The Forbidden City

by Deborah A. Wolf

  “Is it done, Sen-Baradam?”

  “It is done, Dammati.” Jian did not elaborate. He would not lie to his dammati, but he must deceive them in this.

  Mardoni on his white horse nodded approval before turning away.

  Garid Far-Eyes stared at Jian for a long moment, saying nothing. Then he also turned away.

  Nobody spoke with Jian on the long march home, which suited him fine. They thought him a murderer, he supposed, and thought less of him for it, though the blood he was to have shed was for them. It did not matter.

  I have done what I could for them, he thought, and I have done what I could for the girl.

  It was not enough, he knew.

  * * *

  Days later, long after the grit had been scrubbed from his hair and teeth and from between his toes, after he and his men had eaten and slept and eaten some more, Jian stood high upon a parapet, staring out across the rolling hills and the Forbidden City.

  Fitful even in sleep, Sindan twitched and moaned with songs and merriment, and the sound of an occasional fistfight as young men just returned from battle sought to regain their feet and remember who they were in this place, in this life. Some of their brothers came back wounded, or with pieces of their bodies missing. Even in a mock war, such as this had been, some came back wrapped in shrouds, never to drink or laugh again.

  Some came back walking and talking like the people they had been, eating and whoring and farting just like every other soldier, but they had left important parts of themselves behind. These were soldiers whose eyes never really saw the people beside them, though those people were beloved. Whose favorite foods had lost their savor and whose tools and toys of leisure were put away to gather dust.

  Jian had met no few of these soldiers, hardened veterans of this skirmish or that uprising. He used to wonder where those missing pieces might have gone, and whether anyone might ever retrieve them again. Could a man’s soul, so wounded, ever fully heal?

  He had volunteered for watch duty, as neither wine nor saqui nor the fleeting glimpse of a red-robed girl from one of the comfort houses held much appeal on this night. In the dark, by himself, he cleaned the lies from his sword.

  I should have killed her.

  Empire steel was smooth as a baby’s skin. It shone like the stars, and his blade had been honed till it could slice a breath in two. Jian sat in the dark, and polished his sword, and after a while he thought of nothing at all.

  SEVEN

  They rode down together, down through the merchants’ quarters and the craftsmen’s quarters and the bright manses of the high parens. Sulema’s father rode a sooty buckskin of the type common in Atualon—sturdy, deep chested, and coarse to Sulema’s eyes.

  Her own Atemi, in heat and angry at having been ignored, was being a snake-faced brat. Wyvernus laughed at the mare’s prancing attempts to bite his stallion. Saskia, riding close behind Davidian, looked as if she had bitten into a bad lemon. Her own horse, a chestnut mare infamous among the Ja’Akari for her hot heart and naughty manners, stepped placidly as a goat among the heavier mounts.

  Anger rolled over Sulema much as fog had rolled over the city hours before.

  She would judge me, she thought, she who left my mother to die, when they were attacked in Bayyid Eidtein…

  She should judge you, answered a voice that sounded much like the youthmistresses. As you should judge yourself. A warrior who cannot ride her horse is no warrior at all.

  Sulema stilled the voice, as she stilled the tremble in her hands and the unquiet doubt that slipped into her heart. I am Sa Atu, she reminded the voice—and herself. She dug her heel into Atemi’s side, tugged sharply at the bit when the mare protested, and averted her eyes from Saskia’s frown. I am the daughter of a king.

  Atemi whipped her head about and bit her sandaled foot, hard. She was the daughter of the wind. A king’s blood did not impress her, at all. Shamed, Sulema touched her mare’s shoulder in silent apology. Atemi snorted and shook her head, but subsided, and a truce was made.

  The rest of the ride was uneventful. They wound through the streets of the lower quarters even as Atualon’s merchants began singing of their wares, rousing the citizens of the city belly first. Salted fish and leavened bread, mare’s milk and goat’s cheese and little sausages sizzling merrily in the coals. Sulema’s stomach rumbled like a restless vash’ai, so loudly that her father laughed.

  “Have you not yet eaten?” he scolded. “Breakfast was sent to your rooms hours ago.”

