by Cat Bruno
*****
Not long after her encounter with Master Ru, Syrsha found herself being watched by three men, none she recognized. They were dressed in the orange robes of the masters, and all had the markings of the laohu upon their cheeks. Had she been any other, she would not have been judged by such men, or even noticed. They had come because Master Ru had invited them or told them of her. Either way, she knew that she must find renewed focus.
The younger children tested still, and Liang would be next to stand upon the mats. Otieno had offered to go last, but once Syrsha noticed the visitors, she had decided to make them wait. Otieno had nearly objected, but shrugged and made off to ready himself for the examination. Both Liang and he would pass, they all realized, yet the Islander was more anxious than Syrsha would have guessed. It was strange to see him as student, for she named him teacher since she was little more than a babe.
She waited near the back of the room, pressed against the corner, where stone wall met bamboo floor. Around her, the children flitted nervously, uneasy with such distinguished judges eying them. Most stumbled and fell, yet a few surprised her with their ease of motions. Had she more time to stay in Tian, she might even teach them the ways of the sword. Yet Syrsha realized that it would not be possible, although she still planned on asking some to come with her when it was time to sail west. Even a handful of trained warriors would be more than she had the moon before.
Her thoughts were restless, yet none watching her would have known it to be so. When it came to be Liang’s turn, Syrsha stood taller, nodding toward the girl in encouragement. It was not long before the Tiannese girl finished, for even in Sythia, she had trained as a soldier. With a bow crisper than any could manage, Liang accepted her new sash, causing Syrsha’s lips to curl upward.
Otieno entered the mat area as Liang exited. The diauxie, of an age with the Sholin masters, did not bow. Instead, he immediately begun, slowly moving through the beginner poses. Only once did he stutter, and, even then, the movement was slight as he spun into a low, crouching pose. He, too, was quickly awarded the sash and accepted it was a brisk nod toward the seated men.
None asked her name when Syrsha tiptoed onto the central mat.
Master Ru stood just behind the others, his face much like the milky walls, stony and solid. Syrsha smiled at him, crookedly, keeping her eyes empty. When she bowed, deeply, her grass-green gaze dropped, offering respect, for these men were more than just temple elders. Their faces showed their storied, scarred with ink and age.
Lifting her head once more, she exhaled slowly. For this first test, no sticks, spears, or rope were permitted. One must master the early moves first, Syrsha had heard tell. And so she moved, with a stillness at first that caused the silent room to quiet further. Her arms, long like her father’s, danced and curved in front of her, in beat with the invisible drumming Ru had insisted that they learn. When her narrow fingers began to twirl and arch, Syrsha brought a foot to her thigh, balancing for several thrums until she lunged low. There, she paused, so near to the ground that the edges of her braided hair skimmed along the bamboo planks.
Not once did her hands cease moving, even when she returned to stand straight.
The movements were meant for children, and Syrsha did nothing to make them more. Ru had expected her to attempt to impress the robed masters, yet she would not. For now, she sought to prove nothing. But to all those who watched, it was clear that she was more. For she moved faster than any should.
With a flourish of hand flutters and another twist, Syrsha finished with a kick that brought her bared foot high. Bowing from her waist as the rest of her body remained straight and erect, she waited for the judging to commence.
A master with a graying half-beard nodded brusquely toward her and stated, “Master Ru tells me that you will understand my words.”
The sternness of his words reminded her to say nothing.
“It would be untrue if I told you that I had seen more promising students. You have earned your first rank with ease, but do not let that trick you into thinking the other sashes will come as easily. In another half moon, we will see you again.”
For the quarter moon that she had been at the temple, Syrsha had come to realize that many of the elders spoke briefly and with little flare or passion. This man was one such.
She reached for the sash and offered another tight bow before leaving to find Otieno and Liang, who waited just outside the anjin rooms.
“I have never felt so much a child than then,” she heard Otieno complain as she neared.
