by T. A. Miles
Tarfan jogged along the bank and was looking to the water to observe the man’s fate. Wan Yun and Gai Ping were not far behind him. Taya and Shirisae had come toward Xu Liang, along with Cai Zheng Rui and Guang Ci.
“What was that?” Taya asked breathlessly.
“Are you harmed?” Shirisae knelt beside Xu Liang and laid a hand on his shoulder, which reminded him too suddenly of the unannounced contact in the Flatlands that had caused burning pain. He withdrew from it at once.
Shirisae was not put off by the instinctive response. She offered a hand to help him to his feet, which he accepted. There was no pain.
“I am not harmed,” he informed the elf. To Taya, he said, “I’m not certain what happened.”
Tristus and Alere arrived belatedly.
“By Heaven,” the knight said while Alere moved off almost immediately to join those at the edge overlooking the river.
“Maybe it was one of his own spells worked against him,” Shirisae suggested.
“You mean he might have immolated himself?” Tristus said, looking over his shoulder at her.
“Can he even do that?” Taya wanted to know.
Xu Liang’s gaze lingered on the swift path Ma Shou had taken to the Tunghui. The grass was damp, and none of the embers had set any secondary blazes. The lack of visible aftermath made it seem as if the event had been more illusion than real. At the same time, he wondered if Shirisae were right, and if the pyromancer had turned his craft upon himself. He wondered also whether or not someone else might have turned Ma Shou’s fires against him. It would require the efforts of another mystic. It was easily possible that one of higher authority had employed Ma Shou. Xu Liang knew that he had made enemies of fellow mystics throughout the period of conflict the Empire had come to, which had only heightened since the deaths of both Song Bao and Song Lu.
In belated answer to Tarfan’s niece, he said quietly, “It is…possible.”
They crossed the Jung Ho Bridge in various states of silence. Alere had offered to follow the river west for a span long enough to further investigate whether Ma Shou had survived, but Xu Liang declined the option. There had been enough delays on the return to the Imperial City. It seemed unlikely that Ma Shou would have lived through the ordeal besides. The man had caught fire with no graspable explanation beyond some perversion of a spell, then leapt the great distance down to the water where he would have both injury and the water’s undertow to contend with. Xu Liang was decided in the moment, through essential deduction, that the pyromancer was dead. Ma Shou’s twin swords, along with his horse had been claimed on the Empress’ behalf.
“He said nothing of who he was working for?” Shirisae asked while riding alongside him.
Xu Liang shook his head, then looked at her and said, “He did not.”
“Blasted mages,” Tarfan grumbled. “If he’s dead, then all the better. He’d have set fire to us all before he was done.”
“The mystic arts of Sheng Fan do not teach, nor do they promote, reckless and unconsidered actions,” Xu Liang said to his old friend. It was important that all of them knew that Ma Shou was an exception to one of the more ancient orders of his people, one that had come about through charge of the first emperor among men, who insisted upon the significance of the natural elements and their study. “To take up study of the elements, is to commit oneself to being a steward of the land. The spirits of the six most auspicious elements of the physical plane teach humility and guardianship, and are overseen by the spirit of Heaven itself—the breath of the Jade Emperor.”
While Tarfan grumbled further complaint, Shirisae appeared intrigued. “What are these elements?”
“The revered elements are air, fire, earth, water, wood, and metal,” Xu Liang answered. “One who takes up the path of study must seek the blessing of one of the Seven Mystics, who are among the greatest scholars of Sheng Fan.”
“And what blessing did you receive, shandon?”
“Air is my element,” Xu Liang answered, recalling that Shirisae’s mother had also referred to him by that title. He was unsure whether or not he appreciated it. “I am guided by my ancestors, and by the spirit of the winds in my studies.”
“And that man at the river was also blessed?”
“By the spirit of fire…”
While Xu Liang was speaking, Shirisae said, “the Flame.”
They looked at one another for a brief moment of silence that felt deliberate on both their counts. A matter of caution over beliefs, perhaps.