  “First breakfast, yes,” she replied. “But…”

  Atemi shied violently. A boy some years younger than Daru darted between a pair of carts and onto the wide cobbled road and came to a sudden halt, staring at her with eyes as wide and startled as those of a hare. Sulema grabbed mane as her mare slid to a halt. Davidian’s horse jostled them, and he swore.

  “Move,” he yelled at the boy. “You idiot…”

  Wyvernus held up one hand, and the world fell silent.

  “Gavvo!” A young woman in bright clothes fluttered forth from a doorway, tripping over half-tied sandals. “Bad boy,” she wailed. “Bad boy! You… oh… oh… Your Arrogance!” She collapsed in the street before them, clutching at the boy. “Arrogance,” she squeaked again. Sulema darted a look at her father, who looked bemused and… distracted.

  “Citizen,” he said in a mild voice. “Rise.”

  The woman rose into a half-crouch, still clutching the boy, trembling so that it seemed as if she might fall all to pieces in front of them.

  “Your Arrogance,” she breathed. “I am so… Gavvo did not mean… he is only a boy.” Then she burst into tears. The boy stood just as he had before, staring at the horses and ignoring the fussing adults. There was something… odd… about him.

  “It is no matter, good woman.” Wyvernus waved his hand again, as if he were trying to see through a dust storm. “I, myself, have children, and they are often willful.” Someone snorted a laugh, quickly suppressed. Sulema glanced sideways at the Imperator General, whose face was a study of innocence.

  “Citizen,” her father went on, “has this child been tested by the Baidun Daiel?”

  The woman went still all over, as still as the boy. “No. No, your Arrogance. Forgive me, he is little, he is only a child…”

  “An exceptional child, I think.” Wyvernus’s voice was gentle, but his words rang like iron upon the stones. “He is to be tested today, good woman. This morning.” He glanced back at Davidian, who nodded in turn to one of the Draiksguard. The soldier rode toward the woman and child. “My man will accompany you. Good day.” He gave heel to his horse and they rode on, a river of steel flowing around the soldier, the boy, and the weeping woman. Her cries rose behind them, a piteous wailing that smote Sulema’s confused heart.

  She urged Atemi closer to the king’s dun. “Father…?”

  “He is an exceptional child.” Wyvernus sighed heavily and turned his face toward hers. He seemed to have aged years in just a few minutes. “Gifted, and cursed. We will speak of this later.”

  “But…”

  “Later, I said.” He frowned in irritation. “No need to look at me like that, Sulema—the boy will not be harmed. It is a king’s responsibility to look after every citizen, the greatest and the least, the gifted and the most challenged. Especially the most challenged. Do you trust me?”

  She hesitated, but dropped her eyes as his frown deepened.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Then trust me. Come, do not let this cloud spoil a beautiful day. I have a surprise for you, a wonderful surprise. Come!” He gave his dun the heel, and its head. The big stallion half-reared, all game and eagerness, and surged ahead.

  Sulema saw no choice but to follow.

  * * *

  They came at last to a large clearing. The ground was strewn with broken rock, the earth scorched as if it had been the scene of recent battle. Very recent. Wyvernus hopped from his saddle before the horse had come to a halt, and a younger Draiksg
uard scrambled to take his reins. Sulema dismounted and gave Atemi over to Saskia, offering the Zeerani a grudging nod of thanks. She was still angry, but allowing one of the Atualonians to handle her asil would have been unthinkable.

  “Here we are!” Wyvernus clapped his hands. “Lucius, be a good lad, bring me the drawings. We have used this place as a training ground for the troops since my father’s father’s days,” he told Sulema as she joined him, “but I have thought of a better use for it. Ah, here we are, thank you, boy! Well, Daughter, what do you think?”

  Sulema blinked as the Draiksguard surrounded them. Lucius and another young man unrolled a long scroll between them. It was marked in blue and black inks, scribbles of script and numbers, and an enormous, detailed drawing of…

  “The Madraj?” she asked hesitantly. It was… and yet, it was not. The Madraj in Aish Kalumm served as a meeting place and an arena. It was a simple stone structure, old and spare as the Zeera herself. This was, it was… an elegant monstrosity.

