by Alec Hutson
“Why were you in the Kingdoms?”
Xin glanced over his shoulder at the wagon. “The good seeker has many interests, but foremost among them is animals. Rare, legendary animals. We came to the Kingdoms chasing the rumor of a basilisk.”
“And did you find one?” Mam Ru had told Keilan stories of basilisks when he was young, how the faces you could sometimes see in the rocks in the forest were victims of the beasts.
Xin grinned. “We found a big lizard covered in tar and chicken feathers, and a very enterprising farmer charging two bits for a quick look. Seeker Garmond was not happy, but he does not stay sad for long. Always there is something new to distract and interest him. Like this bridge. It is a good way to live a life, always learning.”
“Do you want me to do what he said?” Keilan suddenly blurted. “Teach you how to read?”
Xin was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, there was an odd tone to his voice, something Keilan hadn’t heard before from the Fist warrior.
“If you teach this one how to read, our lives will be forfeit if we return to Gryx. The masters will hang us outside our old stables. They will cut off our ears and our noses and feed them to their dogs. They will flense us, slowly, until the red-brick dust of the city cakes our raw and bleeding bodies, and then we will hang there, twisting and burning in the merciless sun, before we are finally cut down, doused in honey, and staked to a fire-ant hill. We will die as examples to the other Fettered, so that they might know what happens when a slave dares learn how to read.”
Keilan found he was holding his breath.
“Yes,” Xin said, turning to him just as they approached the end of the bridge and the rest of the waiting caravan. “This one wishes to learn.”
Despite the delay caused by the seeker the evening mood was festive for the first time in the weeks since the caravan had departed the Godsword Inn and started on the Wending Way, the ancient road that connected the eastern empire of Menekar with the Gilded Cities on the shores of the western ocean. They had come far north, and now they camped in the shadows of the Bones of the World, among great tumbled slabs of stone. Perhaps the revelry that night was a response to the wildness they found themselves in, a rebuke to the cold and dark of the looming mountains and the Frostlands beyond. Possibly the good cheer was due to the large cauldron of rabbit stew the Dymorian rangers had provided for the caravan, or – and this was more likely, Keilan supposed – it was the case of firewine one of the merchants had broken open and passed around.
Keilan sat between Nel and Vhelan, close to the fire, watching the shadows from the flames crawl and dance upon the wall of rock that rose up beside their camp. He glanced at the wizard and his knife, and felt a warmth inside him that might have been the wine, but he suspected was not. His earlier thoughts of escaping and returning to his village – or striking out into the wilds – seemed like distant memories, the foolish impulse of a scared child. The Dymoria Vhelan spoke of now seemed like the only place where he could find a home . . . and find protection from the faithful of Ama. He swirled the sluggish red liquid that remained at the bottom of his own cup, savoring the wine’s lingering spice.
“Not a bad grape at all,” Vhelan said, saluting the merchant across the fire, the one who had shared the wine. The merchant returned the gesture, briefly doffing his plumed cap, and then after a moment’s hesitation rose and made his way toward where they sat, skirting the fire and the cleared space where two of the caravan’s guards were wrestling. The guards had removed their shirts, and despite the cold their darkly muscled bodies gleamed in the firelight. Lively betting was going on among the watchers as to who would finally be pinned.
The merchant unrolled a mat of woven reeds beside Vhelan and sat with a contented sigh, stretching out his long legs. Excitement rippled around the fire as one of the wrestlers broke a hold by flipping his opponent, nearly sending him tumbling into the flames. A flailing leg did kick a burning log, sending up a shower of sparks and ash. The merchant who had just sat with them brushed his pantaloons clean with a sniff of disgust. He was not as young as Keilan had first thought – thirty-five summers, at least – though he wasn’t sure of the man’s age exactly because his face had been whitened and smoothed by some cosmetic.
“Many thanks for the wine, friend,” Vhelan said, toasting the merchant again.
