by Clare Smith
He cursed under his breath at his bad luck, as the last thing he needed was to leave a trail of dead bodies behind him. Quickly he pulled the young man’s body around to the front of the cupboard and pushed him inside, glancing down at the slack face as he did so. He knew the apprentice who was only a year or so younger than him and, for a moment, regretted taking his life. Then the thought occurred to him that the apprentice would probably have been amongst those who had used Li Ang for target practice and any regrets left him.
Quickly he scuffed the bloodstains into the floor, hoping they wouldn’t be seen, and ran up the stairs to the first level. He’d only been there once before when he was a boy, so the only room he knew for certain would be there was the Master’s sleeping room. He found the right door and peered inside, but decided that by the time Cheum retired there, the body in the cupboard would have been found and his game would be up.
The next room was a lounging room of some sort with nowhere to hide, and the other was full of books and scrolls which were unlikely to be used at that time of night. He thought of hiding in there and creeping out when the Master was asleep, but that would take far too long. Then he went into the last room and found what he was looking for.
It had to be the Master’s dressing room, as along one wall there was a rail laden with robes ranging from the elaborate to the mundane. A priceless, silver-backed mirror, stood against one wall and several chests against another. He quickly looked inside and found that they contained a selection of pristine furs and trays of jewellery. Unable to suppress the thief in him, he helped himself to a few small pieces which wouldn’t be missed.
After closing the lid again he noticed a single door leading off the room which he assumed was the Master’s privy. Unusually the door was locked by a heavy bolt on the outside, but it took only a moment to slide it back and look into the room. He’d been wrong about it being a privy, as it was clearly another sleeping chamber containing a single bed.
A girl, just a few years older than Li Ang had been, with wide, frightened eyes, sat on the bed clutching a blanket around her naked body. Twistirian thought he recognised her from somewhere, and wondered if she was somehow related to Cheum. For a moment he hoped she was, as he didn’t want to kill anyone who was innocent or who looked so scared, but he couldn’t take the chance of her calling out a warning.
He pulled a knife and took a threatening step forward making the girl whimper and cringe further back against the wall. “Who are you, girl?”
“I’m Ti Me and I work in the kitchens,” she replied in a small, frightened voice.
Twistirian frowned as he remembered where he’d seen her. “You are the washer-woman’s daughter?” Ti Me nodded timidly. “What are you doing here?”
The girl looked up with tears in her eyes. “The Master uses me for his pleasure and locked me in here until he returns.”
Twistirian spat on the floor in disgust. Now he had another good reason to kill the bastard. “Take your things and go back to the kitchen where you belong.”
Ti Me shook her head. “I can’t. The master said he would throw my mother out onto the streets if I didn’t do as he says, and we would starve without the rice she earns.”
He knew that was probably true as there were so many starving families in Chang’an and not enough work for them all. However, being found here after he’d done what he’d come to do would ensure a very swift ending to her life. Suddenly he felt sorry for the girl who had been forced into this situation by a man who took advantage of her poverty. Almost angrily he snapped his knife away into its sheath, pulled out the pieces of jewellery he’d stolen and handed them to Ti Me.
“Take these to the kitchen and hide them well. In a day or two, retrieve them and give them to your mother who will know what to do with them. Then leave Chang’an for good and start a better life somewhere else.”
Ti Me went to take them but then stopped. “What about the Master?”
“Don’t bother about Cheum, he won’t bother you again. Just do as I say and on the way out bolt the door behind you.”
The girl nodded, took the precious stones and left at a run, gathering her tattered clothes as she went. Twistirian stood where he was until the door closed, plunging him into darkness, and listened as the bolt was drawn noisily across the door. Then he climbed onto the bed and sat with his eyes closed as he considered what he’d just done.
His plan had been to kill Cheum in his sleep and then slip away into the darkness, but he knew now that wasn’t the way the man had to die. Cheum had to know who it was who was going to end his life and why he was going to die, even though doing that was likely to cost him his own life. Somehow that didn’t disturb him as much as he thought it would, so he settled down to wait.
The internal walls of the pagoda were thin enough for him to hear every sound from the adjoining room, so he knew for certain when Cheum returned to the dressing room. There had been two others with him to help him change out of his formal robes, but they had gone now. From the sounds of shuffling on the other side of the door and the heavy breathing, he guessed that Cheum was preparing to return to his interrupted night of pleasure.
He stood slowly with his knife held loosely in his hand and eased the tension from his muscles, whilst on the other side of the door he could hear Cheum pull back the heavy bolt which held the door closed. Now the time had come to act his mind was as calm as the Master of Still Mind had always said it should be before a kill, and the only excitement he felt was the tremor of the spirit inside of him. He quelled that feeling and waited for the moment the door was opened and light flooded the small room.
In front of him stood Cheum, wearing a plain white robe tied with a plaited sash and a look of anticipation on his face, which immediately changed to one of alarm when he saw the dark figure standing in front of him. Twistirian didn’t give him the chance to react, but stepped forwards to embrace him, pushing his knife into Cheum’s side just enough to slice into the man’s internal organs, but not enough to kill him outright.
