TenThousandBrokenDreams/Session34
- Mother Cypress speaks:
- “Hello, children. I see that you have come for a tale. So what tale shall I tell you tonight? Would you hear of how Ansa Golden Hand and Sharn Larenn raised up the Ward-Manse of Woodstone as a bulwark against the Fair Folk of the uttermost East? Would you hear of the curse that fell upon Woodstone when they broke faith with one another, and of what power came to dwell within its walls? Or would you hear more of the doings of the children of Moon and Sun, and of the fall of the Scarlet Realm?
- “Ah, then come closer, my children. Gather round, and spread ears like elephants; and I shall tell you more of the tale of the Sun’s bright children, and their troubles in the lands of the East.”
* * * * *
Tepet Aekino’s pavilion smelled of rose oil. The Dynast admired himself in a mirror, turning this way and that to observe the play of the morning sun on his pale blue kimono with its gold embroidery. To his left, the bed lay unkempt. The slave boy knelt beside him, wrapped in a satin bed sheet. “Please, my lord,” the boy whispered. “Do not send me away.”
Aekino shook his head. Black hair gleamed like obsidian around his perfect features. “What am I to do with you, child? Return to your master. Tell him that I require some… variation.”
The boy looked up from where he knelt. Tears gathered beneath his wide, dark eyes. “I can give you variation. Whatever you want, I can give you. I am trained. I belong to you.”
“It is time that we part ways. Your original master, the matchmaker of Iehachi… return to him.”
“Please… please, give me a chance.”
The Dynast sighed. Why were people so troublesome, so needy? “Don’t be sad,” he said, not unkindly. “It is no failure of yours. It is simply that… my priorities are changing.”
“I can help you,” the boy blubbered. “Clothe you, bathe you, tend your wounds.”
“I tire of this,” said Aekino with a small frown. “I said you are dismissed. Go.”
* * * * *
Aekino looked up from his breakfast. He delicately cracked open a roasted chestnut and dropped it into his pungent, egg-laced soup. “Good morning, Li.”
“Good morning, brother.” The swordswoman seated herself beside the sleekly handsome sorcerer. She helped herself to bread and butter. Several moments passed, full of chewing and companionable silence, before she spoke again. “I think I will have to leave Burning Tiger behind.”
“Won’t that create difficulties on its own?”
“There are too many Dragon-Bloods around. Too many.”
Aekino gave her a puzzled look. “What do Dragon-Bloods have to do with Burning Tiger?”
“It wants their blood. It hungers for their lives.”
“Ah.” Aekino pondered. “I was not aware it had so much sentience.”
Li said nothing.
“I am sorry it causes you such conflict.” The Twilight blew gently upon his spoon. “If I can be of any help, I will help. Perhaps I can examine it.” His brow furrowed. “Does it want my blood?”
Li shook her head.
“That is a relief. I think that even if I try, I will not be able to touch its Essence yet. But as I become more familiar with such things, I will take a look at it on occasion.”
“I do not know when you should do such a thing.”
“It is a difficult and terrible burden you bear, sister. Of course, the irony is it has great power connected to it.”
Li shrugged. “Power is a burden,” she replied. “But we all have our burdens to carry.”
* * * * *
Martin smiled as he moved through the sun-spattered market. The novelty of the tournament had not quite yet worn off. His eyes darted across strange merchandise and brightly clothed foreigners; he listened to odd dialects and breathed deeply of unknown spices. A sob caught his ear, and his gaze settled on a small, slumped figure in a tavern’s shadow. He recognized the slave boy. “Oh, Aekino,” he muttered to himself, then donned a friendly grin as he approached the boy. “Is everything all right?”
The boy glanced up, then covered his face to conceal the puffiness and the tears. “It’s me,” he mumbled. “He does not want to see me again.”
“Speak up, child,” said Martin, as kindly as he could manage.
The slave boy raised his voice a fraction, though he did not leave his protective crouch. “He tires of me,” he said.
“Who?”
“Your companion,” he whispered bitterly.
Martin gave him an odd look. “I have several.”
“I speak of Master Aekino. I am young and I bore him,” the boy wailed, “and all I know is that I never want to be away from him again!”
“All right, kid, listen,” said the god-blood. He laid a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “It isn’t worth feeling like this –”
“Of course it is. This is all I am. I want to please him, to belong to him. It is what I am. He is a hero.”
Martin laughed. “You’re in the Hundred Kingdoms. Heroes grow on trees here.”
The boy wasn’t really listening. “Perhaps… but perhaps you could persuade him! I could show you my skill… prove that I am worthy.”
“Look,” Martin said, raising his voice slightly. “I’m not interested in your skills, or any of that. Listen. You don’t get close to people like Aekino and stay there. Slave boy, Dragon-Blood, it doesn’t matter. You take what you can when you can take it, and enjoy it for as long as it lasts. That’s all.”
“What about the two of you?”
“Our relationships are not the same. I am his bodyguard.”
“Then perhaps… I can serve you then.” A little life returned to the boy’s dark eyes. “And one day, you can approach him and get him to change his mind.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “You still don’t get it. Let me ask you… how long did it take him to ask you his name?”
The boy flushed and looked away. “He… ah…”
“He didn’t even ask you your name?” Martin guffawed. “How can you care that much? How do you do it?”
“It’s what I do,” the boy replied, hurt.
“No, serving is what you do. Not caring. Who teaches you this stuff?”
The boy glared. “Have you ever been with Aekino? If not, do not tell me what I know or do not know.”
“Ah, I like that backbone. Keep it up. And no, I haven’t been with him.” Martin sighed. “Look, I don’t need a slave. I won’t help you in this. Go home… or stay here.” A nasty little smile came across his face as he added, “Come to think of it, I know a Dragon-Blood named Alec Doren; he can use a slave. He was complaining about having to make his own bed, and other chores…”
“You laugh at me,” the boy said sullenly.
Martin shook his head. “No.”
“Where is this Doren?”
“I don’t know, but he is friends with Aekino. Here, get off the floor.” Martin drew the boy to his feet, then pressed a coin into his hand. “Get something to eat, wash your face and go find Doren.”
“How will I find him?”
“This is a big place. I’m not sure of where he stays. Good luck.”
The boy melted into the crowd.
* * * * *
Spring had come to the City of Temples. So, too, had Thorwald of Stonehold and Zera Thisse. Alone in the throng, they had left the Street of the Beggar Gods for the more affluent district of the Red Banner Hill.
“How hard could it be,” Zera asked, “to find a temple of secrets?”
Thorwald shrugged. “I hate this place! And I’m not even trying to.”
“I’m at a loss… I think it doesn’t want to be found. Or maybe there is no temple of secrets. You know what I think?” The archer grinned. “I’m sure you’ll agree when I say that this has been awfully thirsty work.”
“Hmm. How many weeks of drinks do I still owe you?”
“Three months.”
“It is not three months!”
The pair made their way to a cool, high-ceilinged tavern. Finely dressed apprentices gossiped over plates of meat and wine with the gardeners and valets of the wealthy; green and scarlet prayer strips fluttered from the rafters, their golden inscriptions luminous in the shade.
“How can I help you, sirs?” A smiling barmaid approached their table as they seated themselves. Wisps of pale flame danced through her red hair, revealing elemental blood.
“Give me mead,” barked Thorwald. “Not this goat piss you call beer in the south.”
“We’re not even in the south,” Zera retorted, giving the barmaid a helpless smile. “This is the north where I come from.”
A wispy, gossamer-winged shape followed them into the tavern. As their drinks arrived, it drifted over to their table. It hovered over a basket of salted cashews, which started to disappear amid crunching noises.
“I didn’t know spirits ate nuts,” said Zera Thisse.
