by Kate Elliott
When she did not speak, could not speak, he carried on. “I have wondered why sheepherders chose the wolf as their clan sigil.”
She found all her breath caught in her lungs, and she let it all out in one gust and after that discovered she could talk, at least to answer the implied question. “Because our fortune rests on sheepherding, we bind the spirits of wolves into rings to protect our herds and make our family prosper.”
“A wise precaution. Here.” He stepped forward. “Take it, Mai. It’s our custom.”
She extended her hands, heart racing as he came closer. Once he draped the banner over her open arms he advanced no further but studied her with a serious gaze, open and clear. He really did have lovely eyes, and lashes any woman would envy.
“You are not a Qin woman, and I am not a Kartu man, so we will have to come to some accommodation.”
“We will?” Her cheeks were so hot! Yet she couldn’t stop seeing Cornflower lying there all limp, like a corpse, eyes staring sightlessly at the heavens.
His gaze held hers. She knew better than to look away or shrink back. She had a good instinct for people, honed in the marketplace. This man wanted flirting with his commerce, while this other preferred to be treated with reserve and respect; this woman wanted a friendly ear and this other a spirited and not entirely amiable disagreement over the price of windfall peaches. Captain Anji did not want a wife who cowered before him, so she would not be such a wife. He encouraged her to speak forthrightly, so she did. He hadn’t even been angry when she had scolded Shai. He was not like Father Mei at all, and maybe that was what she had feared more than anything else in the world: that she would end up married to a man just like her father.
“I married you not just because you are beautiful, as this was obvious to any man with eyes, but also because of your graceful manner and because you observe beyond the surface of things. And because you overcharged me for those almonds.”
She flushed.
He smiled. “Since my first wife is now dead, I could suit myself with my second marriage. However, the last thing I promised my mother, fifteen years ago, is that I would take no woman into my bed unless she possessed the rights given to Qin women upon marriage to a man of the Qin. I promised I would treat no woman as my father treated her. For although they were married according to the laws of his land, she had no more rights than a slave concubine. This banner is my promise to you. When you fly that banner, then I will know that I am welcome in the marriage bed. I will not force myself on you, and I do not expect you to invite me until you are ready.”
He flicked a lock of hair away from one eye, and walked away out of the fire’s ring of light. A shadow met him; Mai recognized Chief Tuvi’s stocky form and sharp gestures. They vanished into the night, heading toward the sentry lines.
Mai stared after him, mouth aflop like that of a fish tossed out of water. He had known market prices! She didn’t know whether to laugh or to berate herself for foolishness. She had been complimented many times, even for her skill at bargaining, but no man had ever complimented her for seeing “beyond the surface of things.” It was one of the ways she had kept up her garden of tranquillity. By learning to see beyond the moods and day-to-day comments of her customers and of her family, she had discovered that most of the anger or envy or sorrow or pain we bleed onto ourselves is just a wound cut into our own selves. The blood of another that splashes onto you can be washed off. You only suffer, as Priya would say, when your own injuries hurt you.
“He is not what I expected,” said Priya softly.
“What did you expect?”
“Women are like silk. The finest cloth is reserved for the noblest man.”
“Or for the Merciful One and Her avatars and temples.”
“How soon will you invite him into the marriage bed, Mistress?”
“Do you think he meant what he said? That I could choose the time?”
“I don’t know. Yet why else would he speak so? He can have you when he wants. It is clear he desires you.”
“Does he?”
Priya laughed, a liberty she took only with Mai, certainly never with any of the aunts. “You are wise but innocent, Mistress. He feels a strong desire toward you. I don’t know why he does not take what is now his to possess. Most men would. Perhaps like us he follows the teachings of the Merciful One and understands it is better not to let his desires overmaster him.”
“There was no other reason for him to marry me but desire. The Mei clan is not an important one. We have no particular wealth. We bring him no advantage even if he weren’t Qin, but he is, so an alliance with Father Mei brings him nothing at all. He said so himself.”
“Why do you fret so, Mistress?”
“I fret because I don’t know where we’re going, or what will happen when we get there.”
“It is out of your hands, Mistress. He has given you the banner. Do not wait too long. But do not offer him what he desires too quickly, either.”
“Why must each choice be weighed as in a game of spirals? Is there no honesty to be had between men and women?”
“Honesty is a pearl, Mistress: rare and precious. Walk this path cautiously.”
“Do you remember that song about the bandit prince and the gold merchant’s daughter?” She sang the refrain. “ ‘Your eyes speak to me of love, but I remain silent. It may be I am in love, but how can I know?’ ” The words always made her cry. She wiped her eyes, wondering how foolish she looked. “I just want to be happy, Priya.”
But when Mai looked into her face, she thought Priya looked sad, and even a trifle anxious.
The slave rested a hand on Mai’s shoulder. “Be careful, Mistress. The gods may hear your wish and grant it.”
AT DAWN, SHAI refused to speak to her as he tottered to his horse. He was so angry! Yet if he would not comfort her, hold her up when she was frightened, then who would? Priya coaxed her with soothing words. Captain Anji brought her a placid mare, helped her mount, and rode beside her. At the steady pace they took it wasn’t so difficult, since she didn’t need to do anything but hang on. Midway through the morning, with the sun well up above above the dusty horizon, he kindly suggested she rest in the palanquin.
