To Journey in the Year of the Tiger

by H. Leighton Dickson

  ***

  The chamber of Petrus Itshak Raphael Mercouri was small, too small the Captain thought, considering the man’s station. But then again, life in Sha’Hadin seemed to defy the usual conventions and he found the simplicity of things appealing. He could understand why people lived this way.

  It was almost noon. The sun was high over the ravine, sending light in straight, strong shafts through the clouds and into the room. The window was oblong and open with no glass. He had thought it a curiosity, for this place must surely grow very cold in winter. Even now, this late spring morning was cool enough but the blankets were thick and warm. Again, the simplicity of necessity. The monks here wore robes, not for aesthetics, not for dramatics but for the simple fact that the long, swirling layers caught the warmth the way no doeskin nor tunic nor legging could. Everything seemed to have a place, everything belonged, here at Sha’Hadin.

  Everything except them.

  It disturbed him.

  He sat crosslegged by the window, a mug of hot tea at his side and an open book in his lap. It was a journal, the last entry dated only yesterday. Under normal circumstances, he would never violate the privacy of a man’s journal for he himself was a private man, keeping record of all his own deepest, innermost thoughts in the same fashion. But these were no ordinary circumstances and he had found the diary quite illuminating. There were several trunkloads of journals, from a hundred summers of living and the Captain found himself envious of time. He would have loved to sit for days, going through this particular lifetime of stories.

  The last entry read thus:

  Diamont died last night within our circle. It was the same as the others only he had no voice - the spell fell upon him too quickly. His falcon was dispatched earlier this evening, so no doubt it too is dead, buried in some deep mountain pass on the way to Pol’Lhasa. We pray that our messages have reached the eyes of the Empress, else we too shall join Diamont within two nights and none shall be the wiser. Now, that would be loss.

  Sireth is afraid. He says nothing but I can tell this matter weighs heavily upon him. I can understand for he is young and I am not. I have lived long and well and look forward to seeing what lies beyond where we cannot see. Naturally, he does not share my sentiments. If only he would acknowledge the truth of his vision, this vision that has plagued only him for so many nights, he might derive some comfort in it for then to die might be gain for the entire Upper Kingdom.

  Then again, it might be devastation.

  We have agreed to hold AhmniShakra tonight at the commencement of the Second Watch. Perhaps then, one of us can see more clearly what it is that strikes us down with the ease of a bitter wind. If not, then I pray that this ends with us, with the death of the Council only, and this spectre does not find 500 monks a tempting prey.

  Sireth is coming. I am ended.

  Or am I begun?

  Kirin stared at the last page for a very long time. It was an old book, every one of its soft parchment pages filled. In the bottom corner, Mercouri’s small, scrawled signature finished it off. It seemed as though the Ancient had known this would be his final journal and this, his final entry. Perhaps he had seen it sometime and planned accordingly.

  Kirin closed the book and gazed out the long window.

  There were storm clouds gathering.

  ***

  Over those strange, unfamiliar peaks, she could see the clouds. Great masses of darkness obliterating the usual brilliant brightness of midday. Through those masses the sun still shone, sending her light to the earth like a hail of arrows or spears, raining down on an unsuspecting enemy. There was war in all things, she thought. The rain fought with the sun, the winter fought with the summer, the snow with the grass. Life was war, for even birth was bought through death. It was the way of things. She had always understood that simple fact.

  The Major wrapped her arms around her chest, shivering slightly and turned back to study the walls. Paintings were lavished in many layers upon the granite surface. By the window, a portrait glistened with brighter color and she suspected it was the Seer’s work, for it could not have been more than several months old. It was curious, however, for the same portrait was repeated over and over again, growing faded and muted the farther up the wall her eyes went. The subject was a woman, a panther with braided black hair and ebony pelt and eyes the color of the Queen’s gold. The older, more muted portraits were lovely, very realistic and full of minute detail. But the newer ones, obvious by the freshness of the paint, were broader, more stylized, as if that minute detail were fading from memory.