Thorwald watched the shape float over to Zera’s glass. “Or drank beers…”
The creature looked up from the diminishing amber liquid. “We’re not supposed to,” it replied in a piping, childlike voice. “Anyway, I’m not a spirit. I’m a god.”
“That’s different,” Thorwald scowled. He scratched irritably at his reddish stubble. “If I knew you were a god, I would not have let you sit down.”
“What kind of god are you?” asked Zera, eyeing his diminishing beer.
“I,” it said, drawing its small body up proudly, “am the god of the dreams of rebellious children.”
Zera pulled the remnants of his beer away from the godling. “Are you even old enough to be drinking that?” Catching his comrade’s eye, he grumbled, “Why can’t we hang out with the god of uncontrollably attractive women, or the god of giving us money for no reason?”
“You’re looking for the Temple of Hidden Letters,” piped the god. “In all my divine glory, I know where the temple is.”
“Then let us barter,” Thorwald said. “We will pay for your food and drink, and you will direct us.”
“I don’t need food and drink. I want to go with you.”
Thorwald gave the spirit a rueful look. “Are you really a god?”
“Yes,” interjected Zera. “That is why she is so annoying.”
The godling smiled. “It’s rare when you ask a person if they’re a god and they say no.”
“Could you maybe let us talk this over for a minute?”
“Could you worship me?”
Without thinking, Zera and Thorwald responded in unison: “No!”
As the spirit wandered off, Thorwald asked, “Is there a god for everything?”
“Groaning aside, what do you think of her offer?”
“I say no.”
“Do you think we can find the temple ourselves?”
“No. But I am weighing the merits of searching for this temple forever and not finding it, against the prospect of being followed around by a god that so annoys me.”
Zera smiled. “We’ll be on our best behavior. She’ll get bored quickly that way. What could possibly go wrong?”
“I am worried about my own self-control. What if it insults me? What if I get angry and I lose control? I don’t want to go through that again.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Where can we possibly go that someone won’t anger you?”
The godling finished tying a merchant’s shoes together and flitted back. “Well?”
“We agree.”
“Great! Whenever you’re done getting drunk, we can go.”
Thorwald rose from his seat. “Let us go, then.”
“No,” sighed Zera. “I’m going to finish this beer.”
* * * * *
The god led them back down into the temple district. Pilgrims swarmed past, jostling for position among the thousands of incense-wreathed shrines. “You may call me Kibu.”
“Is there nothing else we may call you?” grunted Thorwald.
“You can call me the divine and glorious Kibu.”
“Kibu it is.”
The shimmer-winged godling led them through a winding alley and into a tree-ringed plaza. “Have you never been bad as a child? Disappearing into the wood –”
“I do that all the time,” Zera replied.
“Teasing cats,” continued Kibu obliviously, “pulling the wings from flies, rebelling against your parents…”
“You know what I think is bad? Shooting little gods full of arrows,” snapped the archer. “Let’s have a little more finding the temple and a little less chatter.”
“In the north,” said Thorwald, “when children disobey, we turn them upside down and pour water down their noses.”
Zera blinked, astonished. “Do you really?”
“Of course. How do you punish children in the south?”
“We send them into the forest to get a tree branch and whip them with it,” Zera replied sarcastically.
“Ah. But then, how do you get infants to stop crying?”
“You’re jesting.”
“I never –”
“Right, you never jest.” Zera shook his head. “That’s horrible.”
Thorwald shrugged. “Now I know why you southerners whine so much.”
* * * * *
Zera tuned out the spirit’s prattle. Overhead, the clouds glowed red with the afternoon sun. The chants, the bells, the banner-bedecked spires; these were becoming uncomfortably familiar. “Godling – ”
“I’m not a godling! I’m a god!”
“Well, my little god, how long will it take to get to the temple?”
“Oh, not long, not long.” It giggled. “You don’t have to be such a sour-puss. We’re almost there, really!”
“You said that before,” Zera muttered. Louder, he added, “About six blocks back, we passed the temple of Zengu the Disciplinarian. Maybe we could stop there for directions?”
The god made a face. “I hate Zengu.”
“Kibu,” said Thorwald, “I will offer you a prayer if you take us to the temple.”
Kibu brightened. “All right!” She zigged ahead, turning sharply left at an open-air shrine, and then darting into an alley between a priestess’ house and a seller of prayer strips. The others followed, leaving the noise and bustle of the temple district behind. Ahead, the holy place they sought nestled in a tree-lined courtyard.
“Ta da!” warbled Kibu. She fluttered over to Thorwald, smiling saucily “Well? I await thy words, my worshipper!”
“…”
Zera smirked at his speechless companion. “Yes, we eagerly await thy words, worshipper.”
Thorwald closed his eyes. Silently, his lips moved as he rehearsed what he might say. Finally he spoke: “Great Kibu, god of the dreams of rebellious children… I pray… that you mercilessly haunt the dreams of the children of our enemies. And I thank you for leading us to the temple. May you always have many worshippers and may they always… worship you.”
Zera Thisse stared in astonishment. Kibu capered and grinned. “I will ensure your enemies receive many spankings!”
“What’s a spanking?”
* * * * *
Leaving the godling behind, the Solar pair entered the temple. A shaven-pated monk greeted them at the doors and led them through sparely furnished rooms to an altar. There, beneath a faceless statue, sat their Lunar companion, Fetek Breath-of-Midnight, whom they had sought for many weeks. He remained in meditative posture for several minutes, chanting softly under his breath. When he stood, it was with the flawless grace of the gazelle. He looked past Zera, instead inclining his head respectfully to Thorwald. “Pillar of the Sun,” he said, “I am glad to see you.”
“Why do you call me that, Fetek?” asked Thorwald. “I have never understood it.”
“It’s a title.”
Thorwald nodded. “How fare you?”
Fetek opened his shirt, revealing several ugly greenish scars on his chest. “I have almost healed from the Night Caste’s attack.”
“Ah.” The northman glanced from one companion to the other. The Lunar seemed disinclined even to look in Zera’s direction. With a shrug, he said, “I think Zera wishes to say something to you.”
Zera rolled his eyes. “I don’t need you to talk for me. That is how children settle disputes.” Raising a forestalling hand, he continued, “That was not a jab at you. I just… I only want you to talk to me. I was not myself. It happens to all of us, him worst of all,” he added, pointing at Thorwald. “I do not know what I was in the throes of. All I know is that when it takes me, I have no compassion, no sense of justice, and no remorse. After all our time together, you would know that is not me. Take my situation into account… just before that, someone tried to sucker punch me.”
“I am not sorry about that,” Thorwald rumbled.
“And when you turned to birds and came at me,” Zera continued, “I didn’t realize they were only magpies. I thought you were attacking me, and I reacted. For what it’s worth, I don’t have the words to apologize to you. They don’t exist.”
Fetek stared at him in stony silence. Smoke rose around the faceless altar; incense cracked and popped in the brazier. Finally, the young Lunar spoke. “I am… happy to see you again, Iron Wolf.” After a stilted pause, he added, “I hope you are feeling better.”
“In one sense, yes. In another… I think about that cabin every night.”
Blood-streaked faces howled in the depths of Fetek’s memory. He turned away. “I don’t really remember that.”
“We won’t speak of it now.” Especially not here, Zera added silently.
“Well then. Are you willing to make amends with the Sage of the Lilac Garden?”
“I am.”
“Good. If you wish, we can leave Great Forks as soon as you are finished.”
“I would scarcely like to waste any more time. What do I have to do?”
“Burn some incense,” said Fetek, gesturing to the altar. “Pray for forgiveness. Show the Lords of Heaven your remorse.”
Zera laughed. “That’s almost disappointing. I thought I’d have to scale an unscalable wall and steal a gem from the idol of a rival god.”
