The Eighth King (The White Umbrella Testament Book 1)

by Matt Weber

  Thogmey nodded slowly, as though fearing to agitate the hand on his shoulder (which, in the plowman’s defense, was widely acknowledged as one of the most dangerous and subtle weapons ever forged within the borders of Uä). “I could dream nothing better, Your Grace.”

  “Ah, Thogmey.” Tenshing leaned back in his throne in a posture of perhaps excessive relaxation, both physical and mental. “You must read more. It will expand your dreams.”

  “I shall, Your Grace,” said Thogmey.

  He began to sketch an abasement, but Tenshing interrupted him before his nose could touch the ground. “One more thing, plowman,” said the King. “Do not draw Mingma’s pattern again if you can help it. If you feel you must, then do it once, as precisely as you can, and keep it to yourself.” Thogmey opened his mouth again, and again Tenshing interrupted. “Do not ask your King to explain himself.” Thogmey swallowed, set his gaze, and straightened like a just-unstrung longbow. “It is late. My selectors will give you a scrip that will buy you a meal and a room in any of Rassha’s public houses. Return to Baron Huchul with my regards, and give your dzo whatever token of my affection you deem fit.”

  The plowman abased himself again in his strange fashion, and one of the selectors (the theologian) ushered him out of the throne room. Tenshing transfixed the others with his gaze. Though possessed in full measure of the disorganized minds that seem a prerequisite of higher scholarship, they had become fine students of the King’s moods, and approached the throne without his summons.

  “You three have unerring taste in most situations.” The King let this sentence stand alone for a few moments, letting the agile minds of the legalist and historian extract what they could from it. “I am not sure this was one of them.”

  The selectors abased themselves as tokens of their chagrin. Tenshing, with some effort, kept himself from squirming at the gesture. “Your Grace,” the historian said at the conclusion of his abasement, “this audience has run long. Do you wish to see the other select-petitioners?”

  “I cannot deny them,” said Tenshing, “but I fear I cannot face them either. Inform their employers that they will be detained another day, and have the steward find them food and rooms; add no new ones until these are seen to. I will receive them in the hour before the dawn.”

  It was not usual for King Tenshing Astama to wander the halls of the Orchid Palace late of a night, but it was not a usual night, and it gratified him to see the door at the very end of the wives’ quarters limned with light. He knocked softly on the doorframe, then opened the door, knowing that the room’s occupant would recognize his knock.

  It was a generous room but spare, decorated in the flush of first love, when new wives sometimes too soon embrace their husbands’ idiosyncrasies. A woman, full past the green of youth and beginning the ripening of a stately middle age, sat in an uncushioned wooden chair, reading a leatherbound book through a pair of elegant steel-rimmed spectacles. She did not smile at Tenshing as he entered, but there was a quiet warmth in her expression—although this warmth was not reflected in the room, whose fireplace was clean and cold. “Your Grace,” she said, setting the book aside.

  Tenshing sat on the pallet and kicked off his slippers. “Mother-of-Daughters,” he said. “The air is heavy today.”

  “I have asked you not to call me that, Your Grace.”

  “Forgive me, Pema,” said Tenshing. “It is an old habit, and I cannot devote as much effort as you deserve to its eradication.”

  “I understand, of course,” said Mother-of-Daughters, which we will call her against her wishes, for it is by that name she is known. “But I will continue to resist it until it is eradicated.”

  “That is your right,” said Tenshing, “if not your duty.”

  She took a moment to read the King’s face. “You may ask me about our daughters,” she said.

  Tenshing closed his eyes briefly. “Of course. How are our daughters?”

  “Sonam is having difficulty with geometry, and embarrassed that Kadzati is not. Lhami and Akara are jealous that Sonam and Kadzati may study geometry, when the steward’s wife has them in the kitchen and the garden from dawn to dusk. Tsetsen watched Tara draw pictures with me tonight. She drew a picture of you—she missed you at dinner.”

  Tenshing opened his mouth, then closed it again. Mother-of-Daughters smiled. “You did not miss her, but it does not mean you love her any less. And the messengers nearly made up for the message. I do not think the little girls have ever seen the Cerulean Sword bared, and Gyaltsen and the guards rose to the occasion. What possessed you?”

