Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Short Story Anthology

  A reminder, Tiger said.

  Think of the Empire, Crane whispered. Can you leave it to crumble because of a caprice?

  And they had been right—they were everywhere: in the eyes of merchants in the marketplace; in the faces of priests as they said their devotions; in the judges and clerks at the tribunal, passing through all of them like dark, beating shadows.

  She could not escape.

  But she would not yield.

  ***

  4. Shunliu (Wen-Min Empire), 650 years after the Founding

  When she was fourteen, Yi-Sen, who had once been Dai-Yu, was given in marriage to Zheng Lei, first clerk of the tribunal in Shunliu.

  She had two sons, and obsessively watched each of them in his cradle. And when the hot storms of summer came, she moved to the nursery and spent the nights watching over her children.

  Her husband Lei had his own quarters, but servants’ gossip did reach him, in the end.

  He asked her into his study one night. Yi-Sen came hesitantly, tiptoeing past the shelves crammed with books—her husband’s study was his preserve, a scholar’s haven in which women had no place.

  Lei was sitting at his reading table, which was bare save for a writing brush and a lantern. He raised his gaze to her. “You must be wondering why I’ve asked you here.”

  “Yes,” Yi-Sen said. Bluntness, her parents had told her more than once, was no quality for a woman. But even an army of tutors had not been able to take it out of her.

  “Sit down,” Lei said.

  She pulled over a chair, and sat before him, waiting for him to speak. At last he said, “Yi-Sen. I’m no fool. What do you fear?”

  Her heart missed a beat. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t toy with me. I’ve seen the way you watch shadows. Men guilty of some unpunished offence look the same when the militia passes their way.”

  “I—” Yi-Sen hesitated. She had kept the secret of her past lives, of the mark in her hand, like a miser hoards his gold and jade.

  In Lei’s eyes was nothing but a mild curiosity.

  “You won’t believe me,” she said.

  “I’m a scholar. Let me be the judge of what to believe.”

  “My name is Dai-Yu,” she said. “I was born in the year three hundred and one. I am the child of the promise.”

  It all came spilling out of her, then, the stories of Tiger and Crane, of the boy dead in his bed, the gaping wound in his chest, of the other dead in her past.

  Lei’s grey eyes watched her, judged her, just as Tiger’s and Crane’s eyes had. He said, finally, “I would like to believe you’ve invented all of this.”

  “But you don’t?” Yi-Sen asked. She had expected many things, but not that.

  Lei said, slowly, “You can’t read. You’re no scholar. And yet . . . yet you’ve told me things from the past. Details that are true. I’ve read them in books.”

  “I didn’t learn them,” Yi-Sen said. “I remember. Always.”

  His gaze was on her, and did not waver. “I believe you do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s not an easy fate. Nor an easy choice.”

  “You don’t understand,” Yi-Sen said. “Why should I choose? Why should I grant anything to them?” Her voice was rising, spinning out of control: She heard herself say the words from a faraway place. “They bring nothing but pain and sorrow.”

  “The Founders lived in a harsh time. I’m not excusing them,” Lei added, raising a hand to check her. “I’m just giving you information to understand them.”

  “I don’t. They’re not human.”

  “Not any more,” Lei said. “There are tales about the things that do not die, that keep ageing, that never descend into Hell. They’re not pleasant stories.” He rose, came behind her. His arm settled around her shoulders. She rose in turn, faced him in silence.

  “Yi-Sen . . . This is where I’ll fail you. I’m a minor scholar, not a warrior or a conjuror. I can’t help you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. No-one can stand against them, can they?”

  “It would take an equal to resist them. But there is no-one in Wen-Min who has their power. Yet I would stand by your side, if need be.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Why would you go to such trouble?”

  He spun her round to face him. “Haven’t you guessed?” His voice was mild, seemingly emotionless, but a bare quiver betrayed him.

  “No,” Yi-Sen said. “No. Please don’t. They—they take everything I love. They use it against me.”

  “You said it yourself. No-one can stand against them. If that’s the case, then nothing truly matters.”

