All the fighting had stopped. Men who had been locked in mortal combat only moments ago stood side by side, gazing at the sky and the impossible glory of the celestial creature soaring above them. The bronze tubes gleamed silently in the sunlight.
The dragon roared, the sound echoing off the distant peak. Below us, soldiers dropped to their knees.
I am going to call the rain. He sounded apologetic. You will get wet again. But they need to know Heaven is displeased.
“He is calling the rain,” I said to the others. “And we are getting wetter.”
The clouds gathered first around the peak of White Jade Mountain, water rising from the snow, from the hidden lake. White wisps rose and gathered, thickened to billows, then began to darken, blotting out the sun.
The dragon roared again, calling them.
A long, rolling peal of thunder answered him, growing louder and louder, crashing over the battlefield in a mighty crescendo. I caught a glimpse of men clapping their hands over their ears in pain, it was so loud. There would be no doubt in the minds of any who had fought that day at White Jade Mountain. They had heard a thunder that was truly divine.
And then the storm was upon us, and I saw no more.
It was terrifying, but it was beautiful, too. We were inside the dark, ominous rain-swollen clouds, a thousand times thicker than the densest fog. Here and there, lightning flickered. The clouds unleashed a torrent of rain, sending it sheeting down onto Lord Jiang’s side of the battlefield, drowning their campfires behind the lines of battle, drowning the bronze weapons and their deadly fire-powder. Rain lashed us, too, but the dragon held us clutched gently beneath his immense chest, sheltering us from the worst of it. He swam joyously through the clouds, twisting and twining, sinuous coils shining like moonlight in the midst of the maelstrom.
How long it lasted, I couldn’t say.
Long enough to satisfy the dragon. His chest swelled above us as he drew a deep breath, stretched out his neck, and blew through his nostrils, blowing the clouds away. They dispersed obediently.
The skies cleared and the sun returned.
The dragon flew in a lowering spiral, signaling his intent to land. Below us there was shouting as men ran to clear a space on the battlefield, retreating to their respective sides, taking the dead and wounded with them.
A gilded figure rode beneath the Imperial standard, giving orders. Although he rode a different horse, it was clearly the Emperor. “There,” Snow Tiger breathed with relief. “My father.”
“I will take you to him,” the dragon rumbled aloud.
For such a vast creature, the gentleness he was capable of was a marvel. I never would have guessed it when his spirit was trapped within the princess; but then, mortal flesh was never meant to contain such force, a force as wild and huge as mountains and thunderstorms.
Gently, gently, he sank to the rain-soaked battlefield, landing on three clawed legs, the fourth claw upturned, but still closed. His shimmering silver-white head turned once in the direction of Jiang’s army, enormous jaws parting to loose a warning roar. Soldiers scrambled backward in further retreat, laying down what arms they yet held.
The dragon’s head swung toward the Emperor, dipping briefly in acknowledgment. “Son of Heaven.”
Emperor Zhu bowed deeply in the saddle. At close range, his gilded armor was scratched and dented, splashed with drying blood. There were deep lines etching his face, and his voice trembled with hope and fear and exhaustion. “Most Revered and Celestial One, we are honored by your presence.”
The dragon’s long, elegant jowls curved in a smile. “And I am honored to restore your Noble Daughter.”
He unfurled his claw.
Snow Tiger stepped down from his palm. She was soaked and bedraggled, clad in worn, blood-stained robes of dubious quality, a sword cut marring the delicate perfection of her face. But her carriage was proud and upright, and her eyes were open and shining, able to look upon the world without fear for the first time in long, long months, and in that instant she was without a doubt the most regal thing I had ever seen.
The Emperor made a wordless sound, his voice catching in his throat.
I don’t know who began the cheer. It seemed to arise spontaneously from a thousand throats at once—ten thousand throats, a hundred thousand.
It went on and on, rolling like thunder. And I realized it was not only the soldiers of the Imperial army who were cheering. Lord Jiang’s men were roaring, too, shouting and laughing and crying, glorying in their own defeat.
I glanced at Bao and Dai.