“You must work up slowly and gain confidence,” he said.
Her thighs and back were already hurting from the saddle, so she agreed, but sitting in the palanquin, isolated, closed off, gave her time to fret. Fear is a demon, and will gnaw. Where were they going? What would they find there? What would happen to her? Over and over, with no respite, not even Priya to chant prayers to the Merciful One that she could then repeat.
By the time they stopped in the worst heat of the day, midafternoon, at the posting station, her stomach ached and her throat burned. As night swept down she became really sick, emptying her stomach and bowels and then panting in silence as Priya sat beside her with a cool cloth to wipe sweat from her face and neck.
“I don’t want him to see me,” Mai whispered. “He won’t want me now. He’ll abandon me.”
He did come, but only to assure himself that she was resting and that the proper charms were hung around the room. The next day they remained at the posting station. Mai was confined to a cool chamber with immensely thick walls that muffled the world beyond. The room was quite plain, with only four beds and one chest and a dirt floor. Priya spent the hours singing the blessings for health and ease from worry. Captain Anji came by three times but only to speak, outside the door, with Priya. No one else, not even Shai, came to see her. And why should they? She had nothing left in her stomach yet liquids still made her heave. Still, as evening fell, she began to feel less wretched and was able to sleep fitfully.
Before dawn Priya woke her. “The captain says we must continue on, Mistress. Can you move?”
“I will,” croaked Mai.
Anything was better than being left behind. She got down a little yellow sword-fruit and a sip of spring water brought down from the northern mountains by a party of the captain’
s soldiers who had gone to look for a missing patrol. Or so Priya said. Mai was still woozy as O’eki helped her into the palanquin. Over in the courtyard, Shai was laughing with Chief Tuvi. Quite at home with the Qin now! She caught a glimpse of Cornflower’s pale hair as the company gathered for the march; then the curtains closed around her. With a sigh, she lay down, bracing herself for an uncomfortable day.
She did endure it, and the next day as well as they traveled at the steady pace which was evidently their usual speed, not too fast but eating ground because they never flagged. She was weak, but as long as she ate only bland, boiled foods, and those sparingly, she managed. They stopped the first night in the garrison fort beside a town but on the other nights at posting stations. Most of these were little more than a mud-brick bastion surrounded by a thorn corral within which the men set their tents or simply slept on the dirt. She rested and slept in the palanquin. Shai avoided her. He seemed to spend most of his time with a group of young soldiers who were teaching him to use both sword and spear. She was lonely for Shai’s company, but she wouldn’t go back on what she said. She saw that awful scene in her mind’s eye every single day, every time she noticed Cornflower walking through camp on some errand or chore. Men watched the slave, and almost every one of them licked his lips or scratched his crotch when Cornflower passed by, but no man touched her.
Shai must walk his own road. She had Captain Anji. Each day in the hour between the time they halted and when it became too dark, he read to her from his scroll, which contained the thirty-seven threads of the Merciful One as related to certain teachers commonly known as the Ones Who Unveil the Treasure.
“Can you read?” he asked her.
“No. I can do sums. Only scholars learn to read. Are you a scholar?”
She thought his smile wistful, or cloaked. “No, I’m an army officer. I can teach you to read if you wish to learn, but you’ll have to learn one of the two languages I can read in.”
She leaned closer to him to study the letters on the scroll. “Are those markings not the language we speak together?”
“They are not. The var forbids his officers to learn the writing of arkinga, which is also the speech used by traders. Everyone speaks it up and down the Golden Road and in the empire. In the old days, there was no writing at all among the Qin. The letters for arkinga were taken from those used by the traders, together with many of their words. Now only the var’s court officials are allowed to set down contracts and letters.”
It was true that the holy masters who served the Merciful One in Kartu Town had memorized the discourses and blessings, and never carried scrolls. It hadn’t occurred to Mai to wonder if they could read as did the scholars who ran the var’s law courts.
Unexpectedly, the captain looked past her to Priya. “Can you read this scroll?”
The silence made Mai nervous. She turned to look up at her slave, whom she trusted perhaps more than any other person in the world. That bland, pleasant face had not changed expression, but a single tear slid down Priya’s cheek.
“I can read it,” she said quietly.
“How can you?” cried Mai. “Are you a scholar, Priya? How could you not have told me?”
Priya did not answer. She was as old as Mai’s mother, a robust woman of no particular beauty but a core of inner strength and a well of calm that had always seemed bottomless. Mai admired her. It was true that her complexion was so similar to a dark red clay that Father Mei had named her Clay, but Mai’s persistent and public use of her real name had won the day in this single case. She was the only slave in the Mei clan called by her free name.
“The holy women of the Yari are taught to read,” said Captain Anji. “It is part of their worship. They read the thirty-seven discourses and the eighty-nine narratives from dawn to dusk all the way through the cycle and then begin again. Is that not so?”
“It is so,” murmured Priya.