  She raised her hand, traced the outline of his face, both familiar yet utterly alien to her. “I won’t lie to you,” she said, softly. “It matters to me. To know I’m not alone.”

  “You’ll never be alone again. I promise.”

  She stared away from him, knowing this was a promise he could not keep. “Tell me. What would you choose, if you had to?”

  “Neither,” Lei said. “And yet how we need them, to keep us together. Duty. Fear. But what they have become . . . Can you choose between the storms and the flood?”

  She had no answer.

  After a while, he moved away to extinguish the lantern. “I’ll look in my books. I may find some things in the old Annals, something you can use against them.”

  Although she did not believe he would find anything, Yi-Sen nodded. “You’re a good man.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “No. I know all my flaws. Do not flatter me.”

  “I don’t flatter,” she protested, but he was already leading her away from the reading table.

  “Come,” he said. “For this night at least, let us forget them.”

  ***

  5. Shunliu (Wen-Min Empire), 657 years after the Founding

  Yi-Sen stood on the highest floor of the house, watching the streets go up in flames. Peach blossoms fell everywhere like rain, and she wondered whether she saw truly, or only mistook embers for flowers.

  A shadow fell across the doorway. “Dai-Yu,” a deep voice said.

  Crane. She did not turn around. She knew what he had come for. “That’s not my name.”

  “It was your first name. It is your true one.” Crane came closer to her. He smelled old, like dead books, the same smell the magistrate had had, all those years ago. “Your husband is dead, Dai-Yu.”

  She had known it as soon as she heard his voice. But still, cold flared in her chest, then spread to every part of her until she felt nothing any more. “And his blood is on your hands. You sent him to defend the tribunal, knowing the mob would kill him.”

  “He only did his duty,” Crane said, his voice heavy with malice. “He was first clerk of the tribunal. He had to bar the mob’s entry, to stop the riots.”

  “He chose nothing,” she said. “He was your toy.”

  “Had you chosen, he would still be alive.”

  Rage filled her. “If I had chosen? Did you think to force my hand? Did you think I would tell you that you were in the right, and Tiger wrong?”

  Beady eyes shone in the shadows: amused, perhaps. “It is time to choose. Your husband is dead. Will you leave your children to inherit this world, this mad world where rioters can take everything away from you?”

  “Do you think I care?” she asked, softly.

  Softer footsteps echoed under the ceiling of the room. She heard Tiger’s voice behind her. “Your husband is dead, Dai-Yu. Do you wish to meet the same fate?”

  She said nothing. There was no longer room in her for fear. Below her, the city glowed red with fire, resounded with the cries of the mob as they lynched every clerk they could find.

  “Choose,” Tiger said.

  Crane’s hand on her shoulder tightened its grip. “Choose.”

  Storms and floods, Lei had said. How can you choose between them?

  Choose.

  Lei was dead, trampled by the mob, all because he had fallen in love with he
r. She could have wept, but it was not what she needed. She needed to fuel her rage. She needed to gather her courage.

  “I told you,” she said. “I won’t choose. I won’t let you force me.”

  “You have nowhere to go,” Crane said.

  “Give us our answer,” Tiger added.

  No escape. There was no escape from them, not ever.

  But there was a place where neither of them could go.

  “Find someone else,” Yi-Sen said. And, before she could lose her courage, she leapt in one fluid gesture from the open window.

  It was only three floors, but her fall seemed to have no end. When she did land, splayed like a puppeteer’s broken doll, pain spread everywhere, in her arms, in her chest, through her heart. Her face was turned towards the sky, and the peach blossoms fell over her like rain.

  She could not see Tiger or Crane.

  When the darkness came for her, she was smiling.

  ***

  Interlude: Tenth Court of Hell

  The Lady watches the soul come, and stop before her.

  “Another life,” she says.

  The soul does not move. This time it says nothing, which, of course, does not mean it feels nothing.