“You are very welcome,” he replied, and Keilan caught the quick glance shared between the knife and her wizard. “I am Elwyn ri Tannis, of the Goldridge Tannises.”
“A fine Lyrish family,” Vhelan said slowly, his fingers drumming the lip of his cup.
“Indeed. May I know your name? I must confess that I overheard you speaking earlier, and was surprised and delighted to find out that I shared this ghastly road with at least one other civilized man.”
Vhelan dipped his head in thanks. “Ah, of course. I am Vhelan ri Vhalus, and this is my niece, and this my nephew.”
“A Vhalus scion?” the merchant said, pressing two fingers to his temple. “I am honored to meet you. May I ask what brings you so far from the shining city? I noticed you have no wares to trade.”
“Visiting family in the Kingdoms,” Vhelan said quickly, tousling Keilan’s hair. “The boy and girl’s grandmother was the daughter of a baron. Terribly barbaric people, but they do own half the tanneries in Theris.”
“Yes, yes,” the merchant murmured, looking at Nel with new interest. She smiled back sweetly and fluttered her lashes.
Keilan swallowed hard and edged away from them, not wanting to be part of what he suspected was coming next.
But before Nel could throw the merchant into the fire a shadow appeared beside Vhelan, one of the Dymorian rangers.
“Lord, we found something in the woods.”
“Some more rabbit, I hope,” Vhelan said, taking another sip of wine. “Or another cask of this delicious vintage.”
“No, my lord . . .” The ranger glanced at the merchant.
“It’s fine, we are all friends here,” Vhelan said, motioning for the ranger to speak.
“Ah, very well. We found claw marks on some of the trees nearby. Old, to be sure, from a season or more ago, but definitely wraith.”
“Wraith!” exclaimed the merchant, nearly dropping his wine cup.
Vhelan held out his hand for calm. “Any fresh spoor?”
The ranger shook his head. “No, my lord. Nothing to suggest the beasts are still around. But it’s rare that wraiths range out of the Frostlands. Captain d’Taran thought you should know.”
“Wraiths!” the merchant repeated, looking out into the darkness. “I’ve never heard of those monsters near the Wending Way.”
“Keep a tight watch tonight,” Vhelan said to the ranger, who nodded and melted back into the shadows.
“Even if they are still prowling about, we’re far too many to worry. Wraiths are scavengers, not raiders.”
“Yes, of course . . .” the Lyrish merchant muttered, turning back to the flames.
A moment later someone threw a handful of powder onto the campfire, and it flared skyward, tongues licking a knuckle of rock protruding from the cliff-face. A few of the watchers clapped and hooted.
“God’s blood,” Nel said, gesturing across the fire, “did you see who threw that magician’s dust into the fire?”
It was the Shan. He sat cross-legged beside Halan, his silken robes shimmering red and gold in the firelight. In his thin fingers he held a white, long-stemmed pipe carved into a curling dragon-shape, and as Keilan watched, a stream of sinuous, blue smoke issued from the dragon’s open mouth. The smoke did not dissolve as it drifted over the flames; rather it remained as tendrils that twined together like mating serpents, eventually vanishing into the darkness above. His black hair was bound up into a tight bun, but it looked to Keilan like if he let it down it would nearly reach his waist. The revelry gradually ebbed as the others around
the fire noticed the arrival of their mysterious traveling companion, until only the hiss and crackle of the flames could be heard. Even the wrestlers disentangled themselves and scuttled back into the circle, one cradling his arm and the other dragging a leg.
The Shan’s lips quirked into a half-smile, then he leaned closer to Halan and began whispering. Surprise flashed across the caravan master’s face, soon replaced with wry amusement. He beckoned toward where Xin and the other members of his Fist were sitting, and one of them rose and approached.
“What’s going on?” the Lyrish merchant asked as Halan said something to the Fist warrior, whose turn it now was to look surprised.
Vhelan shrugged. “I have no idea.”