  Tenshing smiled, a soft, unforthcoming expression, not at all like the serene heralds of good will he bestowed on his courtiers, petitioners, and visiting dignitaries. “I wanted to think of them delighted. And I want them to know the court’s wonders. It is full enough of them, though I think you and I have become inured.”

  “Sonam wants nothing so badly as to watch you practice,” said Mother-of-Daughters, “although she will never admit it.”

  Once again Tenshing nearly spoke, then chose not to. This time Mother-of-Daughters did not respond to his thoughts. “I will reconsider it,” said Tenshing.

  “Thank you,” said Mother-of-Daughters.

  “I have news of the Green Morning,” said Tenshing. “They have heard the rumors of the Pretender’s puissance and are concerned.”

  “We are all concerned,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “You mean they court sedition.”

  “The Green Morning do not act as one,” said Tenshing, “and in any case, the message was not so harshly phrased.”

  Mother-of-Daughters studied her husband for a moment. “But the King, no fool, corrects the message, accounting for a messenger too gentle with his sensibilities.”

  The King, no fool, did not gainsay it. “I am losing them, Pema. Every gaze appraises. Weighs my kingliness against some standard whose knowledge I am denied. And it wrong-foots me—I could barely maintain my equanimity before a plowman who importuned me to deliver his livestock from starvation. How can I marshal a nation against rebellion and the Worm if I cannot divine a farmer’s worry for his livestock?”

  “You are the King of Uä and master of seven of the Rigors Martial, Your Grace,” said Mother-of-Daughters, though her tone was not as admiring as the words would suggest—in truth, there was a certain dryness to her voice that might have suggested exasperation. “You have done more difficult things.”

  “King of Uä, whose subjects rise up against him,” said Tenshing. “Master of seven of the rigors, who cannot master the eighth. Perhaps I am fated to do by halves the mundane and fantastic alike.”

  “Self-pity does not become you, Your Grace,” said Mother-of-Daughters. Her eyes brushed him with a look of weighing-up; her mouth graced him with a subtle smile. “I wish you would indulge in it more often.”

  Tenshing chuckled out loud at that and held her eyes with his as though for the first time. “You are wise and beautiful. I wish you had not tolerated my distance for so long. A younger man would have adapted better to this new candor.” He ran a hand over his smooth scalp, the trace of rue on his face discernible only to a practiced student of his moods. “But then, if only my presence had been more rewarding, you would not have tolerated my distance for so long.” He stood up and stretched. “Thank you, Pema. These conversations ease my heart.”

  “Even as they burden it,” said Mother-of-Daughters.

  “Just so,” said Tenshing.

  Mother-of-Daughters stood and approached her husband. They stood at arm’s length for a moment; eventually she took a single step forward and placed her hand on his bicep, just above his elbow. “You will see this through, Tenshing.”

  The King nodded and nearly turned to go—but with that turn came a nagging tug, as one feels walking through a web, and he faced her again. “Pema,” he said. “I fear your admonition about Tong may have been more accurate than I allowed. We are neither of us master of our sentiments. It is becoming dangerous.”r />
  Mother-of-Daughters let her hand drop, but she did not look away, and her eyes were full of concern—etched, it cannot be denied, with the trace of a new scar, fully healed but prone to pains. “But you are resolved to continue your association all the same?”

  “Practically, I can do no better at this time, and can afford to do no worse. A new relationship with the Green Morning would take too long to forge, and even their table scraps are gold with this Rough-Hewn Torch in the field.”

  “A hound accustomed to table scraps is easily poisoned.”

  The King ran a hand over his shaved scalp and permitted himself a sigh. “The traces of our liaison endanger that intelligence as well. But in the short term, there is nothing for it. And it would be disingenuous to pretend that I am much moved by practical concerns in this. She is a warrior.” Although Tenshing’s eyes did not move away from his wife’s face, they did lose their focus for a moment, so that he seemed to be looking at some invisible spirit in the air between them. He grappled with the thought of further explication—for it can come as no surprise that a King might find a certain mesmerizing novelty in a woman’s physical strength, in her scars (and sometimes fresh wounds, which seemed only to accelerate their passions), in her hard hands and feet and rough elbows and knees, in the control of and attunement to the body that comes with skill in combat, in the abandon toward everyday concerns born of the embrace of violent death. These are not the traits of queens. And thus they could be no help to the first among the wives of Tenshing Astama; she could not instill them in herself, and he did not wish her to. “One day we will say our farewells. But I have not the strength for it, nor the luxury if I did have the strength. I am sorry.”