  “You should know you cannot stay forever in Hell,” the Lady says. “You committed no sin. You did not cheat, or lie, or abuse your power. You earned nothing but a brief respite.”

  “Even a few years is enough.”

  “You cannot escape forever,” the Lady says.

  “No,” the soul says. “It doesn’t matter. Just don’t send me where Lei went.”

  “Child, he is not here. He was a virtuous man, and he has earned a stay in the Southern Paradise before his next life.”

  The soul remains silent for a while. The Wheel turns.

  “I am glad. Our paths won’t cross again. Things are as they should be.”

  For the first time, there is pity in the Lady’s voice, barely audible. “Dai-Yu. Give them what they want. You are nothing.”

  “I’m the child of the promise,” the soul says. “My power is in making a choice. Or in failing to make it. I won’t relent. Life after life, they destroy me. They kill those I love, as they killed Lei. I owe them nothing.”

  “They are fighting,” the Lady says. “In Laijing, the policies from the Imperial Palace are growing more incoherent.”

  “So?”

  “There are those,” the Lady says, “who will know how to take advantage of strife. Those who have waited long enough to topple Wen-Min.”

  “Yes. But I don’t care.”

  “You should,” the Lady says. A wind blows, carrying her words away. “It is time, child. Come.”

  And then it starts again, all of it.

  ***

  6. Wen-Min Empire, 701-987 years after the Founding

  She ran. She did not allow herself to love, or even care for anyone. There had been enough deaths.

  She became a hermit, endlessly travelling the roads of the Empire. On her travels, she made acquaintances, never keeping them for more than a few moons: merchants on their way to make a fortune; soldiers going to the boundaries to defend against the Hsiung Nu; families made homeless by famines, floods. As the outer edges of the Empire became lost to the Hsiung Nu hordes, she met refugees flung on the roads with nothing but their clothes, people with haunted faces who would not speak about their past.

  Even if she made the choice between Tiger and Crane, it would not help them. That would merely replace the Emperor with a tyrant, a power unchecked by any other. She had seen what Tiger and Crane could do. She had learnt to fear them. She hardened her heart, and moved on.

  But, no matter how far she went, Tiger and Crane always found her, always pressed her for an answer. And always she took her own life rather than choose.

  A brief respite, the Lady had said. But even that was better than nothing.

  ***

  Interlude: Tenth Court of Hell

  The souls meet before the Wheel.

  They do not come from the same place. One, the elder, has come through the Nine Courts of Hell. The other has had fewer lives, for, in a former incarnation, it was found so virtuous it earned a stay in the Southern Paradise. And now the stay has ended, and it must be reborn. It has asked for only one thing, and this request was granted.

  The Lady knows this should not be happening. But where there are rules, there are exceptions. Not many things can sway the Judges of Hell, but devotion and virtue always find their reward.

  “Dai-Yu,” the younger soul says.

  The elder of the souls does not move. It looks at the other soul, trying to make out its features. Finally it says, its voice shaking, “Lei? You shouldn’t be here. You should have forgotten.”

  “I am where I need to be,” the younger soul says. “Listen, Dai-Yu.”

  “No—stay away from me. Crane killed you the last time, just for being my husband. How can you even think of coming here?”

  “Dai-Yu,” Lei’s soul says. It reaches out with a translucent finger, tenderly. “I made a promise. I am here.”

  “You can do nothing. Stay away. Please. Be reborn in some place where I won’t have to meet you.”

  “I did something for you,” Lei’s soul says. “In the Southern Paradise is a library that holds every book ever printed in Wen-Min. I went there, and searched. You are the child of the promise. But did you ever ask yourself who promised you to the Founders?”

  The silence, this time, has an almost palpable quality.

  “We have forgotten,” Lei’s soul says. “Tiger and Crane rewrote the histories to make us forget.” Its voice takes on a singsong quality. “‘Three philosophers founded the Empire, in a time so far removed that all that remains are myths written on crumbling bamboo strips. And, as philosophers are wont to do, they fell out.’”

  “Three . . . “Her soul’s voice is a mere whisper.