They were battered and weary and rapt, tears making streaks on their dirty faces. I laughed, unable to help it, my own voice breaking. “Hopeless romantics!”
“You’re crying, too,” Bao observed.
“Aye.” I touched my eyelashes, and my fingertips came away wet with tears. I had come so very, very far from home. And for the first time since the Maghuin Dhonn Herself had turned Her face away from me with love and sorrow and regret, for the first time since I had glimpsed the ocean beyond the stone doorway and sensed the long and difficult destiny awaiting me, it seemed to me that despite whatever mistakes I had made along the way, the journey had been worthwhile. “So I am.”
EIGHTY-FOUR
In the aftermath of battle, things were less simple.
Thousands of men were dead, thousands more were wounded. We found Master Lo Feng toiling in the physicians’ tents behind the Imperial battle lines, bone-weary and haggard. Tired as he was, Bao set himself to aiding Master Lo, transforming himself from a warrior to a physician’s apprentice in the blink of an eye, fetching herbs and liniments and decoctions, holding down injured soldiers who needed bones set and wounds sewn.
“Guard her highness,” he said tersely to Dai. Dai nodded, needing no instruction. He had appointed himself Snow Tiger’s shadow. Where the princess went, Ten Tigers Dai was behind her, staff in hand.
I stayed to help with the wounded. Although I wasn’t as skilled an assistant as Bao, and neither of us had a gift for healing, I knew enough of Master Lo’s trade to help. It was grueling, gory, horrible work, and if I never saw the like of such destruction of human flesh again, it would be too soon.
From time to time, Master Lo bade me to sit with men too grievously injured to live. I thought at first that they would not like having the foreign witch keep them company in the hour of their death, but I was wrong.
Along with the princess, Bao, and Dai, I had descended from the sky in a dragon’s claw.
I had helped stop the war.
And if I had come too late for them, they bore me no grudge. My green eyes and half-D’Angeline features didn’t matter. I was a lucky talisman in the midst of horror, a glimpse of hope to take into the courts of the Yama Kings to face judgment in the afterlife. I was a living presence, offering whatever simple comfort I might.
Somewhere in the small hours of the night, I fell asleep holding the hand of a young man whose chest had been crushed by one of the Divine Thunder’s projectiles. It was a wonder that he lived at all, drawing shallow, wet, laboring breaths that were terrible to hear. I held his hand and sang Alban cradle songs to him, and woke to find his fingers stiff and cold in mine and Dai shaking my shoulder.
“Her highness sent me to find you,” he said. “You need to rest, and I do not think she wishes to be alone.”
Too tired to protest, I stumbled after him. Master Lo was still awake, gliding like a spectre through the tents. Bao was propped in a corner and napping, his back against a tent-pole, the two halves of his broken staff across his knees.
Campfires and lanterns dotted the campsite. Everywhere, exhausted men slept. The dragon had departed to the distant peaks of White Jade Mountain. Although he had promised me that he would return, I felt his absence.
A respectable tent had been found for the princess. Dai led me to it, then took up a post outside the opening.
Inside the tent, a handful of sumptuous appointments gleaming, including
a copper basin filled with water warm enough to steam. I met Snow Tiger’s gaze. She was clean and scrubbed, dressed in clean sleeping-robes of rich, embroidered silk. She should have looked more like the daughter of the Son of Heaven, but she didn’t. She looked very young and vulnerable and lost, and it was a loss no one else in the world could understand.
She drew a breath to speak, then shook her head, wordless.
“I know,” I said softly. “It’s all right. I understand.” Keenly aware of how very filthy and tired and sore I was, I undressed and bathed with difficulty. “What news is there of the surrender, my lady?”
“Jiang Quan’s generals have all surrendered without condition.” She sounded as weary as I felt. “Lord Jiang and Black Sleeve escaped into the mountains. They are still missing, but their own men are hunting them.”
I eased my aching body into a clean sleeping-robe. “That’s good.”
“Yes.” Her voice hardened. “Once they are found, their fate is sealed.”