“That would be me,” Fetek observed softly.
“Eh?”
The young Lunar sighed. “When you were not yourself, I took care of it. I owe the Sage a task.”
Zera’s hand twitched reflexively toward his bow, and then sank. “Do you have to go alone?”
“It may be only something I can do.”
“That is not fair,” grumbled Thorwald. “We should all be able to take up the task.”
“You may be able to help me. Zera may not.”
Thorwald nodded decisively. “Then I will aid you.”
“All right, then.” Zera cracked his knuckles. “One prayer with extra incense, huh? Let’s do this.”
* * * * *
Time passed. His prayers done, Zera joined his companions at tea; he savored the quiet, the cool evening shadows, and the knowledge that one of his troubles had been taken from his shoulders. The sky grew darker, the courtyard walls around the temple obscuring the colors of sunset. Distantly, the prayers of the faithful rose to Heaven like the cries of gulls.
“Are there any other ways out of here?” he asked, setting down his cup. The green dregs revealed to him no secrets.
Fetek nodded. “Of course.”
“That miserable godling is waiting outside so it can hound us for the rest of our days.”
“He will find you wherever there is a child.”
Thorwald stood. “There is nothing for it, then,” he said. Shouldering his blade, he walked out.
Zera groaned, but followed. Outside, the godling flitted through bluish evening light, pulling down prayer strips and letting them drift into the gutter. It drifted over to Zera. “Hey there, mortal! You owe me some worship!”
The archer shook his head. “Nope.”
“But you promised!”
“I said maybe. I changed my mind.”
Kibu pouted. “Beware! My wrath is terrible!” It flung a tiny little lightning bolt at Zera; briefly, it made his skin itch.
“I’m not a parent; I don’t discipline children. There are other people you could be paying attention to who would be more fruitful than me.”
It buzzed uncertainly, then giggled. “I have a secret. I’m going to stay with you until you guess it.”
Zera rolled his eyes. “Oh… to Hell with this. Let’s find a tavern.”
Thorwald grinned. “One that has mead!”
* * * * *
Midnight. Zera slept in a spartan room, on the second story of a threadbare inn. Moonlight gleamed around the edges of window shutters, scything through shadows and drifting dust. A dog lay curled at the bed’s foot.
Something stirred.
Zera opened his eyes. Sitting up cautiously, he grasped the dagger beneath his pillow and pushed the coverlet aside. A thickness hung upon the air; an unnatural silence. Then the true darkness came. Like coiling smoke, blackness oozed like smoke from underneath the door, then congealed into a pale shape with midnight hair, clad in robes of ermine and silver, flanked by two lesser shapes. A crimson radiance limned them; blood pooled at their feet.
The moment snapped. Zera flung his knife and vaulted toward his enchanted bow. The central intruder seized the knife from the air. Then, before Zera released an arrow, the three shapes flung themselves to the floor in obeisance. “Hail, o Dagger of Heaven!” they chanted. “Hail, o Concealed Sun!”
Zera held an arrow drawn, but did not fire. “Eh?”
“I am Swiftly Flowing Crimson,” said the leader, “the God of Murder Upon the Rushing Waters, and I have come to offer you my fealty.”
“… What?”
“You are a Hidden Sun,” said the god, its escorts gyrating slowly to either side. “You are an Iron Wolf, a Dagger of Heaven. At last, you have come again into this world. Once, I was a loyal servant to your kind. But now this world is out of joint, and you have been gone for too long. My offerings have been few, and the ways of Heaven unobserved. But you have come again, and so have I: to set the natural order right again.”
“Really.” Zera glared down the length of his arrow.
“You and I are natural allies,” the god continued. “Murder is in your nature, as it is in mine. You are a Dagger of Heaven; you walk through the dark places, bringing death to unrighteous and wicked souls. Our knives purge Creation of evil men; our arrows cleanse the world of sin. This is our duty. This is our purpose. Surely, our destinies shall be intertwined, as they once were in the First Age. You have but to take up the mantle of sovereignty, o Hidden Sun. As we served you once, we shall serve you again.”
The three gods bowed deeply. Silence filled the air once the words of Swiftly Flowing Crimson had gone. Hesitantly, the three straightened. Clasping its hands together, the murder god spoke. “Have you nothing to say?”
“I do have something to say.” He paused, his muscles twanging with the strain of holding the arrow in place. “There are times when we take life. It’s never something to be proud of. And I can’t accept your fealty.”
The dog snorted in its sleep. It opened one eye, which narrowed upon the intruders. Rising to its paws, it shook itself; and as it shook itself, it grew and grew, shifting and silvering. Fetek towered in his war form, antlers glowing faintly with the dimmed moonlight.
As one, the gods turned toward the Lunar. They bowed like clockwork toys. “Hail, o Silver Shadow!” cried the first god. “Hail, o Child of the Hidden Moon! I am Swiftly Flowing Crimson, and I have come to pay homage once more to the Celestial Exalted and receive the worship that is my due.”
Fetek regarded the god coolly, but made no answer. He yielded the matter to his companion. “Zera?”
The archer lowered his bow, but his glare did not slacken. “Not interested.”
“You say you will not accept my fealty?” Swiftly Flowing Crimson tilted his head to one side, nonplussed. “But I have much to offer. Do not pretend that you take no pleasure in murder. If you worship me, offering your prayers upon my altar, I shall serve you loyally, as I did in an age gone by. Such was always our arrangement and our way. Whence comes this refusal?”
“I have dim memories of times gone by,” said Zera; and as he spoke, the memories came sharp and clear, cold as knives in his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he could not block out the visions. The pleas of the doomed and the screams of the dying echoed in the cavern of his skull. The sweat on his hands burned like blood. “If these Iron Wolves were like the ones I remember, they brought death in the night and killed those who opposed them.”
“Of course. That is their function. Your function.”
“No, it is not!” Zera spat. “They lost sight of that. Their function is to watch people and protect them.”
“That is not incompatible with my function. Surely, o Hidden Sun, you have taken life to spare the lives of others. Blood is the price of your guardianship; you shield your protectorate with corpses. Surely you know the truth of this!” The god gestured grandly, trailing scarlet shadows, and its minions echoed its movements. “All I ask is a word. One word. You need only say, ‘Yes.’ Say ‘I accept.’ Say these things, and all that is mine, my knives and servants and worshippers, all these things shall be yours for a thousand years. You may not wish it, you may deny it, but you cannot escape the truth. You and your kind are the greatest murderers in creation.”
“I do not celebrate what I do.”
“It is not about celebrating. Everything in Creation has meaning and purpose, and must be venerated for its nature. I ask for that acknowledgment which is my due. Once, you asked men to worship you, and not the gods. Your kind twisted the natural order. Let things be what they once were, what they must be.”
“No. I am not a murderer, and I will not play your games. Go back where you came from, death god. You will get nothing from me.”
The gods whispered to one another, nonplussed. Blood seeped further across the floorboards; the air stank of it. Reaching a conclusion, the murder-spirits turned once more to Zera. Swiftly Flowing Crimson made a gesture: “Will you listen to my seneschal?”
“Yes.”
Clasping its long-fingered bony hands together, the leftmost god shuffled forward, bowing deeply. “I am Treasured Scythe,” it said, its voice the hiss of sharpening steel. “I have heard your words, great soul, and I hear the sadness within them. But you must realize a thing: there are many who would make themselves the enemies of Heaven, regardless of what you do, and sometimes such beings must be struck down in silence in the night. When this happens, many, many lives are saved. When you do this thing, you aid Creation and do homage to us. All we ask is you recognize this homage that you do, that you acknowledge how we both serve Heaven, each in our own ways. That you formalize a relationship that already exists.”