“How are you come here?” he asked.
Mai stared, caught speechless. Mai had picked her off the auction block seven years ago, and in all that time Priya had never revealed any part of her past!
“Raiders came to our holy pavilion,” she said simply. “They killed some and marched the rest of us away, north over the pass. The mountains are so high that half the slaves driven across the pass died with blood foaming on their lips. We kept marching north until we came to the Golden Road. I was sold in Kartu Town. I survived because of the teachings of the Merciful One. Death is nothing to fear.”
“No,” he agreed. “We are all dead men.”
“You don’t look like a ghost!” cried Mai more strongly than she intended, still stinging from the realization that she didn’t know as much as she thought she did. Then she took a breath. How stupid that comment sounded! And bad luck, too, maybe.
As he began to smile, she recalled bitterly how Girish had belittled her and how the family so often patted her head and called her “little orchid” and “plum blossom” as though she were no smarter than a flower. He saw the shift, perhaps even the anger, in her expression. She had betrayed herself. His smile faded as his gaze grew more intent. “I don’t mean that I’m dead, only that we will all pass Spirit Gate in time. There is no point in fearing what is inevitable.”
“I feel that I have passed Spirit Gate already,” she said. “I am not what I was before, nor do I want to be.”
Priya bent and took her hand. “Any great change is a Spirit Gate, plum blossom,” she said fondly, and in her mouth the pet name did not cloy. “I crossed through a gate when I was stolen from my land and my people. I am dead now.”
“Would you go back, if you could?” Mai asked, fearing to hear the answer.
Priya looked at Captain Anji, and they seemed to speak to each other in a language Mai did not understand, one that made her feel terribly young and naive. “The road that passes under Spirit Gate runs in only one direction, Mistress. There is no going back.”
BECAUSE THERE WAS no going back, she had to go forward never knowing where the path led. By the tenth morning after they had left Kartu Town she was able to mount her horse and ride for half the day before the effort tired her. That night they camped within the ruins of a fortress so old that the wind had sculpted it into a complex beast half buried in the sand. A constant whistle sounded from the many holes where the wind sang through, changing only in pitch and loudness. They set up tents in the middle of the ruin for some relief from the sting of sand. Chief Tuvi made a shelter for himself in one corner and to Mai’s surprise brought out a one-stringed musical instrument from a long leather case which she had all along thought contained a hunting bow. Yet the case proved to carry a slender instrument as well, which he used to draw music out of the string. A few of the men carried rattles or bells. With the wind as accompaniment, they played and took turns singing.
The bay mare rode down to me from out of the sky
She rode down to me from out of the sky.
A celestial horse! Best among horses!
The lord wants her for himself.
But I’ll keep her for myself.
A celestial horse! Best among horses!
With the bay mare I rode east along the Golden Road.
This is what I saw along the Golden Road.
This particular song went on for a long time, with men adding verses as they pleased, describing sights they had seen in their journeys, north into the dry hills or south into the stone desert, west into demon country or east along the Golden Road. Mai sat on her divan beside Captain Anji on his stool. She sipped at yoghurt.
When she bent toward him, he, alert to her least movement, turned to smile at her.
“Why are you called east?” she asked daringly, aware of how close he was. If she swayed forward, she could kiss him!
He raised an eyebrow, always a sign of amusement in him. “I can’t say.”
“You can’t say because you don’t know or because you aren’t allowed to tell?”
He laughed. She flushed, embarrasse
d, pleased, excited, too many feelings thrown together. It made her giddy, and she withdrew—just a little—to give herself breathing space.
“Shai,” he said in a louder voice, still looking at her. “Come here.”
Shai had been outside sparring with his weapons partners. When he appeared, sweating and dirty, he sat on a stool beside the captain. Anji signaled for the music to stop. The men put away their rattles, and Chief Tuvi sealed up his instrument in its case.
“We are come about halfway,” said the captain, “the easy part of the road. This place was a town once, on an oasis, but the desert creeps close. The demons are hungry. They’ve eaten many towns that used to stand here, like this one, and even swallowed the old wells. We’ll finish filling our water pouches tonight and press on as soon as the moon rises. We’ll rest from midday to a hand’s breadth before sunset and travel at night and into the morning. You’ll be thirsty but must not drink more than your share. Any who fall behind will be left. Beware demons. They hunt here.”
He stood. “Rest now. You’ll hear the chief’s whistle when it’s time to ride out.”
The men dispersed, but he stopped Mai as she rose. It was the third time he had ever touched her. His fingers on her wrist were cool, his grip light. “You must ride, Mai’ili. The slaves cannot carry you on this part of the road. We’ll break the palanquin down and bring it as baggage as far as we can. But you must ride now. Do you understand?”
She looked at him carefully. His eyes seemed more lovely to her than they had eleven days ago when they had stood at the law court while the proper contracts were signed and sealed. He was, just slightly, breathing to an unsteady beat as he watched her. His lips were parted just enough that she might slip the tip of her little finger between them, and as if he had heard her speak such words, as if she had actually touched him so intimately, he flushed along his dark cheeks but did not release her.
