by T. A. Miles
Though he understood that the Temple of Divine Tranquility had been considered haunted and unfit for meditation, Xu Liang had been feeling that in some ways the mystics had been shunning all of Jianfeng since the passing of Song Bao. Perhaps those with paralleling obligations to the Empire, such as Han Quan, were not even spending important time at the school in recent years; the Supreme Geomancer had taken seasonal leaves of absence, but Xu Liang no longer believed that it was to convene or meditate among his fellows. While it was true that Xu Liang had been able to meet with the order before leaving for the outer realms, he had arranged the meeting through a long period of exchanging letters with the astralmancer Che Wen Tai. Han Quan had only decided to accompany him after it was decided.
These were matters Xu Liang intended to make sense of while waiting for all of the troops to regroup in the southern hills. Naturally, Shirisae would accompany him, as she would accompany him everywhere throughout this campaign. He understood that he could as easily have isolated her with two of his own bodyguards and given them orders to stay with her constantly, but he believed strongly that she would have been opposed. The inconvenience had also been a factor, where their studies were concerned. And lastly, he felt that sequestering her in such a manner would have set an unfavorable tone upon the troops, one which may have led them to exclusion if not rejection. The surest way to guide was by example. His example of respect toward her would inspire respect to develop among those who observed, and it would travel throughout the ranks. Isolation would have created more of a mystery—possibly an intolerable one—and would have maintained a separation in idea between Xu Liang and Shirisae as well. It was, in many ways, by direct association with him, that she would come to be honored if not cherished by the people of Sheng Fan. He was not blind to the influence of his station, or of his own accumulated fame throughout the Empire. He would utilize it to usher Shirisae—and any of his allies from the west—safely into his society.
And that brought him back to his concern for Shirisae’s society and culture. He presented the information to her with care, but no adornment. “I believe you should be made aware that rumors have begun among the soldiers that you are my wife.”
Shirisae’s gaze lowered from the view of their surrounding environment. She did not quite look in his direction. He had begun to consider apology to ameliorate possible offense when she said, “I am not offended by that. It seems like a reasonable conclusion for men to come to.”
Xu Liang appreciated her very much in that moment, that she should be so rational in the face of what may have violated her culture, or her independence. He bowed his head to demonstrate his gratitude.
And then Shirisae said, “But it would not be common for you to bring a wife with you on such a campaign as this.”
“No,” Xu Liang confirmed. “Not for any campaign. Had I married when Song Bao intended for me to do so, my wife would have had many obligations at court. It’s not customary for a husband and wife to share duties or to integrate their political or social responsibilities.”
“You would have seen very little of one another,” Shirisae commented.
“Yes,” Xu Liang replied.
“And is that why it was decided against?” the elf asked next.
Xu Liang shook his head, partly to shake away stressful memory. “My emperor and his son disagreed with the bride candidate, and with the timing.”
“I recall that you mentioned a lack of honor being brought to the union,” Shirisae said. “By you.”
Xu Liang disliked the topic, but had no desire to compile a box of secrets from any of his fellow bearers. The weight of it would eventually become a burden on all of them. That included the Empress, but at the same time, he had his honor and dignity toward his recognized father to consider. What he decided to tell Shirisae, he had only told to Song Lu, and he had done so at the time because, with his prince, he had managed also to maintain a personal relationship—that of friend and brother. It had taxed them heavily by the end of it, but at that time, during that dilemma, it had spared everyone involved. Looking to the elf, he said, “The intended bride was also my sister, by my father’s side. My natural father is Governor Xiang Wu of Ying, though the man recognized as my father is Governor Xu Hong of Du.”
“Your emperor was unaware?” Shirisae asked, but did not await an answer. “But your father must have been compelled to intercede with such an arrangement.”
“Yes,” Xu Liang answered. “Emperor Song Bao would not be persuaded by his son, who he believed was in the midst of behaving as a spoiled prince. It was Xiang Wu who interceded with a different truth than the one that would have brought belated shame upon him and his family if it were to become known.”
“And what was that?” Shirisae inquired, her tone careful.
“My health,” Xu Liang said, because that was no secret to anyone. “I have never been strong.”
“I have watched your strength grow,” Shirisae said, nearly in contradiction. Her tone bordered on argumentative.
Xu Liang found it strangely aggravating that she would choose the topic of his health to become offended, having witnessed all that she had. “It is an illusion,” he said, reminded of the many recent assaults the Phoenix had done to him bodily, as well as emotionally and mentally since the resurrection. He did not feel that he was in any way in command of it.
Shirisae’s ensuing words suggested finality. “Weakness cannot carry the Phoenix’s Flame.”
“Then you are not referring to physical weakness,” Xu Liang decided, and because he loathed the notion of confrontation with her, he lowered his head in apology.
Shirisae appeared to ignore the gesture in the silence that followed. But then she said, in a voice that may have offered some apology of her own, “I wasn’t entirely. Though, in regard to your physical strength, you are becoming better off than you were since Vilciel. You cannot deny that.”
