“Mongrel and Brahmin.”
“Exactly.”
“Seer and now, Alchemist. Perhaps Jet barraDunne’s dream is upon us?”
“Jet barraDunne’s dream?”
Ursa made to move upon him but he stopped her with his hand.
“Shall I tell you about Jet barraDunne’s dream, brother?”
Nevye steeled his chin but said nothing.
“Jet barraDunne’s dream was to set a ninjah to compromise an Imperial mission. Jet barraDunne’s dream was to see the torture of myself and my wife at the hands of a Legion of dogs. Jet barraDunne’s dream was to see a new Khan made in the Lower Kingdom by the death of a Captain of the Imperial Guard. However, both we and the Captain live while Jet barraDunne and our enemies burned to ash in a circle of flame. What then does that tell you about the dreams of Jet barraDunne?”
“Are you threatening me, brother?”
“A man need never revenge himself. The body of his enemy will be brought to his own door.”
“I will not leave.”
“Well, you are already at my door.”
The jaguar swallowed.
“Good night, Yahn.”
And he pushed open the door and stepped inside. Ursa glared at the man down the hall.
“I will kill you myself,” she hissed. “I will break your neck like a chicken and stuff your body in a mattress until you begin to stink. Then I will toss you into the crevice of Nanchuri Glacier and no one will ever know what has become of poor Yahn Nevye, the man who could not speak to falcons.”
He set his jaw.
She closed the door behind her.
***
Even after these last few years, it is a most unusual thing for me to wake up in a place not my own. I have never been as Kerris is, where inns, monasteries, forests and caves are simply a part of my experience. I have always been a creature of habit, of routine and of preference. But I must admit that waking here, this morning, covered in nothing but red silk and surrounded by cushions, was an exhilarating thing.
I committed blasphemy last night. Happily, freely and passionately.
Chancellor Ho will order my death and I will wholeheartedly kneel under any sword he may choose.
- an excerpt from the journal of Kirin Wynegarde-Grey
“Leave it,” said the Empress and he could see her kneeling by a low table, the light from two paper lanterns illuminating her work. She was writing, dipping her brush in small pots of black and red ink, and he marveled at the sight of her, clothed in a simple kimonoh without sash, hands and feet bare and as black as a winter sky.
He had never seen her hair. No one had ever seen her hair. It was always covered by a headdress of some sort, usually gold, frequently with tassels. He had never imagined seeing it, had never allowed his mind to go there, but now, as she sat like a little sparrow in the cushions, her hair was loosed and fell like a curtain of black silk to her waist. It caught and reflected the lantern light, shone blue like a moonlit lake.
He remembered the feel of it under his fingers.
“Leave what?” he asked finally.
“Your kheffiyah.” She did not look up, merely continued painting words on paper. “There is no hiding in this room.”
He lowered his eyes, convicted.
“Besides,” she added. “You have the head of a sham’Rai now. It is entirely worthy.”
He could die now and happily.
“The falcon from Sha’Hadin is young,” she said. “She prefers to sit on my head.”
A smile tugged into his cheek. “Mi-Hahn.”
Still, she did not look at him.
“Excellency—”
“Ling.”
“Ling.”
“Say it again, until it finds a home on your tongue.”
“Ling.”
“Again.”
“Ling.”
“And again.”
“Lyn-ling.”
Now she did look up, humour dancing in her golden eyes.
“Perfect. I accept.”
He moved to sit up, made certain the red silk spread draped modestly across his hips. He had never been a man to do this. In fact, he had felt certain he would live his entire life without this manner of pleasure but two remarkable women had intervened. First is luck, the saying went, and all in all, he was a very lucky man.
She laid her brush down on the paper.
“Was I your first?”
golden eyes, long strong hands, the smell of incense
“There is no hiding,” she reminded him.
“There was another,” he said, surprised to find no shame. “Once. I wanted to kill myself. She convinced me otherwise.”
