The Prince of Shadow (43 page)

“Thank you.” The debate had drained much of the warmth out of his bones, and Llesho felt his muscles tightening up again.

“Cover up; we've done enough for one day.” Den threw him a patched linen shirt and a pair of coarse breeches, reminders of another time. “Perhaps you would like to do prayer forms with me?”

Llesho nodded, then realized Master Den couldn't see him with his head under his shirt. He found the open neck, popped his head through, and answered, “Yes, Master, very much,” while punching his arms into sleeves, and pulled on the breeches just as Bixei showed up with his dinner.

“Dinner can wait.” Den bowed, his hands clasped. Bixei grinned in answer and set himself next to Llesho, their old positions in the training yard on Pearl Island. Following Den's lead, they performed the Flowing River form, to thank the Seven Gods for their timely rescue across the Golden Dragon River, and the Twining Branches form to honor the orchard that sheltered them. Somehow, Jaks had joined them, and Stipes. For a brief span of minutes, they fell into old routines that were, Llesho reminded himself, no less dangerous for their familiarity. A gladiator was called to die as often as a soldier in battle, for the price of a wager or the whim of an audience.

But in the forms, Llesho could forget all the dangerous roads that had brought him here. The pieces of his heart tumbled, found their proper places, and clicked together in the moment. Body and mind, motion and a soaring heart joined in the fading sunlight. Llesho reached through the forms, became the twisted shadows of laden branches, honored the grass that bruised beneath feet in Wind through Millet. The grass offered itself in answer to the prayer forms, releasing its sharp green scent around his legs, its touch a reminder of life infinitely renewing all around them. Fingertip breezes soft with the perfume of ripe peaches kissed his cheek and whispered through the strands of his hair. The earth rocked them gently, the universe cradled them, and the evening flowed with his muscles, one with all the living men and gods.

Llesho offered plums to the lady goddess in his mind. She was his bride, and he felt her kiss in the kiss of the breeze, her touch in the warmth that flowed through his body. He knew that he could wait for her, as she waited for him. When he finally came to rest, with a bow to his master, he noticed that his companions were staring at him with guarded wonder.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, ducking his head in embarrassment. He meant by that,
Did I do something strange to call attention to myself.
It was one thing to have a private moment with the universe, and quite another to share that moment with all one's closest companions.

Den shook his head, his own little smile accompanied by a shrug of the shoulder. “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he promised. “But it is becoming more and more difficult to forget you are a prince.”

“Does that mean I can't join you in the washing anymore?” he asked, the first thing that came to mind. Master Den said nothing, just watched him with the same gentle smile, but Master Jaks sat down hard on the ground, laughing till the tears ran down his face.

“You scared the hell out of me, boy.” Jaks shuddered at a memory Llesho didn't share. “I thought you would die on that river.” He shrugged, helpless to explain away the feelings that had escaped him. “Didn't realize you had influence with the local river dragon.”

“Not my influence.” Llesho winced at the thought of Mara facing the dragon. But Habiba didn't seem disturbed. And there were all those missing afternoons. . . . “I don't think I'm meant to die yet.”

He reached for the bread Bixei had left under the nearest peach tree and tore off a chewy bite, grabbed the slab of cheese resting beside it, and munched thoughtfully, leaning back against the tree trunk. Llesho had always understood the responsibility a king owed his subjects. Not since Khri had died to protect him from the Harn raiders, however, had Llesho felt the weight of responsibility a prince owed his protectors. He had to stay alive or the sacrifices of Khri, and of the Long March, and of Mara were for nothing. If he had died on the river, Khri's brother would have gone to his grave with a blood-debt unpaid. Llesho understood about brothers. Looking at Master Jaks that way was a revelation.

“You will have your chance to complete your contract.” This time he meant it, in the full knowledge that he owed his debtor as much as the mercenary-assassin owed him. With a single dip of his head, Jaks acknowledged the solemn promise in Llesho's demeanor.