The Fist warrior returned to his fellows, and after a brief consultation he nodded toward Halan and the Shan.
Halan heaved himself to his feet, coming to stand in the central area recently vacated by the wrestlers. He cleared his throat, turning to take in all those watching, then began to speak.
“Fellows! A request has been made. Our companion Cho Yuan has asked for a demonstration of an ancient art lost long ago. He has heard in his land that the Fists of Gryx remember one of the fighting styles of the drowned Mosaic Cities, the shadowdance of the Kalyuni swordsingers.” Mutterings rose around the fire at these words, swelling when two of the Fist moved in front of the flames holding wooden practice swords.
Halan hurriedly sat again as the two warriors faced each other, the blades extended so that the blunted tips were lightly touching. For a long moment they were utterly motionless.
And then the dance began. In perfect tandem each pulled their sword back and lunged forward, incredibly fast, but when the blades came together there was no clatter of wood, no sound at all. Flashing routines, cut and thrust, spinning apart and colliding again with jarring force – yet somehow silent, except for the sound of their shuffling feet. Shadows dancing.
Their speed increased, the practice swords blurring together in the firelight, until the two Fist brothers ceased to be two and instead became one, a single fluid warrior that swayed and danced.
“How do they do it?” whispered Keilan.
“Practice,” Nel murmured back. “Every strike is perfect, and though the swords seem to come together they never actually touch.”
And just as suddenly they stopped, blades crossed, breathing heavily. Applause spread among the watching merchants and guardsmen. Keilan glanced at the Shan, curious about his reaction.
It was not what he expected. The Shan was clapping as well, but he was clearly distracted. He was not even looking at the Fists; rather he was staring into the darkness beyond them, his face creased with worry. Something seemed wrong.
Keilan started when he felt a hand fall on his shoulder, but it was only the Lyrish merchant, smiling broadly.
“A show to remember, eh?”
It retreats further into the blackness. Such eyes! Such piercing eyes the one from across the World Ocean has, sorcery unlike it has sensed in all its endless wheeling years, not strong but different, so different; soon the manling Shan will split its veil and see the truth, flense the skin and lay bare its hidden beauty. Something must be done. Mistress will gnash and rend if it returns in groveling failure; she does not care for it, never has, and now she has new pets to interest her. The Shan will die, as the mistress has decreed. There are others, though, that travel with the caravan. Warriors and sorcerers, too many to overcome. It must find allies.
Behind it the firelight dims, the shapes recede. Many centuries had tumbled past since last it saw the shadows sword-dance. The wheel turns; what was dead and dust has come again. Could it rise once more with this fresh age? It pushes the thought from its mind. There is nothing for it now except the mistress and her desires.
It moves through barren woods. Here, near the roof of the world, the moonlight tastes different, not as sweet as in the southlands. It extends its tongue, licks the night, savors the bitter radiance of the waning moon. Shivers with joy.
Faster. It sheds its skin, reveling in the power and the freedom – and oh, the beauty! – of its trueform. Twisted branches clutch at it, fall away. It flows over rocks, up precipitous cliffs, talons sinking into stone, waiting to catch a scent.
There. Faint so faint but unmistakable; it follows, squeezing through narrow crevices, along impossible paths, to a rent in the mountain’s fabric. Inside they wait.
It enters the blackness. Shapes uncoil in the cave’s recesses: dams and young, huddled, fearful; yes, it tastes their fear, shuddering in ecstasy. Larger shapes approach warily, the bulls, heaving with rage and terror; terror for this thing that smells unspeakably ancient, like the roots of the mountain. Do they remember the scent? In the dim race-memories of these fallen creatures is there a frisson of recognition?
The largest bull charges, leaps, claws extended. It laughs and catches the creature as it would a puppy, holds it by its neck, compares the ruined monster with what it remembers its people once were. The creature squirms, kicks its taloned feet.
“Do you still know speech?” it asks, slurring the word-sounds in a tongue it has not spoken for three thousand years.
