“I claim combat.” Zeng He shouted into the grunts of his struggling men, the deep grind of the shifting stone. “I claim the right of one on one combat. My life for the lives of my men. I have the right.”
The mountain stilled. A haze of dust shimmered gold in the afternoon light. A bird trilled, tentatively. Another answered.
Two of the men scrambled over, grabbed An Hu by the arms, hauled him back onto the sun-heated stone. Hard stone. Still stone. Sweating, Zeng He rolled onto his back, his eyes on the empty blue sky.
“So who in the names of the nine demons were you talking to?” An Hu’s voice grated as if he’d swallowed gravel. “And just what in the name of those same demons did you promise it?”
“Who went over the edge?” Zeng He sat up, stood and counted quickly. “Shan Ji.” He crossed to the edge of the precipice, waved An Hu away as his lieutenant stepped quickly forward. “We’re safe.” He looked down, but the dense tree canopy had swallowed any trace of Shan Ji. He had been young, had been saving a bride price, this trip, his last trip.
“Our guide did not lie,” he said softly. “This is how they came. Give me what I prepared.”
An Hu took the leather pouch from his belt, handed it over. “Waste of good coinage, if you ask me.” He shrugged. “Good hemp rope would hold her.”
“It probably would.”
“You going to tell us who you spoke to?”
Zeng He became aware of his men’s tension. They were afraid, nervously glancing at the gray ridges of stone like the mountain’s muscles beneath their booted feet. “The dragons are the children of the mountains.” He faced them, hands spread. “The mountain defended its offspring, even if the offspring is partly human. I spoke to the mountain. I invoked the dragons’ right of combat. I...have the right.” It was hard to say, they would all know the rumors. And rumor paled compared to the truth.
The men stared at him, their faces carved like stone, eyes fixed on him like men on a sinking ship watching a rescue boat. “You are safe to return to the ship. I will face our challenger.”
“And if you lose?” An Hu’s growl broke the thick silence.
“I die.”
“I think we will stay here.” He gave Zeng He a cold, dark
look.
“No.” Zeng He lifted a hand. “If I do not die, I will come down to the ships. If you stay...” He lifted an eyebrow. “Can you swear by the spirit of your father that you will not interfere?”
For a moment, An Hu held his stare, anger bright in his eyes. Then he lowered his head.
“If anyone interferes, you will all die and so will I.” He paused to let An Hu feel the weight of this truth. “You must take the men back to the ship. I will come down. Or I will not.” He looked at the men, some of them his own age, the ones who had found what they sought on the moon’s bright path across the waters, unlike Shan Ji, who had come with them hoping only for a bright future at home. He sighed. “If I do not return, he is your leader.” And he put his hand on An Hu’s shoulder.
That bound An Hu with the chains of responsibility. Zeng He turned away from the flash of anger in his old friend and comrade in arms’ eyes.
They left reluctantly, filing back down the trail to find Shan Ji’s body and bring him back to the ship for burial in the arms of the sea. Zeng He walked to the center of the rocky spur, his shadow stretching ahead of him. He dropped the leather pouch into a crevice in the rocks. “It is time,” he said.
The youth seemed to materialize from the gray stone and the tree shadows beyond. He stepped forward, and golden light ran down his slender blade. “You are an honorable man to trade your life for the lives of the men that followed you. Their reluctance to leave suggests you are a good leader.” He bowed briefly, his dark eyes glittering. “I am sorry to have to kill you.”
“You could choose not to kill me.” Zeng He stood easily, but his muscles were ready and he watched the youth carefully without seeming to. “You could choose to come with me and I would have no need of your sister.”
The youth frowned. “If you know enough to have invoked the ancient right of challenge, then you know enough to realize that this is not possible. All time stops until this challenge is decided, until one wins and one loses.” He stepped forward, circling, light as a dancer on his feet, his blade weaving spells from the golden sunlight. “It is time to decide.”
It was as if time had indeed stopped. No bird called, no cloud moved in the sky, no leaf shivered. The sun, frozen in the sky, gilded the spur of rock with golden light and the youth darted forward, swift as a stooping hawk.
