To Walk in the Way of Lions

by H. Leighton Dickson

  So when the great house came into view, he sat deep into the short back, causing the pony to slow and finally stop. He swung off, stretched, breathed in the wood smoke on the evening breeze. Stars danced in the heavens above, reflecting like jewels on the snowy garment below. He felt warm, with the pony breathing on one side, and the colt on the other. He turned and laid a hand on Quiz’s neck.

  “Well, this is it, my friend,” he said softly, running his hand through the shaggy mane, along the shoulders, reached down under the round belly for the twine. Two tugs and it was gone, the blanket falling away like a curtain. Quiz turned his large eyes toward him, blinking, and suddenly, Kirin felt his throat tighten. He rubbed the wide forehead, the crescent moon of white, the small pricked ears, very thick and fuzzy under a winter coat of hair.

  “You did very well, Quiz. You are a wonderful trail horse and a fine herd boss and you took care of my brother like no one ever could. But your duties are over and you are most honorably discharged. Go find yourself some wild mountain pony mare…” He paused, reconsidered. “No, on second thought, find yourself some fine Imperial mare from some Royal stable somewhere. Make many wild shaggy babies. Be happy and free. If you ever need anything, you will always be welcome here, for we will always be in your debt and we will always be your home.”

  He was talking to horses. He shook his head.

  “Go.” He pushed the sturdy shoulder. Made ‘go’ gestures with his arms. “Go, Quiz. Be free.”

  But the pony laid back his ears and squealed. The ears pricked forward, waiting. Squealed again. There was no answering whistle.

  It almost broke his heart.

  Finally, the pony tossed his head, snorted, spun on his heels. He bolted off into the darkness, snow flying up at his heels. He did stop once to look back at the great house that had been his home for so many years, at the stone gates and cobbles and hearths and finally, at the Captain, the last reminder of his master and best friend and soul mate who had also been set free. And then he squealed once last time and bolted off again, disappearing into the bluffs and the shadows they cast. He was gone in a heartbeat.

  For some odd reason, the Captain found tears springing to his eyes. aSiffh nudged him, not understanding, and so he laid a hand on the colt’s neck, feeling the warmth even through the glove. More dependable than soldiers, more faithful than men.

  “Home,” he said, and began the walk down to the gate of the great house.

  ***

  Waking up in your own bed is an amazing thing. I will never take it for granted ever again as long as I live. The smell of the blankets, the familiar curve of the mattress, the way the light filters in through the panes of window glass, the sound of servants cleaning stone and old wood. It was always the same. I was home but I was alone and nothing would ever be the same.

  I am not certain what time it was that I awoke, for truth be told, I did not care overmuch. No one would disturb me, even after being gone for almost two years as I had been. And so I took my time, time to scrub the desert sand from my pelt, to scour the scars that had nearly turned me tiger, to brush into whiteness the new pelt of my fingers which were soft and flexible now, and no longer gave me pain. Although sometimes I still feel my claws.

  The single queue of mane that ran down my back was gold, and the pelt of my head was very short and dark. It was not mane, but at least it was not raw skin, and it also no longer gave me pain. However, I usually slept with the kheffiyah on. It was now a second skin. I do not know who I would be without it.

  I chose for myself not a uniform, but simple clothing. Tan trousers, linen tunic, long dark zhiju overcoat, and the sash, almost in pieces now, held together by gold thread and blood. No sword, only the tanto tucked into my boot. My cloak, my gloves and finally the kheffiyah, the original one given me by the Alchemist. It still smelled of her.

  Gloves from a mongrel, a Seer, a friend. Tail leathers from a snow leopard, a Major, a sister. Headdress from a cheetah, an Alchemist, a lover. Shark-tooth pendant from a grey lion, a Geomancer, a brother. I was a patchwork of the Upper Kingdom, not at all what I was before. It remained to be seen what I would become.

  Pure Gold could have been a tiger.

  I went downstairs to find my mother.

  -an excerpt from the journal of Kirin Wynegarde-Grey

  ***

  He watched her for several long moments as she sat by the great charcoal brazier in the kitchen. Ever since he could remember, she would be up with the servants, tending them as a shepherdess tends her sheep. She would not cook nor would she clean, for she was too well bred - a lioness of the Imperial Courts. But she would be there at first light of dawn, working on some tapestry or piece of porcelain that required a lady’s touch. This morning, with her tea at her side, she worked on letters, holding the brush in he right hand, dipping it in inks as dark as coal. He smiled.

  “Mother.”

  She looked up at him, eyes small and dewy and brilliantly blue. She held his gaze and he suddenly wished to be a Seer, to read the thoughts that surely ran through her mind. She looked down again, placed the brush on its porcelain stand, blew gently on the fresh ink, and slowly, with all eyes in the room fixed on her, she rose to her feet.

  She was frailer than before, a mere slip of a thing. A dried leaf in winter that could be blown away in the slightest breeze. No one was breathing. Such a thing had never happened.

  And like fine, thin, trembling branches, she raised her hands out to him.

  “My son,” she whispered. He stepped forward and caught her in his arms, held her while she wept. The servants did not watch – they were too well-trained – and so he held her for a very long time, until her breathing returned to normal. She looked up into his face, touched his cheek with a dried trembling palm, smiled. “You are home.”

  “Yes. Home.”

  “And your brother?”

  Again, that cursed tightening of the throat. There was simply no stopping it nowadays.

  “Away,” he explained. “Exploring another vast unexplored land. Happy, wild and free.”

  “My Kerris,” she smiled. “Always running somewhere. He is with tigers, I presume.”