Done. Llesho returned the bow with a jerk of his chin, and blinked. Thinking took as much energy as running from Master Markko, and he'd had more than enough of both to last him a while.

“You need a bed, and rest,” Bixei took his arm.

Llesho struggled to his feet and let Bixei lead him to his tent. The clothes he wore were soft enough that he didn't worry about taking them off, just let himself drop on the pallet prepared for him and fell into the welcoming darkness.

 

 

Morning came with the sunlight spilling red through the tent cloth and the smell of fresh bread and hot porridge rich with peaches. Llesho opened his eyes and found Bixei kneeling by his bed with a steaming bowl of breakfast in his hands. “I told you this would wake him up,” Bixei said to someone behind him.

Llesho sat up and craned his neck. Kaydu sat cross-legged on her blanket with a bowl of her own in front of her. “Llesho liking his breakfast is not exactly news,” she answered with a sniff.

“Who likes breakfast?” Lling popped into the tent, followed by Hmishi, both with steaming bowls in their hands.

“I do,” Llesho took the bowl from Bixei while the two newcomers settled themselves on the floor of the tent.

They ate in silence for a while, then Bixei cleared his throat. “We're going on to Shan?” he asked.

Llesho shrugged. “I promised Lleck that I'd find my brothers. Adar may be in Shan, so that is where I will start the search. But no one is obliged to follow me.”

“Who's Lleck?”

Hmishi finished his porridge and set down his bowl. “Lleck was Llesho's teacher. Now he's a bear.”

“A what?”

“Never mind that.” Llesho waved aside the discussion. Whatever Lleck was now, he'd exacted a promise from Llesho, one he intended to keep. “I think we'd all be better off if I did this on my own.”

“Like that would work!” Kaydu gave him a crinkled frown over her porridge. “We barely made it this far with the four of us. If it hadn't been for Mara, we'd be Master Markko's prisoners right now.”

Llesho didn't need reminding. Mara was dead and wouldn't be coming to their rescue any time soon.

“If you act like you're unbeatable, you usually don't have to fight,” Bixei added. “I learned that when we defeated Lord Yueh on the road.”

Lling finished her porridge and flicked out a dainty tongue to lick her fingers clean. “Habiba said we are to go in state,” she reminded them with a waggle of her eyebrows. “That sounds a lot more comfortable than straggling into the capital with my clothes in rags and my hair in snarls.”

“And we'll have more time with Master Den.” Bixei had assumed his place among them again, but he darted an uncomfortable glance at Llesho. He was hiding something, and Llesho wondered if he could trust Bixei now. “Out with it,” he demanded, unwilling to wait until whatever it was bit him in the backside.

“It's Stipes.” Bixei dropped his head. “He knows it won't be like the old times. This is war, not the arena, but he asked me to remind you that he was first to befriend you in the practice yard, and he would be at your side to see the end of the story, if you would permit it. He had no choice but to serve Lord Yueh. He was a slave. But he never spied for Markko, and he has never compromised his honor for personal gain. He says.” Bixei looked up at Llesho, pleading: “All that I have known of Stipes tells me that he speaks the truth. And I have missed him.”

Perhaps he should have doubted more, but Llesho did trust Stipes. He wondered, though, about Bixei. “If you had to choose,” he asked, “to let Stipes fall, or to give your comrades into Markko's hands, what would you do?”

Bixei hesitated, as Llesho expected he would. In a matter of Stipes' life or Llesho's, Bixei would choose to honor his sworn oath to protect the prince of Thebin. Given what appeared, on the surface, an equal choice, the outcome was not so certain. But Bixei had already chosen Stipes over his comrades once. Llesho couldn't leave decisions of loyalty to the field.

“Stipes will remain in Habiba's guard, under Jaks' command,” Llesho decided. “You, Bixei, will act as liaison between Habiba's camp and ours here. Where will you bivouac?”