  This was also the way of things. She was grateful for it.

  She heard something and turned, arms still tightly clasped around herself. Sireth benAramis was sitting up on the mattress, heavy-lidded and sleepy but smiling at her in that same patient, long-suffering way of his. She turned back to the wall.

  “You are not very good.”

  “An honest critic. I never could do her justice.”

  “Who is she?”

  “My wife.”

  “I thought there were no women at Sha’Hadin?”

  “There aren’t. She died a long time ago. Before I came here.”

  “How?”

  He almost choked on bitter laughter. “That is none of your concern, Major.”

  “Your wife. Your friends.” Her heels snapped as she turned towards him, her long silver tail slapping from side to side. “Death at every turn. Is this a common occurrence for you?”

  “Persecution of mongrels,” he began archly. “I should think you would welcome such tidings. It is a soldier’s job after all, to enforce the breeding practices of a free people.”

  “Idiot. We don’t enforce anything of the kind. We don’t need to.”

  “Ah yes. You simply throw us in prison.”

  “This doesn’t look like a prison to me.”

  “Isn’t it? But perhaps, we should ask your Captain. I’m quite certain he would know.”

  As his level, one-eyed gazed bored into her and she found she didn’t quite know where to look.

  “In fact, why don’t we ask him right now?”

  Suddenly, the door swung open to the small chamber, slamming against the opposite wall with a thud. Kirin Wynegarde-Grey stood under the arch.

  “Ah, Captain. We were just discussing you. Weren’t we, Major?”

  Ursa snarled at him.

  The Captain strode into the room, drawing up in front of them. There was a look in his eyes that the Major had seen precious few times. It puzzled her but set her pulse racing.

  “Major, please leave us.”

  “But –”

  “Now, Major. Close the door behind you.”

  She steeled her jaw but could not protest. With a swift nod of her head, she left the room but the sound of those heels did not carry on down the corridor however, telling them that she was no more than a heartbeat away.

  Kirin held up the journal. Sireth rose to his feet.

  “That belongs to Petrus,” he growled. “It was his private journal. Have you no honor?”

  “It would seem that you, sir, are the one in need of a lesson in honor.”

  “Save it, Captain. I have no need of your sermons.”

  “You lied to me. You have had a vision.”

  “Is that ‘your job’ now, Captain? Telling me what I have and have not seen?”

  Kirin threw the book onto the mattress.

  “Petrus has recorded it. Or is he too a liar like yourself?”

  The Seer’s eyes flashed, and Kirin observed with a detached air how the blind one mimicked the good.

  “Yes I lied to you! You could not handle the truth! You could not handle what I saw! I... I cannot handle what I saw. I’m not certain I believe it myself.”

  “Theatrics. Tell me.”

  “I cannot. I will not.”

  “Then you will die.”

  “Bah. Such is the way of lions.”

  Kirin shook his head, his fingers curling themsel
ves into fists. This was all wrong. Like their presence in Sha’Hadin. They did not belong. It was not right. He was not a man to force and bully those under his protection. It was not his way, the Way of the Warrior. Somewhere, along this hasty journey, he had forgotten this simple fact, and he cursed himself for so easy a loss.

  He walked past the Seer, to the window. He gripped its stony edges and leaned out, feeling the darkening winds on his face, feeling them pluck at his hair, his lashes, his lips. He breathed them in, willing them to fill his chest with coldness, imagining ice in their place and the Terror that would surely follow.

  The way, his way, could only be found in his heart, his soul, his very centre of being. Bushido.

  “The Empress.” Grey clouds, rolling around white peaks, dark and heavy with spring snow. “Would you tell the Empress?”

  There was a pause.

  “Yes,” said the voice behind him. “Yes, I would. I would tell the Empress.”

  “Good.” Kirin nodded but did not move, his fingers digging into stone. “Can we make Pol’Lhasa by nightfall?”

