“Tea is for old women.”
“I have sakeh and Shyrian Arak if you’d prefer.”
He grunted again, and followed the Alchemist through the flames and they talked until the first light of dawn.
***
It took all of them to hold him down as first they peeled the fabric from his chest. The wound was long and very deep in the shoulder and the blood that had soaked his tunic soon soaked his grey pelt. They had no physician with them, no Necromancer or Alchemist with provisions to tend him, and it became apparent that if he continued to bleed the way he was bleeding now, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey would be dead before morning.
Solomon had an idea.
He was a Scholar, this Jeffrey Solomon was, but a physician first, and he asked them to help move the grey lion to the fire. He then asked to borrow the Major’s swords and daggers, which she was loathe to give up but was persuaded, and the Ancestor surprised them all by plunging the blades into the flames until they grew red hot, like in a forge. They held Kerris down yet again as Solomon wrapped cloths around the hilts, reached with pelt-less fingers into the deepest parts of the wound, and with seemingly great skill and knowledge, brought the glowing tip down and onto the source of the blood.
The flesh sizzled and smoked and reeked of burnt meat and Kerris cried out as Solomon dragged this new blade along the path of the first, but soon his struggles ceased as sleep claimed him in her black embrace. Solomon was then able to continue this practice until most of the bleeding had ended. He packed it with damp tea leaves.
The tigress sat now, cradling the grey head in her lap, stroking his forehead with her fingers.
“He will be alright now, won’t he, Solomon?” Her voice was quiet, dull. She knew the answer to her question. Somehow she still felt the need to ask.
The Ancestor shook his head. “I don’t know, sweetheart. That’s a very bad wound. I may have stopped the bleeding for now, but that’s by no means an effective treatment. Infection is very likely and we need to bandage that up, but where in the world will we get bandages?”
A bolt of white fabric dropped into the man’s lap. He looked up to see the Major standing over him, a slim silhouette against the reddening of the dawn sky. Her long marbled hair lifted and fell on the early morning breeze.
“Will that do?”
Fallon looked up at her. “Your cloak? You would let us use your cloak?”
“This is the desert. I do not need it.” She scowled. “He is a spoiled, insignificant excuse for a lion.”
Fallon smiled. “But still.”
“But still.”
Solomon turned the heavy fabric over and over in his hands, grabbed two ends, pulled. The cloth tore away in a clean, straight strip. He smiled at her as well. “It’s perfect, Ursa. Thanks.”
The Seer appeared at her shoulder. His own hair rose and fell on the breeze, and Fallon noticed how like a matched pair they finally seemed. Her throat tightened, for she knew what was coming.
“We must leave,” said the Major. “We must find the Captain.”
Solomon said nothing. Fallon nodded. She had a very bad feeling about this.
“We will return when we can.” And with that, the snow leopard spun on her precariously high bootheels and headed for her horse. Sireth lingered a little longer.
“Solomon,” he said finally. “I, for one, am very glad that you didn’t die… tonight or so many months ago. And I’m very glad I have met you.”
The man smiled again, reached out his right hand. benAramis stared at it.
“Take it. Just like this…”
And so a very old tradition was reintroduced back into the Upper Kingdom, the tradition of ‘shaking hands.’ It is a meaningless tradition, performed mostly among men. Why it is done even today is a mystery.
The Seer turned his gaze on the tigress.
“Khalilah,” was all he could say, for his throat was tight. She was on her feet and in his arms in an instant, weeping and holding on as if she would never let go for anything or anyone, and right then, Fallon Waterford, Scholar in the Court of the Empress, was the saddest she had ever been in her life.
He kissed her forehead, stroked her now colorful cheek. “Don’t grow up too fast, little one,” he whispered, for his own eyes were filled with tears.“And say hello to your kittens for me.”
“Six kittens,” she sniffed.
“Six grey striped kittens.”