Zeng He parried and their blades skirled. He feinted, thrust, but the youth leaped sideways and backward as if on wings, feinted, then darted in so suddenly that Zeng He’s parry was late and the hot kiss of the blade stung his shoulder. He backed, blade up, as he tore a strip from his surcoat with his teeth, bound the bleeding wound tightly.
The youth gave him time, pressing his guard, not attacking. But the moment the knot was tight, he leaped. Steel clashed again and Zeng He dove and rolled, came to his feet in an instant, had a moment as the youth spun. Zeng He’s blade leaped for blood and only with an effort did he turn it, so that it slashed the youth’s shoulderblade in a shallow gash rather than piercing.
The youth danced away from him, crimson staining his white tunic, his frown thoughtful as he faced Zeng He once more. Then he attacked in earnest. Zeng He backed, parrying, beating the blade aside as it seemed to multiply into a dozen blades slashing at his face, probing for his heart. Sweat stung his eyes and his wounded arm throbbed as the youth drove him slowly across the mountain’s shoulder beneath the frozen sun.
He could not keep this up much longer. He dashed his sleeve across his face to clear the sweat from his eyes, barely parried a flashing thrust from the youth, felt the blade gash his thigh. His heel struck stone and he looked back to find himself on the lip of stone that had shaken Shan Ji to his death.
Now.
Or never.
The youth crouched lightly in front of him, a golden flame of triumph in his eyes. Zeng He saw his death there. In a fluid motion almost too fast to see, the youth tossed his sword from right hand to left, lunged. Zeng He’s parry was too slow, he had not expected this. The blade homed on his heart...
Zeng He spoke the words.
They sizzled from his lips, burning like lava, scorching throat and tongue. For one instant, all motion ceased and his opponent’s eyes widened with shock. Then the youth spasmed, arms and legs flying outward, back arching. The blade nicked Zeng He’s side as it flew past, pinwheeling out into the void beyond the cliff. He leaped forward as the youth fell, caught him and lowered him gently to the sun-heated stone.
Time began with a lurch. Insects buzzed and birds chirped. A thin cloud passed in front of the setting sun, sending a brief, welcome shade over Zeng He. He touched the youth’s throat, reassured by the steady pulse of life there, and stood, his knees trembling, to fetch the leather pouch.
The smith had melted the gold treasure Zeng He had given him, had spent the night forging it into chains. Zeng He fastened the manacles to the youth’s sinewy wrists, chained his ankles. Then he fetched his water bottle, drank to sooth his still-burning lips and tongue, and settled himself beside the youth where his shadow would shade his unconscious face.
“Dragons have a temper.” He spoke softly, gently. “It flows in the blood, is never entirely controllable. One day, when we were youths ourselves, Zhu Di lost his temper with me. I had bested him at swordplay and I had cut him.” He sighed, letting the distant hills thick with trees draw his gaze. “He beat me, nearly to death. It changed something in him. Made him understand what he really was. I think it helped make him the emperor he is, restrained in vengeance, generous with friendship. After I recovered, he told me the words, the ones his father had given him. The ones that dragons use. If one speaks them in a fight, all dragons are struck unconscious.” He chuckled softly. “Zhu Di said that without those words, n
o dragons would exist. Or dragon kin.”
“But you are not dragon.”
Zeng He started, looked down to find the youth’s dark eyes open. Dragon gold gleamed and shimmered in their depths. Zeng He sighed. “I am not dragon. He told me the words in case I ever needed them. Against him. I never did.” He smiled, unable to banish sadness from that smile. “Before now.”
The youth raised his manacled wrists, grimaced as the chains jingled. “Clever to use gold to bind my powers, too.”
Zeng He nodded. “The challenge has been answered. I won. You lost. You and I are both free of that, now.”
“You planned this.” The youth sat up, the gold in his eyes bright as the sun’s evening fire. “From the beginning. That’s why you spared me on the trail? And just now, when you had a chance to wound deep?”
Zeng He lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
“You gambled your life on that dice throw and you nearly lost.” The youth stared at him for a moment. “What is it that you want? Apart from my sister.”