He did not need to train with her, she nearly told him. Instead, she laughed, for he was not wrong.
“Now you know how I have felt for these long moon years as your student,” she teased.
Tying the sash at her waist, as the others already had, Syrsha invited Liang to walk with her to the central square, a half-hour from the temple grounds. Neither had visited, for their day was often filled with training. When Liang agreed, they departed, promising the diauxie that they would return by the evening meal. Syrsha thought he would insist on joining them, but he did not and seemed pleased at the news.
As they walked, the sun rising as they neared the city center, Syrsha asked the girl if she knew of Jiang, briefly telling her of their meeting.
“I know little of this area, but most provinces are ruled similarly. He sounds much like those I knew before I headed west.”
Her words had been surprising and Syrsha pressed for her to explain.
“My province was small, and it was common to see the children of the governor play and explore as any others. Their father had some royal blood, or enough of a claim to it, that the Emperor had appointed him to rule. In other areas, with more rice and grain, the governors were even closer kin to the Emperor, which is what I would suspect of Jiang. But I know not, in truth.”
“He dressed much like a prince,” Syrsha commented, thinking back on his impractical garb.
Liang snorted, “He is no warrior for sure.”
Wryly, Syrsha added, “Then I must have been the first to press a blade to his throat.”
It was not surprising when Liang halted, grabbed Syrsha’s arm, and cried, “Did you try to kill the man?”
With a tilted head and her eyes angled, Syrsha taunted, “If I had tried, he would not yet live, Liang.”
“Oh, Syrsha, you must not act so rashly again. Jiang must be of some wealth and power, from how you describe him,” Liang gravely commented as she released Syrsha’s robe.
The roads had widened and were now paved neatly with red-clay bricks. Soon, flat buildings appeared, with thatched roofs and glazed doors. The homes had been constructed closely, nearly atop one another, although each had a rear courtyard. Paper lanterns, red and gold, hung from black metal poles and swayed with the soft breeze. They would be alight later, Syrsha guessed.
When the single-story buildings became replaced by taller ones – some with more floors than she could count from the street – Syrsha called, “The houses grow larger as we come to the city center.”
“Aye. But you will find the palaces further on, closer to the water’s edge, I would guess,” Liang told her.
“I am not looking for Jiang,” Syrsha huffed.
The girl did not seem convinced, but she said nothing as they came upon a group of food vendors. The women looked no different than the others who studied at the temple and walked into the city. Their simple clothing was not looked at askance, although Syrsha longed for her boots and leather, despite seeing no one else outfitted in such a way. Around them, many of the women were dressed in long, loose skirts tied at their midsections with ribbons that fell nearly to their feet. Their tunics crossed their chests tightly, but the cut was high, allowing only their ivory necks to be seen. Most wore their hair plaited intricately, like shining, blackened crowns. Syrsha’s own hair was of a similar hue, yet fell long and waving down her back, unfettered as it escaped its plait. Her clothing was stained and misshapen, too, and she g
lanced at the women with surprise.
In a pouch hidden beneath her tunic, Syrsha had coin, although she knew not how much such fabrics as the woman wore might cost.
“Is it not strange to see the women in nothing but overlong dresses and robes? How might they run?” she asked.
“You only know Cossima and Sythia,” Liang laughed. “In many places, women are little more than wives and daughters. Much of Tian is the same. The Emperor allows some women to train as warriors, but, for most, such a life would be too harsh.”
“Are there no queens in Tian then?” Syrsha asked, keeping her voice low.
“They would not be named such. Empresses only are named such because of marriage. I think only one sought to rule on her own.”
“There are girls who train at the temple,” Syrsha objected.
“Only with permission from their fathers. And, I would guess, only because he has other daughters he must marry off.”
“I would take all these girls west with me if I could,” Syrsha heatedly replied.
“And one day, I shall,” she added without letting Liang answer.
Quietly, so that none else could hear, Liang whispered, “It is a noble goal, Syrsha, but it will not come so easy. You see the scars on my neck and know how costly my freedom was.”