“That’s for your betrayal of me,” he whispered into his victim’s ear.
Cheum gave a gasp of pain and shock and pulled himself free of his attacker’s hold and the knife in his side. He went for the blade he always carried at his belt, but he’d intended to use a different weapon on the girl and had left it on the table. That didn’t mean that he was defenceless, as he used his hands to counter attack, chopping down into his assailant’s neck.
Twistirian had been expecting the blow and fended it off with his forearm, whilst bringing his knife up with his other hand and slicing through Cheum’s abdomen. The intense pain made Cheum scream and stagger backwards but Twistirian ignored it.
“That’s for murdering the Master who was the only father I ever knew.”
Cheum stumbled into the table and with one hand grabbed the knife which lay there, whilst the other hand tried to keep the deep wound across his stomach closed. Now that he had a weapon in his hand he felt more confident, and all the skill he’d perfected over the years came into play. He struck out as fast as a snake catching Twistirian along the ribs and then cut back before his attacker had a chance to recover, scoring a line across his chest.
Twistirian stumbled backwards into the mirror, shattering it with his elbow and dropping his knife. With a grin of anticipation Cheum moved in for the kill, his knife angled upwards to slice beneath his attackers ribs and up into his heart. He gave a shout of triumph, which turned into a choking gurgle as Twistirian’s long, thin knife, the one he had bought for picking locks, pierced his throat and his jugular sending blood spraying into a wide ark.
“And that’s for the death of Li Ang who was innocent and didn’t deserve to die.”
Cheum gave a last choking cough and collapsed into his assailant’s arms, his weight bearing him to the floor and their blood mingling together. From his position on the floor, Twistirian could hear men shouting and their feet pounding on the stairs as they came closer. There was no chance that he cou
ld escape their vengeance, but at least he could choose the manner of his death and go down fighting.
He knew that he should move so that he was in a position to confront them, but it was impossible. When he tried to push himself up off the floor, his body felt as if it didn’t belong to him, and his arms and his legs wouldn’t respond. It was as if something inside of him was changing and rearranging his bones and his muscles, until the pain overwhelmed him and he slipped into darkness.
When he woke again he knew exactly where he was, but had no recollection of how he had arrived there. His last memory was of lying on the floor in a pool of Cheum’s blood, watching his brothers approach with their swords drawn. He was back on a floor again, but this was a different one made of grey stone with brown patches, as if something had been spilt and hadn’t quite been scrubbed clean.
Carefully he pulled himself onto his hands and knees and looked around him, realising that the other thing which hadn’t changed was that he was still surrounded by men with drawn swords. They all wore dark clothes and were ready to kill, but he still recognised them as the Brotherhoods senior brothers and the masters who had taught him everything he knew about fighting. Slowly he stood, trying to stretch and adjust his body and dispel some of the numbness which was slowing him down. He stumbled forwards slightly as he regained his balance and immediately the men who surrounded him raised their swords in readiness.
He recognised the place as the practice yard where miscreant brothers who had disgraced their order were tried and executed. By the grim look on the faces of the brothers and masters who were present, he guessed that was what was about to happen to him. He could understand why they wanted him dead, but had no idea why the masters and senior brothers were involved in a task which was usually left to those of a lesser rank. Slowly he turned within the circle of men, recognising each of them despite their faces being covered and only their hard eyes glaring back at him.
By the time he’d turned around once Kingquin had stepped forwards, dressed in traditional black and carrying a plain sword. He’d assumed that after Cheum’s death Kingquin would automatically become the Master, but clearly he was wrong.
“Wang, the street thief, you have been found guilty of crimes against the Brotherhood and are condemned to death by the blade.”
So that was the way of things, expulsion from the Brotherhood and execution without a chance to defend himself. That, though, didn’t make sense. If he was no longer one of them, the prescribed execution was to be hung by the ankles and used as target practice. He decided it was better not to remind them of that and asked another question instead.
“I am of the Brotherhood, so don’t I have a right to a proper trial?”
“You are no brother of ours. He who kills two masters and steals that which is the heart and soul of the brotherhoods has no rights, except to face the circle of death until he gives back that which he has stolen.”
Now he understood and swallowed hard as he looked at each of the grim men in the circle around him. He’d once watched a man die in the circle of death, unarmed and facing a dozen men with swords, and it had taken him a very long time to die. The man had fought back with his bare hands and had died bravely without making a sound, but at the time he’d thought it would have been better if he’d thrown himself onto one of the sword points and ended it quickly.
He doubted he would be given that chance; he held the spirit of two brotherhoods within him, and every man there would want to cut their portion from his flesh and take it back. Whatever he did he was going to die piece by piece and he knew there was nothing he could do to prevent it, but the spirit within him had other ideas. Now he knew for certain what it was that he had taken from the masters as he could feel it move, trying to take control and exert its will. All he had to do was release the dragon and then he would be free.