And he stepped away from her, from the Ancestor, threw one long last look at the Captain’s brother and cursed Dharma for her cruel, cruel fates, and turned, his long dark desert robes whirling theatrically, and he too was gone.
And the first beams of the sun sliced through the tall, forested peaks of the city.
***
He rode.
He rode.
He rode.
He had no idea where he was going but still he rode.
alMassay’s powerful legs tore up the rocky plains, and at a full gallop, he rode.
Head spinning, heart pounding, voices raging inside, warring and accusing and cursing and weeping, and yet, he rode.
The rising sun was shaking her head at him but he rode.
Trees flashed, forests came and went, the land rose and fell, but he rode.
Voices raging, growing louder, wailing, howling, barking like dogs inside his head, and still, he –
alMassay gone from underneath him, sailing through the air, hitting the earth hard, rolling, spinning, aching, breaking.
alMassay squealing, thrashing great powerful legs in an effort to stand, and he watches as if underwater the great horse shake his head and neck, and shake it again, to rid it of the shaft of an arrow, buried deep within the flesh.
He bolts to the horse’s side as another arrow slices the air, and then another, thudding into the massive chest and ribs. He pulls out the first, as alMassy cries again, tossing the proud head in agony. He hears laughter and figures appear from over a ridge and he reaches for his katanah, but it is gone, left behind after tasting his brother’s blood. And now, it is alMassay’s blood that is spilling, streaking the great Imperial coat, dripping onto the rocks and his best friend sinks to the ground, groaning and shaking and he is helpless to do anything.
More dependable than soldiers, more faithful than men.
With a snarl and lash of his tail, he hikes the short sword.
***
“Idiot!” she snarled, long marbled hair whipping in the morning wind, for he had pulled his horse to a halt behind her. “Are we lost?”
benAramis closed his eyes, opening his soul to the sensation that had just shaken him almost off his horse.
“No,” he murmured. “Not lost. Late. We are too late.”
He opened his eyes, leveled the good one at her. “The Captain has fallen.”
She set her jaw. “Dogs?”
“Yes.”
“Is he…Have they killed him?”
He cocked his head. “That, I cannot see.”
“The falcon—“
And he called her silently, felt her answering thoughts, let her lift him from his horse, take him so very high above the land. It always amazed him, the things she saw, how the mountains rose and fell all along the coast, how the water veered away from plains and wrapped itself like a serpentine ribbon southeast, how the land looked so very much like a blanket, stitched together with many differing cloths. She angled and soared away from the tents, with fires burning brightly even in the morning sun, cast her sharp eyes for any sign of Imperial gold.
She dipped a wing, dropped through the clouds to better scan the terrain.
She heard it whistle a moment before it hit.
The impact sent her violently backwards before beginning the spiral downwards. Her one wing was leaden, the shaft of the arrow piercing her breast on the right side. It was causing a downdraft, its weight catching the wind and dragging her earthward. Even still, she angled the left wing, desperately trying to glide, to stay airborne, but the ground met her
far too quickly and she hit hard, tumbling head over tail into a patch of dry pines. So there she lay in an awkward position in the scrub, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, when a shadow fell across her, blocking out the sun.
Rough hands with short pointy claws reached down to grab her.
Lifted her from the pines.
Turned her over in their grasp and yanked the arrow from her breast.
She chirruped once, stabbed those rough hands with her sharp hooked beak.
The hands moved to her neck and it was the last thing she knew.
He was on the ground, on the rocky ground nowhere near a patch of dry pines, and he felt her hands on him, heard her voice as she pulled him to her. He buried his face in her hair and wept.
***
Fallon Waterford awoke as the body in her arms began to stir.
“He didn’t do it,” he was muttering. “He didn’t do it. ”
He was trying to sit up, eyes rolling, breath catching.
“It’s my fault. I said do it. He didn’t do it. It’s my fault.”
Carefully, she pushed him back down. “Hush, Kerris. Please lie still. I’ve made some tea—“
“He didn’t. The coward. It’s my fault.”
