“How could she fear you? How could anyone fear you?” She was astonished at the idea.
His chuckle was oddly sinister. “I am not always … courteous,” he said dryly, his memories scalding through him.
Chih-Yü recalled the cold skill with which Saint-Germain had fought Jui Ah. Perhaps he could be frightening. “But fear, in this?”
“It has a kind of power. I would rather not use. it, but if I must, I will…” He stopped, for this would accomplish nothing. “Hsing should not concern you, Chin-Yü. She has nothing to do with what happens between you and me.”
“I suppose it is silly. Without doubt you have known others.” She was not distressed.
“Many others,” he murmured, sensing a new excitement in her.
“And did they all fear you?” She raised her arms and reached behind her head to touch him.
“Not all.” His hands moved from her shoulders, under her arms to her breasts. He was not hurried.
“What became of them?”
He hesitated, then said, “Some of them died. Some of them changed.”
“Changed?” She felt that strange tightness in her body that marked the beginning of her desire.
“When there is understanding, there is a change, eventually. You know what I am, what my love is, and in time that would change you.” Had there been no order for silence, he still would have spoken quietly. His hand cupped her breasts, unmoving.
“How would it change me?” The thoughts of battle were distant now: his voice and his hands were real.
“It would make you what I am, in time.”
“A vampire?”
“Yes.” He lifted her hair with one hand and bent to kiss the nape of her neck before continuing. “When I am truly known, something of my nature passes from me.”
“But a vampire?” The myths haunted her. She heard her nurse’s voice telling her of the rapacious p’o seeking endlessly for a body to possess so that it could plunder the living. To her shame, she trembled.
“It need not be terrible,” he said, and the ancient loneliness was in his tone. “For those who have changed, death has little hold on them, and they cannot be bound by it, even as I was not.”
“But how does it occur?” She felt his hands on her hips, gentle, persistent. Her head went back and her breath came more deeply. As she listened to him, she watched the moon sliding through the clouds, and she let her mind drift with it.
“It … evolves. We have been together three times. If you were to let me love you three times more, you have sufficient … experience of me. Then, unless your head was struck off, or you were crushed or burned, there would be no death for you.” Slowly he opened her sheng go and felt the warmth of her flesh in his hands.
“There are no other ways?” Her body was alive with his touch, eager for him. His small, beautiful hands encountered no resistance as they delved further, reaching to find the source of her pleasure. She sighed languidly, glad to give herself over to this intense moment.
“There is a way,” he murmured to her hair as he stroked her intimately. “Those who taste my blood are made like me. If you would wish that…” He did not want to offer false hope. “It will not make you invulnerable to steel and flame, but it is some protection.” He dared not admit, even to himself, how little defense vampirism would be against the hazards of battle with so implacable a foe as the Mongols.
Her back arched suddenly and she shivered ecstatically. A cry escaped her before she could stop it, but her joy was so profoundly private that the sound was not very loud. She felt flushed, and her feet, which had grown colder, were pulsingly warm in the sweeping delicious frenzy coursing through her. Her fingers were sunk in his dark, loose curls that pressed her cheek as he bent his head against her neck. Though her breath was unsteady, she longed to be able to speak, to tell him that never had she anticipated such complete fulfillment. But words were pallid, tenuous things compared to the immensity of her desire’s culmination. Surely, surely there could be no greater satisfaction, yet she was aware that his hands were not idle, and to her amazement she was responding to an evocation of greater joy. Only when she felt as if the very earth moved under her did he begin to calm her, to lead her roiling, glorious senses to inmost peace.
“Chih-Yü,” he said out of the soft stillness with such compelling longing that she listened to him with her whole soul, “if there had been time, I would have wanted you with me. You have renewed me.”
It was some little time before she was able to appreciate fully what he had said. By then they had drawn apart: the exquisite elation which had possessed her had given way to tranquillity and she was reluctant to surrender that quiet. Finally she met his penetrating eyes. “You speak as if we’ll never have the chance to love each other again.” Though she had meant to chide him only slightly, the prospect of losing the splendor of their passion tinged her words with bitterness.
He could not reply to her at once, but the pressure of his hands on her own told her how deeply that dart had struck. “Do you think,” he said with some difficulty, “truly think, that there will be no more time?”
She looked away. “I don’t know.”
He touched her face. “Chih-Yü, no pleasant little mendacities. That isn’t worthy of you. There is a battle not many hours away, and you know enough of war to know your odds are poor.”
“That’s why I want to fight in the valleys,” she said, sighing as the world closed back in on her. “If we wait here, the valleys will be destroyed, we will be completely disheartened, and in the end, in spite of our defenses, we will go down in flames. There are too many Mongols and far too few militiamen. In the field we might be able to hold them off for a day, or two at the most, and can do enough damage to give these people who live here, who will lose all that they have, a little time to get away.” Her voice dropped and she moved to fasten her sheng go.
“You sent a messenger to Tan Mung-Fa yesterday, didn’t you?” He opened his arms to her, holding her as she came to him.
“Yes.”
