Vibrations: Harmonic Magic Book 1 (18 page)

She had designed it herself, having the best tailor and leatherworker she could find work on parts of it individually and then finishing it herself. She was no artist, but with patience, persistence, and perfectionism, outstanding things could be achieved.

She brought what she would need for an extended absence because she knew she would not find her prey right away. If they were smart, they would have fled as soon after the battle in their compound as possible. And, she thought, they were smart. At least, one of them was. The Gray Man had been looking for the scholar for years, but was never able to track down and capture him. She never underestimated her foe. That was one reason she always succeeded in her missions, one reason she was still alive.

Completing her mental checklist, the assassin blew out the lantern, left the room, and closed the door behind her. She didn’t even look back. Ix did not get home sick. She didn’t particularly care where she slept or spent her time. Being on the move for most of her life, she had no home, and no real possessions but her weapons and the four small figurines.

It wasn’t always like this, of course. She had a relatively normal childhood. Until she was nine years old. Then the entire world she knew was plunged to the lowest level of hell.

The woman now called Ix was born in a unique area far to the East of the ocean’s coast she was currently near. It was a large, fertile plateau surrounded by mountains and at a much higher altitude than where she was now.

The story was that a monk from another world, from the Gray Man’s world, she believed, accidentally came to Gythe. He was a fighting monk named Chen Feng Dao, and he had an amazing talent. He could make himself disappear from one area and appear in another. Teleportation.

He had accidentally teleported himself to Gythe, but did not know how he did so. He tried repeatedly to teleport back to his world, but only succeeded in moving around his new world. In fact, in his final attempt, he transported himself across the endless ocean and arrived on the opposite side of Gythe. Realizing he just as easily could have landed in the middle of the ocean, he vowed to be more careful in the use of his talent.

While traveling the land, trying to decide what he would do, he met a woman. Rather, he met
the
woman. It was love at first sight, and soon the two were planning on having children. But wandering the world was no life for children, so Feng Dao, along with just less than fifty others, went in search of a place to call their own.

With his sensitivity to energy flows, he found the ideal place. It was a place of fertile land and an odd large lake of bitter water. Ringed by mountains, it was secure and defensible. Such were the things the monk thought of as he settled in the area he called simply Zhong, a word from his native language meaning middle.

As he had children and they grew and in turn had children of their own, the handful of families intermingled and soon a race of people, all with similar bloodlines, arose. The original settlers held a deep respect for their leader and so adopted his model for living with respect for others, with strong family values and honor being of utmost importance. Within a generation, customs and a second unofficial language reflected Feng Dao’s homeland.

Two hundred fifty years later, Zhong was a different place. With six major clans and nearly a dozen minor clans, the area was reduced to warring states that were in constant flux, attacking each other for dominance. Each clan had a warlord, a leader who was the absolute ruler over the clan. Ix’s father was one such warlord.

Ix herself, named Chen Hua Ye—a name which meant night flower in her ancestor’s language—was special. The ability to use the world’s vibrational energy ran through Chen Feng Dao’s bloodline, but manifested in different ways. Anyone could learn to use vibrational energy, to an extent, but in those whom the blood sang most loudly, there was a special affinity for using the energy.

Most of these clan members were just more powerful than average people, more sensitive to the energy around them and more capable of utilizing it in the normal way, through training. But once in a generation or two there arose one who had Chen Feng Dao’s ability, the ability to teleport using the vibrational energies. Ix was born with that ability.

She could remember clearly how it had manifested. She was eight years old and two of the most powerful opposing warlords proposed negotiations with her father.

“I do not trust this proposal,” Chen Heng An said. “There will be deception and betrayal, do not doubt.” The eight-year old Ix sat silently watching her father discuss the issue with her mother.

“I cannot refuse or my honor will be tarnished, but I will accept, based on the condition that the meeting be held here, in our clan lands and in our clan home. It is less likely that we will be trapped this way.”

The preparations were meticulous. Heng An put in place an elaborate system with sentries and soldiers, leaving nothing to chance. Ix thought he was being too careful, too paranoid, but her father disagreed.

“Hua Ye,” he said to her, “you do not know these men like I do. They are ruthless, dishonest, and lack honor of any sort. I pray that you do not ever learn to distrust as I must distrust these men. What I do is necessary. If my preparations are not needed, then nothing will be lost, but if they are needed and I do not make them, our lives could be at risk.”

In spite of their careful preparations, her father’s forces were surprised. The treachery didn’t take the form of clandestine actions of a small group of assassins as they had feared. No, it was a full scale attack by every soldier in both of the other warlords’ armies. Though they outnumbered her father’s forces four to one, it was a close battle. Such was the combat skill of her clan.

In the end, the sheer numbers overwhelmed Ix’s clan and overran the entire area. She watched as her father fought valiantly against eleven elite soldiers belonging to the personal guard of one of the opposing warlords. She watched as he killed six of them and then, finally overcome by the wounds he had suffered and the blood he had lost, how he failed to block a fatal blow that nearly separated his head from his neck.

As the body dropped, one of the soldiers rushing across the courtyard saw Ix hiding and started toward her. Not knowing what she was doing, not conscious of her talent being activated, she was suddenly somewhere else. She had teleported to a small hunting cabin she and her father had visited often to commune with nature and to hunt. It was miles away from her clan home.

She wanted to immediately start out for her home, but because it was dark, didn’t know which way to go. Returning to the cabin, she decided to sleep until sunrise and then find her way back.