Zera snorted derisively. “And perhaps I can woo a woman I love and beg a love goddess to consummate our marriage.”
Treasured Scythe frowned. “We do not deserve mockery.”
“You deserve worse than that, and I’ve half a mind to show you first-hand. Fuck you, murder gods. I am not like you, and I never will be like you. Go. Away.”
“He is young,” murmured the last god, who had not heretofore spoken aloud. “I advised you that this might happen.”
Swiftly Flowing Crimson nodded. He bowed deeply, mirrored by his subordinate gods, then straightened. “Very well, Lord Thisse. We take our leave of you. If you reconsider, our temple lies upon the Street of Axes.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
The gods of murder bowed one last time, then dissolved into darkness once more. Scarlet light flickered. Like smoke, the shadows swirled away beneath the door, and were gone.
Zera sat down hard on the edge of the bed. He folded forward with an exhausted sigh, bracing his forearms on his knees. He wrinkled his nose at the blood that remained pooled on the floor, the only tangible sign of their traffic with the spirits. “I wonder if we will have to pay for that?”
“It will be gone by morning,” said Fetek.
“I hate this place.”
* * * * *
They threw the shutters wide that night. The moonlit breeze swept the room, brushing away the dust and the dank chill of the murder gods. The spicy odors of midnight prayers mingled with the smoke of incense that Fetek burned to mute the blood stench. The two young men spoke long into the night and on to the dawn, debating the responsibilities of the Solar Exalted.
“You must reclaim your place in the Celestial Order,” said Fetek. He seemed ordinary now, a simple boy slouching in his chair, but for the silver gleam in his eyes.
“How are we supposed to do this?” Zera retorted. He paced. “There used to be hundreds of us. Now there’s just four. We couldn’t do it even if we wanted to. And I don’t want to,” he added, brushing stray hair back irritably. “Let Tepet Aekino do it. I’m sure it’s right up his alley.”
“He can’t do it alone. As you say, there used to be many of your kind. You may not need so many, but you do your brothers a disservice if you do not stand at their side.”
“I can do nothing. I sit up nights thinking of this. Why us?” He punched the wall, crunching a dent into the plaster. “Why just us?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s no one who tells us what is right or wrong.”
Fetek gave a puzzled look. “Doesn’t the Sun speak to you?”
“Once.” Zera sighed in frustration. “It was vague and left more questions than answers.”
“Luna is more forthcoming,” Fetek replied. “Or at least comes with more regularity. I am surprised that the Unconquered Sun has only the four of you.”
“I guess we’re on our own.”
“I’m sure the Unconquered Sun will eventually make apparent what you must do.”
Zera walked to the window, where the blue glow of false dawn displaced the moon. He leaned moodily against the sill. “Thorwald and I were talking,” he mused. “We’ve determined that these moods, these fits, come to us all. It occurred to us there must be others like us, waiting to be freed. If we can find what causes these fits and bring them to an end, then we can find these shards and let them go. And then we can do something about Thorns and the shadowlands.”
“Allies in heaven would be useful,” chided Fetek.
Zera flashed a sour, furtive smile. “There are temples on the Streets of Axes…”
“Don’t look at me,” Fetek retorted, waving the words away. “That is not my place.”
“Neither is it mine. But you heard them. I am a Dagger of the Night.”
“Dagger of Heaven,” corrected Fetek absently.
“Sorry. I’m rusty on my grandiose terminology.” The archer slouched over and fell onto the bed. “I’m tired. I need to sleep.”
* * * * *
The weeks fled past the tournament grounds. With the seasons chained to spring’s mild weather, only the duels distinguished one day from the next. The passing rounds thinned the field; many of the competitors left in disgrace, shamed or maimed or dead, though others stayed to watch the remainder of the tournament.
Li stood with her companions at the edge of the dueling circle. Above the clash of steel on bronze and the roar of the crowd, a hundred competitor’s banners cracked in the wind. The western swordswoman stared blankly into the circle, composing her mind for the battle to come.
Alec Doren adjusted the ivory comb that held back his long, pale hair. “Have the two of you seen the Master fight?”
Ledaal Martin looked up from his kebab. ”Who?” he asked through a mouthful of tender lamb.
“Master Hark.”
“I haven’t.”
“What he did to the young Dragon-Blood,” Doren said patiently. “Do you remember?”
Martin nodded, remembering. “Well, she deserved it.”
“Is she dead?”
“She made it to Sijan.”
“I see.”
“I don’t think Li has room for error. Tepet Aekino,” said Martin, turning to the Twilight, “you might want to give her advice.”
Aekino regarded the younger man with surprise. “Give advice to Li? She is at home in battle.”
“I have no fear for Li, but it will be unpleasant if she loses control.”
The Twilight smiled, reminiscing. “Rarely has she ever.”
“Here is the thing,” Martin continued. “Don’t get caught up in that fight. I don’t trust Shima. If Li walks out in anything but less than perfect shape, the Immaculates may try something.”
“They will regret that,” said Alec Doren. “Our hosts will kill them before they have a chance.”
Martin snorted. “We are dealing with fanatics,” he replied, wiping lamb grease from his fingers. “These are people who’ve had stories about Anathema pounded into them since they were born.”
”I grew up among them,” Aekino protested, “and I’m no fanatic.”
“That’s because you weren’t locked up in a monastery since you were six years old,” Martin replied. “No one seriously believes that stuff about reincarnation and Dragon-Blooded karmic superiority except for the indoctrinated and the stupid. It’s just a story the Immaculates cooked up to keep the peasants in line.”
Doren shook his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Certainly, no gods or spirits that I know of have come forward to deny the truth of the Immaculate Philosophy. I’m no scholar myself, but I won’t claim to know whether it’s true or false.”
A heated argument sprang up between the three regarding the moral fitness of the Immaculate Philosophy and its adherents. Their shouting dissolved in a wash of noise when the crowd screamed over the end of the current match, as the Eastern barbarian Essereth broke an outcaste Dragon-Blooded champion’s back. Then the crowd noise quieted as a herald in sea-green and silver announced the next match: “Li of Orchid versus Master Hark!”
Li stepped out onto the beaten earth of the circle. Across the arena, an elderly man stepped forward. Dry twigs crackled amid strands of white hair; milky cataracts dulled the green of his eyes. He leaned upon a simple wooden staff, barely a stick, as he shuffled forward.
In the grand pavilion, the Eighteen Princes of the Opal Branch stood. Their skin shone like silk in the late afternoon sun. Together, they raised their hands, and the air within the circle rippled and swam. To Li’s eyes, the crowded stands shivered and dissolved, swept away like butterflies upon a wind, revealing a wide temple courtyard open to the western sun. To one side lay a dragon-roofed temple of polished wood and rice-paper walls; to the other, the ground dropped away in valleys of gray and white, snow sifting across the view of mountains and blue skies.
The old man bowed deeply; the crisp wintry air ruffled his frosty hair and gray robes. “Come then,” he said, his voice an unexpectedly strong tenor. “I am Master Hark.”
“Greetings, Master Hark.” The swordswoman bowed. “I am Li of Orchid. It will be an honor.”
“Indeed.”
From a distance, unseen, Li heard the voice of the herald. “Prepare yourselves!”
Li drew her twin blades, Radiance and Brilliance, and moved through the opening kata of the Five-Fold Bulwark Stance. Master Hark’s stick hummed as he performed the Five-Dragon Blocking Technique; his age seemed to drop away, his movements crisp and smooth as a Djala acrobat’s.
The herald called out again. “Be ready!”
Snow drifted onto Li’s sleeves as she rose into the Graceful Crane Stance. Master Hark breathed deeply, moving his hands through the gestures of the Air Dragon Form.
The herald’s voice rang through the valley: “Begin!”