“Not your sister.” Zeng He met the youth’s eyes, although the gold there stabbed him to the depths of his soul. He will look into your eyes, Zhu Di will, and find what he has forever searched for. Searched for and thought he had found in me.
But had not.
“Your sister has little dragon blood in her veins.”
The youth shrugged. “She has enough to help the people here. That is what makes her happy. You did not answer my question.”
“I want you to come with me, back to the Dragon Court. I want to bring you to the Emperor Yongle who sits on the Dragon Throne.”
“As a slave?” Gold fire flared in the youth’s eyes.
Zeng He’s smile hurt him. “Oh, no. Not as a slave. As a guest.” One look. That is all it will take. “The Emperor Yongle will...value you. As a guest.”
“You have been touched by dragon blood.” The youth’s eyes pierced him. “I felt that from the first.”
“I have.” He had to look away, this time. “Your dragon blood will heal Yongle. I felt the truth of it from the moment we faced each other. And Yongle will reward you well. With his eternal friendship. That is no small thing.”
Silence stretched between them and the sun began to slide behind the distant mountain peaks, its light turning to rich gold, the shadows swelling, stretching, strengthening. Below, twilight already filled the narrow valleys leading down to the beach, the harbor, and the ships. An Hu would be on deck, his eyes on the mountainside. Waiting.
“I will go with you.” The youth’s tone was thoughtful, but the dragon gold in his eyes pulsed in the fading light. “As you say, the friendship of the Emperor of the Dragon Throne is no small thing. If you leave my sister here to be happy, I will go in her stead. My name is Xinyi.” A shimmer of anticipation flickered in those eyes. “I am curious to meet this Emperor with dragon blood. His reputation has preceded you here.”
“He will be honored, Xinyi.” Zeng He winced as his stiffened wounds pulled at him. He unlocked the manacles, removed the chains.
Xinyi leaped lightly to his feet and offered a hand to Zeng He. As Zen He took it, new strength coursed through his weary frame and a brief sting told him that his cuts were healing. Ah, yes, he carried much more dragon blood than Zhu Di. Zeng He closed his eyes briefly. It would be enough to heal the emperor. More than enough.
They made their way down the mountain in the night. The stones themselves glowed beneath their feet, lighting their way. Dragon blood indeed. It was An Hu who spied them as they emerged from the trees in the gray hour before dawn. He took the leather pouch with its jangling chains and asked no questions, hurried to rouse the men so that they could catch the turning tide.
It was time to go home.
That night, out on the open sea, after they had sent Shan Ji to his grave in the sea’s arms, Xinyi sought him out where he stood at the bow of his ship, watching ghosts move among the thousand thousand lamps of heaven.
“You did not tell me everything.” Xinji’s eyes glowed like the sun’s last light in the darkness. “I have read your heart and I know the price you yourself pay for your Emperor’s health. I have a gift for you.” Xinji held out his closed fists. “These are Dragon’s Eyes. This one shows the future that would have been, if you had not stopped here or if you had taken my sister and left.”
He opened his hand, palm up. A golden sphere flashed with light and suddenly, Zeng He was seeing the Xiafan Guanjun tied up in the imperial harbor, himself trudging up the stone paved highway away from the docks, his shoulders slumped.
“This would have been the last voyage,” Xinyi said softly. “The emperor’s failing health would have made him fearful and he would have withdrawn from the wider world. The Dragon Throne would have shrunk, become the seat of mere mortals, of petty chieftains, for many many years to come, the wide seas abandoned to strangers.” The golden sphere popped and vanished from his palm and he opened the other fist. “This eye looks at the future that will be now.”
This time, Zeng He saw his ships on strange seas, anchored off strange lands where bronze-skinned peoples dressed in robes embroidered with brilliant feathers offered him gold and welcome. He saw more ships, on more seas, on and on forever into the horizon.
“The Dragon Throne will flourish and become strong, it will stretch its shadow over all the lands between the sea and the sky,” Xinyi murmured. “You did not trade your heart away for nothing and your heritage will be entire nations.”
Zeng He watched the second Eye vanish from Xinyi’s palm. “I did not think I traded it for nothing,” he said softly, and turned away to watch the night-foam gleam with light as the bow of his ship cut through the dark waves.