  “Leviathus sketched your Madraj for me, and I thought it a fine thing.” Wyvernus placed one arm over her shoulders and urged her closer. “Of course, your Zeerani structure would not be big enough to suit our needs, so I have added a stable here…” He pointed. “…and a staging area here… oh, and a pavilion for the family, here… What do you think?” he asked again. “I had meant it to be a birth-day gift for you, but I could not wait.”

  “It is…” She stopped. “You… could not wait? Father, the Madraj was the work of a thousand craftmistresses, and it took a generation for them to complete.” A cloud passed before the sun, and Sulema shivered as a knot of Baidun Daiel rode up on their silent black horses, cloaks streaming behind them like blood in the river.

  “Witness, Sulema.” Her father’s eyes flashed. “Witness the glory of Atualon.”

  * * *

  The warrior mages stood in a circle round her father, half of them facing their king, half facing outward, every mask reflecting the brilliance of the Dragon King. Sulema and the guards had absented the field and stood watching from a safe distance as the king donned his own mask, and began to speak. His words became a chant, his chant became a song…

  His song became magic.

  At first it was a wave beneath her feet, as if she stood upon the deck of one of the dragon-headed ships that had brought her to Aish Kalumm. The earth beneath her feet trembled, and then the sky overhead, and then the heart within her breast as all the world stopped to listen to the Song of the Dragon King. Sajani Earth Dragon herself rolled over in her sleep as the song wound itself into her dreams, begging her favor, flattering and soothing the sleeping beast even as the king stole her magic. A thimbleful, a goblet full, scarce enough to rouse the great beast to wrath and ruin, but more than enough for the Dragon King’s purpose.

  The song caught at Sulema. She found herself swaying to it, dancing as if to the thrum-thrum-tharararummmm of the world’s heartbeat and the sun’s chorus. She could feel where the music should fall a little, and lift again, rising up, up—

  The song faltered.

  The Dragon King faltered, his voice going thin where it should have swelled, and a crack rose through his crescendo. Sunlight flashed and trembled. The Dragon King’s voice fell, the magic fell…

  And Sulema caught it.

  Barely trained, she was not nearly ready. Still her chest swelled with air as she had been taught, until she could feel it pressing lightly at her back like a lover’s hand. She let her shoulders fall loose and her throat soften as she released one note—one single note as clear and sharp and bright as a sunblade, strong and true as a friend at a warrior’s back. She gave of this power freely and without reservation. The Dragon King, scarce missing a beat, grabbed it up and wove it into his own. His crippled magic righted itself, spread its wings, and flew.

  The ground beneath the king’s feet trembled, pebbles and rubble rolling away from him like sand-dae in the wind as the glittering black stone was exposed, smoothing and shaping itself into an odd concentric pattern. All about them rose great columns of black and gold, arches delicate as lace, steps cut with such precision it seemed as if a giant’s knife had carved them from butter.

  That which rose from the earth was not like the Madraj, unless a fortress might be said to resemble a shepherd’s hut. This creation of her father’s was a wonder, a miracle, and Sulema’s heart leapt even as dust shivered away, leaving the newborn dragonstone glittering and joyous in the morning light. Standing as she did on one edge of the arena, she could scarce see the other side. It dazzled the mind and quailed the heart.

  As her father turned to face her, the mask of Akari blinded her. The growling, fitful earth calmed beneath his feet as the Dragon King strode toward her.

  The Baidun Daiel sank to their knees. Sulema was overtaken by a sudden weakness and would have fallen, as well, had her father not caught her by the upper arms and held her fast. His eyes behind the mask were bright as stars. This close, she could see how his hands trembled from the effort he had made, could hear the strain in his voice as he spoke.

  “Behold,” he said, and his words rang out across the gathering like a new-forged sword. “Behold the Sulemnium, a dragon’s gift to his daughter.” Neither with his eyes nor his words did the king thank her, or in any way recognize what she had done.

  Many of those who were there to witness the birth of a wonder wept openly as Ka Atu went to one knee before his daughter. But Sulema did not weep. In her mind’s eye she saw herself drawn and painted as these people chose to see her. A king’s daughter in fine robes, with jewels in her braids and a song of power on her lips. It was a pretty picture, fit for one of the Mothers’ books.