Li waited. So did Master Hark. They watched each other, unmoving, hearing only the tinkle of prayer chimes and the sigh of the wind in the peaks.
“Come,” said Master Hark. “What are you waiting for?”
Li remained motionless, unwilling to be drawn into injudicious action. The old Dragon-Blood shrugged and poked at Li’s midsection with his staff. Li parried and riposted, her swords shining and singing as she probed her opponent’s defenses.
Master Hark stepped back. He spun his stick easily in one hand. “So, Li of Orchid,” he said. “Where did you receive your training?” When the swordswoman said nothing, Hark leaned down and swept his stick at her ankles. She leapt up and back, one blade lashing out at her opponent in a blaze of Essence. He calmly parried amid a spray of sparks; the blow scraped a strip of bark from his stick, revealing green jade beneath. “Very good,” he said, smiling.
The Dawn Caste refused to take the bait. She fought cautiously, respecting her elder opponent’s skills; she said nothing. Thin trails of smoke rose from the temple, sweet with frankincense, rising to the heavens above. Her swords danced like swallows; Master Hark’s rod flickered like a sapling in the wind, darting at head, heart and belly with ceaseless precision.
“Your style is familiar, child,” said Hark.
Li parried, twisting; her sword rang as green jade blocked her riposte. “In what way?”
“Yours is the school of the Crane, is it not?”
“It is.” Radiance and Brilliance flared against the green; her parries stripped away more bark from the old man’s stick.
He nodded, smiled in the momentary pause. “Who taught you then, child?”
“My master was Wudi,” said Li, punctuating her statement with a whirling two-bladed assault. “Son of Themata.”
Master Hark gave way before the golden onslaught. Gravel scraped and shifted beneath his sandaled feet, but his smile did not waver. “Ah, Wudi. I have not seen him in many years.”
As the young swordswoman hesitated, her face unusually open, Hark swung his staff at her throat. She parried and thrust reflexively. He leapt above the low strike and landed, feather-light, upon her blade, then kicked off and somersaulted back towards the temple gate.
Li pursued the old Wood Aspect, pressing him back through the temple doors. Within, a hush lay upon the place; their sandals brushed softly over the rush-strewn wooden floor. The rafters hung above like gulls on the wind. “You know my master, then,” said Li, her radiant blades casting a faint tracery of shadows upon the walls.
Orichalcum met jade; the clang resounded high in the rafters. Above the sliding rice paper panels that walled and doored the temple, there brooded nine hundred gods; behind them all loomed a vast, inscrutable mandala of cedar and gold leaf, its eight interlocked rings gleaming above the altar like the sun and stars. Master Hark smiled into a pause amid the strife. “Indeed,” he said, “I helped train him in his adventures in the East.”
Li inclined her head respectfully. “Then, master,” she said softly, “I owe you a great deal.”
“You follow the Eight-fold Path, do you not?”
“I do.”
Their weapons clashed, gleaming vaguely in the muted light that seeped through the rice-paper walls. Master Hark spun his stick through a slow and lazy kata. “Of all the tenets of the Path,” he inquired, “which do you think to be the greatest?”
Li pondered for a moment. Then she quoted the Mantra of Conflict: “Conflict is the name for the force which creates change. Change is the Way of Creation. Thus, the Way lies in conflict.”
“Very good,” said the old Dragon-Blood. Dreamlike, he leapt into the rafters. “Not your master’s way, but no student follows in every footstep of the master.”
“No,” the young Solar replied. “Otherwise, he would not be a true student.”
Leaning down from the rafters at an impossible angle, Hark struck at Li, then somersaulted deftly to the floor. “Indeed,” he replied, his eyes smiling in their wrinkled nests.
Li retreated before the Master, wending back and forth amid the temple pillars, deflecting blows from the jade-hearted staff with easy flicks of the wrist. But Hark showed no more sign of fatigue than the cypress or the oak, so Li returned to the offensive. She attempted the maneuver known as Iron Dragon Breaks the Bridge, but the Dragon-Blood turned it aside with ease. Her swords danced through the movements of Wind Scatters the Snow, but this served her no better. Recklessly, she attempted the Four Kingfishers in Spring. Jade spat green sparks as Master Hark turned aside the four strokes of her sword; the fourth blow came so close as to shear through his robe, but did not actually land.
“Very good,” he mused. “But clearly something holds you back. What do you want, child? The fires of desire are burning in you.”
“I wish to know my mind and my way.”
“Then why do you restrain yourself?”
Frowning slightly, sweat beading upon her tattooed skin, Li allowed her blades to reply for her. Her new assault pressed Master Hark back to the edge of the temple space. Like a windblown leaf, the old man skittered sideways and backed out through an opening in the paneled walls. As Li advanced, Hark kicked the rice-paper panel so that it slid shut with a wooden clack. The swordswoman moved closer, her steps the careful walk of the crane; she peered through the thinness of the rice paper, but no shadow moved on the other side.
Li edged forward. She traced an arc across the panel with one luminous sword’s point; a flap of rice paper fell away, revealing blue sky. She frowned. Then she spun about, driven by reflex and Essence, to parry a blow from the stick as the Dragon-Blood struck at her from behind. Her unthinking, Essence-driven riposte drew a few drops of blood from her opponent’s wrist.
Master Hark blinked a few times, either from pain or in surprise, but evinced no other reaction. Indeed, he seemed to be enjoying the match; his attention scarcely seemed to be on the fight itself, but rather upon whatever Li’s movements reflected of her thoughts. “You have never known the pleasures of the flesh,” he observed. “Have you, child?”
Li methodically pressed her opponent back, toward the other side of the temple. “Have you, master?”
“Of course.” Master Hark seemed content to allow Li the initiative. “One must embrace temptation in order to know how to combat it. For it is not pleasure that is banned, but the path of yearning.”
Hark backed out of the temple, his stick-like figure silhouetted against the shine of sun on rock. Again he stepped sideways and kicked a rice-paper panel shut; this time, Li immediately shredded it in a blaze of razor-edged Essence. He shoved another panel sideways as she stepped through the opening; she kicked it back, almost clipping him with the frame.
They moved out into the stone garden, and there the Dragon-Blood finally demonstrated his full power, the green Essence rising around him as his staff whirled and flashed in the sun, moving faster than Li could see. Her blades moved of their own volition, parrying one stroke after another, but the stick wove through the defense to land below her breastbone with a loud crack. The blow to her solar plexus sent her reeling; she forced herself not to vomit, to remain standing, as the Essence guided her swords despite her weakness.
She let her anger free. Gold fire roared from her mouth as she spun to the side and unleashed the maneuver called Cutting the Wavecrest. Brilliance flared as she cut a hole in the air amid a spray of scarlet blood and white-hot Solar Essence. Master Hark staggered back, his arms and chest dripping blood. He looked down at the blood, then up at the Dawn’s caste mark. “So,” he coughed. “It is true.”
Li nodded. “Yes, I am Anathema. I am surprised you doubted,” she said. “Why would Shima lie?”
Master Hark pressed one hand against the bloody gash across his chest. He regarded her, his jaw set. “I believe you follow the Eight-fold Path,” he said at last. “I will think on this.”
He bowed stiffly, from equal to equal. She bowed back, her golden corona bending like a flame in the breeze. “Thank you for your lesson, Master,” she said.
They turned away as the temple, the garden and the mountains shredded like smoke in the wind. They bowed to the Eighteen Princes. Then they walked out of the dueling circle, each to their own side, all in silence. All around them, the spectators stared at the apparition of the Anathema.
Tepet Aekino, alone, stood and applauded. For a moment, the stifling silence swallowed his clapping; then whispers and mutterings swelled amid the crowd, drowning him out.