“No, no. Not your fault. Um, hang on, lie still, I need to find a cup…” And she began to rummage through the pack they had retrieved from one of the horses, wishing Solomon were here to help. He’d gone to retrieve the Humlander. He’d find the cup. He’d know what to do. “I’m sure it’s in here somewhere…”
The grey lion rolled forward and onto his knees, gasping as a wave of pain rocked him and almost sent him back down to the ground. Fallon grabbed at his shoulders.
“No, no, Kerris. You mustn’t get up. Please lie down…”
“I have to stop him. It’s all my fault.”
She cursed his obstinance. There was fresh blood on the bandages.
It was then that he spied the katanah.
It was laying in the dirt near the firepit, its tip dark with his own blood, and he cocked his head, thinking. Suddenly, he lunged for it, snagging the hilt in his right hand and dragging it to his knees.
“No, Kerris. Leave it!”
He pushed her away, tried to lift it but found his right arm almost useless. Undeterred, he simply switched hands, and staggered to his feet.
She was unable to stop him. She wasn’t strong enough. So she knelt in the rubble, folded her hands in her lap, and watched him with a heavy heart.
“If you care at all for me, you won’t leave.”
He turned to look at her, brow furrowed, as he tested the weight of the long sword in his hand.
“Well,” he said after a moment. “At least now you won’t have a problem at the University.”
And he slipped two fingers between his teeth, and whistled, a sharp shrill whistle that caused her to wince at the sound.
Within a heartbeat, the mountain pony scrambled into view. Kerris grabbed a handful of mane and swung up onto the sturdy little back, the katanah tucked under his arm.
He spurred the pony into the southwest and did not look back.
***
Some things should best be left for the cover of night.
Those things, things such as drinking, bedding a woman, and killing, are things that can be done at any time during the day, but night holds a special allure for a variety of reasons. It seems the relentless and unforgiving light of day can bind these activities. The darkness affords more discretion for such auspicious events.
They hadn’t killed him just yet.
That was the first thing he realized as he rose up from the blackness. They hadn’t killed him, so therefore, killing him was one of those auspicious events being saved for later. For the moon. Dogs so loved their moons.
The second thing was the smell of incense. It was over everything like a shroud.
It was difficult to open his eyes and he realized that his lids were likely swollen from the beatings. He desperately wished to open his eyes, for the last thing they had seen was the brutal death of alMassay. The images still flashed, unbidden, through his mind. Dog soldiers had torn the great horse apart even as he struggled to fight. Kirin himself had killed several with both kodai’chi and tanto before they had beaten him to the ground and into blackness, but at the end, the last sight of the proud stallion, thrashing as they sliced with their curved blades, carried him away. He had welcomed the blackness then, for in it he felt nothing, no pain, no guilt, no shame, no dishonor.
He wished for that darkness again, for that concealing cover of night to hide what they had done, what he himself had done, and what they were bound to do to him.
His long hair was loosed and falling in his face. He was in a tent – a gar, the dogs called them, or sometimes a yurt – large, high and draped with wool but given shape by a circular wooden frame. There were several lanterns and a central hearth. They had incorporated some tree stumps - or they had cut down some trees, he couldn’t be certain – for some were short like stools, others taller like poles. A lone guard sat by the entrance flap, his curved sword across his knees. He was a red dog.Kirin had never seen one with quite the same coat, but then again, dogs bred as they wished, having no regard for the institution of marriage or for the Purity of their races, and all their coats looked the same to him. He was dressed in rough leather and wool, and stared at him with bright brown eyes.
Unnatural.
His arms were causing him considerable pain, and it was only then that he realized that he was bound at the wrists between two of those tall tree stumps. They were just far enough apart to be wider than his reach. In fact, he was relatively certain that this was their aim, to pull his arms ever so slightly from their shoulder sockets. He pushed up with his legs, but they too were bound, only at the knees, and he was suspended over the forest floor at an inconvenient height. He was too high to kneel, to low to stand comfortably, and if he hung suspended from his arms, it caused his breath to catch in his chest with the pain of it.