And then the lady elf said, “I feel that the Phoenix would not have resurrected that one.”
Xu Liang conceded with a nod, for sake of argument. “Be that as it may, Ma Shou was well-versed in the element of fire, and was a recipient of the blessing of the Supreme Mystic of Fire and, by extension, the spirit of fire itself.”
Again, the silence, as terminology seemed to interfere with comprehension. In Sheng Fan, the phoenix was a god-beast, but not the god of fire, nor the essential elemental being where fire was regarded. It was symbolic of clarity and of change. It was revered by strategists, hence Xu Liang often incorporated renditions of the bird into his clothing. The spirit of fire Xu Liang had mentioned and the Phoenix, as Shirisae understood it were not the same thing.
Somehow, their silence seemed to accomplish that conclusion. Shirisae offered no argument or puzzled expression, and Xu Liang felt comfortable to carry on with a more relevant topic.
“As I understand it,” he said, “the elder who held the role of Supreme Mystic of Fire had passed away in recent years. As well, the Supreme Mystic of the Winds had also been taken by illness some years ago. Perhaps it was Ma Shou’s hope that he might impress his worth upon the remaining members of the sect and claim one of the open seats.”
“He seemed a bit young for such a role,” Tarfan mentioned.
“Youth is only an obstacle, if one makes it an obstacle,” Xu Liang replied. “I, too, was asked to join the Seven Mystics. My position within the Imperial Court precluded it.”
“Ah, but you were asked,” Tarfan blurted. “We don’t know that this fire-spitter was invited.”
“No, but we also do not know that he was not. I suspect, however, that if Ma Shou was asked, he would not have been involved in any of this the way that he was.”
“With real power behind him, it might have been worse,” Tristus said, overhearing the conversation.
“The important detail, is that he’s no longer involved,” Shirisae pointed out.
Again, Xu Liang agreed with a nod, if only for sake of argument. They would soon be within the safety of the Imperial City. Ma Shou would be declared a fugitive and a betrayer of the Empire, to be arrested on sight and brought before the Empress.
Song Da-Xiao sat beside her favorite pool in the Imperial Garden. She had come here often in past weeks, after she had recovered enough from her abrupt emergence from the most extreme meditation she had ever attempted. Primarily, the pool was where she came to be away from her officers, to hide her tears from those who served her while she mourned the loss of her most trusted officer.
She had come to the pool to weep once more, but not with sadness. Xu Liang had come back to her from the dead, and this day’s tears were of joy.
Han Quan stood out of sight in the Imperial Garden, overhearing the young Empress’ sobs of elation. He had taken it upon himself to personally deliver Xu Liang’s letter to her and he had lingered to hear her reaction, which clashed greatly with his own. While waiting he rolled a pebble between thumb and forefinger. Upon hearing the Empress’ girlish hopes escape her in the form of tears, he gripped the stone in his fist and clenched it tightly against his palm, so tightly that his fingernails dug into his flesh and blood beaded around the stone, as if he had squeezed the red fluid from it. With a flick of his wrist, he flung the pebble at the ground and stared at it while it appeared to bleed up
on the stones underfoot.
Curse you, Xu Liang! If I have to stamp out your life myself, you will die!
He relaxed somewhat while he thought of how he would perform the assassination, as a last resort. If all else failed, it would have to be his surpassing skill as a mystic that eclipsed the Silent Emperor’s luck.
Han Quan held out his hand and summoned the stone back to him. He thought of the wind spells in the corridors of the Palace of Imperial Peace, how they’d faltered with Xu Liang’s distance and utterly failed when that distance became too great. More than that, he considered how, even while the spells were weak, a man who dared to enter the corridor would have been battered lifeless upon the walls and how a simple pebble survived the spiraling winds of the aeromancer’s spell intact.
Turning his palm up, Han Quan fixed his gaze onto the small stone, and began to realize just how easy it would be. So simple.
Yes, Xu Liang. Hurry back. Your destiny awaits.