Li joined her companions on the sidelines, her body still framed with golden fire. They smiled at her. “Did you win?” asked Ledaal Martin.
“Yes,” she replied. “He yielded.” She turned away, approaching a cringing slave for water.
“He quit?” Martin looked to his companions. “Why?”
Aekino regarded him scornfully. “Because Li beat him, of course.”
* * * * *
Martin, Li and Doren lingered in a pale green sitting room off of the main dining hall of the Inn of the Nine Chrysanthemums. Conversation buzzed low; the other guests kept a careful distance, though they watched and gossiped about the Anathema. The slave boy freshened Doren’s tea, then knelt to massage the Dragon-Blood’s feet.
“Who do you think will win the tournament?” offered Doren.
“Li, of course,” Martin replied.
“Not Aekino? He seems most skilled at the martial arts.”
Martin smirked. “When it comes right down to it, Aekino is a lover, not a fighter.”
“That’s fair. And I already know what you think of the Immaculates.” Doren shifted slightly, indicating for the slave to massage his calf. “What of the deathknight? We don’t know the limit of his skills.”
“That’s a good question,” Martin agreed. “What do you think, Li?”
The Dawn shrugged. Her face remained impassive. “That battle has yet to be fought.”
Beaded curtains jangled softly as Aekino and Rei emerged from an upper stair. “Ah, there’s Li!” said Rei. She approached the tattooed Dawn, handing her a pouch heavy with jade. “That was a good fight! Here’s your share of the winnings.”
Li shrugged. With a raised eyebrow, she handed the pouch off to Aekino as he seated himself at the low table. He accepted it, smiling. “We thank you for your generosity, Rei,” he said.
Rei shrugged. “There have been some good side bets surrounding you. Don’t worry, I’ve picked up a lot more than what you’re holding. There’ll be even more if the Fortunes hold.”
Aekino nodded. His gaze drifted across the table, then snapped back to the slave boy. “Stop that,” he said firmly.
The lad blinked. “Stop what?”
“Stop staring at me.” He turned to Doren. “You really need to learn to keep your slaves under control.”
“Do I?” Doren smiled complacently. “I prefer to give my charges a somewhat freer rein than you seem to think appropriate. But that is my business now, and not yours.”
“This is ridiculous,” replied Aekino. “A competition on this scale and you turn this into an issue.”
“It is not an issue.” Doren sprinkled white rose leaves into hot water to steep. “To me, this is just free labor, Tepet Aekino.”
“Don’t worry,” Martin interjected. “We’re on top of things. Now that everyone knows that Li is Anathema, we can’t push the short bets anymore, but the first-place bets are still good. And we have some side bets going that should rake in the dough.”
Aekino’s eyes bulged. “Today’s revelation endangers our lives and everything that we do here, and you discuss bets?”
Doren shrugged. “Sometimes you can’t afford to lose track of the details, Aekino. But don’t worry; that is why I am here.”
“I have no need for your mockery, Alac Doren.”
“Rest assured, Tepet Aekino, that I do not mock you. I merely speak the truth as I see it.”
The bickering continued for a few moments, until a well-dressed young woman, whom they recognized as maidservant to the old matchmaker Suzaku Sentatsu, intruded upon their debate with a polite cough. “May I address the esteemed Master Tepet?” she said.
“Yes?” Aekino wreathed himself in smiles, his irritation vanishing like a fish into the depths.
“My master wishes to remind you your next match is in moments, and to convey his warmest wishes for your success.”
“Of course. Please convey to him my sincere and heartfelt felicitations.”
She smiled politely. “Is there anything that you might need, Master Tepet?”
“No,” he replied, “but thank him on my behalf.”
“He would be pleased if you dine with him this evening.”
Aekino smiled. “Of course.”
The maidservant departed. As soon as her back was turned, Aekino’s good humor vanished. Glaring, he stood. “I have enough troubles on my mind,” he informed his companions, “without dealing with your ill-considered attempts at humor. This conversation is over.”
Bemused, Doren watched the Solar depart. “There may be trouble to come if he cannot learn to master his emotions.”
Martin shook his head. “He woke up one day and he was a demon. His whole life turned upside down. That is hard to get around. The worst parts of his upbringing are coming out right now.”
“Nonetheless,” Doren replied, “he must work to stop this.”
“I am all about people changing, but you are pushing him too hard and that makes him recalcitrant. Don’t stop what you are doing; just re-examine your methods.”
“I will consider this.”
* * * * *
Thorwald, Fetek and Zera walked away from the merchant docks in Great Forks late in the morning. Zera shook his pouch; it hung limp, one lonely coin rattling about inside. The three had spent all of their money purchasing food to send back to the town of Brinlack, leaving themselves not enough even for steerage on the trip downriver. “Looks like we’re living light again.”
“Look on the bright side,” said Thorwald. “Everyone knows how wealthy and generous we are.”
They followed the dock road west. Bright-sailed vessels from the Realm jockeyed for position among the docks with dhows and junks from Calin, Nexus, Lookshy and Arashon. Merchants and factors dickered at the top of their lungs, laboring to be heard over the din of shouting sailors, raucous meat-pie vendors and the thunderous rattle of carts clattering over the cobblestones laden with goods. Scaly hair or stony skin marked many porters and stevedores as possessing divine or elemental ancestry; even Thorwald drew no attention there.
Then they approached the gates of the city, and the beggar gods accosted them. “Great ones,” they cried, “pray to us! Give us your blessings!” Passersby stopped to look. Our heroes hunkered down and moved faster, except for Thorwald. He turned to address the ragged spirits. “What do you want from us?” he asked.
“Don’t talk to them!” Zera hissed. “You’re only encouraging them.”
Fetek nodded. “Don’t make eye contact with the gods,” he said.
The divine mass seethed. Eyes gleamed like jewels from amidst shabby feathers and finery. “We want your respect!”
Thorwald inclined his head respectfully. “You have it.”
“Not in the way we want it.”
“My hands are beginning to twitch,” said Zera. “They want my bow. Let’s go.”
“Priest of the sun!” cried another god. Word spread; more spirits arrived, accompanied by citizens curious about this new manifestation of divinity.
“Thorwald!” The archer tugged at his larger companion’s arm insistently. “We’re running late.”
“Priest of the sun!” called yet another god. The chant spread.
Zera snarled at the latest divine celebrant. “Go hawk your wares somewhere else.”
“Foolish one, I come seeking you!” The god flung itself down at their feet, its azure robes puddling like water upon the cobbles.
“This is madness!”
“I should be in heaven,” the spirit droned imperturbably, “but I am here, because I am seeking you.”
Thorwald stepped forward to address the kowtowing god. “Spirit,” he said, “I have not determined yet whether we are capable of giving respect – or are worthy of it.”
“You show respect,” the god replied, “unlike your companion. I shall wait for the time when you have an answer.”
Fetek leaned near his Solar companions. “We need to have this conversation somewhere else,” he said sharply, “some other time.”
Thorwald nodded. He glanced at the encircling crowd; it had grown steadily, thickening, increasing in volume. “Perhaps we will meet again,” he said loudly.
“Time is of little consequence,” the god replied. “Go. Grow.”
They went.
* * * * *
Noon. A fighter collapsed, blood streaming from his face. The crowd roared.
Ledaal Martin laid his hand on Tepet Aekino’s shoulder. “Aekino,” he said, “I can see you are in a bad mood. But do not carry that in the ring.”
Aekino shrugged the hand away. “I thank you for your concern,” he said coldly.
The herald shouted, “Tepet Aekino versus Peleps Taru! … Is Tepet Aekino present?”
Aekino stepped into the circle. “He is.”
