The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (36 page)

Fallon
Waterford had been unprepared. Truth be told, she was completely elsewhere,
awrap in thoughts of warm, sunny jungles and loving smiles and long walks
through deep dark quiet green.

So when the saddle suddenly jerked
and rose beneath her, she was thrown first sideways, then back and finally out
of it altogether. Her knee wrenched, her ankle twisted and she smacked the
stone of the step with her cheek. But only for a heartbeat, for she was caught
by a foot in the stirrup and the horse was tumbling down the steps of the Wall,
pulling her along with it.

Immediately
behind was the Major’s horse. Battle-trained and sure-footed, it reacted
swiftly, executing a perfect capriole, gathering up on its hind legs and
leaping over the thrashing form that was sliding downwards. But elevation and
the bitter sleet were ruthless enemies, and it did not land cleanly. Hooves
skidded and slipped, and it too went down. The Major sprang from the saddle
before she hit, striking the step with palm and shoulder, pain shooting through
her like arrows.

In
many a cat’s life, there comes a point of decision, a junction or crossroad as
it were, in which a choice is made and a path followed. It is called the
‘Broken Road’ by the more poetically inclined, as though life were a journey,
unknown and unscribed, which of course, cats know it is not. It more often than
not involves a measuring of self, of what is right against what is want. Often,
these points of decision carry him(or her) down roads that, later, are
regretted and even cursed. So was it with Sherah al Shiva that day. In less
than a heartbeat, she saw the chaos, the danger to people she had come to know,
a danger she herself had caused. She saw the Scholar pulled under her horse,
the Major thrown off hers and the Captain bracing his for impact. But in that
same heartbeat, the demon wind grabbed the pouch out of her grasp, its
spider-threads unraveling like wool. She saw the people. She chose the pouch.
She leapt out of the saddle onto the narrow parapet to catch it.

At
the base of the stairs, the Captain had maneuvered alMassay into the falling
horse’s path, swinging him sideways – a wall of muscle and iron-will. It
hit like a boulder, that horse, legs flailing, head thrashing and Kirin fought
against the wave of pain that swept up from his thigh. Instead, he swung from
his horse and onto the other, throwing his wet-coat over the animal’s head. Its
fall halted and unable to see, the horse grew quiet, its struggles ceased.

Eye
for an eye. Life for a life.

As
if hearing a voice very far long ago and very far away, Sireth turned his head
slowly toward the wall, even as he was sliding from his saddle to help the
Major. He could not believe his eyes and he watched in horror as the Alchemist
clung to the worn parapet like a great black spider, cloak and wet-coat
billowing behind her, longs arms reaching for the pouch, reaching...

She
snagged it but the wind barked and pushed her over the side.

“Captain!
Major!” he cried.

The others could not hear him, nor
had they seen. In fact, he could barely see
them
through the sleet as they
struggled with frantic horses on the steps below. He glanced back to the edge,
caught sight of a flutter of black and abandoned his own horse to rush towards
it.

She
was dangling by the hem of her wet-coat, one clawed hand scrabbling at the
bricks, the other clutching the pouch to her chest like an infant. He thrust
his hand over the side.

“Here!”

She
looked up, eyes wide in terror and sent her free arm shooting upwards toward
his.

“Reach!”
he shouted and she stretched like a serpent, legs swinging, tail lashing. Their
fingertips brushed
Let her go said Petrus Mercouri
Let her go and
save yourself the bruising

He
froze.

Never before had he heard voices of
the dead. It was not part of his, or any other Seer’s Gift. That was the realm
of the Black Arts. He shook his head, reached for her again.

Let
her go said Petrus You know what she is

“No! Woman, release that thing!”

But she would not, and tucked the
pouch deeper to her chest, even as the hem of her coat began to tear.

“Release it!”

She
has chosen a violent path One of death and fire and blood Will you do likewise

He
felt the strain in his legs as he bent further over the edge. The Wall
plummeted so steeply that he could not make out its base. Snow and sleet threw
themselves all around, vainly trying to claim another soul for their Good
Mother.

Let her go or you will not be
able to stop what is coming Listen to me Let her go

There
was a moment. He could pull back, do nothing, allow the mountains and the
sinister nature of her craft to swallow her whole and no one would be the
wiser. She had fed him blood. She deserved to die. For a moment, he was
tempted.

In
fact, there were two cats that day on the Broken Road. Two.

She
lunged again and he grabbed her wrist.

The
jolt almost pulled his arm from its socket but he held fast. She cried out
furiously and with a kick of her long legs, propelled herself high enough for him
to catch her with the other hand as well. Her boots scraped the bricks,
searching for a toehold but finding none. Her weight was wild and swinging and
he had no balance. She was pulling him down with her.