The Empress Thothloryn Parillaud Markova Wu now Lyn-ling, was weighing him in her stare. He held it, allowing himself to be weighed. He would likely be dead by sunset regardless.
“Did you love her?”
“I think so. Yes, I did.”
“Do you still?”
He thought on this before answering.
“A part of me, yes. Still.”
She studied him a while longer before picking up the paper, blowing across it to dry the ink. Even in such a simple act, she was glorious.
“There is a new Captain of the Imperial Guard. Captain Shyam Smith-Honshu.”
“He is a good choice.”
“Chancellor Ho was insistent.”
He nodded.
“Was my Chancellor involved in any of this? In the deaths of my Seers and the devastation of Sha’Hadin? In the beating of my Captain at the hands of our enemies?”
His heart thudded once. He still woke in the night because of the dreams.
“Your silence tells me all.” She lifted the paper to the lantern light. “What do you know of the history of the sham’Rai, Kirin-san?”
“The sham’Rai.” He began slowly. “The highest order of Shah’tyriah, warriors bound only to one master until death.”
“We do not have this position in our court.”
“No longer, no.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“In the days of the most Ancient of Ancestors,” she blinked slowly. “The sham’Rai served the Empire with loyalty, fealty and honour. A sham’Rai served only one master and would do so until his death, or the death of his master. He would accrue no power for himself, no personal wealth or lands or titles. Service to his master was reward enough and he embraced the Way of the Warrior with his heart, mind, soul and strength.”
“Bushido.” He nodded.
“This document is a return to the ways of the sham’Rai and the reinstitution of the Shogun amongst the Shah’tyriah caste. The sham’Rai are to be chosen by the Empress of the Upper Kingdom and accorded all respect and honour worthy of their calling.”
“There will be resistance, Ex—” he caught himself. “Ling.”
She laid the paper down, folded her hands in her lap.
“I am an Empress with an infant child and without a husband, with a fine Imperial Captain but a treacherous advisor. I am vulnerable and need the protection of a sham’Rai. My own Shogun-General.”
She raised her chin, a gesture of pride.
“You, Kirin-san, have shown honour above and beyond that of a normal warrior. You have beating in you the heart of a sham’Rai and it is my wish that you take on the role of very first Shogun-General of the Empire.”
He couldn’t believe what she was saying.
“I have sent word for the Imperial armory to begin construction of the yori and kabuto from the Ancient designs, to be fitted to your exact measurements. Also, I have sent the order for both the Blood and Jade Fang to be retrieved from the Archives. They will be your brothers now.”
The Blood and Jade Fangs. Swords of history, of myth and legend. Always copied, never rivaled.
There was no expression on her face. She was as beautiful as a swan, as sharp as steel.
“You, Kirin-san, shall no longer be referred to as Captain Wynegarde
-Grey. Rather, I now and forever more convey upon you the rank of Shogun-General, personal bodyguard to the Empress of the Fangxieng Dynasty for as long as you live and breathe. Will you accept this position?”
Suddenly, the kheffiyah and all notions of his death were forgotten.
“With honour,” he said and bowed low to the ground, forehead touching the pillows that covered the floor.
The silk at his hips fell away and she smiled.
The Last Seer of Sha’Hadin
It was almost dawn when Mi-Hahn returned and she chirruped and flapped as he fussed over her at the window’s ledge. The sun was peering over the peaks of the Great Mountains and the sky was only beginning to streak with purple and red. It was cold, however, and his breath frosted like smoke from his mouth. Snow had fallen overnight, coating the Valley of the Seers like the pelt of a snow leopard and he smiled at the thought.
He could see her down below, leading a group of sixty or so in the Sun Salute of morning. She was a Chai’Chi mistress—her movements slow and graceful, her control unrivaled, her balance unmatched. He could tell from the robes that her compatriots were mostly monks from Sha’Hadin. There were a few brothers from the Arts joining the exercise, although significantly more were sitting on the rocks surrounding the valley, making patterns with candle and stone. It was an interesting sight, the Gifts and the Arts together, and he was surprised that it didn’t boil his blood. It would have years ago.
