by Richard Nell
Kale believed that whatever attacked his home was a small, elite force, because anything else was inconceivable. Somehow this small group of elite warriors must have taken the palace and the royal family, and now disrupted everything by holding the fortress. He believed this in part because it meant his family might still be alive, and because the alternative was impossible.
To have conquered Sri Kon so quickly, and with overwhelming force, would have take tens of thousands of men. It would have taken at least several hundred ships, organized and well supplied and skilled and knowledgeable of Pyu waters. But there was no such sea-power in all the world. There was no such people or men or force. They must be few in number. Kale closed his eyes. They must be.
Another wave of nausea tried to spill his already empty stomach, and he prayed his actions hadn’t just caused the destruction of Osco’s people. He thought about Li-yen, the girl from Nanzu who should have been more, and about Lani, his childhood lover—now his brother’s wife. If my brother still lives, he thought. If Lani does. He tried not to think about his infant son with Lani, who he had begun to think of in his mind as Tane’s son to protect his own sanity.
He let a soldier help him into the back of a wagon, and smiled gratefully. Then he focused his mind and his breathing, picturing a fire enveloped by a canopy of night. He rested this way until the windows of his spirit-house had fully opened—the air and sun coming through to fill his inner-eye with warmth and power. He crawled outside and beyond himself, watching his small army roll through the hills in perfect order.
The future and the past were beyond his control, yes he knew that. What he could do, now, he must do, and not be distracted. He knew it was up to him to do what was necessary. It was up to him to master God’s miracles, to understand the threads of power and the rules and the raveling of the world.
First, he thought, let us see how far the mind can wander.
Kale hurled his spirit forward, leaving the trappings of the earth, gliding out and South towards Lani’s homeland and the palace of the farmer king.
Perhaps he could guide the army’s route—perhaps he could blow winds and rain over their tracks and bring fog to hide their passage. And maybe, if he was careful, he could prevent more innocent deaths with his power. He could save unwitting herders and farmers from Osco’s scouts and the emperor’s wrath, and at least reduce the harm he would cause. It was something. It was not nearly enough.
Chapter 12
Mesanite Hills. Malvey - the Blue City. 1580 AE. The present.
Osco, third son of Harcas, and Devoted warrior of the Mesanite hills, kept to the ten thrust technique. It was important he do his duty as a husband, but sex was for health and making children, so he did his best not to enjoy it.
Still—he couldn’t keep from looking at the strong, prominent lines of his wife’s face and shoulders, or from feeling her lithe body beneath him. Having been away so long, he knew if he looked into her dark eyes, or kissed her, he would be lost.
Liga moaned correctly. She did her duty to preserve his honor, just as he did. She’d suggested they couple quickly because Osco’s father would send for him soon, and he might die before they met again. She had always been wise and practical. The perfect wife, save for her beauty.
“Are you alright?”
Osco startled at the question, then noticed he was bleeding from a minor wound on his leg, the blood staining the sheets.
“It’s nothing.”
He looked back to the wall. In truth he was exhausted and wounded from many days of hard marching, and Liga quietly did her best to scoot up and help with the thrusts. She always knew exactly what was needed.
Most noble girls in Mesan married at fourteen, but Liga had been eighteen and nearly a priestess when Osco proposed. Her family—the Hirtri—had been thrilled, expecting no one would have the courage or perhaps the arrogance to take her. And it was true her beauty tempted Osco to lust—at least for the brief time he’d spent with her in Malvey. But in truth it was her discipline and loyalty that truly stirred him. The less she’d tried to tempt him, the more he respected her; and the more he respected her, the more difficult it was to leave.
But to Osco of the Magda, son of Harcas, difficult was nothing. He finished in silence, rose from their small, firm bed that he’d shared so rarely, and dressed in civilian clothes.
“Make a sacrifice this afternoon, and pray for a daughter. Our people will need more children.”
“Yes, husband. Everything is prepared.”
He paused, and turned back to her, thinking of course it is.
The house was also flawless—the servants waiting to greet Kale and Osco’s father, the kitchen ready to host a feast; Liga had contingency plans if they moved to another wing, as well as warriors ready to kill Osco’s guests, if required, and resources for a dozen other possibilities.
“You’ve done well, wife, as always.”
“I do my duty, husband.”
She said the words without pride, without false humility. Osco allowed himself to smile. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her beautiful face, or her short black hair, and he could see the same longing in her eyes. But she did not reach out for him.
The perfect wife.
“If I die,” he said, hoping his words conveyed the depth of his respect, “my family will find you a new husband, and you will receive as much of my estate as I can give you.”
She bowed exactly right, draping an arm across her breasts with natural modesty. There was nothing left to say.
* * *
“Welcome, Prince Ratama.”
Kale smiled and bowed to his friend’s father in Pyu fashion. Asna gave his ridiculous curtsy.
As soon as Lord Harcas Magda—Head of the City for this year—had greeted them, Osco went off to ‘visit his wife’.
Kale wasn’t surprised his friend failed to mention her in their time at Nanzu, the Imperial Academy of Naran, but he was still skeptical of his often duplicitous ally, so he followed the son with his spirit while his body smiled at the father.