  “Yes.” He smiled now. “With tigers.”

  “He should have been born a tiger.”

  “Yes.” And he held her hand as she moved to sit back on the stool that had been her stool ever since he could remember. A cup of tea was placed silently at his side. It was the way of things.

  “You look different.” Her eyes were searching. He was glad she was old. Perhaps she would not see.

  “It has been a long journey. I am glad to be home.”

  His mother wrapped her thin hands across his. She reminded him of a bird. “Lyn’ling has much to tell you, my son.”

  He dropped his eyes. “And I have much to tell her.”

  And so they sat for some time by the warmth of the fire, drinking tea and not talking overmuch, but enjoying the comfort and familiarity that was home.

  ***

  He moved through the crowded streets of the city, marveling at how so much had changed in the Kingdom, in his life, but here, everything appeared the same. The same lampposts, the same shops, the same wood walls, small windows and stone roads. Houses lived next door to marketplaces, temples and stables and libraries and inns. He suspected it was crowded for a reason. Winter in DharamShallah was a bitter thing. Ice and wind could kill if they were not blocked by fire, wood and stone. The elements always warred with each other. It was the way of things. Cats merely learned to survive in the face of them.

  No one recognized him, but there was nothing surprising in that. He had never been one to encourage that sort of thing. Had never used his station for status at celebrations or parties or the like. Had never been seen with the right people, or played politics in a way that accrued popularity and power. So he moved through the streets with little trouble, breaking stride only once the steep steps of the palace came into view.

  Pol’Lhasa. The most b
eautiful place in all the world, with her high winged rooftops and blackened cedar beams, with Kathandu, the fang of the Great Mountains rising up above and behind. She could be seen from anywhere in the city, proud Pol’Lhasa where the heart of the Kingdom beat. It never failed to take his breath away, and it did not fail to do so even now. He was honoured to have served here.

  It was late afternoon, but already growing dark. Or perhaps it was the snow clouds, moving in like wild horses to cover the city. Regardless, torches burned up the hundred steps to the concourse proper, where cedar beams towered over everything, and windows reached to the skies. When he had left, there had been banners heralding the Year of the Tiger. Now, new banners waved, for it was the cusp of yet another new year. The Rabbit would burrow because the Dragon would terrify it from the earth. A Dragon year. The Year of the Dragon.

  He felt old.

  The thought had never troubled him before, but now, there was no place to turn where he could not escape it. He wondered if it had been the constant reality of death that had caused him to grow morbid and dark, but then again, it was just as likely due to the shattering of his glass, that wonderful, blissful glass that kept him in his way and happy with the keeping. Kerris had been right. The Bushido was a life of chains. But it was his life.

  And Kerris, wherever he was, was now a father.

  And so he stood near the foot of those steps, and leaned against the tobacconist’s shop. Scents of pipe and tea filled his nostrils, and he marveled that, for a carnivorous people, cats had found many ingenious ways to consume their greens. But then again cats were, and always have been, an ingenious people.

  As the clouds approached, he wondered what his nieces or nephews would be like, whether they would be told stories of ‘the way things were’, of their uncle in a distant land, of the remarkable, terrible journey they had all taken together. He wondered if he would ever meet them, or tell his mother about them. He wondered at the kitten’s presentation gown she had embroidered, and whether it might be suited for a grey striped kitten instead of gold. He wondered whether she would die not knowing or disappointed.

  And all of this for a human. One single Ancestor who truly should have stayed dead, but whose pursuit of life destroyed all in his path. Ultimately, that had been the way of things as well, for the Ancestors had been indeed a bloody, inglorious people. Killing and death were their only legacy. Death, killing, temples and cats.

  He folded his arms across his chest and sighed, and his breath rose up from his mouth. It was well and truly dark now, the snow falling lightly all around him. He had heard snatches of conversations from passers by. A new baby girl, a lengthy illness, a dead husband. A dedication, a coronation, a funeral. A white Chancellor, a white tiger. No heads of state and anarchy in the streets. He would believe none of it. People so loved to talk. He had never been one to talk.

  He glanced over his attire, at the less-than formal clothing, at the utterly ruined sash which he would give as a gift along with the pearl. Only perfection was acceptable when the Captain of the Guard was summoned into the presence of his Empress. He smiled sadly. There was nothing even remotely perfect about him now.

  The steps beckoned. One hundred steps to his destiny. One hundred steps to those familiar halls, where he had lived and worked and loved in secret. She was married, gone forever. His heart, his soul, gone forever. Only duty remained. Only duty and honor and the sorrow that they brought.

  It was the way of things.

  And then he smelled it, above the tea and pipe tobacco and musk. Incense, heavy and heady and it brought him back so many ways. Into her eyes, into her arms, lost in the very thought of her. Sherah al Shiva, Sherah al Shaer, the Alchemist. Kunoichi. Traitor,

  lover, kindred spirit. He could turn, he knew beyond all doubt, he could turn and find her there, her eyes, her arms, her long strong hands. He could find himself home in her arms. They could slip away together, live like gypsies untamed and free. Travel to Aegyp on wild desert horses, make love openly under the stars. He ached at the thought.

  There were one hundred steps leading to the Palace.

  He could turn. She would be there.

  One hundred steps.

  He could turn…

  With a long deep cleansing breath, he squared his shoulders and began up the first of the stairs leading to the palace.

  The End

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  To be continued in Book 3 of Tails from the Upper Kingdom:

  SONGS IN THE YEAR OF THE CAT

  By H. Leighton Dickson

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