He was a changed man.
Mi-Hahn chirruped again from the window and he felt the man before his footsteps announced him. Even still, the steps were quiet and Sireth found himself taking a deep cleansing breath as Yahn Nevye appeared to stand beside him at the window.
They did not look at each other.
“She will have all of them out before long,” said the jaguar, peering out at the morning ritual taking place in the valley. “You are a very brave man to have married a woman like that.”
“What time are you leaving today?”
Nevye smiled. “I am not leaving, brother. I have told you so.”
“Hmm.” Sireth smiled now. “My wife is a beautiful woman, yes?”
“Very.”
“Skilled, disciplined, strong.”
“It seems so.”
“She is also deadly. It would take but a word from me—no, a mere arch of a brow to see her slip into a man’s room, slit his throat and be back in my bed before the pillow had grown cold.”
“I am not leaving.”
Sireth stroked the young falcon’s breast. She mouthed his hand with her sharp beak.
“You refuse to wear gloves,” said Nevye. “Why?”
“Gloves are used to keep the world out. After what I’ve been through, I realize this is the wrong approach. I can harness the power of the world far better with my hands free and sensing.”
“The brothers of Agara’tha never wear gloves.”
“True indeed. And yet you still wear them, brother. Are you conflicted in your calling?”
“Not at all. I prefer to keep the world out.”
“You limit your skills.”
“Life has limited my skills.”
With that, the jaguar fell silent and Sireth slid an eye to study him. He was an interesting man, he’d come to realize. He had seen perhaps thirty-two summers, was of medium height and strongly built, with a wide nose and deep-set, yellow eyes. His hair was sandy and ringed like his pelt, roached on top and pulled back in a tight knot at the base of his neck. He wore the brown robes of Sha’Hadin but had spent two years learning under Jet barraDunne, First Mage of Agara’tha, himself.
A very wicked tenure.
Finally, he turned to face Yahn Nevye, leaning his hip against the window and cocking his head like the falcon on the ledge.
“Did you know what the dogs would do to us, Yahn? When you made your little plans in Chancellor Ho’s winter garden? Did you have any idea whatsoever the suffering that would come of it?”
The man clasped his hands behind his back, fixed his eyes on the dawning sky.
“No, I didn’t.”
Sireth studied him a while longer, before turning his attention back to the falcon. She hopped onto his hand, talon bells jingling.
“Well then,” he said. “That is a beginning.”
He lifted the bird up to his shoulder and turned, leaving the jaguar alone by the window over the Valley of the Seers.
***
They had run all morning, their pace rough and uneven as their boots sank into drifts of snow. They had been in the mountains for days now, moving steadily south and east as they went. The hunting had been good, but Naranbataar was growing tired of the gamey taste of hare and grouse. His grandmother had made the best soup in all Karan’Uurt, his grandfather the best yak, and he found his mouth watering at the memory.
They had eluded the soldiers but he knew they were near. They had almost been caught outside a small gathering of yurts, when his sister had insisted they trade pelts for a bow and set of arrows. He had approved of the arrows instantly, however. They were fletched with crane and tipped with bone. They whistled when they flew.
It was noon then when a flash of gold appeared behind a strange peak. A wall, high above them, riding the mountain like the crest of a dragon.
He pulled up short at the sight, bending over and dropping his hands to his knees. He shook his head.
“Setse,” he panted. “Stop.”
She swung back, smiling.
“No, Rani. We’re almost there. See?”
“There? We’re going there?”
“Yes. There.”
She clapped her hands, twirled in the snow. Her reindeer coat flapped like wings.
“Setse,” he sighed and stepped through the snow to her side. “Setse, that is the Wall of the Enemy. We’re not going there.”