  “Crane, Tiger,” Lei’s soul says. “And Tortoise. He wouldn’t choose, Dai-Yu. He wouldn’t be the arbiter between Tiger and Crane. So he withdrew to the highest mountain in Wen-Min, but not before promising them there would be a child.”

  “I,” Dai-Yu says.

  Lei says nothing.

  “I need to find him.”

  “You won’t. Because he would not take part in the future of the Empire, he was thrown out of it. He became a hermit, wandering on the roads of Wen-Min: a monk answering to no-one—”

  “A beggar,” Dai-Yu’s soul whispers.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing. Thank you, Lei.”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” Lei’s soul says. “Dai-Yu—”

  Their souls brush, part. Something has been exchanged: a kiss, if souls could kiss. A promise, perhaps.

  Lei’s soul takes the celadon cup from the Lady’s hands, and drinks. Its light is fading away now, its memories scattering. Dai-Yu’s soul stands by the side, quivering. It does not drink from the cup. It never drinks. For the first time, it occurs to Dai-Yu that it is a blessing, this remembrance.

  The Wheel turns, taking its load of souls back into the world of flesh.

  ***

  7. Mount Xu (Wen-Min Empire), 1021 years after the Founding

  There was a temple on Mount Xu. It was not one of the Five Great Temples, not a place where pilgrims would endlessly flock, seeking salvation amidst clouds of incense.

  The temple at Mount Xu was a mere pagoda of three storeys. Its slanted roof was made of lacquered wood, ungilded.

  It was to this temple that Dai-Yu came, after years of searching; years spent on the roads, from her native city of Yaoxin to fertile Shandong in the south, from windy, arid Menzhou in the east to Laijing, the capital at the centre of the Empire.

  The air was warm, promising the sweetness of summer, and pink cherry blossoms littered the path. Dai-Yu, pausing on the last rise, inhaled, and felt the serenity of the place fill her bones, as if all her life had been leading her here.

  There was no-one within the p
agoda. The path went on, into the gardens, and then deeper into the mountains.

  The beggar was waiting for her at the end, sitting in meditation before a waterfall in the shadow of pine trees. It was the same man Dai-Yu had met so many years ago: the same man, with the missing leg and iron crutch, with the rheumy eyes that pierced her soul.

  “Dai-Yu,” he said, when she came closer. “Child of the promise.”

  “You knew I would come,” Dai-Yu said, angrily. Had she been led here, manipulated since the beginning like a puppet on its strings?

  “There are not many mountains in Wen-Min,” the beggar said. “And I have not moved for many years.” He rose. “Come, child. Let us walk.”

  “How could you?” Dai-Yu said. “How could you promise me to them, to make the choice you didn’t have the courage to make yourself?”

  “They were children. Grasping for what they couldn’t have.” Tortoise’s eyes turned to the waterfall endlessly pouring its water into the misty pool. “There is no choice.”

  “Not choosing is a choice.”

  “So is running away,” Tortoise said. “So is suicide.”

  These references angered her. “You accuse me?”

  Tortoise shrugged. “I don’t know, child. I can’t tell you what to do, for I never could find out. There isn’t much time left.”

  The sun had sunk below the cover of the trees; already the forest was darkening. Cold spread within Dai-Yu’s bones. “They are coming,” she said.

  “Yes,” Tortoise said.

  “Why?”

  “They knew you would come to me, eventually. They knew the moment you entered this temple, the moment we finally met. For you are the child of the promise,” Tortoise said. “My child.”

  It rang true. And yet it was impossible. “No—I have . . . I have parents. I have a human soul. I remember well enough.”

  Tortoise reached out, traced the mark on her hand. It sent a tingle of heat up her arm, as it had done, an eternity ago, on the road to Yaoxin. “I made you,” he said. “Who else could have chosen in my stead? Who else would not have to drink the Brew of Oblivion in the Courts of Hell?”

  “No—”

  “You are the breath from my breath, the flesh from my flesh, the seed from my seed. Dai-Yu—”