“You…you caught it?”
“As it fell, yes.”
“But you did not move.”
“I did not, no.”
Nevye swallowed.
“You are powerful.”
“You have no idea.” And the Seer ducked in time to avoid the snowball that smacked into the jaguar’s head.
“Idiots!” cried the Major, now little more than a speck against the snow. “We’re losing time!”
“She’s a delicate flower,” said Sireth as he mounted his horse.
Yahn Nevye brushed the snow from his head, slipped his foot into the sandal and followed.
***
He had been given his choice of stallions from the Imperial stables and he had picked for himself a large blood bay, its black mane roached, its tail bound like a topknot. His name was Shenan. He was not alMassay, however. No horse could ever be alMassay. His chest still ached at the loss and he tried never to think of it. A leopard had been sent to fetch the young aSiffh from the stables of the House Wynegarde-Grey. The colt had not come willingly and for some reason, it warmed him to think of the young desert stallion tossing his head and rolling his large eyes as they dragged him from his home, fighting the entire way along the road to Pol’Lhasa.
It reminded him just a little of Quiz.
He had been assigned two divisions of the Imperial Guard, an entourage of more than one hundred men, and they rode out now along the mountains that led to the Wall and the Gate of Five Hands. The road hugged the steep slopes so that only two horses could ride abreast in most places and it reminded him of the road to Sha’Hadin, where bandits and avalanches and carts of careening chickens were a constant danger. He could not keep his eyes from darting upwards just to make sure, but all he could see was the expanse of purple shale, white drifts and the occasional solitary farm. There was no sun today—the sky was heavy with snow clouds, but the road was clear and all along the mountains, he could see tigers driving the yaks that plowed through the drifts. Not speedy, but efficient. Yaks could move through anything, he realized. Much labour in the Empire was conducted behind the backside of a yak.
He had also been assigned a Division Captain, a young lion by the name of Haj Li-Hughes. They were likely the same age but for some reason, Li-Hughes seemed so very young. He had overheard the soldiers whenever he would move past, heard the term ‘Khanmaker’ whispered among them, felt their curious stares. Shogun-General and Khanmaker, wearing the blood-red yori and carrying the Fangs, riding a borrowed horse with another trotting freely at his side. Above them all, the Imperial banner waved high and proud.
What a strange thing his life had become.
Kerris could not be at the Gate of Five Hands.
It was impossible, he kept telling himself, but then again, almost a year had passed since Kerris, Fallon and Solomon had sailed from the shores of Ana’thalyia in the bird-like vessel called Plan B. He had no idea what had happened, what Kerris had found, or if he in fact found anything at all. He didn’t know which disturbed him more but set his mind not to think on it until he had heard the stories for himself. And Kerris so loved his stories.
But Kerris could not be at the Gate of Five Hands.
And so they rode for the better part of the day on the trail that wound through the mountains, past temples, around farms, through villages. Everywhere along their route, both white and orange flames burned in the lanterns and torches and Kirin marveled at the number of people that came to watch them as they passed. He wondered if it was simply the sight of an Imperial force riding under the dual flame or whether the announcement of the first Shogun-General had already reached their ears. He wouldn’t be surprised. News moved faster than rushing water.
Soldiers of all Races were on the road. The Empress had ordered all leave canceled, the entire army recalled and had even begun the process of conscripting young men into service. The roads were filled with warriors, some riding, most walking, others joined together on carts on the way to the Wall. All stopped at the sight of the dual Division and the Shogun-General leading them. Without exception, they bowed. He could not help it. The sight of so many warriors quickened his blood.
They stopped for lunch at the outpost of Sri’Phan’kai, ate a simple meal of rice and egg soup before heading out again. It was their aim to make the temple town of Teken’purana and if the snow stayed in the clouds, they would succeed. If it fell, their time would be slowed and they might be forced to sleep on the trail. On roads like these, in mountains like these, no one would ride in the dark. It would be suicide, and death without honour was simply death. With orange and white fires racing along the Wall, soldiers deserved better.
And so it was only a brief stop at Sri’Phan’kai before heading out onto the road again. The rest of the day was the same as the morning. The snow stayed up, the roads stayed clear, and the torches of Teken’purana were lining the way as the skies folded their grey cloaks into the wardrobe of night. Originally a census town, the temple of Teken’purana had grown so large as to be considered a city on its own and her winged rooftops shimmered in the shadows of the mountains. In the daylight she was beautiful.
They were met by monks robed in deep blue, led to a hall where they dined on duck, rice, noodles and curried bananas. No one would talk to him without bowing, if in fact they talked to him at all. He wondered if it was because of his new station or whether all monks were the silent type and best left alone. He smiled as he thought of one in particular and was ushered to his bed.
Sleep came swiftly, but in his dreams, he was back in the gar with the knives and the dogs.
***
His grandmother would kill him if she could see this and he shook his head, wondering what the fates had in store to have led them here.
It was night and they were leaving and the witch was filling her bag with the supplies from their strange little tent. He watched her as she packed, her hands long and strong and speckled like a rocky road. The tips of her fingers looked odd with claws hidden and he could not keep his eyes from them, waiting for the secret daggers to catch the candlelight as she moved. She was a predator, it was obvious. He would ensure that he was not easy prey.
