Blood of the Gods

by David Mealing

  “I’d as soon you let my family go. I might well choose to stay and learn what you have to offer. You could have kept your sixty thousand qian, or split the lot with me as a bounty.”

  The old man only smiled, adding another handful of spices in with the rest of his ingredients.

  “Time is drawing too short to leave such things to chance. You are something of a surprise, Lord Tigai. What you can do should not be possible. We set a snare for Isaru Mattai and caught a true Dragon instead. I am not so foolish as to let you escape before I’ve had a chance to teach you why you should stay.”

  “I’ve never wanted anything to do with the Great and Noble Houses. Your politics can keep, along with your games and trickery.”

  “Great and Noble Houses indeed,” the old man said. “You know once, the magi ruled in the open? Emperors and Queens, a legacy of lordships to make what passes for nobility among the unordained seem no more than the parlor game it truly is.”

  “Every child knows those stories. The Emperor sealed the pact of heaven when the Jun Empire was formed. The magi are forbidden from holding the keys of power, on pain of doom if—”

  “—if they seek the loyalty of men,” Master Indra finished. “A sweet tale. And the governors and magistrates preach it like disciples of the Way. But tell me, Lord Tigai of Yanjin House, do you suppose a prohibition on sitting a throne or holding a title keeps us from wielding power, when we can break the ones who do with a shard of glass, a whiff of poison, a knife transported to their chambers at night?”

  “I’d never thought about it,” he said, affecting a bored tone. It wouldn’t have made a difference whether some magi blackmailed the Emperor; politics was Mei’s, or Dao’s concern, if it was any concern at all.

  “Quite right,” Master Indra said, pausing for a moment to sip his broth before pinching another handful of spices into the mix. “And the truth is, if the magi were motivated by worldly power, we’d have found a way to have it, celestials be damned. But we aren’t. We have a more pressing concern. And it will be yours, too, once our training here is finished.”

  “Master,” Jyeong said. “Is he ready to know these secrets?”

  “No, he is not,” Master Indra said. “But as I said, we are running out of time.”

  Master Indra scooped a bowl of rice and broth, setting it in front of him, with another for Jyeong. Then he sat, taking up his own bowl, opposite the straw mats.

  “Do you have questions, Lord Tigai?” Indra asked.

  “I really don’t,” Tigai said. The broth was warm and well-spiced, an unfamiliar blend of flavors, but not an unpleasant one. “You’re holding me here because you have my brother, Mei, and Remarin, or at least because you claim to. I wouldn’t trade the attentions of a dockside whore for your secrets.”

  Jyeong made a sound as though he was choking on his rice.

  “I see,” Master Indra said. “This is disappointing.”

  Tigai raised his bowl in a mock salute. “It’s what you get for making friends at knifepoint, or recruiting apprentices or whatever it is you’re doing here.”

  “I would have hoped you could acknowledge power, when you see it. What we have here—”

  “What you have here is a ruined temple in the middle of the fucking jungle, an obsession with learning modes of fighting made obsolete when the first powder tube spat out the first ball of lead, and a half-assed command of a gift I learned better from a potato farmer. Or do you think I hadn’t noticed your apprentice struggle to hook a simple anchor and binding I could do half-asleep and more than a little drunk? Either you’re shit as a teacher, he’s shit as a student, or you have somewhat less wisdom to impart than you think you do.”

  By the time he was finished, Jyeong looked as though he was struggling not to leap to his feet and tackle Tigai into the dirt. Master Indra laid down his bowl and stared.

  Tigai’s ears burned a bit, as silence stretched and the old man didn’t speak. Well, what did they want him to say? It was all true. The hidden temple in the jungle, the fighting with sticks and swords, speaking in cryptic phrases as though they had preserved some hidden truth. It was the exact sort of thing people expected from the magi of the Great and Noble Houses. They existed, true enough, no one disputed that, and they had power of a sort everyone feared and knew was real. But they lived in a world apart from his, from Dao’s, from anyone who built cities or governed people or really lived at all. They were monks in monasteries atop mountains or hidden in some other remote locations, dedicated to practicing magic they never actually used for anything. And if Jyeong’s skill with the strands was any indicator, they hadn’t even practiced it very well.