Asna had moved into a ludicrous bow, hand sweeping down and back to rest on his hip. The general’s eyebrows twitched.
“We don’t see many Condotians in the hills. At least not since the war.”
By this Lord Harcas meant the war with the Naranian empire—the war where mercenaries like Asna’s people helped plunder and ravage Mesan’s crops and merchants until they all nearly starved to death, and eventually surrendered.
“From what my grandpapa say, mighty lord, you often not see them during war. It was problem, yes?”
Kale held his breath, and Harcas stared. He was the spitting image of Osco, and his face moved about as much.
“We have a feast prepared, Prince Ratama. Please.” He stretched a hand out towards the plain stone hall behind.
Kale much rather preferred to turn and leave immediately. His people and family had no time to waste, but he knew this rudeness would cause offense, and he needed this man and his warriors.
“Thank you, my lord,” he bowed again, “of course I’ll stay.”
Kale was rather pleased to be bowing because it let him hide his surprise. His spirit had followed Osco up a flight of stairs into a bedroom, and with about five polite words between them, Osco and his wife—who apparently was real—removed their clothes and climbed onto their bed.
As the touching started, Kale’s spirit fled away, but he felt a blush on his cheek, and fought a grin. Must have missed her, my friend, to be so eager—not so reserved as you think.
Harcas and his retinue of silent guards clacked hard boots down the grey corridors, taking Kale and Asna to a large, square room filled with plain wooden tables and benches. Perhaps fifty men and boys of several generations filled the seats, backs straight as castle walls, speaking quietly. They silenced at once and rose up to stand with hands at their sides, eyes locked at nothing on bare stone.
“Be seated.”
Harcas obeyed his own command
first, taking an empty space on a backless bench, his table no different than the rest. He gestured for Kale to do the same.
“We are all equals here,” he explained, “but I am first.”
Kale had grown quite accustomed to ‘more equal’ since entering the continent. He didn’t much like the falsity of it since everyone knew the hierarchy anyway. On the isles people were rather more direct with their rankings
Polite conversation began around the table, and Kale listened with his spirit. In their native tongue the men discussed their houses, children, and training; not a word was said about their guests or the ‘miracle’ that Kale produced outside.
“Do you like goat?”
Kale blinked and smiled politely at his host. Servants brought out round metal trays with plain brown rice, a lentil soup, and a sauceless meat.
“I’ve never tried it, General—I’m sure I will.”
The men dished themselves, so Kale did the same. He took a few bites with his host watching. The meat was dry as sand and tasted mostly like charcoal.
“Very good, thank you.”
The man smiled perfunctorily.
“Our cooks avoid excess spice—this way you taste the flavor of the meat, and the cooking.”
“Mm yes.” Kale added some water to his spitless mouth.
“So tell me,” Harcas’ fidgeted and he had yet to touch his meal. “Could my people destroy Naran with your miracles, Prince Ratama?”
Kale swallowed and managed not to choke. After so many months of Naranian tedium and endless chatter, he was not prepared for such directness. But it was kind of refreshing.
“Possibly.”
The king or general or ‘Head of the City’ reacted without even an eyebrow twitch.
“And you can teach us? How long will this take?”
Kale swallowed again and felt the impolite urge to vomit. “I can. But I don’t know how long it will take.”
“Your best guess then, please. A few months? A year?”
As he kept chewing Kale realized how hungry he was. He made good use of navy habits—stuffing food in his mouth and chewing without taste. By the time he was ready to actually speak, Osco entered and took the empty seat on his other side.
“Every path is different, my lord,” he finally explained. “I can’t say for sure, but there should be progress in months, not years.”
Harcas nodded, but gave no indication. Kale thought perhaps he found this satisfactory, but then who the hell knew with these men of stone.
“That was quick.” Kale whispered and welcomed his friend with a smile. It was hard to tell, but the general’s son seemed rather pleased with himself. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
Kale grinned at his friend’s eyebrow twitch, but his smugness soon waned as he felt his body sweating around his stomach. He tried to soldier on, ignoring the heat on his brow as he took several more bites. He tried the soup but tasted only salt, and somehow it was so thick it hardly helped with the dryness of his mouth.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said quietly.
Osco’s eyebrows raised in alarm.
“Unadvised, and exceedingly shameful. Overcome.”
Kale breathed and tried not to roll his eyes, or swear. He glanced at Asna, who looked at his own food with undisguised contempt and hadn’t touched it. He shook his head when he noticed Kale’s glare.
Bloody hillmen, he thought, and bloody Condotians. And bloody goats. This is awful.
He regretted thinking about the goat at once. He ran a hand over his face and found more sweat than he realized. He shook his head and noticed his vision swam then started to blur until it got hard to sit straight in his chair.
“Are you alright?”
Harcas’ voice. It held something now, some deception. Or was it fear?
“Water. More water.”
Kale’s mouth felt strange, as if it were almost numb. He blinked fuzzy eyes towards his host, and his gut went cold. He thought of his father.
“Royalty must never trust too quickly,” he had told his sons a hundred times. “And if possible, not at all. Especially friends, and allies, especially when they feel safe.”