But Setse, she confounded him.
She sat cross-legged on the ground, engrossed in the baby in her arms. It was a strange-looking creature, thought Naranbaatar, with it’s tufted tail and mop of thick dark hair. But he knew what it was that captivated his sister more than simple girlish instinct, could tell the instant the child had turned its large unnatural eyes on him. He could tell.
One eye was gold, the other blue.
And if cats were anything at all like dogs, then the child was an Oracle, like Setse. Very likely like its mother.
“Now,” said the witch, reaching for the child. He did not struggle as she slipped him into a pack over her black-clad shoulders. She drew the bearskin over him now, hiding him completely from view. “We will go now.”
Setse rolled to her feet but Naranbataar stopped her.
“The sentries on your Wall will see us,” he growled.
“They will not see.”
“And it’s black as coal out there. These are dangerous mountains. One of us will slip on the ice and the fall will surely kill us.”
The witch smiled at him, held out a hand and light began to radiate from her palm. He stepped back, scowled, set his jaw.
“Yes, certainly the sentries will not see that…”
She cupped her palm with the other, pressed, released. The light was a glow now, blue in colour. Like his sister’s eye. Like the child’s.
“Teach me, Rah!” Setse clapped her hands. “Teach me everything!”
The witch fixed her eyes on him before turning and slipping out of the gar.
“Of course.”
***
They press the pads of his palms and the claws extend through the tips of his fingers. The dog lifts a blade, turns it in the firelight…
Through the terror of his dreams he heard th
e sound of horses.
He sat up, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, ears straining to hear the movement of kunoi’chi or hassasin. But there was only the sound of the wind and yet again, he sighed. Another room not his own. He would grow accustomed to it one day, but not today. He rose to his feet and moved to the narrow window.
Night over snowy mountains was a beautiful thing. The waning moon painting everything in strokes of silver, the ice giving it all back as an act of worship. The faint stars glittering like water, the elements sleeping under cloud and frost. He could hear the deep tones of chanting as monks from Teken’purana carried out their devotions. There was no rest for them, these monks. They lived and prayed and served their Order with their lives. It was a worthy calling and not for the first time, he realized that he could have lived a happy life as a monk.
He smiled to himself, wondering if Ling would approve.
He reached for his tail, shorter now since the night in the gar. The Scales of the Dragon were an impressive piece of armour, but the gold braces rubbed at the pelt, leaving bits raw and blistered. He could not condemn them however. The fitting had been rushed and there had been no time for adjustments. He wondered how long it would be before it felt like home, like the kheffiyah or the gloves.
There again – another squeal from the valley and an answer from the stables far below. Horses, yes. He pulled on a cloak and left the room, making his way through the monastery to the very lowest level where the horses were kept. Teken’purana was different than Sha’Hadin in many ways – polished wood as opposed to stone, window glass as opposed to none, in the heart of a small town as opposed to isolated—but the stables were remarkably similar. He found himself approving as he pushed the cedar door in on the smell of pine and leather.
Lanterns provided dim light as two men struggled at the stall of a small bay, and Kirin was shocked to see aSiffh rearing and kicking at the boards. His eye was wild, his nostrils flared and the men were trying to catch him with ropes and blankets. Kirin crossed the floor swiftly and they turned at his approach. They were clearly from the monastery, wearing the deep blue robes of service. They bowed, fists to cupped palms.
“Shogun-sama,” said one.
“Sahidi,” said the other.
“What is the problem?”
“There is a wild horse in the mountains,” said the one. “It has been calling all night and this little one is disturbed.”
“Likely a mare in heat,” said the other. “Or an alpha trying to lure an innocent out for an easy kill.”
Kirin nodded. He had heard of such tactics. Horses were deadly predators. It was only superior feline intelligence that allowed them to control the creatures at all.
He turned to look at the young stallion, standing on wire-tight legs, flanks heaving. The valley echoed again with the squeal and aSiffh raised his head high, the stables splitting with his answer.
Suddenly, he knew.
“Open the stall,” he said.
“Sahidi?”
“Let him out.”
“But the mountain horse—”
“Pony,” he said. “It is a mountain pony. Open the stall.”
They did and aSiffh burst out in a blur, racing out the doors of the monastery stables. He disappeared into the shadows cast by the mountains.
Kirin leaned against the doorframe, casting his eyes out as if to follow, his mind spinning with the realization. He smiled to himself.
Kerris was at the Gate of Five Hands.
***
Long-Swift folded his arms across his chest and turned his face to the south. The wind was cold, plucking at the fur of his cheek and he was grateful for the warmth of the gars at night. Only betas slept in gars. The tens of thousands beneath them slept in the pelts of bears, horses, yaks or other lesser peoples. Not cats. Never cats. The skins of cats were far too thin for such wind. They were a frail but persistent enemy.
So very far below at the heel of Khazien, the army stretched out almost to the rising sun. The smoke from their fires blackened the sky and the flash of sharpening blades looked like ripples on a winter lake.