  “We are finished for the morning, Lord Tigai,” Master Indra said. “Take your soup and go.”

  He hadn’t expected to feel sorry for the old man, but he did. It seemed as though his words had cut deeper than he’d meant them to. Jyeong’s eyes were full of hate, but even he seemed content to stay where he was. Not that it would matter. If the apprentice tried to kill him, he’d just blink away. Wasn’t that the point of their magic, the gift they shared? Life without consequences, violence without any permanent damage. He’d murdered the apprentice a hundred times since coming here, and been murdered as many more.

  But then, there was Dao, Mei, and Remarin.

  They flashed in his thoughts as he took up his bowl of soup and retreated to the worn-down building where he’d slept.

  Rain fell from the sky, making leaves glisten, forming puddles in the dirt walkways between the ruins. This was the first time they’d left him alone during the day. He could walk the grounds, contemplate his fate, wonder at whether the seneschals at Yanjin had used the Emperor’s stolen gold to pay off their debts or run away with his prize. Instead he kicked a particularly offensive bush that grew outside his building’s door. What was he doing here? Remarin would have written him off as a loss the moment Lin Qishan showed up at his door, instead of playing along with their games. Dao would have made the same decision, coldly calculated and no less a brother for it. Mei would have fought, and that was why he loved her.

  His soup tasted flat, soured by rainwater. He should leave. Indra and Jyeong be damned by demons, their ancestors’ bodies dug up and burned. He wasn’t even sure what they’d meant, with their cryptic allusions to his gift. As near as he could tell, they had the same power he did—the starfield, the strands, anchors and reversions. He did it better, with less forethought and exertions for its use, but there was nothing worth paying sixty thousand qian for the hope that he loved his brother more than his freedom.

  He finished his meal and retired to rest in his chambers. They’d furnished the room with a stone bed and nothing else. He’d have paid sixty thousand qian for a feather mattress and a pair of down pillows, and maybe a palace serving girl to bed down alongside him. But even a stone bed was a comfort after a week of solid sparring. The strands could preserve his body, keep him from bruises or any other need for healing, but the strands imparted an exhaustion all their own. He slept almost as soon as he lay down to try, and for a time the world went quiet, finally at peace.

  Shuffling footsteps woke him, and he sat up in time to see Master Indra looming at his door.

  “Sleep while the sun is out is a poor habit, Lord Tigai,” Master Indra said, unslinging a bag from around his shoulder and letting it fall to the floor. “I’ve brought you a gift. A reminder, of why you are here.”

  He kept his eyes on the old man’s face. “I know why I’m here.”

  “Do you?”

  His heart pounded. Blood scented the air of his chamber. A metallic tinge he wouldn’t have noticed, but for the satisfied smile creeping across Master Indra’s lips.

  “What have you done?” he asked.

  The smile bloomed in full. “Open your gift, lordling.”

  He slumped off the side of his bed, kneeling on the floor. Fumbling with the drawstring on the bag was torture, a hot poker pressed against his spine. Red liquid stained his fin
gers as he reached inside, and his stomach put bile in his throat hard enough that he turned his head to the side and vomited onto the stone.

  “She screamed, when I removed it,” Master Indra said. “And it took three men to hold her for the cut.”

  A hand protruded from where he’d dropped the bag. Five fingers, a palm, a wrist, and a severed stump. A woman’s hand. Mei’s hand.

  “I’ll kill you,” Tigai said, not bothering to wipe the bile from his chin. “I’ll stuff charcoal in your throat, put needles through your eyes, peel your fingernails back until they break and feed them to you, one by one.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll come with me, now, and since your gift is already so strong, it is time you begin your service against our enemy. We go to Ghingwai. You will find Lin Qishan there, and do precisely as she says. If she is harmed in any way, or if you fail to return to me within three days, I take another hand. Then a foot. Then another piece, for every day you are late in carrying out your orders. Do we understand each other, Lord Tigai?”