  It was a lie. In that moment Sulema thought that perhaps the Dragon King meant not to supplant himself with an heir, but to harvest what power she possessed in order to bolster his own. It was an ugly thought, one from which she might have turned away—had she not been Ja’Akari.

  Nu’ehu nu’ani, she scolded herself, even as her father regained his feet and kissed her on either cheek, even as the people shouted and cheered. There can be no beauty without truth.

  EIGHT

  The hunters came as thieves in the night, stealing through shadowy woods. They came without warning, without hue and cry, without roar or howl or wailing horn or any of those things that presaged killers in the waking world. The Dreaming Lands fell silent at their passing as a hare might freeze beneath the hawk’s shadow.

  The Huntress’s hounds were black as shadows. Crimson tongues lolled laughing between white, white teeth, while eyes gleamed in anticipation of the kill as they ghosted beneath her perch, a river of muscle and fur and death.

  As quickly as they came they were gone, and not a leaf mourned their passing. Still the Lands held their breath, the birds held their song, and Hafsa Azeina high in the trees held tight to the hilt of Belzaleel, lest the demon blade cry out to its fell brethren and give her away.

  Then came the Huntress. Fair-skinned, dark-eyed, hair glossy as a raven’s wing, she wore a crown of bones upon her brow. Hafsa Azeina knew her as only the hare can know the hawk. Death rode beneath her on a dark horse. It scented the wind for her blood, but death had not found her yet.

  The dreamshifter watched from her high, green perch as the woman far below her paused. From this angle she could see dark lashes brush her pale cheeks as that fine-boned face turned into the wind, shell-pale lips open just enough to show the pearly glint of sharp teeth. Delicate nostrils flared wide as she tried to catch the scent of blood. Thrice the Huntress had bloodied her prey, thrice she had lost it in the forest, and anger shimmered in the air around her. The furs and leathers of her mismate armor shifted, the bones in her necklace chittered together as she drew in a deep breath, held it…

  …as did the Dreaming Lands, and the dreamshifter who had trespassed upon them…

  …and then the Huntress let out her breath in an irritated hunhh, almost human in her frustration. From the belt at her waist she
drew the golden shofar akibra, twin to Hafsa Azeina’s own, and sounded it. Her hounds wailed an answer, a long, low, mournful ululation, and the sorrow in that song drew a smile from their mistress. She replaced her horn, gave heel to her dark horse, and was gone as silently as she had come.

  In her wake fell a peculiar silence, as if the forest had anticipated bloodshed, and regretted its absence.

  The dreamshifter waited.

  Then came the tiny noises of birds ruffling their feathers and shifting foot-to-foot as they listened to see which of their fellows would be first to break the concealing hush. Leaves rustled far below as ever-hungry rodents ventured forth from their hiding-holes in search of food, whiskers bristling in alarm, ears swiveling this way and that as they listened for the shushhh-shushhh-shushhhh of snakes. Not much had changed, thought Hafsa Azeina high in her tree, for those who were prey. Such was the life of a bird or a rodent.

  Or a dreamshifter.

  Breath caught in her throat and her hand clamped harder upon Belzaleel’s hilt. She turned her head fractionally, and from the corner of one eye watched as a patch of mist formed, darkened, and became Basta. Her muse and conscience, her kima’a, her spirit self.

  Her greatest of calamities and foremost pain in the ass.

  You might have gotten me killed, Hafsa Azeina scolded, but there was not much heat in it.

  Well, you killed me, so it would only be fair. The avatar grinned a cat’s grin and settled upon the branch, tucking her paws beneath a black-furred breast. And what brings you to this shadowy corner of the Dreaming Lands, Dreamshifter? Reeking of blood and fear, some of it your own. Such a heady scent is likely to bring the—

  Basta broke off, blinking slowly. She lifted her face into the wind and scented, mouth open in a needle-toothed snarl.

  Are you mad, Dreamshifter? she asked at last, her cat’s voice thick with scorn. That one would do more than merely kill you. Do you know whose skin she wears? Have you looked into her hounds’ eyes? What game is afoot, that you would hunt the Huntress?