the time in
Shathkira
, a little
village in
Lan’ladesh
—”

Sireth hissed as Nevye’s foot
went through the hole and he dropped like a stone.

“—Feel the chair, Yahn.
Hold the back of the chair.”

“I
am,”
growled the
jaguar. His eyes were glassy, held as they were by the Last Seer of
Sha’Hadin.
He was hanging on to the ropes with both hands as one leg dangled above the
gorge. The split-toed sandal sailed down, down, down. “It’s a stupid chair.”

“Yes,” said Sireth, and he
raised a hand. The sandal rose with it. “But do remember the forest floor is
not smooth. You must lift your feet carefully when you walk.”

Nevye pulled his leg up, placed
it onto the canes, continued to walk. The Seer released a long breath.

“People paid good money for my
chairs. It was a good job and I made a good living. Perhaps, I can convince the
Major to give up the army and take up a simpler life, a smoother life of trees
and canes and bamboo…”

And with that, Yahn Nevye
stepped into the drifts in front of the last Seer of
Sha’Hadin.

He released a long breath,
looked around.

“I was in the jungle,” he said
after a moment.

“Indeed,” said Sireth.

Nevye moved toward his horse but
paused, lifted one foot out of the snow.

“Where…where is my other
sandal?”

“Your foot went through the gap
in the rattan and you lost it. I caught it.”

Nevye looked up as the Seer
handed him the split-toed sandal.

“You…you caught it?”

“As it fell, yes.”

“But you did not move.”

“I did not, no.”

Nevye swallowed.