By the time she got back to her home, all the enemy soldiers and the warlords were gone. They had burned all the buildings, defiled all the altars and bodies, and destroyed anything they did not carry away as plunder.

When Ix found her family’s bodies, she collapsed to the ground and wept for what seemed like hours. She finally raised her head and saw, near her little brother’s body, his favorite toys. His five small figurines, expertly carved in bone, were half-buried under soot and dirt. She dug them out and found that four of them had survived intact. The fifth had been all but crushed. She cleaned them with her tunic and put them in her belt pouch. The tiny man, woman, pantor, and monkey had been with her since.

As she stared at the devastation Ix realized that she was the only one left alive in her clan and wondered what she would do. Where would she go? Collapsing to the ground once more, she let the loss and depression sweep her up.

When she finally came back to her senses, she was lying face down in the rubble, not two paces from the body of her mother. She looked around again, more carefully this time and picked out some details. Her mother’s body was twisted at an impossible angle. Her throat had been ripped open, so at least she had died quickly. Some of the women who were not killed quickly most likely wished that they had been.

Her brother lay on his stomach, arms and legs splayed out to the sides, not a rent or tear on his filthy clothing. In fact, he appeared to be unharmed, until she directed her attention to his caved in skull. Chips of white bone protruded out of the gory heap of his brain matter, surrounded by bloody hair and pulp.

Her father’s body had been cut into pieces. The pieces appeared to have been urinated and defecated upon by the soldiers. His parts were only recognizable from the strips of clothing that stuck to some of them. Ix knew the patterns in the cloth. It was her father’s favorite formal tunic.

A rage as none she had ever felt welled up in Ix. This was how her family died? In treachery? In dishonor? This was what animals did, not those who were originally of the same blood. They were supposed to be the same family. One idea burned more brightly than all others: the warlords would pay. She would find a way to make them. Somehow.

A memory intruded on her plans for revenge. Her father had started teaching her the clan martial art several years before. One time, he showed her the ancient clan writings, the secrets of their unique martial art, as written by the great patriarch Chen Feng Dao himself. They were drawn and written on scrolls which were kept in a secret location, a location in the ground to prevent fire damage. Could they still be there? She jumped to her feet and started running.

When she arrived at the area of the house where the secret writings were kept, her heart dropped. Parts of the house had collapsed on top of the opening of the secret room containing the scrolls. There were scratches and furrows in the dirt and ash that covered the floor, making it look as if someone tried to clear rubble from an area in the corner of what used to be her father’s study. Did someone find the door and get the secret writings?

With trepidation, Ix tapped her foot on the floor stones. Once she found the one with the hollow sound, she knelt to inspect it. She tried to move the large flat stone, but it wouldn’t budge. Thinking maybe that the debris strewn about on the floor was interfering with the opening, she spent the next hour dragging the heavy objects out of the way and using a half-charred broom she had found to sweep the dust off the stone. The acrid scent of burned and quenched straw from the broom assaulted her as the dust floating around her made her sneeze.

When she finally had cleared several feet around the stone, she knelt and tried to move it off the opening once again. It still wouldn’t move. She wished she had one of the large hammers she had seen the house workers use to drive spikes into the ground for tying down the canopies at festival time. She didn’t though, so she looked around for another tool to use. After a moment, she thought better of it. The stone door was very thick, if she remembered correctly, and she would never be able to break through it.

Sitting on the flat stone and crossing her legs, she began to breathe deeply, rhythmically, as her father had taught her. She closed her eyes and relaxed. How had her father opened the stone door? She couldn’t remember. There must be a switch or latch somewhere, but she didn’t know where. There didn’t seem to be anything left unburned in the area surrounding the flat stone on which she sat. If she relaxed enough, maybe she would remember.

She tried a different approach and pictured herself in her mind. She was sitting, just as she was in reality, legs crossed and body straight, with her hands resting loosely on her knees. As she watched, she imagined herself suddenly on the other side of the stone, in the hidden room.

Instantly, she was surrounded by darkness, as if the sun suddenly had gone out. Opening her eyes, she saw nothing but blackness. She made an effort to continue breathing regularly and to tamp down on her fear. Once calm, she opened her eyes again and saw tiny shafts of light. As her eyes adjusted over the next few minutes, she recognized the lights for what they were. It was light leaking through the minuscule cracks surrounding the stone door to the secret room…above her! She had teleported, on purpose, directly into the secret room.

Ix got to her knees and started feeling around her. She found the closest wall and, using it as support, she stood as her hands slid up the carved stone surface. Another minute of searching for what she remembered her father using and her hand found a small lever on the wall.

She pulled the lever sharply and heard a crack and then a whirring noise. The stone door slowly moved to reveal the opening to the room. As it opened and allowed more light to pour in, Ix saw a thick rope attached to one side of the stone, the other side disappearing down a hole in the floor. From beneath her, she could feel the vibration of the counterweight as it ground its way to its resting spot. The door, fully open, came to rest and Ix looked around for the first time.

The light filtered in from above the ruined walls of the room above, illuminating dust and ash as it swirled in the air. All around the little room were the alcoves she remembered, each containing important scrolls or, in some cases, books. Each clan head was responsible for adding to the body of knowledge in their generation, and for copying any texts that were deteriorating. Because of this, you could not tell from the appearance of a scroll or book how old the information in it was.

Collecting everything in the alcoves—there were twenty-four scrolls and five books—she reverently packed them into a sack that was conveniently left at the foot of the ladder coming into the room. Ix looked around again to make sure she was not leaving anything behind. Not seeing anything, she began to climb up.