He heard the flap of a tent and the Khargan stepped up beside him. He smelled of woodsmoke, wotchka and Tu’ula, his seventh wife.
“What is it?” the Khargan asked, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder.
“A runner,” said Long-Swift.
“From?”
The Irh-Khan shrugged. “There is no information yet.”
“Perhaps they have found another Oracle.”
“Perhaps.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“I do not, no.” Long-Swift turned to the Khan of Khans. “This is not protocol for finding an Oracle. The entire Legion would have returned.”
“True.” The Khargan raised a brow. “Shall I go down with you?”
“The men would be honored.”
“Naturally.”
Together, the pair turned away from the cliff-face and the sight of tens of thousands gathered at their feet.
***
It was early morning when the ice sheets of Nanchuri Glacier came into view. The mountain was very far away, almost obscured by heavy clouds but one side was pure white and traveled away from the cliffs at strange angles.
“Oh look,” said Ursa as she pointed a silver finger. “The place where they dump dead chickens.”
“Dead chickens?” Sireth frowned, swiveled in his saddle for a better view. “Have you been there before?”
“Once.” She turned now. She was smiling wickedly. “Can we go there now?”
“Why?”
“Speaks to Owls wants to see it.” She jerked her head at Yahn Nevye, riding behind. “Don’t you, Speaks to Owls.”
The jaguar steeled his jaw but said nothing.
Sireth frowned again.
“Pah. He is frightened. We can pass it by.” She snorted, turned her face to the trail. “We will always come again on our way back.”
He didn’t need to be a Seer to understand that there was something else being said and knowing his wife, it wasn’t pleasant. He could feel the tension from the jaguar but didn’t care overmuch. There was a different sense invading his thoughts, a dangerous one and he was beginning to see what they would find at the end of their ride.
Eyes, he saw. Oracles and Eyes, dangers and blood and blackness and eyes. A monster of eyes and dark magic and it had the smell of death about it. He wondered if dogs practiced Necromancy and shuddered at the thought, knowing he would need to be very careful not to be caught in its dark cauldrons. It was like oil, very hard to stay clean of it.
But there was another thought, another mind and he shook his head, feeling her dancing at the edges of his soul. Mystery dipped in incense and Alchemy. Protection, magic, vindication, validation. She was with the girl, the Oracle. Arrows, needles, evergreen tea. All scraps of thoughts. She was skilled at keeping him out. A powerful woman, it was obvious and yet for some reason she desired his respect. She was a puzzle, that Alchemist. His wife would kill her. He owed her his life.
What would it take to make a witch love?
Did the Captain love her back?
What would he think, once he discovered there was a child?
He frowned one more time, set his thoughts on the foundry of Shen’foxhindi and the Enemy on the Wrong Side of the Wall.
***
Soldiers bolted to their feet, knocking over mugs of khava and dropping their morning rations as Long-Swift and the Khargan marched through the camp. The Irh-Khan was a common sight but the Khargan not so. His fame was legend, his powers almost that of a god. It was a lucky soldier to have lived to see the Khan of Khans. Rations and khava could be replaced. A moment in the presence of the Khargan, never.
The pair slowed as a runner was ushered forward. He was young, perhaps sixteen winters, and as lean as a jackal. He dropped to his knees at the feet of the Khan.
“Lord,” he panted.
“Speak.”
“I am runner of the 110th Legion. There has been fighting at the Wall of the Enemy, beyond the village of Lon’Gaar. Three have died under their arrows.”
“The 110th…” The Khargan frowned, slid his eyes to his Irh-Khan.
“A western unit,” said Long-Swift. “From the district near Karan’Uurt.”
The Khargan growled. “They were charged with finding an Oracle?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“There is no Wall in the west, runner.”
“No, Lord. We were pursuing.”
“You were pursuing.”
“South, Lord. Yes.”
“You were pursuing an Oracle.”
“Yes, Lord.”
There was only the sound of the wind and the crackling of the many campfires. Long-Swift took a deep breath. He knew what was coming.
“You were pursuing an Oracle all the way from Karan’Uurt to the Wall of the Enemy.”
The runner did not speak. The soldiers surrounding them shifted in their boots, their rations and morning khava forgotten.
“Answer the Khargan, runner,” said Long-Swift.
“Yes, Lord.”
“Yes, Lord what?”
“Yes, Lord. We were pursuing an Oracle all the way from Karan’Uurt to the Wall of the Enemy.”
“He must be very fast, this Oracle,” grumbled the Khargan. “That is a long way.”
“Yes, Lord. She is fast. And clever.”
“She?”
“Jalair Naransetseg, Granddaughter of the Blue Wolf, Lord.”
“Her father served under Rush Gansuk, Lord. Of the 112th.” Long-Swift looked at the Khargan. “They were following the star.”
“I remember.” He turned his small eyes on the runner, still bowed at his feet. “They died at the hands of the Enemy.”
“Lord.”
“And now, your Legion is dying at the hands of the Enemy. Because they cannot find one little girl. What does that tell me about the Legions of Karan’Uurt?”
Only the wind, the crackling of the fires. The runner closed his eyes.
The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom Page 84