The Eighteen Princes gestured as the competitors approached one another. The air rippled; the earth seemed to flow upward like water as the crowd’s image fell away like rain. The two stood in the courtyard of a glorious manse, where statues of Dragon-Blooded heroes encircled the splashing waters of a fountain.
“Prepare yourselves!” cried the unseen herald. Tepet Aekino and Peleps Taru glared at one another, compelled by the animosity of their last meeting. Aekino’s blue robe flapped in the breeze; droplets of water beaded upon the blue and black jade of Taru’s armor.
“Be ready!” cried the herald. Aekino took up the Snake Form; Taru rose several inches into the air upon the roar of a sudden whirlwind.
“Fight!” cried the herald. Aekino twirled his staff of black jade, Havoc in the Dragon Palace, so that its golden dragons sparkled in the sun. Taru spun his jade glaive until the air hummed.
Like a wasp, the Dragon-Blood soared and dived. He dipped behind the fountain for a moment, hovering upon the air, and then burst through the waters at his opponent. “For the Dragons!” he shouted, his blade descending like a butcher’s cleaver.
Aekino evaded the cut, his body seeming to blur as he twisted bonelessly aside. Taru’s next attack served no better. The Solar smiled. “Surely you can do better than that, Peleps Taru,” he goaded. “Are you even trying?”
“I will show you!” snarled Taru. He soared high into the air, then descended like a comet, his blade glowing an icy blue. Staring up to watch Taru’s approach, Aekino smiled and blew him a kiss, then bent aside like a reed in the wind. As the Air Aspect stumbled upon the ground, Aekino spun and kicked, the blow only missing its mark as Taru desperately conjured a wind to deflect it.
Aekino laughed. “This must be especially embarrassing for you,” he said, gesturing to the statues, “in front of all these Dragon-Blooded heroes.”
“You don’t seem to be touching me yourself, Tepet Aekino,” spat Taru.
“I have launched but one attack. How many have you launched?”
The Air Aspect’s self-control finally snapped. He assaulted Aekino furiously; lightning crackled around his flashing glaive, while hailstones whined and spun. Aekino seemed to swirl away like smoke, avoiding blows that broke flagstones and shattered the statues of Dragon-Blooded heroes. Distantly, the crowd roared.
Smiling, Aekino lured his opponent away from the fountain and statues, out over the grasses to the edge of the garden, to the border of the charmed circle. Taru attempted a furious lunge. Aekino allowed his anima to flare a brilliant gold; his hands snaked out to grasp the Dragon-Blood, redirecting his attack into a classic throw. “I know you can fly,” he said, flinging his opponent out of the ring. “Farewell.”
The illusionary manse faded as Taru crashed into the stands. Aekino grinned as the herald announced his victory. He strutted to rejoin his companions, but the crowd did not laud him; they watched the golden fire around him with suspicion and hushed whispers.
“Well done, Tepet Aekino,” said Alac Doren.
Li proffered a rare smile. “Well done, brother.”
“Thank you,” Aekino replied. Preening beneath the golden glow, he glanced at Ledaal Martin. “What, no praise?”
“Good job,” Martin grumbled.
“Thank you.”
They walked out of the arena Craning his neck, Doren eyed the teeming crowds. “I think we need to prepare for attempts on your life,” he said.
Aekino frowned at him. “Do you have any other more straightforward words of disapproval?”
“In what regard?”
Aekino sighed theatrically. “Doren,” he replied, “you disappoint me.”
“How so?”
“You aren’t conveying the lesson I see you desperately trying to convey.”
Doren shrugged. “Your motives,” he said with uncharacteristic somberness, “are your own. I think you either wanted to make clear the rumors were true, or there is someone in the audience you are trying to impress. The lesson I will be trying to convey is, I would think, an obvious one. Discretion is the better part of valor.”
“Why?”
“We are in a tournament of war, not a debating exercise. You need not respect me, but I would be much happier if you would respect the situation we are in. Your nature is no longer rumor, but established fact. Our enemies knew that Li was Anathema. Now they know about you. And in all honesty, Li is far more capable of defending herself against your enemies in battle.”
Aekino had no reply.
* * * * *
Aekino partook in a lavish dinner with Suzaku Sentatsu that evening, but his heart was not in it. He merely nodded along with the old matchmaker’s attempts to convince him to visit Iehachi; the offers of wealth and fame and lovely women scarcely touched him as he chewed over the arguments of the day.
The next day, Aekino wandered the fairgrounds with Li, passing a few words as they walked among stands selling garlicky grilled meats and fried honeyed bread. By chance, as they passed a seller of exotic birds of brilliant plumage, they encountered a familiar face, that of a small dark-haired fellow laden with pouches and pockets. A massive green-haired man accompanied him: the barbarian Essereth, one of the champions of the arena.
“Kurokami!” said Aekino. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
The scavenger lord smiled. “Likewise, Lord Aekino, Lord Li. It is good to see you both.” Glancing to either side, he added in a lower voice, “You have, I think, heard that I have a proposal that I would share with you?”
Aekino nodded. “Rei told us, yes.”
“Perhaps,” Kurokami suggested, “we might speak of this more discreetly?”
“Of course.”
They retired from the hubbub of the bazaar to a small tavern that stank of vinegar, stale vomit and woodsmoke. Aekino clasped a perfumed handkerchief to his mouth as they claimed a private booth. After the barmaid brought them mugs of watery peach wine and bustled off, Aekino spoke. “You have a proposition?”
Kurokami nodded. “It is rather dangerous, but lucrative. There is a lost city deep in the jungles of the Southeast. It is called Rathess; I am sure you have heard of it. It is said to have been a city of dragon-lords in the First Age. There will be much treasure. Essereth,” he added, gesturing to the scarred barbarian, “has informed me that he has traveled there and survived. He knows the way.”
“There are snakes there,” murmured Essereth. “But I like snakes.”
Kurokami made a gesture that succinctly indicated his dubious opinion regarding his barbarian ally’s thought processes. “We have worked with each other before,” he said, “and the results were profitable.”
“You know we have worked well with you before,” Li replied, “and will do so again.”
“I have seen what you can do, and I suspect that we will need your strength and your skills. If you accompany me, you can take whatever you can carry,” said Kurokami.
“Your offer has some appeal,” Aekino replied. “However, we have a deadline.”
Li nodded. “We must rejoin our friends on midsummer. Or get a message to them.”
“Where do you plan on meeting them?” Kurokami inquired.
“There is no need to concern yourself with that,” replied Aekino smoothly. “We will make the arrangements.”
The scavenger lord nodded. “Let me know before the tournament is over,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”
“No,” said Aekino. “Thank you for coming to us.” Coming to us, he thought, despite knowing that we are Anathema.
* * * * *
Days swept by beneath the violet warmth of Mokuren’s eternal spring. The crowds of competitors thinned, but many remained to watch as the tournament progressed inexorably towards its conclusion. Now, though the arena still got much use for sparring and impromptu duels, only once a day did the Eighteen Princes call forth the competitors for the tournament’s final rounds.
The sun hung high over the field. The thronging spectators roared.
“Ledaal Martin versus Ledaal Rivander!”
The air rippled. God-Blood and Dragon-Blood, renegade swordsman and student of the Immaculate arts, the two brothers glared at one another as the courtyard of Tower of Winds took shape around them.
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” said Rivander. He grinned nastily. “You’re brave, but you know you can’t stand up to me.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “Just don’t hurt me too bad.”
“It won’t hurt too long,” Rivander replied, brushing an imaginary mote of dust from one magnificently embroidered sleeve.
“You always were all talk, little brother.”
The fight began. Flames blossomed around the two combatants. Scarlet blades leapt like cranes at sunset; clashing, they rang like broken bells. Within seconds, the younger brother claimed the advantage. His fires glowed brightly as his blades danced through Essence-charged patterns impossible for Martin to counter.