“You ran the kyzkua by choice,” Syrsha stated.
After so long in conversation, Liang’s voice grew hoarse as she explained, “Without Sythia, I would have died alone or would have been forced to return to my husband.”
Just then, Syrsha looked forward, aware that they had entered the busy central square. Cossima, which governed as a city-state, was much larger than the provincial capital of Dengxi, yet the town was larger than any that they had seen in the last moon year. Laden carts and wagons formed straight lines, arranged in compact rows. As she inhaled the scented air, lush with cinnamon and ginger, Syrsha’s stomach grumbled.
Toward the back of the square were the meat vendors, and she motioned for Liang to follow. Several butchers, dressed in black robes, stood behind their carts, knives chopping and clicking against wooden boards. Syrsha continued on, despite the tempting smells, until she found a woman selling sticks of charred meat chunks.
In lilting Tiannese, she asked the woman for three, knowing that Liang would only eat one. With graying hair pulled high and rolled tightly, the woman eyed her as she wrapped the meat in paper.
Behind Syrsha, Liang uttered, in Common, “It is your eyes. Jade is valued here above all other stones and gems.”
As she handed the sticks off, the woman smiled. “I never thought to see a green-eyed crane.”
Twice now since coming to Tian, she had been so named. None saw her as wolf.
“I have no feathers,” she retorted, although her words were light.
“Not all cranes do, child,” the woman hummed.
Tian was far from Cordisia, and most here would know nothing of the Tribe. In Eirrannia, few would have compared a Wolf to any bird, for fear of what might come next.
Frustrated over the exchange and uncertain what the woman implied, Syrsha turned toward Liang and stated, “If I had my swords, she might not see me as this bird of peace.”
To the woman, she asked, “Why do you name me crane?”
Before answering, the woman held out her hand, expecting to be paid for the food. Syrsha scrambled to find her coin, searching beneath her tunic. She hurriedly placed a copper coin onto the woman’s palm.
“The crane is the messenger of the gods,” the Tiannese push-cart owner explained. “That is how most in Tian see them. But my grandmother told me a different story, one that few remember. Do you have time to hear it told fully?”
When Syrsha nodded, the woman said, “Come behind the cart, then, for I still must sell what has already cooked.”
Liang stepped toward the back, with Syrsha following, and both sat atop wooden crates, trying to keep out of the way. She was quickly learning how much the Tiannese enjoyed playing host and storyteller.
“First, I must tell you of Chang-a, who is princess of the moon. She lives in a shining palace there, watching over all of Tian as we sleep. When she was of an age to you both, she stole a tonic of immortality from the gods. After drinking it, she remained forever young. But, in time, all those she loved died, and she was alone once more. Chang-a pleaded with the other gods for a home among them. I suppose they must have been moved by her tale, for they gifted her the moon.”
The woman paused as a well-dressed man approached. His silken robes were as fine as the ones Jiang had worn, and Syrsha dropped her gaze quickly. He was, she realized, of some importance. Once served, he departed, and the story continued.
“Still she was not satisfied, for she grew even more lonely so far from the world she was born into. Again, she called upon the gods for help. And this time, they told her she must choose only one companion. Chang-a thought long on whom she might choose. All her kin were long dead, and there were no other gods who sought to share her palace. But then Chang-a remembered who she saw each time she visited the other gods. And how she had come to speak with the gods.”
With a chuckle that caused her cheeks to redden, the woman asked, “Who was it that she saw?”
Liang, knowing much more of Tian, answered, “The immortal crane. It was the crane who flew Chang-a to meet the gods.”
The woman’s smile deepened, as if she was well pleased. “Just so. And once again, Chang-a stole from the gods, only this time it was their crane.”
Unsatisfied, Syrsha asked, “Is the crane still no more than a messenger, now only with a different master?”
Her question made the woman’s smile fade.