Of Gods and Long-Tailed Birds
Sensations to the body, to the mind, and to the spirit occurred too quickly to comprehend beyond their most basic nature. There was fire, surrounding Ma Shou and pursuing him to the edge of ground that gave way to flight that was actually falling. Ma Shou tumbled through the world, unsure whether or not he was leaving it. He did not feel the river, until he was transferred from its grip to one more centered.
The sure fist of a man dragged him through current and over stone. He felt only movement for a span that could have been eons, or mere moments. The pain burst into being, like a popped sack of grain when he was dropped upon the earth with neither caution nor ceremony. Every limb ached with exhaustion and with strain, reminding him that he had been forced to run from his own fire. Somehow, it had been reversed onto him. He recalled the finest curtain of dust glinting in the sunlight, caught in his vision in the moments he was casting his spell. Somehow, that dust had acted as an invisible net…or a wall, catching his fire and turning it back toward him. He suspected Han Quan. The elder mystic must have nested an enchantment onto him, one that was triggered either by time, or perhaps by a certain set of words. Of course, it would only have been prudent of the ancient to suspect betrayal. Ma Shou knew well of himself, that he was not to be trusted. It had been his own misfortune and lack of observation to assume that Xiadao Lu had been the measure Han Quan had taken to keep him loyal to their bargain. He was wrong to assume that, and to assume that Xiadao Lu’s death had established him any measure of distance from their pact, or freedom from the geomancer.
Surely, he had been freed by the fire being turned on him. And if not, he felt that he might die soon and that in such a venture, not even Han Quan could pursue. The only beast to chase him into the Infernal Regions would be his own failure. He lay still, pain undulating through him like the swoon of a calmer river than the Tunghui, but it was in those lazier tolls that Ma Shou felt every curve of agony as it lifted from the general course of discomfort and fell back in, creating fresh waves of suffering. What he did not notice for some time was that the currents were slowing even more. He might have been losing feeling before death, except that after a while, he only felt tired.
He opened his eyes slowly to the gray blue of early evening. His body—whether dying or surviving—lay on the hillside where the battle with Xu Liang had taken place. Blades of grass drifted gently in his vision, the path of which eventually brought him to a large bird several paces away. It shifted about on the earth, its plumage a mix of sable and silver beneath the fading light of day. It stood hunched for a time, like an old man crouched over a meal. It was then that it occurred to Ma Shou that its meal was very likely Zhen Yu.
It was an indignity, even to a pirate. Ma Shou knew, however, that it was the fate of the nefarious and the iniquitous. To bury such a fiend honorably—one who had served no honor to anyone, not even himself in life—was to offend the ancient gods. Upon dying, the fate of the condemned was to provide for the world they had operated against, by feeding its creatures. Ma Shou hoped that he would finish dying before those creatures came for him.
The vulture outstretched its wings, raising its sleekly shaped head, turning it at an obscene angle upon its overlong neck. And then it drew back into itself, stepping sideways in the process, revealing the forms it had been blocking. It was that of Zhen Yu, yes, but also of another figure that was hovering over the pirate’s body. The third figure was not a bird, though for all the raw grace the individual imbued, it might well have been after all. Fleeting notions of Xu Liang raced across Ma Shou’s poorly anchored consciousness, but they were quickly dismissed. Whoever the stranger was, they were not the Imperial Mystic. The beauty of them was even finer, like a carving of the visage of a god or a goddess. The shape of the face was the long, sorrowful curve and splendorous etching of lovely features that could only be compared to depictions of the spirits of the clouds. The skin was as white as a pearl, though lacking the same luster. Rather, it glowed in a duller sense, like the luminaries committed to the air during the Fete of Long Nights. The hour in the sky marked the beginning of the release of the luminaries during such festivals, so then maybe, Ma Shou thought…this was the spirit of night.