  He bowed his head and forced himself to look. Delicate fingers, with the nails painted red and yellow. Yanjin colors, marred by blood, blurred by tears.

  Somehow his bow became a nod, and he rose to follow Master Indra into the rain.

  25

  ERRIS

  Sinari Encampment

  North of New Sarresant

  Their company’s horses kicked dust clouds as they stuttered to a halt. Makeshift paths and trails had already formed between the tents, strange constructions of hides and long poles leaned together in conical designs. She’d never considered before whether the natives had built permanent settlements; the ease with which they’d erected this one suggested a certain familiarity with uprooting their people, or at least a readiness to do it on little notice. Not altogether unlike a military encampment.

  Hitching poles had been placed on the edge of an open green at the center of their camp, and she handed Jiri’s reins to an aide as she dismounted. Eight thousand tribesfolk, if she had to guess. She might be off by half in either direction, if they’d packed tents that went unused. But this was a division’s strength, if she’d been scouting it in her cavalry days. She’d ordered Royens’s 1st Corps into the north, now deploying near the banks of the Verrain with enough numbers to check the tribesfolk should it come to that.

  Five tribesfolk seemed to be waiting for her on their green, four men and one woman, each dressed in hides, furs, and sewn fabrics. Her company was twenty strong, but she nodded for most to stay behind.

  “Marquand, Essily, Wexly, Savac, with me.”

  The named riders came forward, sliding down from their mounts. A binder, her aide, the Gand attaché, and a translator perfectly fluent in Sinari, Sarresant, and Gand. Voren wouldn’t have come to treat with the tribes, and she’d wager a month’s pay none among the citizens’ assembly would have been so bold. It meant hers was the highest-ranked visit to date, and that meant standing on ceremony. Even Marquand had agreed to a buttoned-up, fresh-tailored coat before they rode.

  “High Commander,” the woman among the tribesfolk said, directing it her way. “I am Tirana, of the Olessi tribe. It is our great honor to welcome you among our tents.”

  The words had a crisp inflection despite the heavy accent; clearly the woman had practiced her lines.

  “The honor is mine,” she replied. “I hope our haste has not inconvenienced you.”

  “The shaman foresaw your arrival some days ago, High Commander. He is eager to speak with you, if you will follow us to his tent.”

  “Of course.”

  Their welcoming party turned and gestured for them to follow across the grassy field. The tribesmen flanking Tirana gave no outward sign of discomfort, and thank the Gods her soldiers showed the same restraint. Talk of seeing the future roused all the skepticism she’d learned in eleven years campaigning with the army. No denying the shaman’s abilities when it came to the great beasts—already his missives had warned four villages and townships in time to flee, and predicted three more. Gods send the shaman proved himself equally capable, where this supposed tribal army was concerned.

  They cut through rows of tents, passing by solemn tribesfolk keeping emotions from their faces but staring all the same. She might have reacted just so had a squad of tribesmen come marching down the streets of Southgate. Even their children had halted their play, watching the uniformed soldiers striding behind their guides and doing a worse job of masking their stares than the adults.

  “I will accompany you inside, Erris d’Arrent,” Tirana said when they came to a halt in front of a tent no different in kind than the others around it, save for tufts of orange smoke billowing from its apex.

  “Aide-Lieutenant Savac will accompany me as well,” she said. She wasn’t about to filter her words through a translator she didn’t know and trust. Wars had been started for less.

  It seemed to serve, as Tirana bowed her head, and Marquand, Wexly, and Essily joined the tribesfolk in watching them enter the shaman’s tent.

  The sting of incense bit her nose, an unfamiliar scent like birchwood mixed with fresh meat. The tent’s interior was wide and open, with only a fire burning at its center and animal skins thrown like carpets a safe distance from the flame. The shaman stood opposite the entrance, clad in a pale white bearskin draped over his head and shoulders. Not the sort of reception she’d expected. The tribes’ shaman seemed prepared for some kind of ritual, rather than a formal greeting and diplomatic exchange. Had he met Voren’s people like this? It would have ended up in the papers, scaremongering and suspicion-raising over the foreign ways of a foreign people, now living in proximity to their city. Then again, she still hadn’t bothered to read much of the colonial press. Perhaps those stories had already run.