“The crane is more,” she chided, wrinkling her nose at Syrsha. “She carries visitors to the moon palace upon her back. Each night, Chang-a welcomes a new guest. Out of the darkness, they come into her light.”
“If you must compare me, then let it be with Chang-a, and not to the one who only does her bidding,” Syrsha countered.
A swift swat of a laced group of bamboo chutes across her hand followed Syrsha’s retort. The Tiannese woman then set the sticks back down, her punishment meted.
“Only a fool would rather be the moon princess than the crane,” she hissed. “The crane travels freely, while Chang-a must always remain in her palace, alone but for those who the crane chooses.”
Her fingers stinging, Syrsha quieted.
“When someone from Tian names you a crane, it is a great honor. You can fly, while they may only walk. Your eyes see much, child, while Chang-a can only see what the shadows cast.”
Holding her hands near her chest, Syrsha stated, “How can that be so? You name her moon goddess, much like we call her Luna in Cordisia. It is she who protects us from darkfall!”
The woman looked toward Liang, seeking assistance. When Liang shrugged and chuckled, the aged woman grunted in displeasure.
“Are you as simple-witted as these women who tiptoe around the market in their satin slippers?”
To that, even Syrsha giggled.
“No man can match me in battle,” Syrsha argued gleefully. “I have carried a sword since I first walked.”
“The crane needs no weapon.”
Syrsha agreed and explained that she was training at the temple. But, again, she asked of Chang-a.
“I am not wise, my child, not like the temple elders. But I am an old woman and, with that, comes some understanding. You ask what need the moon has for shadow. It is not a matter of need, for Chang-a is nightfall herself. She is shadow and star both. When the sun reigns, she sleeps. She knows not of daybreak or sunrise. What she sees is always veiled with shadow. It is only the crane who sees all and tells Chang-a of what she might not ever know.”
Syrsha nodded, with some regret for addressing the woman sharply. She stuttered an apology, bowing her head as she rose from the small crate. With words of thanks, the two girls left. On the other side of the square, Syrsha had noticed a row of shops, most fil
led with fabrics and spices, and she hurried away from the food carts.
Slipping through an open door, she was soon surrounded by large spools of folded fabric. Many were painted or sewn, some with winged creatures and others with ferns and pines. As she searched, Syrsha’s fingers trailed across dragons and phoenixes, fiery and fierce. While the fabrics were exquisite and well-made, she continued scanning the shop.
Behind her, a woman chirped, “What is it that you like?”
Syrsha turned to find a tiny woman staring up at her, dressed in a bright yellow robe, belted with a wide, black sash. Across the length of the robe were leafy white flowers. Her hair, like many women in Tian, had been styled atop her head and lay against a small crown weaved of lace. Her rosy lips had been painted, and kohl lined her eyes. Syrsha stepped back, surprised to find her so close.
“I prefer something plainer,” she mumbled in reply.
“Yes, yes,” the girl nodded, unbothered by Syrsha’s uneasiness. “Come with me, and I will show you cloth that has not yet been decorated.”
Liang giggled and did not move from the door until Syrsha scowled at her. Even then, she continued to laugh as they followed the woman toward a back corner. There, rolls of fabric leaned against a red-stained wall.
“This is what you will like, I think,” the girl chimed. “You come from the temple, I see, and must wear simple clothing. But, you are a pretty girl and must allow us to make you a dress.”
Syrsha was about to decline, until the girl began sorting through the rolls. Even in Cossima, where anything could be bought or sold, she had not seen cloth so finely made.
Much to herself, she sighed, “I have no need for anything so lovely.”
“Not if you still plan to fight the great cats,” Liang interjected.
“I would wear my leathers,” Syrsha told her.
With a shake of her head, Liang explained, “No weapons. No armor. No shield. I learned of the rules last night from one of the fourth-level students. Most wear the gray tunics, but that is not required. Laiso told me that he plans to have his family crest sewn onto a robe if he ever challenges the laohus.”