  “I will not say it is nothing to me,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “But if you cannot do it, then it cannot be done. There is no call to apologize.” She crossed her arms under her breasts and shivered once; the room had grown colder since Tenshing had come.

  “I will not make you stand any longer,” Tenshing said. “Please, return to your poetry.”

  “When you are gone,” said Mother-of-Daughters. And the King of Uä made the Husband’s Abasement to a Senior Wife and left.

  My eye has remained on Tenshing for most of the time summarized in this account, but in this instance, it lingered on Mother-of-Daughters. She did not cry, of course, or mutter to herself, for these things were beneath a first queen even in the solitude of her chambers. Instead she carefully removed a hanging from the stone wall—one of two decorations in the chamber, a small tapestry of the Many-Colored Deity in her blue and green forms (the other one being a miniature botanical illustration of the orchid, both colored and in full bloom). She set the hanging on her futon and turned to the underlying stone, blackened with scorch marks. After three deep breaths, she struck that stone a punishing blow with the heel of her hand, the whole of which had begun to blaze and gutter with blue fire that died instantly on impact.

  The stone smoked, and a little girl’s wail echoed in the hallway—soon twinned by another, much akin yet, to a mother, unmistakably distinct. It was Tara and Tsetsen; the latter was of an age where nightmares were elaborate and real, the former still of an age when rude waking could bring fright and tears. Mother-of-Daughters replaced the tapestry and went to them.

  The Bat Gate

  atang and Lin Gyat slept only until midmorning. When they woke, their first action was to stumble to the edge of the pine forest, which was not far. They looked down into the valley and saw the Pretender’s army straddling the Silver Dragon like ants massed around a stray drop of honey. Datang cursed at the sight. “That Glib Ape told me his army would be in the eastern foothills, and they were on the Dragon all along. His tongue was as long as his arms, and as treacherous.”

  “He told you where his army would be?”

  “We met in a tavern.” Datang shrugged. “I was speculating. The Ape offered a more convincing speculation.”

  “A lie, you mean.”

  “He phrased it as a speculation.”

  “Do liars often phrase their lies as lies?” Lin Gyat mused, apparently sincerely. Datang was disinclined to clarify, and they began to make their way aslant the rocky slope, careful not to descend too fast lest they come close to the Iron Eunuch’s milling ants. The lush curves of the Orchid Palace gently reflected the morning light, and soon Lin Gyat and Datang could make out the gates on Rassha’s walls.

  “I had been planning to enter by the Bat Gate, which is nearest us,” said Datang. “Does that comport with your expectations?”

  A slight pout of concern overtook the huge marksman’s face. “I fear it will not admit me.”

  “We are travelers, come to pledge our blood and sinew in the King’s service. Why would they turn us away?”

  “Turn away?” Lin Gyat’s face grew puzzled. “There is no question of turning away—merely a physical mismatch. There is a Wind Horse Gate, is there not? That should serve; a wind horse is man-tall at the shoulder.”

  Datang stared at Lin Gyat as comprehension dawned. “The gate is not sized for bats, Envied; it will admit a man.”

  “Ah,” said Lin Gyat. “In that case, I find your plan acceptable.” He cast his eyes skyward for a moment in contemplation. “Have you forgiven me for killing the Ape, Left Hand? He was not worthy of you.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. He was an adversary. We were not close.”

  That silenced Lin Gyat for a stride or two. “Ah,” he said, self-satisfied, at last, “there is another paramour. Well, the society of Envied of Snakes will cure you of such fancies.”

  “I am unattached,” Datang said, not warmly.

  “Excellent. Well, you were taxed last night by your exertions. It is not well to strain oneself in such circumstances. I am an active lover, as you might well surmise.”

  “Do not patronize me, Envied of Snakes,” said Datang. “I was barely warm when you begged to make camp. When I am disposed to sport with men, no little march will sap my will to do it.”