My eyes felt gritty. I rubbed them, mindful that I had not slept for days. “What of the thousands of men they misled into battle? Surely your father will be merciful.”
The princess hesitated. “To most, yes.”
“He seeks to make an example of some?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Black Sleeve may have perfected the formula for the fire-powder, but he did not create the weapons of the Divine Thunder on his own. He taught the formula to dozens of lesser alchemists. Hundreds, maybe thousands, labored on the design and production of the tubes. Hundreds more were taught to arm and wield them on the battlefield.” In the soft, crimson glow of the lanterns, her face looked haunted. “My father is a strong man, strong enough to obey the will of Heaven. He does not seek this knowledge for himself. But there is only one way to keep it from the hands of others, and that is to put every man possessing some piece of it to death.”
“Oh,” I whispered, my blood running cold.
“Yes.” Snow Tiger sighed. “And I can see no argument against it. It is a difficult choice only the Son of Heaven can make.”
It seemed to me that there was some argument, some way that no one had conceived, but whatever it was, I was too exhausted to think of it.
“Let us sleep, my lady.” I blew out the lanterns, one by one, until only dim light from the campfires outside filtered through the tent’s walls. “Sleep is a great healer and restorer. Perhaps in the morning, all will be clear.”
“Perhaps.”
The dragon’s absence yawned like a chasm between us. Knowing the princess would never ask, I went to her bed unbidden, settling my arm around her and pulling her into the curve of my body.
“I feel so empty, Moirin,” she whispered into the darkness. “Although we have won a great victory, I cannot rejoice. So many dead! And I miss him. Deep inside me, I ache at his loss. I cannot say it to anyone else. But I do.”
Already falling asleep, I kissed the nape of her neck. “I know. I miss him, too.”
She found my hand and squeezed it. “I know.”
Alas, morning did not bring clarity.
Morning brought news of the capture of Lord Jiang Quan and Master Lo Feng’s son Lo Yaozu, better known as the alchemist Black Sleeve.
Long before their arrival, our camp buzzed with the news; both camps, in truth, the two having been combined into a sprawling one. And I daresay the soldiers who had fought under Lord Jiang’s standard were more bloodthirsty than those who had fought beneath the standard of the Imperial dragon, for they had been lied to and misled, profoundly betrayed, their loyalties twisted and used against them. On the heels of their surrender, Emperor Zhu had been quick to ensure the true story of Lord Jiang and Black Sleeve’s treachery was made known, and the news had spread like wildfire throughout the former enemy camp.
After the dragon’s appearance yesterday, not a man among them doubted it.
We saw them approaching in the distance, two men on horses, surrounded by several dozen of their former retainers armed with bows and arrows, their dirty faces grinning with triumph.
Emperor Zhu had issued an order that no one was to harm them, and no one did. The crowd of soldiers parted ranks. Not a few of them hissed and spat onto the ground as they passed, but no one raised a hand against Jiang Quan and Black Sleeve.
And we were there to see it. The Emperor and his daughter had given us a place of honor at their side—me, Bao and Dai, and Master Lo Feng.
Him, I worried about.
Stone and sea, it was his son who was the architect of this horror. That plump, laughing toddler I had seen in his memories, the joyful babe playing with a shimmering pearl the size of a ball, had been his son. A man, now, bitter and angry.
For many, many years. No one but Master Lo knew how many.
They came, riding slowly.
Far away in the blue skies, the peak of White Jade Mountain erupted in splendor. I felt the dragon coming and smiled to myself. Gods, he was glorious! His glistening coils decorated the sky as he arrowed toward us, growing larger and larger the nearer he drew, a hundred thousand shouting throats heralding his arrival. He descended softly, drifting downward like a gentle avalanche to settle onto the former battlefield, his gleaming claws digging into the earth, his opalescent eyes regarding the proceedings, all-seeing and impassive.
Heaven’s emissary had arrived.
Lord Jiang Quan was a broken man. I don’t know what else I had expected. Once, he had been a strong and stalwart fellow, a brave, ambitious leader. But he had taken a terrible gamble and lost. He dismounted before the Imperial presence, his head bowed, shoulders slumping.