“Do you think he will send soldiers?”
Her eyes were distant a moment; then she said, “No.”
“And you will not accept the little protection my blood will give you?” There was anguish in his voice. The moonlight was almost gone as the clouds thickened, and only his extraordinary eyes were able to penetrate the darkness.
This time she actually considered the matter. It struck her then that she knew very little about this foreigner, about his life and the gift that he offered her. She answered him with care. “If I am alive at this time tomorrow, I will welcome your blood.” He started to protest but she silenced him. “This is my land, its safety has been entrusted to me. If it is defeated, then I must fall with it. But if it is saved, then I will not refuse your salvation.” It was difficult to move back, but she did, staring up at him. “Shih Ghieh-Man, don’t try to dissuade me. It would take little to weaken my resolve and that would be…”—she frowned, searching for a way to express her feeling—“ultimately disgraceful.”
Saint-Germain wished that he could protest, that he could remind her how many other Warlords had left less desperate conflicts than this one and were still regarded as heroes.
She hesitated, then said, “My father followed the teachings of Kung Fu-Tzu, and taught me to revere them. I am acting in his stead, and if I were to fail now, in the face of this tribulation, then I could not face the souls of my ancestors, or bear to have my name entered in the annals of my family.”
He heard her out, then said, “I could wish you would prefer life, even my life. Your honor is not at fault. There are fools in Lo-Yang and K’ai-Feng who are too caught up in that ritual of court to know in what danger they all stand. Another ten years of their inept handling and all of this empire will be on her knees. How do such creatures as they deserve your life?”
“I don’t know,” she said solemnly. “But the people in the valleys have trusted me, and I will fight for them.” Her fath
er, she thought, would have wanted her to fight, not for the farmers and their holdings, but for the family reputation. “My brothers are no help to me, and most of my uncles find me an embarrassment. But the farmers here have always respected me, and have provided this fortress with militiamen. Kung Fu-Tzu believed that those in power should be deserving of it.” She turned away from the window and from Saint-Germain. “I should be dressing. My men will muster in another hour. If I fall, see me buried.”
“Shall I stay? Would you like my help?” There was so little she would accept from him and it stung him.
“No, I’ll see to it myself. The housekeeper set out my things before she retired. My steward will rise shortly to arm me.” She looked toward him. “Forgive me. This is difficult for a foreigner to understand. I’m grateful that you have so much regard for me…”
“Regard?” he echoed, knowing that she was trying to take the pain out of their separation.
She could not meet his eyes. “More than regard, then.” And she looked up, and for one enduring instant their passion flared between them.
“Chih-Yü…” he began, but before he could move to reach her, she fled the room, leaving him to stand alone in the darkness.
A letter from Kuan Sun-Sze to Saint-Germain, never delivered.
On the occasion of the Festival of the Harvest Lights in the Year of the Ox, the Fourteenth Year of the Sixty-fifth Cycle, from Lo-Yang:
My excellent foreign friend, I trust that the terrible predations of the followers of the Mongol Temujin have not touched your district. News here is very poor, and so I know very little of what has occurred more than a day’s ride from the city gates. In the last few months I have thought of you, and have hoped that the advice I gave you at the time I brought you to the attention of the Warlord T’en Chih-Yü was wise. There has been much change here, and it distresses me greatly to see how different Lo-Yang has become in so little time.
Though there are no armies at the gates, we are like a city under siege. There are always soldiers in the streets, and the talk one hears in the taverns is most distressing. No one has any faith in the Empire. Just the other afternoon I actually heard one of the officials of the Magisterial Tribunal refer to that Mongol butcher as Jenghiz Khan!
The reason I am telling you this is so that you will understand when I inform you that you must not return here. Foreigners are in the most grave danger from the people. Three days ago, two Korean scholars were stoned by the women at the vegetable stalls in the Street of the Bending Willows. You, being so much more obviously foreign, would be the target for greater outrages than that. Were it possible to travel with any reasonable margin of safety, I believe that I would accompany this letter to the Shu-Rh District and ask for a place of my own at the Warlord T’en’s stronghold.
Your acknowledgment of the receipt of those items I sent you earlier this year was delayed for some time on the road, but a Captain of Archers brought it to me not so very long ago. I was pleased to learn that you did not hold me responsible for the destruction of your house and compound and that you did not intend to petition the Magisterial Tribunal for restitution. Ordinarily I would have insisted that you demand such reparation, but at times like these, it would be folly to do so.
I understand from a cousin of mine at the Tribunal that the army expects little difficulty from the Mongols so far west as you are. The generals believe that the greatest thrust must be at the heartland and the capitals in order to paralyze the empire. How fortunate you are! Here we worry day and night when those frightful barbarians will appear. Where you are, there is protection from their invasions. Should I learn of any developments that might prove dangerous to you, I will be certain that you are notified. Doubtless you will want to be informed before the Mongols actually come into that district that they are on the move, not only so that you may warn Warlord T’en, but so that you may provide passage for yourself and your servant to more secure areas.