  “No. Even by the high path, it takes ten hours. It is already noon.”

  “The falcon, then.”

  “This cannot be delivered by falcon, Captain. I have seen this same vision every night for the past six nights and even yet I do not believe it. A simple message on parchment? It would be madness.”

  Again, the Captain nodded but this time, said nothing.

  Sireth watched him with wary eyes, wanting to trust the man now brooding before him but knowing well his own weakness. He had always trusted too hastily. He had always believed in the nobility of the feline heart. It had been his ruin many times over.

  And yet...

  And yet.

  “Petrus Mercouri,” he began softly, “Was a wise and gentle man. He taught me much since I came to Sha’Hadin. More than a man wants to know about the blackness, the tangles, in his own soul. For it is through that soul we receive the Gifts of Farsight and Vision and the darker the glass, the darker, more obscure the vision. It is the way of things.”

  Kirin said nothing. Bushido was a quiet master.

  “We do not choose what we shall see, Captain, nor how we shall see it. We see only what we are given to see and as it passes through our souls, it is filtered by what it finds there. Our thoughts, our hopes, our fears and our prejudice. Most importantly our prejudice for although the vision is pure and true, our perceptions are not. You said I was powerful, Captain, and you were right. But it is not from strength of character or pureness of heart but rather from lack of prejudice for I am a bastard by birth and a gypsy by choice. It is simply who I am.”

  The clouds were almost upon them now, completely blocking the sunlight that warmed the ravine. Kirin could feel the cold settling upon them. He closed his eyes.

  “When I touched your soul last night, even in the First Level, I sensed a true soul. A good soul. Honesty, integrity, loyalty. A rare and blessed combination. Metal in its purest form. But it is not enough, Captain. It is not Enough. You are a lion, born and bred and proud of it. You should be proud of it. I would be if my blood ran pure. But it influences everything, how you think, how you are treated and how you treat others. It darkens the glass.”

  He took a deep breath, his tone even more grave.

  “But if you believe that you can handle this vision, Captain, this scrap of knowledge, this thing that will change everything... If you truly believe, with your heart and your soul and your will, that you are Enough, then, I will tell you.”

  The room was quiet for several long moments before the Captain finally turned around.

  “In the morning, we shall leave for Pol’Lhasa. There and in her presence alone, you will speak of your vision to the Empress. She is Enough.”

  After a moment, the man nodded.

  “You are wise for one so young. However, there is still one small problem.”

  “You shall not die tonight.”

  “Words, Captain.”

  “You shall not die.”

  The gaze that held the Seer’s was steady, confident, and almost, for the briefest of moments, Sacred.

  Sireth sighed. “I believe you.”

  “If it is true that these deaths are caused by a living soul—”

  “It is true.”

  “If it is true and if these attacks are intended to bring about the collapse of the Council of Seven then they have failed, for I myself have abolished it. The Council is no more and killing you should serve no purpose. If there is another motive behind all this, we shall discover it soon enough. And if it is you, sidi, if it is you...”

  There was no need to finish the thought.

  “Major!”

  The door slammed open, allowing a silver-white blur to streak into the room. Her sword was drawn, her hair loosed about her shoulders. She looked like a bolt of lightening.

  “Captain!”

  “At ease, Major. I shall be having a meal sent up from the kitchens. See to it that both you and the Seer eat well for he will be meditating all afternoon and will need his strength.”

  “Sir.”

  “And while he meditates, you will sleep. There, if that is permissible?”

  He swept an arm in the direction of the mattress. Sireth nodded. The Major did not.

  “Captain, I don’t need rest. You know I can work for days—”

  “That’s an order, Major. I will redouble the Leopard Guard at the door. I need you strong for tonight. Is that understood?”

  “Understood,” she growled. “Sir.”

  “Good.”

  And with that, the Captain strode from the room, leaving Ursa flexing the tip of her sword in agitation.

  Sireth smiled at her, that patient, long-suffering, infuriating smile. He leaned down and patted the corner of the mattress.