Slash! Rivander slid past Martin’s guard to carve a bloody slash on his arm. Martin snarled. “Is that the best you can do?”
Rivander sneered. “Not even close.”
Rivander proceeded to beat the living daylights out of his older brother. Martin spat defiance, seemingly trying to goad his brother into more furious attacks – a thing he accomplished easily, at which point Martin received the beating of his life. Seconds later, he lay insensate upon the ground, his arms and nose broken, his face disfigured by a dozen jagged cuts.
As Aekino and his companions moved to help Martin to the healer’s tent, Rivander passed them with a sneer. “You’ll get yours, Anathema,” he said. “You just wait and see.”
* * * * *
Thorwald, Zera and Fetek trudged westward along the north bank of the Yellow River. Winter slowly gave way to spring, and they slogged through tumbling, icy rains and rippling marshes strident with grackles and geese. As the weather warmed, they amused themselves by hunting bandits in the hills above the river, walking knowingly into their ambushes, scattering them with sword and claw and celestial fire, and then following them back to their lairs to steal their spoils. Soon they had enough money to purchase supplies and a small boat, with which they sailed swiftly into the west.
Hour after hour, day after day, the waters flowed uneventfully past. Thorwald watched the currents and tended the sail; Zera kept a keen eye out for Dynastic vessels and the black ships of the shadowlands. Fetek hunted fish and river birds for their meals, and swam or glided alongside in his many animal forms.
One day, as he leaned in human form over the edge of the boat, Fetek said, “I’m bored. I think I’ll hunt a river dragon today.”
Zera gave him a flat, smoldering stare. “I think that is a terrible idea.”
“Ha!” Thorwald grinned down at them from the mast, his hands full of sailcloth. “I think it is an excellent idea! I will help you.”
An aerial sweep in the form of an eagle quickly revealed a river dragon to the young Lunar. As the others brought the boat to bear, Fetek dived towards the somnolent beast. He transformed into his war-form as he struck the water.
The dragon awakened. It thrashed, its head breaching the water as it voiced a high, petulant howl. Its tail flailed wildly, striking the boat below the waterline; timbers cracked and burst, spilling water into the bilge. Fetek clawed at the beast’s side with silver claws, opening huge gashes that stained the water crimson. It threw its coils around him and began to squeeze.
Thorwald leapt from the boat. Zera gritted his teeth as he watched the northman swim toward the boiling scarlet waters where the dragon and Fetek were sinking from sight. Another massive contortion sent out a wave that all but swamped the boat. When he could see again, the battle had wholly submerged; he could see nothing but the blood that boiled up from the depths and streamed downriver.
Minutes passed; the seething waters calmed. The river dragon’s corpse floated to the surface, riven by a hundred wounds. Thorwald straddled its shoulders and hacked at its neck with his daiklave, while Fetek thrust one claw deep into its chest cavity and pulled out its heart, which he began to eat.
Their work done, the warriors swam back to the boat, laughing. Zera sat on its edge, fuming, with his feet in the river. The prow emerged from the water at an unusual angle; the stern was completely flooded.
“Yeah!” Fetek wiped a bit of half-crusted blood from the corner of his mouth. His mood soured beneath Zera’s withering glare. “What’s your problem? I won!”
Zera nodded. “Hey, Fetek. Can you get something out of my bag?”
Fetek peered into the murky water that filled the boat. “I, uh,” he stammered, “I think there’s something wrong with the boat.”
“Very perceptive.” Zera made a half-hearted attempt to push the boat to the bank, making sure his bow remained securely over his shoulder. Thorwald helped, hanging the river dragon’s head upon the mast.
“I’ll, uh, get your bag,” muttered Fetek.
Zera nodded. He tried to shake water from his hair. “Why don’t you get all of them?”
“Right.” The Lunar took on the river dragon’s own shape and dove into the depths.
A half hour later, as Zera and Thorwald sat on the bank, making a fire close to the beast’s carcass, Fetek climbed out of the river with the sodden baggage in his hands. He set it down meekly at Zera’s feet.
“Why?” asked Zera. “Why now? Did you notice we were paddling a fucking canoe?”
“Well, uh… how often do I get this kind of opportunity?” Fetek retorted lamely.
Zera took a deep breath. He sighed. “How can I possibly refute such logic? You broke the boat! You sunk our food! The money is gone!”
“But we don’t need a boat anymore! I can turn into a river dragon, and you can ride on my back!”
“That’s it!” Zera threw his hands up in despair. “I’m making camp over there.”
“Zera!” Thorwald called out to his retreating companion, waving skewers of raw meat. “Do you want some river dragon?”
“Hah!”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
* * * * *
Evening. A small village on the bank of the Yellow River; thatching glowing gold in the last rays of the sun. Flies buzzed in the rice paddies and drifted lazily around the stink of the pigpens. As the villagers retired for the night, they stopped to stare at the three figures that approached from the east, hauling the carcass of a river dragon in their wake.
“Hello, the village!” shouted Thorwald as they came close. “We are travelers! We bring a gift for the village.”
After some milling about, an older woman stepped forth to acknowledge the strangers. “Thank you,” she said, her voice and posture uncertain. “We so rarely get… um… what kind of heroes are you that kill river dragons for rice farmers?”
“It attacked us,” Thorwald replied. “We do not need the meat.”
The villagers eyed the headless corpse of the river beast. It swayed gently, bobbing up and down in the current. They eyed the strangers, who regarded them with merciless bonhomie. They eyed the strangers’ weapons, all gleaming of jade.
“You are kind,” said the elder at last. “Surely we must reward such heroes in some way.”
“There is nothing we need,” said Thorwald. “We only wish to travel to Nexus. We are only passing through.”
The elder nodded. “We have a boat. Please take it, with our blessings.”
When the strangers left, the villagers counted their blessings indeed.
* * * * *
Spring spread its warm shawl over the East. Snow melted; streams swelled and roared; birds flung themselves into the trees, their harsh cries echoing across water and hills. Three ragged travelers peered westward from their boat as the gray sprawl of Nexus loomed in the west.
They disembarked at the Hollow Docks and made their way to the edge of the Night Market. Lean and weatherbeaten from their long journey, their jade weapons wrapped in cloth to avoid notice, they quickly found a boarding-house and procured a room and a hot meal.
Zera pushed aside his empty bowl. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll do a quick look around tonight, then come back here.”
“Why the rush?” Fetek looked up from his own meal. “The others won’t be here for months.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Zera replied.
Fetek watched Zera walk out. “What’s gotten into him?”
“It is about a woman,” rumbled Thorwald. He gestured for more ale. “When you love a woman, you will understand.”
“Excuse me? I’m married, if you remember.”
“I said a woman, not a demon. That doesn’t count.”
* * * * *
Entering the fifth inn of the evening, Zera brushed raindrops from his hair and breathed deeply. The air reeked of tobacco and wood smoke. He sighed. He had not really expected to find the woman he sought tonight. So why did it trouble him so?
He looked about. She was not here, either. Perhaps it was time to return to the others. But there, sitting alone at that table… that young woman looked familiar. He approached softly, ignoring the inn’s other few occupants, blocking out the buzz of their drunken laughter.
“Zera?” She looked up, her face flushing with excitement. “Zera, is that you?”
Recognizing her, Zera flinched. Oh no, he thought, not her again. Not Mara. How does she keep finding me?
“Zera, you’ve come back to me!” He turned his face away, but it was too late. Her voice rang with hope and foolish love. “I knew you couldn’t stay away!”
He turned to leave, but he did not make it to the door.
Her words stopped him. She rose to her feet, her hands pressed against her swollen belly. “Zera,” she cried out through the smoky air. “Zera Thisse. Don’t you want to greet your daughter?”