Effective, he thought. The reputation of Dogs was well deserved.
In front of him, a row of blades sat waiting.
He released a long, slow breath. Chih’ Ling. Death of a Thousand Slices. They would cut him to pieces while he yet lived. Slivers of flesh at first, then slices, then slabs. Ears, nose, tongue, tail. Limbs next, then eyes, and strips of pelt. Pieces of innards. It could literally take days for him to die. He could hope for no honorable death now, no swift decapitation, no dagger to the heart. But, even as the horror of it began to sink into his bones, he realized that he deserved no less. He had killed his brother. He deserved all of this, and more.
He stared at the blades, not even hearing the gar-flap open. It wasn’t until the fresh smell of incense fell over him that he looked up.
White fingers lifted the hood. White eyes stared down at him.
“Captain,” said Jet barraDunne. He made a face. “That… looks uncomfortable. I regret what the dogs have done to you.”
Kirin set his molars. There was nothing to be gained.
“In fact,” the First Mage went on,” I regret much about this entire journey. I wish I had it to do over. I would change many things.”
The man leaned back, eyes roaming over the Captain’s beaten body, from the leathers binding his wrists to the trees to the desert linens, torn and hanging in many places and finally, to the tattered sash of Imperial gold. Most especially that.
“But even like this, Captain, I must admit you are impressive. I can understand the Empress’ infatuation. You are aware she will be married by the New Year? We knew that by ensuring you left Pol’Lhasa, the Empire would be restored.”
He bent a little lower now, as if needing to keep his voice low.
“You understand, surely. It only benefits the Kingdom when the matriarchy is secured. I found him, you know. A suitor from Abyssinia. They will have beautiful kittens. You should be flattered, for he looks like you.”
Kirin forced his eyes ba
ck to the daggers. It was a far more palatable sight.
“He is dying, however. It is unfortunate, but true. He has malHaria. Terrible disease. Caught it on the way home from Pol’Lhasa. Might last a day, might last a year. Just long enough to sire a Sacred kitten. That is all we need from him. He will serve his Empire well, don’t you think?”
Dying. As surely as the one who loved her.
“Yes. And Sherah al Shiva. I have never met any man who has been able to resist her magic. She believes herself to be in love with you. Fascinating, isn’t it? For Kunoichi to come under the spell of her prey. Yes, you are impressive indeed.”
His arms were aching. He tried to stand. It was very difficult.
“I’m curious – were you even tempted to bed her? I have tried with that one for many years, but no luck, I’m afraid. She’s a mystery, that woman. But you know how we Alchemists are fond of our mysteries…”
The white tiger smiled at his joke, let it fade swiftly. He was no fool. The Captain was in no mood. Understandably. He cleared his throat.
“Where is the Ancestor?”
Naturally, the Captain said nothing. He tried to stand.
“They are going to kill you, you know. Killing a lion is an extraordinary thing in canine culture. This Leader will be made a Khan because of you. What do you think of that?”
He could do this. He could stand.
“They will want your brother as well. The oracle had promised them two lions. Can’t you just hear the tales – our beloved Kaidan dying the Death of a Thousand Slices, at the hands of a new Khan. It will be told ‘round fires from one end of the Kingdom to the other. I shudder just to think about it…”
Now, barraDunne moved in very close. “I can do nothing about you, Captain. Your fate is out of my hands. But if you tell me where the Ancestor is, I will spare your brother this dishonor. Believe me or no, I do not wish to see him dead. The stories are most entertaining.”
Kirin closed his eyes. He could not stand.
And suddenly, there was a hand on his head, gently stroking his brow, smoothing his loosed mane. The touch was welcome, even from such a man as barraDunne. It would likely be the last kind thing he would know.
The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom Page 63