  “Sleep.”

  ***

  “Don’t move, sidala...”

  “Oh-kay.”

  It wasn’t that Fallon Waterford was feeling particularly agreeable as she lay, belly down on the ground, trying not to spit out the bits of gravel that had collected in her mouth from the fall. Rather, with the great, long body of the cobra swaying over her head, it seemed like a good idea to be motionless, given a serpent’s generally suspicious disposition. She averted her gaze, trying to remember her studies in animal behavior and whether or not snakes had dominant or submissive reactions to eye contact. Or, actually, any reaction at all.

  Softly, she cleared her throat.

  “Kerris? Was that your name? Kerris?”

  “Still is, sidala.”

  “Um, Kerris, this might sound like a very strange thing to say right about now, but um... there are no cobras in the Great Mountains.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” he said, moving slowly around her. “It is a very strange thing to say. But I’ll tell you something that’s even stranger.”

  “Oh?”

  “It wasn’t there a moment ago.”

  “Oh.”

  She winced as a sharp whistle whipped the air like a blast from a firecracker and she recognized it instantly from the courtyard yesterday morning. The cobra’s hood flared and it swung in Kerris’ direction, brushing her arm with its warm scales.

  “I don’t think it likes noise,” she whispered.

  “Be quiet then.”

  The stallion, alMassay, was snorting behind her and she could feel his hoofs trembling against the stony earth. She could feel the wind pick up, smell the oncoming storm, see the shadows caused by black clouds crossing the sun. Most of all, she could hear her own pulse, rushing waters in her temples.

  Suddenly, the ground was trembling with a different pulse, a quick, frantic, growing one and she squeezed her eyes tightly when she realized what was about to happen. Within seconds, there was an ear-splitting squeal and small sharp hoofs were churning up the ground directly in front of her, sending up bits of shale and snakeskin into her face. Strong hands grabbed her, dragging her backwards and o
ut of the way.

  After what seemed like a lifetime, Quiz, the mountain pony, stood on wire-tight legs, wild-eyed and snorting, as remnants of the snake’s body twitched on the hard ground. Of the head, hood and lethal fangs, however, nothing recognizable remained.

  “He hates snakes,” said Kerris. “Are you alright? I mean, First is luck, after all.”

  Fallon puffed her hair out of her eyes as she sat, gasping, in his arms.

  “Yep. Figures education is Fifth. That’s my luck. Along with Nice Family and Great Personality.”

  “Well, you do have pretty markings.”

  “Oh, thanks. Oh –“

  Before their eyes, the snake’s body was drying, shriveling, and crackling, finally blowing away in the gathering wind. Then it was gone, leaving Quiz pawing the earth for its return.

  “Um, Kerris your name was, did you just see that?”

  “No, I don’t think I did. Did you?”

  “No. No, I don’t think so either. Really. No.”

  “Well then, maybe we should, um...”

  “Leave?”

  “Yes. Leave.”

  “Okay.”

  That said, they sat for quite a while longer, staring at the flattened spot where nothing at all had happened.

  ***

  “Where is the Scholar?”

  Sherah al Shiva did not look up, rather continued to fold the silks and skins laid out on her table.

  “She was bored and has taken a walk.”

  “Bored?” Kirin frowned as he watched her snuff out the many candles and begin to pack them away in her bags. “She finds the deaths of the Queen’s Seers boring?”

  “Intrigue is found on many roads, Captain. Not everyone finds death so evocative.”

  “You speak in riddles, sidala. It is not helpful.”

  Now, she did look up, rolling her hips along the table’s edge to face him and smiling her slow smile. It was as if she were pulling his insides out claw by claw.

  “Forgive me, Captain. How can I help you?”

  He glanced at her table. Her bags were packed, the cadavers wrapped in swaths of white linen. Their organs were separated, placed carefully in tall earthen jars, the little red pouch hovering over them like a vulture. Necromancy. He did not like it one bit.