Around him the brothers cried out in fear as he looked at them through eyes with elliptical irises and his outline wavered. For a moment he heard someone call his name, and when he looked up he could see who was calling him from this place of death, but just as he was about to respond to the call something changed. It was as if he’d suddenly woken from a fantastic dream, and had then been plunged back into reality because, in an instant, he was just Wang the street thief again, and was back in the practice yard with his executioners surrounding him.
As they stepped forwards he stood as tall as he could, pushed down his fear and waited for them to begin.
*
Poddorrin hadn’t been asleep, he was certain of that as his eyes ached with staring at the words in front of him. All the same his mind must have wandered as he couldn’t recall a single word he’d read, but neither could he remember what he was thinking about. He might have gone on like this until he had fallen asleep, but he suddenly had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he should be doing something else instead of just sitting there.
It was an uncomfortable feeling that was making his skin itch, so he pushed the bench back and stared around the cave trying to think what it was he’d forgotten to do. Nothing came to mind, but he suddenly realised he was sick to death of being stuck inside. What he needed was some fresh air and a time to think about other things apart from dragons.
With his mind made up, he stepped through the cave wall with the aid of the dragon tooth key and was surprised to find that it was early morning. Out here the air was fresh and clean and cold enough to raise goose bumps along his arms. It was no wonder he felt groggy, after spending most of the day and all night in the cave pouring over old parchments, and he could already feel the crisp air chasing away the tiredness and the despondency.
He yawned and stretched, and then on an impulse made his way up onto the raised platform where the Dragon Watchers had once sat. It was peaceful there with the sun lighting up the crystals buried in the rocks on the mountainside, and the breeze herding the wispy clouds into ever changing formations around the mountain’s summit. He watched, almost mesmerised, as two long clouds, one white and one grey swirled around each other, twisting and turning until they were joined into one silver cloud backlit by the sun.
Overwhelmed by the sheer beauty, he stood and stared at the silver cloud as it coalesced into the form of a dragon, sending its shadow sweeping across the mountain as the breeze blew it away. He knew it wasn’t real, that it was only a cloud, but for a moment, he was almost overwhelmed with excitement as he thought that at last one of the dragons had answered his call. For a long time he stood there watching the dragon cloud disperse, until the cold, or perhaps something else made him shudder.
As he sat down on the watchers stone the uneasiness returned and he rubbed his arms trying to relieve the itching of his skin. He needed to do something urgently, and whilst he didn’t know what it was, he was certain that if he didn’t do it soon the consequences were going to be disastrous. Now the uneasiness was turning to a feeling of desperation which was making him breathe faster and the itching was making his hands shake.
He shoved them into his pockets to keep them warm, where his fingers touched the red stone which he’d found in the cave and had put there several days before. He’d forgotten all about the stone with the strange dragon etched into it, although at the time he’d been quite excited about the discovery. Without even meaning to, he rubbed his fingers across the smooth surface and instantly he knew that at last he’d found what he’d been looking for.
When he closed his eyes he could clearly see the outline of a dragon and a man begin to merge but then it suddenly exploded into a kaleidoscope of images as if someone had shattered a mirror. Then he knew for certain that he’d been a fool to be sidetracked by the power of the Moonstone Blade and just focused on the weapons, when all along it was a catalyst that he needed to reach out and call a dragon spirit. What he had to find was something which was connected to the four consorts, and a different one for each host, as this red stone was surely connected to the one he’d seen.
That had to be the truth, be
cause as he clutched the stone with the dragon carved into it and the image settled again he could see the one he had been seeking. The man was young with golden skin and dark eyes and stood in a courtyard surrounded by white, painted walls dressed in nothing but dark leggings. He could feel the man’s rapid heartbeat, his shallow breathing and his fear, and then he could see why. Around him there were a dozen men dressed all in black with swords in their hands closing in on him in a circle.
Urgently he pulled the stone from his pocket, held it tightly to his heart and called on the dragon spirit within him to respond. Instantly the dragon spirit came alive, eager to be reunited with its brother, and together they called out to him to join them. Across space and time he could sense the spirit of the distant dragon stir, so he called again and his brother looked up, searching for him. He went to call again, knowing that this time his brother would respond, but then his words were whipped away from him like leaves in a storm as his own dragon spirit was torn from his body, leaving just an empty shell behind.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The Crystal of Calling
The Caves of Kriphis
It had been a long day, but every day was long since Pellecus had left her to fend for herself and she’d returned from the cave higher up the rugged hillside. The problem wasn’t so much looking after herself, although that was proving to be harder than she’d imagined, but that she was lonely and longed for someone to talk to. She was so lonely that she had started talking to the goats when they came to be milked, but all they did was bleat back at her which was no help at all.
Apart from the goats there was no one else she could confide in, so she had started talking to herself, which was not a good sign. She’d been told once that talking to yourself was the first sign of madness and she could well believe it. Only this morning she’d had an argument with herself over the correct way to weave a basket, and when her new idea had failed she had called herself a fool for trying something which clearly wasn’t going to work.