  “Erys d’Aru,” the shaman said, butchering her name through a thick accent. “Qu’iluru shi n’iral, ahn dhakron, Ilek’Hannat, niris Ka di Nanerat, alain ti’ana lanat dal ahn qirat.”

  Tirana and Savac spoke together: “He says—” before each paused, and Savac bowed to let the other woman speak. Two words before their first gaffe. Bloody lovely.

  “He says he is pleased you have come to this place, and introduces himself,” Tirana said. “He is Ilek’Hannat, apprentice shaman of the Nanerat people, wielder of the gifts of the vision spirits and elder of the alliance of six tribes.”

  Erris glanced at Aide-Lieutentant Savac to ensure that there was no disagreement on the translation. None. Good.

  “I am equally pleased,” she said. “I’ve come as a gesture of peace between our peoples, at the head of a division of my army, ten thousand strong and set to deploy along the northern frontier at your direction. I want to ensure that you understand our soldiers are here as a check against the army Arak’Jur called the Uktani, not to threaten your people.”

  “He understands,” Tirana said after her words were translated, and the shaman offered his reply. “He has seen your heart, and wishes to offer you communion with the spirits, if you wish it.”

  She suppressed a sudden desire to tether Body, an old reflex. Communion? With his spirits? Walking alone into a village of a foreign people was trusting enough, but she’d never expected to be put into some sacred ritual. The shaman seemed to be studying her, the white paint on his face making him appear to be some kind of apparition, hiding behind his fire.

  “What does it mean, to commune with the spirits?”

  “He cannot say,” Tirana translated. “They will speak of what they will, once they have hold of him. He says only that they wish to speak with you.”

  “They must speak with you,” Savac said in a low voice, angling to try to mask the correction to Tirana’s translation.

  Erris met Ilek’Hannat’s eyes. Yes, there was urgency there. A need she could almost sense. No denying the tribesfolk’s spirits had power; she’d seen it firsthand, watching Arak’Jur reave through the Gand lines during the battle of New Sarresant.

  “Very well,” she said
. “So long as you can promise my safety, and that of my aide.”

  “He cannot promise it,” Tirana said. “The limitations of Ilek, instead of Ka. He cannot be sure what will happen.”

  She looked to Savac for translation of the two strange words, Ilek and Ka. “Apprentice,” Savac said. “And shaman. She means he is not fully trained.”

  Not fully trained. But then, he’d introduced himself as the elder among their six tribes. And his visions had worked, so far, for predicting the beasts.

  “Very well,” she said again. “Tell him to go ahead.”

  The shaman nodded before the translator gave him her reply, striding out from behind his fire as though facing her for the first time. A shadow seemed to stretch through the tent; Ilek’Hannat’s form cast against the fire, but writ larger, until it occupied every empty space on the walls. It could have been a trick, an artful positioning of the man against the flame, until shadow seemed to swallow the light. There was magic here, of a form unlike anything the leylines had ever produced.

  “Erris d’Arrent,” Ilek’Hannat said, in what she heard as flawless Sarresant, all traces of his accent vanished. “You are different from the ones we know.”

  “I am she, High Commander of the armies of New Sarresant,” she said. “To whom—to what—am I speaking?”

  Ilek’Hannat had adopted a cautious pose, the sort one might use to survey an intruder.

  “You wield magic, but you are not a spirit of mountain, grass, or sea. Your powers are known to us, though we had forgotten them. You are … Order.”

  Ilek’Hannat reached into his vest of hides and withdrew a powder he dusted over the fire. The flames fought through the shadows, cracking as smoke rose and formed the image of a man in armor, holding a long sword and shield. Strange to see such an image here, when no knights in plate armor had ever walked on the soil of the New World. Muskets and cannonfire had long since replaced such arms by the time the first colonists sailed across the sea. The smoke was almost a religious image, as though the shaman had conjured the Exarch into being at the center of his tent.