She caught his hand in hers, blue eye unnaturally bright in the shadow of the mountains. “Yes, Rani! That is exactly where we need to go. Ulaan Baator is there. I know I will find him!”
“Setse, please. We can’t go there.”
“Kuren Ulaan Baator. He will save us. I’ve seen it.”
Cities. It was all she talked about. The Khan of Khans was taking all the Oracles to his fortress-city of Ulaan Baator. It was a miracle that they had escaped the gathering, but with the restless way she was talking, perhaps it wasn’t a blessing.
“We will keep going east. East, Setse. We can keep moving—”
“Hurry, Rani! He’s there!”
“Setse, no!”
He snatched his hand away and she blinked in surprise. She took several steps backward, began glancing around like a frightened child.
“Oh, eyes. Eye of the Needle, Eye of the Storm. Ulaan Baator and an army of blood. Eyes. Dragons. Oh the blood, so much blood…”
He cursed himself for his reaction and immediately moved to gather his sister in his arms. She was pulling at her hair like a mad woman and shaking, eyes focused on something he could not see, could never see. He loved her, but still.
“It’s alright, Setse. We’ll go a little further. We’ll go.”
“Oh the Eyes…”
Together, they sank into the snow and still he held her, stroking her hair and speaking to her with soft words. But his eyes were fixed on the wall of gold in the distance and dreading the fall of night.
***
The yori was remarkable.
It had been fashioned out of the thickest of leathers and dyed a deep, ox-blood red. The stitching was elaborate and as he ran his gloved fingers over the seams, he could see patterns woven in silk thread. Dragons. The chest and back pieces were stitched together with entwining black and gold dragons, the symbol of the Fangxieng Dynasty. Clasps of lotus studded the work.
“Exquisite,” he breathed and the two leopards straightened at his word. He couldn’t tell them apart, these two leopards and he wondered if they were twins. He had taken to calling them Leopard One and Leopard Two. They had not taken their eyes off him as
he examined the armour on the bamboo stand, likely because of his appearance. He was wearing the kheffiyah once again and the sight of a lion hiding his mane was unusual and therefore, suspect. He was also wearing only a kimonoh and obi, along with split-toed sandals for lounging. It was a foreign thing for him, but one he was in no hurry to exchange. He had spent two years in the field, so this last week in the Imperial residence of Pol’Lhasa—in Ling’s company exclusively—was a welcome indulgence. It had given him remarkable insight into her world. She ruled an Empire from a single floor.
The leopards were armourers from the Ministry of Defense Archives. She had commissioned them a week ago after her announcement to the council her plans to reinstate the sham’Rai class of warrior. It had been hotly debated, as many in her council suspected her motives. It was not only Chancellor Ho who hated him now.
Because of this, he was still waiting on the release of both Blood and Jade Fangs from the Armory. As legend had it, the swords had been instrumental in the Battle of Roar’pundih, beating back Legions of Dog Soldiers at the hand of General Li Tam-Mountbatten. Now, they lived under plates of silvered glass in the Kharta’keia shrine of the Palace. No one dared touch them.
He studied the soteh and koteh, the plated sleeves that would support and protect his arms. Gold medallions bolted into the leather, with iron casings that would surely stop the sharpest of swords or the swiftest of arrows. Next, the chestpiece or doh, reinforced with steel rings and looking to weigh more than a horse. Shin braces and thigh wraps of smoked leather and shoulder osodeh finished the armour. What took his breath away however was the helmet, fashioned from hammered bronze that fell from the face like liquid metal. In fact, the tooling gave it the impression of a lion’s mane and he smiled to himself at the irony. It boasted the Imperial crest, along with the crest of the House Wynegarde-Grey. Several tail feathers from a pheasant graced the crown.
He lifted the helmet, testing its weight and finding a small hole in the very top. He frowned, curious.
“For the queue,” said one of the leopards. “Ancient sham’Rai would shave their heads, save for a single queue. See here?”
The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom Page 79