The wraith gasps, scrabbling at its throat.
It loosens its grip, so that the beast may talk.
“Yes.”
It smiles, runs its tongue over rows of serrated teeth. “Good. I have a task for you.”
Something new had arrived in the emperor’s pleasure gardens.
Alyanna had learned this from one of her favorites, a dark beauty from the Eversummer Isles, as they lay tangled together in her pavilion. The girl had whispered to her like a maid confessing a secret love, describing in hushed tones a magical bird with a hundred glimmering eyes that servants had released just this morning near the quartz sculptures. Alyanna had laughed softly at the wonder in the girl’s voice and kissed her affectionately on the cheek.
Later, she found herself on the ceramic paths, wandering through flowering copses of dragonblooms and stands of shimmering ghostweed, searching the gardens for this mysterious new guest. Red-tailed monkeys plucked from the jungles of Xi watched her warily with luminous golden eyes, and a large lizard basking on a rock flared its neck-frill and hissed a challenge as she passed. She hissed back, and it scuttled away with an indignant croak.
Finally she found the birds, a small tribe of them picking daintily through a bed of tiger-ear lilies, hunting for worms or insects. They were marvelous: their feathers were green and blue and gleamed iridescent in the sun, and set into their fanned tails were dozens of beautiful, staring eyes.
“What are you?” she murmured, half-tempted to compel one closer so she could stroke its glistening plumage.
“The Menekarians are calling these birds peacocks. We have another name for them in Shan.”
Wen Xenxing stood on the path a few steps behind her, watching the birds without expression.
“My lord!” she said, dropping into a curtsy. “A thousand apologies. I did not hear you approach.”
The black vizier shrugged his hands free from his robe’s long sleeves and bade her to rise. “It is I who should apologize. I did not intend to frighten you – moving silently has just become part of my nature, I suppose. Too many years spent skulking in shadows.”
Wen shifted his gaze back to the peacocks. “Beautiful creatures. I had not seen one since I was a boy in Tsai Yin. They roam free, there, in the Chalcedony City. In the Shan tongue their name means ‘the eyes of Heaven’, and it is believed that through the patterns on their tails the gods watch the mortal world. No man would dare kill such an instrument of the divine, yes?”
“Do you believe this, my lord? Are the gods of Shan spying on the emperor?”
Wen smiled. “While there are certainly sights worth seeing in this garden – such as you, my dear – I do not believe that Heaven has any power in Menekar. The only
god watching our fumblings here is Ama, through the eyes of his blessed Pure.”
Alyanna ducked her head in agreement. “Of course, my lord. To think otherwise would be blasphemy.”
The black vizier grunted in reply and returned his hands to his sleeves. Watching him watch the peacocks, Alyanna was reminded of her recent foray into the Empire of Swords and Flowers, when she had stolen away the Chosen from the warlocks of Shan. He looked to her just like a mandarin of the Thousand Voices, the ones she had seen wandering among gilded pagodas, across soaring crescent bridges, and between the dragon-wrapped pillars of the emperor’s court, their silken slippers whispering upon floors of polished jade.
“I notice, my lord, that only some of the birds sport beautiful tails. Why is that?”
Wen shrugged. “I am not certain. But I do know that the birds with tails are males, so perhaps they are trying to attract a mate with the display.”
Alyanna crouched beside one of the peacocks that had wandered close to where she stood. She extended a tendril of sorcery, caressing the dim intelligence she sensed within its dark eyes, compelling it to take a few more tentative steps in her direction.
“I have heard the world is upside-down in the far south. So that would mean in Shan men must garb themselves in beautiful clothes and paint their faces, as the women do in Menekar? Does the emperor of Swords and Flowers labor to make himself more handsome for his concubines?”
The black vizier chuckled. “The women in Shan mastered the art of seduction thousands of years ago. No man can resist the allure of Shan’s noble ladies.”