The Crow
by Diana L. Paxson
Diana L. Paxson is the author of twenty-eight novels, including the Westria series and the recent Sword of Avalon, featuring history and magic. She has contributed to many anthologies including Thieves’ World and Sword and Sorceress, and has served as a judge for the Pagan Fiction contest. She lives in Berkeley, California. Read about her Westria books and more at http://www.westria.org.
In “The Crow,” the protagonist of “Crossroads” from the first Lace and Blade, returns home, to the beginning of his journey, but like any hero he brings with him surprising gifts—not only the magic of Brazil, but courage and hard-won insight.
As Claude’s carriage rolled toward the wrought iron gates, a gentleman costumed as a crow emerged from the barouche that had halted in front of the mansion. Claude took a deep breath. It had been three years since he had moved among the glittering throng he glimpsed beyond. The scents of straw and forest-tanned leather from his own costume reminded him abruptly of Brazil. He found himself wishing he had stayed there.
His friend Henri gathered up the folds of his toga as a footman opened the carriage door.
“Madame D’Arbalêt will not mind that you have brought me?”
“Mon ami, it is a masked ball. No one will know whether you were invited or not.” Something tore as Henri pushed forward. “Name of God! How did the Romans conquer the world wearing garments like these?“
Claude eased himself through the opening in a rustle of straw and leaped lightly to the cobbled street. Clearly, their hostess believed in doing nothing by halves. Even the footmen were costumed in the gaudy orange and blue-striped doublets and pantaloons of the Vatican Swiss Guard. Henri followed his glance with raised eyebrow.
“Well, that is original. But I doubt they will be guarding the pope. If Madame has invited her usual habitués, the guest list is likely to be weighted in the opposite direction.”
“Truly? I would not have believed you such a sinner.” Claude smiled.
Henri shrugged and straightened his wreath of vine leaves. “Oh, these days we are all decadent. Fortunately, it is not necessary to name one’s sins, only to drop a dark hint now and again. When you tell them that you have been in Brazil, you will be quite in fashion.”
My frie
nd, you have no idea. Claude remembered a courtesan called Corquisa, and the flicker of swords in the light of a bloody moon. His business tonight was with another, very different lady who called herself Manon.
“First they must find out who I am,” he said lightly, drawing the straw fringes of his headdress over the brim of the hat to veil his face.
Henri shook his head. “Merely to see the mask will give them a thrill. Did you not tell me it was given you by some kind of native priest?”
“He was a cacique of the Truxa tribe whose life I saved when hunting wild pig in the sertão—the back country—of Bahia.”
“You will be a great success, I assure you,” replied Henri, leading the way up the curving drive.
The mansion was another relic of Napoleonic pretension. Light from crystal candelabra shifted through open doors and windows. At the entry, Henri presented his card of invitation.
“My friend is the Baron Claude Delorme.”
“Monsieur Thibaudet, Monsieur le Baron, you are welcome. You will find refreshment in the blue salon.”
And music, Claude found as they pushed through the crowd, was available everywhere, wafting in different keys and tempos from consorts of instruments tucked into the corners of the various rooms as the forests of the Amazon rang with the competing cries of myriad birds.
“Madame has bagged a fine collection of the famous and infamous,” murmured Henri. “The fellow dressed as the Devil is a young poet called Paul Verlaine, whose book of Saturnian poems caused quite a stir last year. The gentlemen garbed as Sarastro from The Magic Flute calls himself Eliphas Lévi and is reputed to be a master of esoteric lore.”
Claude nodded without paying much heed. He was here to find a woman, not a man, and some of the things he had seen in Brazil would make a poet’s blood run cold.
They had scarcely entered before two young women costumed as nymphs seized upon Henri and carried him away. Claude continued on alone. In that collection of bright fabrics and glittering paste jewels, his painted leather and straw attracted curious looks. They spoke of a world where these fantasies were real. He told himself that the outfit was only a disguise, but he could feel his body swaying, his booted feet beginning to carry him with the feral tread he had seen when the cacique danced.
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