How inelegant my expression has become. I have not inquired into the progress of your studies, or the delights of the Shu-Rh District. I suspect that I am too much of a city-dweller, and though I often repair to the country estates of friends, still my heart secretly yearns for the bustle and rush of Lo-Yang. Therefore you must excuse my lack of enthusiasm for your current situation, though I find with the advancing threat of Mongol attack, my taste for the remoter parts of the Empire is growing. Though I write most informally, I know that you will perceive it in the spirit of good fellowship, for to tell the truth, I miss those conversations that we so often enjoyed while you lived here and did me the honor of having me at your house. Also, I find that I am sufficiently prejudiced against country life that I have great difficulty imagining that anyone can work there, and so I have been unpardonably rude in that I have asked nothing about what you have done.
You may be interested to learn that there are new laws against alchemists, particularly the making of gold, for it is reasoned that if the alchemist fails in this endeavor, he will be tempted to steal in order to make up for what he did not produce. The officers of the Tribunal have come to the university once or twice and have spoken most forcefully on the matter, and we all nod and argee and work more circumspectly.
Let me assure you that when this crisis has passed and the Mongols have been driven back into the desert where they belong, it will give me the greatest pleasure to receive you here in Lo-Yang and see that you are restored to your full dignities at the university. For the moment, I would be less than a friend to you if I did not reiterate the need for you to stay away. The danger is most grave, and will continue to be so until the Imperial army has cut this menace down to proper size. In a few years, we will laugh about this, most certainly, and think back to these perilous days as one remembers an incident in childhood.
The Magisterial Tribunal has ordered your name removed from the university roles, but I have taken the liberty of placing all your records in the archives so that when you return, you will have your notes and other papers available to you. The Provost does not know of this, at least not officially, but he has tacitly sanctioned such actions before, and I have assumed he will extend such approval to my decision, if it is required.
When you are able, send me word of your activities there, and I will attempt to keep you informed of the movements of the Mongols and the successes of the Imperial army, so that you will be prepared. You must surely know by my lamentable lack of literary style that this comes by my own hand to you, and that it bears my sincerest greetings as well as my continuing friendship. I have made no copy, and request that you do not keep this.
Kuan Sun-Sze
University of Lo-Yang
his chop
11
From his vantage point on the ramparts of the Mao-T’ou stronghold, Saint-Germain watched the battle below. The air, which in the morning had been sweet with the harvest scents of early autumn, was now scorched with smoking buildings and charred fields.
T’en Chih-Yü had deployed her men in the Geese Winging Amid the Clouds formation at the point where So-Dui valley narrowed and cut through the gap to the smaller, higher Oa-Du valley. Three farmsteads had provided some cover, disguising their numbers—fifty-four mounted fighters and another thirty-nine men on foot. Many of the farmers had agreed to work with the militiamen, carrying supplies, water, bandages, weapons as they might be needed. Chih-Yü, mounted on her sorrel, had taken up the apex of the long V, with her two most experienced militiamen on either side of her.
It was midmorning before the Mongols came through the low pass into the So-Dui valley. There were more than two hundred of them—rough-looking men with bows, swords and thin lances, wearing light armor and curiously pointed helmets. They were mounted on small, scruffy horses, more like ponies, which proved to be fast, tough and indefatigable. They had begun by setting fire to the inn, as Chih-Yü thought they would, and five or six of them were burned when the barrels of pitch inside the old building exploded.
They were canny men, t
hose Mongol warriors. They had been on a long, destructive campaign. They had been ambushed, booby-trapped and decoyed so often that now this latest outrage neither frightened nor angered them—it was exciting. With eerie, triumphant cries, they had turned their shaggy mounts into the valley and taken up a loose variation of the Propriety of the Six Domestic Animals formation, and rushed in a series of crossing search patterns across the fields. Not quite a dozen of the Mongols were victims of the deadfall traps, and five more were caught by various trip-lines, but their comrades paid such minor misfortunes little heed.
As the Mongols approached, Chih-Yü could see that her militiamen were growing restive with fear. It had been one thing to plan to face these calamitous fighters, but to wait for them, facing them, was another matter entirely. From their concealed positions, they watched Temujin’s warriors approach, and terror ran over them with the harvest wind. Chih-Yü bit her lip, her eyes narrowing. The Mongols had not come far enough into her lines for the militiamen to affect the most damage on the invaders, but if she delayed much longer many of her men would bolt, and though each of them knew that to fly from battle brought the most ignominious fame and unredeemable death, the sight of the Mongols would drive this from their minds. Knowing it was disastrous, she raised her lance and signaled the attack.
“No!” Saint-Germain shouted aloud as he watched the militiamen move to close the open ends of their formation. “It’s too early!” There was no one to hear him. Twenty women remained at the Mao-T’ou stronghold, along with a half-blind gatekeeper and two ancient grooms. The rest of the servants and slaves had been sent into the hills. Chih-Yü had offered to send Saint-Germain and his servant Rogerio to Bei-Wah or some other town, but he had refused, and when the others had left in the wake of the militiamen, he had hoped that his decision had been wise.
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