“Jiang Quan.” Emperor Zhu’s voice was clear and deadly. “You stand accused of rebelling against the Mandate of Heaven. You stand accused of sacrificing your own eldest son to your ambitions. Do you deny it?”
Lord Jiang shook his head, defeat etched on his broad features. “No.”
The dragon rumbled deep in his chest.
“Noble Daughter, do you wish to take this on yourself?” Although a company of Imperial archers stood at the ready, the Emperor turned to the princess, offering her the right of vengeance she had once craved. I was glad when after a moment’s hesitation, she refused it with a slight shake of her head. She had enough blood on her hands, and I cared for her, more than I had ever reckoned. The Son of Heaven nodded, raising one hand and lowering it. “So be it. Let us make an end.”
Imperial bows rose and sang.
I don’t know how many arrows pierced the stalwart figure of Lord Jiang Quan, the enemy I barely knew. A dozen? Two dozen?
Enough. He fell without a sound, his body bristling with arrows.
Black Sleeve was different.
Clad in crimson robes, he sat upright in the saddle. However old he was, he looked no older than fifty or sixty years, a younger version of his father. His long, elegant face was rigid with disdain, dark eyes blazing with fury in it, his gaze locked on his father’s. Master Lo returned it without flinching, returned it with grief and compassion. The alchemist made no move to dismount until the Emperor gestured, and several of his guards stepped forward to prod the captive with spears.
“Lo Yaozu, known as Black Sleeve.” This time, there was sorrow in Emperor Zhu’s voice. “You stand accused of conspiring against the Mandate of Heaven and inciting rebellion. You stand accused of exploiting one of the Celestial Beings to defile the reputation of the Imperial heir. Do you deny it?”
Head held high, Black Sleeve made no reply until the dragon arched its long, shimmering white neck and uttered another menacing rumble. At that, the alchemist paled, though he held his ground. “I make no denial.”
“Why? The word slipped from Master Lo’s lips, filled with anguish. He bowed rapidly three times toward the Emperor. “Forgive me, Celestial Majesty. I cannot help but ask.”
The Emperor nodded. “And I would hear Lo Yaozu’s answer. Why?” He gestured at Lord Jiang’s motionless, bristling body. “Jiang Quan’s ambitions, I under
stand. He sought the Throne of Heaven for himself. What did you seek and why?”
A spasm of emotion crossed Black Sleeve’s face, curling his upper lip. His gaze settled on us, one by one.
I shivered at the pain and venom in it.
“Look at them, Honored Father,” he said with contempt. “You would not lift a finger to aid your beloved wife, my beloved mother, when she lay dying; and yet you crossed oceans and mountains to aid this abomination of an heir to the Throne of Heaven, this girl masquerading as a warrior.”
Snow Tiger’s head snapped up, eyes blazing, her sword singing free of its sheath.
Black Sleeve ignored her. “And them.” He jerked his chin at Bao and me. “You would not consent to teach your own son. Do you not see what promise I held? I might have saved my mother if you had consented to teach me. Look at the pupils you chose instead. A common peasant—some Tatar’s bastard by the look of him—and a sorcerous barbarian, neither with the wits to master the ancient arts.” The pain of an old, old wound trembled in his voice. “Are you proud, Father? Are you proud?”
“No,” Master Lo Feng said quietly. “I am not proud of the youthful folly that led me to steal a dragon’s pearl. I am not proud of the youthful ambition that led me to seek to overturn the order of nature. Most of all, I am not proud of my failure to convey the wisdom of my maturity to my son. For that and what my failure has wrought, I grieve most deeply. Oh, Yaozu! Do you not understand that your mother died as she wished, at peace and in harmony with the world?”
The alchemist turned away, averting his head as though to avoid his father’s words.
Master Lo’s voice continued, gentle and sad and remorseless. “It is true. And yes, my son, I am proud of seeking to aid her Noble Highness, a warrior in truth, violated by your deed. I am proud to play a role in undoing the folly of my youth.”
Kushiel 03 - [Moirin 01] - Naamah's Kiss Page 62