“No,” Xu Liang admitted. “I cannot.”
SHIRISAE DECIDED ON maintaining a period of silence after her discussion with Xu Liang. She blamed herself in part for the disagreement, since the direction the conversation had gone in was the result of her prodding. He had already avoided the topic of his unmarried status more than once. She felt that she had pressed him to revealing something he did not want to reveal, and that potentially embarrassed him. Embarrassed may not have been the proper word, but surely, the topic was a source of strain for him. She had been insensitive to his suffering—suffering that went beyond resurrection by the Phoenix. He might have been struggling against poor health and feelings of physical—possibly masculine inadequacy for most of his life. She had begun to comprehend now, owed to her rude insistence, that the mystic had been suppressed in ways no one might have considered, to look at his success. His station denied social criticism; he was the most trusted of an empress, a man of tremendous spiritual stamina, unchallengeable intellect, and uncontestable passion. He was also a man of rare grace—beauty that had become the focus over his strength.
Strength once may have been among the foremost traits Shirisae would have looked for in a consort—she would admit to herself now, fully, that it had been. She had always known that strength was more than physical power, but she was not so wise in her years—too few, yet, for an elf with an enduring lineage—to fail to be impressed by the raw display of it. She’d grown wiser, she felt. If it was wisdom, though, it frightened her.
It frightened her, because it was leading her to resent the Phoenix…because the Phoenix might empower Xu Liang, and it may also one day reduce him to total weakness. She didn’t know for certain, and she didn’t know if such an event would kill him. No one could survive the resurrection ritual twice, even if it was allowed to be twice attempted. So, he would die…and she would be without him.
THE DAY DRIFTED through hours of moderate sunlight before clouds began a slow walk from one mountaintop to the next. They accumulated as gradually as the morning markets of the People’s City. The whiteness of them
seemed to assure against rain, but eventually they darkened, and the river became salted with drops. By the time the caravan of troops arrived at the Red Carp Bridge, which would gently arc into the pillar-like cliffs that had earned the mountains their title, it was raining steadily. The release was not a driving rain, but it would create a mist while the cool downfall met the warmer earth. The area, under such conditions, would be exceptionally hazardous for battle were one to take place among the mountains. The mist would obscure the path, potentially routing troops through a labyrinth of treacherous mire while an enemy who might have planned ahead only need wait for the opportunity to emerge from the fog and strike the confused soldiers. In an event such as that, Xu Liang would hope to call upon the winds to alleviate some of the dangers put forward by the mist with an upward current of air.
“I’ve never seen a landscape quite like this,” Shirisae commented, drawing him from the scenario that had already begun to play itself out in his mind.
“Nor have I, outside of Sheng Fan,” Xu Liang said to her. “And even within Sheng Fan, there is no other province quite like Kang Su. The nearest to compare, in regards to the outer realms, would be the rocky hills of central Aer.”
“There were similarities,” Shirisae agreed. “There were also centaurs and peculiar spirits with riddles.”
“That was the first I’ve ever seen of centaurs,” Xu Liang assured her. “Depictions I have viewed in books of legend were of western origin.”
“I have also not seen a centaur before the confrontation in Aer,” the elf said. “There are many legends of them throughout the Yvarias. The region is also home to griffins and giants, which are not commonly known in the southern lands of elves, to my knowledge. Our people have had little contact with our cousins of other regions.”
“The elves seem very divided,” Xu Liang observed.
And Shirisae answered simply, “They are.”
The Red Carp Bridge arced onto the river bank in the form of a saffron fish with a golden tail and blue fins. Like Jung Ho, the bridge was well-articulated and covered, though it was not so large as the tortoise monument. They had come to another point where the units would narrow their formation and slow their pace.
In the darkening of what may become a stormy evening, the lanterns hung from the crossbeams made a warm glow that felt comfortable within the semi-enclosed space. Traveling with less than an army, Xu Liang would have paused to let some of the rain pass.
“Who lights these?” Shirisae asked him.
“The School of the Seven Mystics is nearby,” Xu Liang answered. “There are some few residents throughout the area who dedicate some of their time to maintaining the paths leading to the school. The bridge would be considered an entryway.”
“These are your elders,” Shirisae said to confirm.
Xu Liang nodded. “They are the protectors and teachers of the mystic arts, those who have been guided by the spirits of the elements to become masters. More importantly, they are those selfless enough to use their mastery as a tool by which to teach and guide others.”
“I can understand why you were invited to be among them,” the fire elf said.
Xu Liang thanked her with a bow of his head. “Han Quan is among them, though I’ve come to believe that he had strayed from the foundation of their philosophy long ago. I believe that it was vanity which had him accept their invitation, but I cannot say since it would have occurred long before our acquaintance. It’s possible that the former chancellor had been a much different man then, or at the least he may have been guided by nobler ideals at one time.”
“That would be very generous, if you believed it,” Shirisae said in a blunt tone that suggested she had not fully recovered from the upset of their last topic of conversation. It seemed that way, except that Shirisae’s following statement was delivered in a more tentative, and perhaps even sympathetic manner. “I think you feel deceived, possibly hurt by discovery that might well have been truth from the very beginning.”