  Lin Gyat frowned in cogitation. “Ah, I see,” he said. “You play at coyness. Forgive me—I rarely attract such subtly expressed attentions.”

  “The Lotus, Envied of Snakes, is any other woman so readily swayed by your brutish proposals? I do not wish to share your bed.”

  “Oh, to be sure, you may take your own bed after we cease our game; I cannot sleep in company. Ape’s Left Hand, I think you and I will get along excellently.”

  “We may yet,” said Datang, “but not as lovers.”

  “I, too, eschew the softer emotions,” said Lin Gyat. “They interfere with the correct execution of a man’s martial technique, in both the plain and euphemistic senses. I imagine it is the same for women. Do you know, I do not think I have ever encountered a woman fencer.”

  “Perhaps they smell you coming,” said Datang.

  “And drop their weapons,” Lin Gyat said thoughtfully, “the more womanly to seem. Yes, that is likely. I think you said last night you understood the origin of my style?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Datang, “you are remarkably swift, as I am sure all your ‘comrades-in-arms’ inform you.”

  Lin Gyat gave her a puzzled look. “No, they have not been especially appreciative of my speed on the draw.”

  Datang chortled. Lin Gyat redoubled his look of puzzlement. “Indeed, Envied of Snakes,” said Datang, “it is my experience that this quality is seldom valued by women.”

  “As you say. But—ah, I think I understand the confusion.” Lin Gyat was staring into the distance by this point; Datang gave vent to the urge to roll her eyes. “In these inner provinces, and those to the east, bordering the Garden, snakes are famed for their agility—for example, I have heard tell of the furred rocksnake of Gyachun, whose poison works so quickly that men fall dead before they are bitten, which greatly simplifies predation. And, of course, the bat-eating wingèd asp, which moves faster than sound travels through the air, so that its prey cannot hear it until it is already caught.” Datang
had never heard of these creatures, but she nodded soberly in indication that Lin Gyat should continue. “But in Degyen, from which I hail, there are no snakes of such prodigious celerity. Our snakes spend the majority of their existences torpid, rousting themselves only long enough to eat.”

  “And what is their prey?” asked Datang.

  “Oh, nothing exotic. Men, tapirs, sometimes tigers.”

  “The Lotus,” said Datang, “the snakes of Degyen must be enormous!”

  “And now,” said Lin Gyat, “you understand why women flock to a man styled Envied of Snakes.”

  Here it must be said that, for all her game talk of sport, there was a certain directness of speech for which Datang’s petit-bourgeois origins had left her simply unprepared; wherefore she perhaps cannot be faulted for letting her jaw hang open for a long moment before covering her face with her hands. “My father has an expression for a certain type of torment—’Pressing wine from stone grapes.’ I feel I now understand the idiom.”

  “I am no vintner,” Lin Gyat said cheerfully, “but my brother Dargey was styled Two Stone Grapes, due to an intriguing feature of his—”

  “Envied of Snakes,” Datang interrupted, noting a certain foul taste on her tongue after the saying of his style, “I fear I cannot continue this conversation. The moon tugs my blood. This renders my temper unpredictable and degrades my mental faculties, as no doubt you know.”

  Lin Gyat nodded vigorously in assent. “I am well versed in female physiology. You need explain no further. And I now understand why you have reacted so oddly to my invitations. I shall patiently await the return of your ardor, contenting myself meanwhile with—”

  “Oh,” said Datang, “you need not itemize your substitutions. It is well for comrades-in-arms to be separated by a comfortable span of mutual ignorance.”

  Lin Gyat gave Datang a smile that seemed, somehow, as pure and sincere as a child’s. “Ape’s Left Hand,” he said, “you are the pinnacle of womanhood.”

  The Bat Gate was carved into the wall of Rassha at the height of a good-sized tree, reachable from a wide stone bridge that terminated on a wide ledge in the foothills, enough for several companies of soldiers to group or mount artillery. The bridge was currently unguarded, though sentries manned the parapets above. They were silent until Datang and Lin Gyat had reached the halfway point, whereupon several took aim with well-cared-for rifles. One man sporting a colonel’s elephant on his breastplate stepped forth to give the challenge.