Bixei stared at him, stricken, then slowly processed the question. Not
Where will you sleep while we are in camp,
as it appeared on the surface, but,
show here, now, where your allegiance lies.

“I'll bivouac with my comrades, and take my turn at sentry duty with the others.” He acknowledged Llesho's purpose in asking the question with a rueful smile. “Stipes will understand.”

Llesho set his empty bowl on the pallet beside him and rubbed at his head. He knew he was just postponing the day of reckoning with Bixei, but with any luck none of them would ever have to choose. In the meantime, he was pretty sure he'd awakened late and missed prayer forms, but it wouldn't hurt to wander down to the temporary laundry and say hello to Master Den. Stipes, on the way to Llesho's tent, met Llesho himself on the way out.

“Pardon, Your Highness, but Habiba has ordered that we strike camp and be ready to move by mid-morning. And Master Jaks asks if he can be of service.”

“It's a little late to be throwing titles around, Stipes. I'm the same person I always was.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but you're not,” Stipes objected.

Llesho had turned back to his tent, but Kaydu shooed him away with a scornful whoosh. “Time you learned how to act like a prince,” she said in support of Stipes. “And princes don't strike their own tents. Go, find Master Den, or Jaks, or whoever, and do what princes do in the morning.”

Weapons practice. “Ask Master Jaks if we will have time on the journey to renew our study of the martial arts, if you please. At his leisure, of course.”

When Stipes had made his deferential bow and departed, Llesho left his companions to pack their new wealth and went in search of Master Den. He found the washerman under the same trees, his tubs and cauldron empty around him and the last of the tent cloths and bandages spread out to dry.

“Llesho! Come here, boy. You're the very thing. Would you take that end—there you go.”

Llesho picked up the trailing ends of the tent cover that Master Den was folding and mirrored the washerman's moves, coming toward him when Den moved forward, and away when Den pulled back, until the tent cloth was no more than a dense square the size of a dinner plate. They went on to the next, comfortably working together, while Llesho wondered if this, too, would soon change. Would Master Den, like Habiba and Master Jaks, soon press him to behave more like a prince, and less like a washerman. Not knowing just made him more and more tense, so he took a deep breath and plunged in.

“You aren't treating me any differently . . .” And let Master Den make of that what he would.

“Would you like me to?” Den returned the question with one of his own, but then offered an answer that unwound a bit of the tension pulling Llesho's mouth into a frown.

“I thought you would have had enough of that from the rest of the camp. Would you prefer that I treat you like a hero, or like a prince?”

“Like an apprentice washerman, if it is all right with Habiba,” he answered, and began rolling the strips of clean bandages with a will.

“It is not for Habiba to say,” Den reminded him. “And when you are finished with that roll of bandages, I need your help to break down this washtub.”

“Yes, Master,” Llesho answered the washerman, who himself hid secrets of his identity. He joined Master Den in pulling up the floor of the tub in three pieces, and discovered that the rim of barrel staves folded into a bundle and stowed snugly in the wagon alongside the cauldron. They had just finished loading the various tent cloths and Master Den's own bedroll when a boy just a bit younger than Llesho brought round the cart horses to lead into harness.

“Your own mount will be waiting for you,” Master Den reminded Llesho, who bowed to take his leave.

“Would it be all right if I joined you tomorrow morning for prayer forms?” he asked before he left.

“Who can say what tomorrow will bring?” Master Den mused. “But if I rise in the morning, and a certain young man should happen to be near, he might, if he had a mind, perform his prayer forms in company rather than alone.”

In his weakened state after his wounding and later, in the confusion of running from Markko and his men, Llesho had forgotten the comforting ritual of prayer forms. He bowed, in part to hide the deep wine color pulsing in his cheeks. Torn between guilt and embarrassment, he resolved to make up for his negligence, starting the very next morning. And for once, he was glad to abandon his teacher.