Xu Liang could not deny that. “Han Quan is my elder, whom I have respected and cared for. It’s true that I feel disappointment. I also feel offense, to discover that he has been laboring to undermine and hurt the Song, and ultimately the Empire. He entered into his office under the guise of support, while in actuality he was a sympathizer with rebel philosophies.”
“Your sentiments are understandable,” Shirisae said, and the conversation was left at that.
They emerged from the shelter of the bridge, onto the continuation of the plank road and into the corridors of the Chi Hao Mountains. The railing became intermittent as the road was given over to paths of rock along a wending course. The growth was sporadic as well, carrying them through wide, but definitively walled sections of sheer rock face. Occasionally, footpaths or staircases could be viewed trailing through brush or carved into rock, leading upward into the higher elevations, where local residents farmed shelves of earth or found level precipices upon which to erect their homes, which they would climb to and from in order to fish from the Chang. It was among the more isolated lifestyles within Sheng Fan. If one were to follow the river around the north bend and to the west, the waters would eventually arrive at lively fishing villages all along the route to the city of Zhi Ping. It was there where Xu Liang had met Governor Ha Ming Jin, both of them pupils at the time, studying policy, science, music, and history as they both worked to qualify as officials of the Empire. Both of them were assured of station by inheritance—though Xu Liang had a brother ahead of him—but study was mandatory for any son on a path toward service as an official, just as training was required for sons who would become soldiers.
His thoughts went to Guang Ci, whose path had become much different from his fellow bodyguards. Immediately afterward, he considered the guards who had survived the journey west and those who did not. He thought of Deng Po’s suffering, and looked to Gai Ping. “You must remind me, when all has quieted, to visit the Deng family in Pei Shui. A letter has been sent, but I feel that it is insufficient.”
“I shall remind you,” the elder promised with a bow of his head.
Hounded by Vengeance
HAN QUAN AWOKE with a start, hands clenched around the arms of the chair he had dozed off in. He looked around his room at Bei Xo—suitable in comparison to his house at the Imperial City—and felt secure in concluding that he was alone. There were many columns surrounding the sunken central area of the chamber and several articles of furniture to clutter the view, but two sides of the room were balcony, shedding plenty of light into the room, even in the waning parts of the day. It amused him to consider that the drafty room—though lofty in appearance—was a method by which Ha Ming Jin plotted his demise; by severe chill as he sat with his ancient bones exposed to the cool ocean air.
The fool!
Han Quan was not quite so old yet. A son of Sheng Fan could live easily beyond a century, and he intended to, in spite of young upstarts, aging bones, and vengeful spirits. Of all of his afflictions, he could do better without the spirits. He’d taken to dreaming of them frequently. They’d always entered into his subconscious, since as early as he could remember. They’d become more adamant in his later years. He could admit that he had collected quite a number of ghosts over the course of eighty years. It almost made him want to reconsider murdering Xu Liang. What a torment one of such strength of spirit could be…
Han Quan waved the thought away with one hand, then used both to push himself from the seat he had been resting in. There was much to do yet. To think he believed it might be a simpler path forty years earlier. Han Quan had made a career out of murdering his enemies. In spite of what some might have believed, the first murder was the easiest. Once one committed the act, one came to understand the amount of toiling that followed, ensuring that the act wasn’t committed in vain. Each murder to follow required careful consideration and planning, knowing that it would not be a simple or a final event. He also believed that the aid of dragons might alleviate some of the co
mplication—after all, such a beast was not only an act of nature, but of the gods themselves. Who would survive? Who would seek to blame an individual? A dragon would have seemed as ideal for the task as war.
War had not killed Xu Liang yet, so perhaps it was foolish to put faith in a dragon. Han Quan had to remind himself that his own goals were not so narrowly focused. The Imperial Tactician had to depart from this plane—that was certain—but in the process the entire Song Dynasty had to be taken down. And it was that, Han Quan believed, which would truly finish Xu Liang. What was he, without his service to the Song?
What had Cai Shi-meng been without his service to Ganzan Li? He had been free…free to establish a new rule. And it had been Song Dai and a weapon of power that had stopped him. And now those same circumstances haunted Han Quan; his enemy and weapons of power.
Ah, the Eternal Wheel.
Han Quan carried himself to a table not far from his chair, pushing open the scroll that lay half furled on top of it. He studied the map of Fa Leng and the border between Xun and Ji. He had not a solitary care for Xun’s success or failure in the political sense. His sole concern was to keep adequate distance and troops between himself and Xu Liang. That meant that Xun had to succeed. Ji would have roughly one hundred thousand troops in the region within the month. Ha Ming Jin’s forces at Fa Leng were being pushed back already.
So, that meant that Ji should be allowed to retake the border. Xu Liang would use that momentum to make a reprehensive push further into Xun. And if the army of the Southern Kingdom was well enough prepared, it could very well be the last punishment the Imperial Tactician executed on behalf of the Song.