He watched for a time while the stranger lingered near Zhen Yu. Long hair, a truer shade even than the purest child of Sheng Fan, fell around their robed form, laying strands of shadow down upon layers of pale green and silver-white. While Ma Shou observed the beauty, he began to see a connection to the patient and not entirely ugly creature loitering near. It was an intimacy, like an invisible cord that tethered one to the other, as delicately and yet as surely as their mutual connection to the death that lay on the ground between them. Ma Shou felt both morbid and reverent, observing what may have been both god and beast come for a man who had perished in disgrace.
“He’s awake,” someone said suddenly. The voice was sober and close by, drawing Ma Shou back to a reality that was filled with a thousand pains. The darkly colored boot of a body standing nearer to him than he’d realized came into his view before he closed his eyes. He drifted off, no longer certain that he was either dying or in the presence of a god.
The company entered the Kingdom of Ji with no further incident. Again, Xu Liang was reminded of the peace and safety of Sheng Fan. The conflict in the south had not spread, nor it seemed had any fear that might incite unrest. The endeavors of Xiadao Lu and Ma Shou had been specific and isolated. Though what seemed to be comforted him, Xu Liang recalled the warning Xiang Wu had offered. His birth father had claimed that the insecurity lay not in the Empire’s greater reaches, but within the heart of Sheng Fan itself. If only he could omit the last hours of his journey and know sooner whether or not that was true. Of course, he could not, and by nightfall on the ninth day of their travel since leaving Dhong Castle, Xu Liang found himself unable to rest. He sat upright and attempted to meditate instead.
He had not dared such a venture of spirit since Vilciel. In part, he had been cautious of the dream realm that seemed to surround him, an ephemeral space through which he seemed unable to find his way. He also knew that extending his spirit away from his body posed a new threat, one of greater physical weakness. He was uncertain whether it was the former concern or the latter which ultimately led him to failure.
Xu Liang opened his eyes, tears of frustration rimming them.
“Xu Liang.”
It was Shirisae. As she had in Willenthurn, the lady elf waited for everyone else to sleep and then made her way across their slumbering forms to approach him.
“Are you not able to sleep?” Shirisae asked him.
“I have not slept much in several months,” Xu Liang replied.
“My mother spoke to me of your ability to travel as humans cannot,” Shirisae said.
“As humans can,” Xu Liang corrected. “Else I would not have done so.”
Though it was not his intention to instill humor, the Phoenix Elf smiled. “You ar
e human, aren’t you?”
“The men of Sheng Fan are indeed men.”
Shirisae raised her fingertips to his face, hesitating, perhaps so that he might withdraw, though he did not. Her action was not sudden enough to alarm or threaten pain against skin that had been far too sensitive, for too long. There was not much test to the contact initiated by the elf. She merely touched the moisture at the corner of his eye, then withdrew. The gesture was felt far deeper than the touch.
“I’ve seen you travel outside of your body,” Shirisae said quietly. “I’m sure that Alere has as well.”
He was not surprised by her statement. “Elves appear to have a unique sight.”
“Yes, but the young among us do not always have good insight. I am not young like the hunter, but I am barely more than a century to my mother’s nine.”
Xu Liang was aware of the longer-lived groups in Dryth, even before his meeting of the elves who had joined his company. He had not stopped to fully consider it. It wasn’t that he had to consider the many years an elf might live—there were members of his own culture who had lived to what even an elf might admit to be ancient—it was the stay of their youth that ensnared his mind. Shirisae appeared not more than five years the elder of his empress, who had not even seen twenty years of life. The elf was senior in years to both of Xu Liang’s fathers, and she appeared younger than Xu Liang himself. They were beyond weathering…perhaps some might say they were beyond suffering. Except Xu Liang knew that they were not. Their beauty might have been untouchable, but neither their hearts nor their souls were invulnerable. Elves could die, as Alere had expressed through his sorrow and fear over the kin that he had lost…in his suffering.
“Forgive me my curiosity,” Shirisae eventually said. She shifted to seat herself more comfortably in front of him, over crouching. “I confess that when my brother and I first encountered your company, I overlooked you. My brother did not, nor did my mother. I was preoccupied with things I believed the Phoenix had related to me. It made me headstrong, and neglectful.”