Kale would have laughed if he didn’t feel like vomiting. It was poison. They were trying to kill him. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him.
He wondered what Farahi would say if he saw him now. He imagined the square, stern face, jaw clenched in contempt. ‘You thought me harsh, paranoid, and now look at you. Trusting fool. Walking corpse.’
Kale rose to his feet scattering food and dishes, the clay bowl of his soup shattering on the floor. His limbs felt weak, his breathing labored. The other men were crying out but the sounds seemed suddenly far away and mushed together. They didn’t matter. Only the poison mattered.
How does it kill? You’ve heard it over and over! Damn boring tutors, damn stupid wasted youth!
Obviously he’d swallowed whatever it was, and his tongue had numbed but didn’t swell; his throat hadn’t burned, though the flesh there seemed numb, too. He knew you could sometimes weaken and outlast poison; you could draw it from a wound; you could bleed it, or take an antidote.
He burned his thoughts and watched himself through his spirit’s eyes, gasping and swaying on his feet. He realized it was too fast, whatever it was. It was already killing him. Soon he expected it would numb his heart and lungs as it numbed his mouth, and his breath would stop, his blood clog and stick like sludge in a gutter. Then he would die.
Except he couldn’t die. Not now. People needed him. Lani needed him.
He opened the windows in his spirit-house—the imaginary place that represented control of his mind. He made a blank canvas of night on a calm, white beach, until the world became only the moment before him, and the still air around him, the feel of his feet on stone.
Why I do it matters.
It was a lesson he learned well in a Batonian monastery with a mean, old monk. He closed his eyes, knowing no one would save Pyu if not him. No one would use God’s miracles to make the world a better place if not him.
And yes, he might be too late, he might fail. But not today. Not before he did at least something, before he helped at least someone.
He reached out all around him for the threads of power that made up the world. Some shimmered in the air, some circled around the men at the table, more pooled beneath the earth or far above it, harder to reach but almost endless in strength. Kale had no time, he had to be quick.
He seized the threads in the air and pulled at every cup, every bowl, every glass, draining the liquid into the air and pulling it to his body. Water hovered and flowed like little rivers till they reached him, pouring into his mouth, eyes, and nose to drown the corruption taking root.
Dishes and men scattered as the air shimmered with moving heat, and soon Kale could see their breath misting in the cold air.
He watched his eyes and ears start to bleed, the blood flowing out even as the water flowed in. His body wracked in agony, convulsing as it tried to expel again and again. The men around him backed away—all save Asna, who came closer and drew his sword.
Kale didn’t know if he meant to protect, or kill, but there was nothing he could do.
The numbness taking over his body began to ease, replacing with fire. When he could stand it no more he released the liquid, and his body vomited again and again, ejecting water stained with goat, lentils, and blood.
He sagged forward, arms on the table, forehead resting on his hands as he took deep breaths, ready with his spirit now to rip apart anyone and anything that got too close. Finally, he looked up with his own eyes.
The men were leaned back against the walls, some mouths agape in horror. Asna stood poised and ready to kill, but his eyes and sword were turned towards the hillmen.
Kale sagged roughly to his seat. He looked at his own blood dripping down around his chair, and felt it smeared across his face. He swallowed the pain shooting through his guts, and his sore throat.
&
nbsp; “Let’s speak plainly.” His voice sounded weak and hoarse, so he amplified it and threw it out to every man’s ear as he had in the courtyard of Nanzu, making it a little more menacing, perhaps, than he’d intended. “The goat was terrible.”
Chapter 13
The Royal Palace of Sri Kon. 1561 AE. 19 years previous.
Kikay blew on her soup, which signaled a servant to replace it with a cooler bowl. The king and the pirate slurped at theirs, silver spoons clicking on the porcelain. The barbarian stared at them.
“It would seem your friend isn’t hungry, Arun. Perhaps I was wrong about his feeding costs.”
Their guest scrunched his rather handsome face and smiled, glancing at his merchandise. “He may have customs we don’t understand, my lady. Perhaps he won’t eat with a woman.”
True to form, the ‘king’ laughed at that, and Kikay shot him a glare.
“Then he will go hungry. Are you enjoying your coconut soup, pirate?”
“Like a mother’s milk, my lady.”
Kikay felt her scowl deepen because she didn’t like this man. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, or how he spoke, his easy charm and arrogance or his bewildering competence. She had never heard of another brother of the Ching abandoning the Way once so far down its path. And yet…
He had also managed to spring a big clumsy giant from the very depths of Trung’s prison—a place she had lost more than one skilled spy and assassin. And if he could get in once…
“Tell us,” she leaned forward, noting the subtle flick of his eyes towards the split in her dress. “How did you manage to free your prize and escape Halin?”
“We pirates have our ways, my lady.” The ex-monk shrugged. “Perhaps we could first discuss the matter of my fee?”
“All in time. I only ask because, as far as I know, you are the first thief to ever succeed in coming out of that place alive. Isn’t that interesting?”
At this code, several guards stepped out from the hidden walls with bows and spears at the ready. The King, or rather one of his doubles, simply pushed back his chair and walked away.