Very
well It is yours to give Now find peace

He
closed his eyes and was elsewhere,
in a jungle far to the east and deep in
the south, a jungle without bugs. Shakuri’s night-black hand in his, weightless
as a leaf or a flower, yes a flower, he was reaching into the grass to snip a
flower from its stem, lifting it, lifting a weightless little flower up up and
onto the grass beside him, up and over and onto the
Wall beside him. The
Alchemist collapsed into a black-cloaked ball on the stones, clutching the
pouch to her chest, weeping.

You
are stubborn my friend But such is the dharma of choice It has begun You cannot
stop what is to come

“Forgive
me,” the Seer said wearily as he sank to the stones beside her.

The
Scholar was not moving. The Captain had managed to free her foot from the iron
stirrup and pull her out from under her horse. The Major was at its head,
wrapping the wet-coat securely over its eyes and she threw him a grim look. The
animal was on its feet but one hoof dangled like a pendant, bearing no weight.
Ursa looked at the tigress.

“Is
she dead?” she asked.

“No,” he answered, noticing for the
first time the Major’s arm, cradled up into her ribs. It was the same one that
had suffered the arrow, so many days ago. “You are injured.”

“No.”

“The Alchemist will tend you both.”

He gathered the tigress into his
arms, paused when she slid open her emerald eyes, just a crack.

“I’m
sorry, daddy,” she whimpered. “About the pheasants...”

He
smoothed the white-tipped hair from her forehead.

“Hush, child. Sleep.”

And he lifted her from the steps. Kerris
was bounding down them, ashen hair and night-blue cloak whipping madly. He was
flanked by unfamiliar leopards.

“Battle-fort
just up ahead,” he panted. “What happened, Kirin? I didn’t see—”

“I
know. See to the horses.”

And he turned back to alMassay,
laying the tigress across his saddle and beginning the long trek up the
mountain.

***

Someone was stroking her hair.

It felt warm and familiar and she
breathed in the scent of leather. Fallon opened her eyes to see the bearded
face smiling down at her.

“Welcome
back
, Kallilah.
You had us worried.”

She
scrunched her nose and frowned, tasting the sharp tang of blood in her mouth.
She tried to stretch for she felt knotted and cramped all over, but that only
brought pain rushing up and around her body.

“Owww...”

“Lay
still. You’ve had a bad fall.”

“It hurts...”

Another
voice, and now a face, this one a beautiful butter-cream.

“Is there pain in your belly?”

“Um...”
She tried to sit up, wincing as her muscles cried against the movement. “No,
not pain really, just, just oww. You know? Just awful and owwy all over. But my
foot—”

“Twisted,
not broken. I have applied linement and bound it with strips of tanned hide. It
will heal quickly.” The woman glanced up at Sireth. “It will heal.”

His expression was unreadable, but
if anything, Fallon thought, a little sad.

“Yes,” he said. “She will heal.”

With
ginger fingers, Fallon touched her face. Her cheek ached, and the soft tissue
around her eye was puffy and tender. Likewise, her jaw hurt when she pressed
against it, and she frowned again.

“I think my horse fell... Oh, my
horse!”

Suddenly,
the room came into focus and she saw they were in a battle tower, the brick
walls, small windows and charcoal brazier exactly as they had been in every
tower along their route. At one far end, the Captain stood, hands on hips,
staring out at the gale, his stillness heavy as iron. There was no one else in
the room.

She
opened her mouth to say something, but Sireth put a finger to his lips. He
shook his head. Quickly, Sherah lifted a tea cup, the green-gold brew steaming
and fragrant.

“Oolong,” she murmured, “With ginseng
for strength, and tao-root for healing.”

 
Quiet descended on the little room for some time.

Steps
echoed on the floor above them, then a pair of high white boots began to
descend the pole-ladder. First the Major, then Kerris jumped the last few rungs
to the floor. The grey lion flashed Fallon an appraising look before
approaching his brother. The Captain did not turn.

“Sorry
Kirin,” said Kerris. “The pastern is shattered.”

She
could see him nod, take a deep breath and lay one hand on the hilt of his long
sword. Kerris looked at the floor.

“I can do it if you wish.”

“No.
We must redistribute the supplies and refit the last packhorse. That is your
arena.”

He turned and started up the
pole-ladder, leaving the heavy stillness behind with them.

“Do what?” asked the Scholar.

Ursa
snorted, jabbing a finger at the Alchemist. She spat on the ground.

“It’s your fault.
Kunoichi!”

“Enough of that, Ursa,” growled
Kerris. “It’s bad enough we have to fight the weather. We don’t need to fight
each other.”

“Do
what? What does the Captain have to do?”

“You
don’t need to think about that now, my dear,” said Sireth, but Kerris shook his
head. He was chewing his bottom lip.

“Your horse has a broken leg.
Shattered the bones in his pastern, in fact. That’s the sunken spot right above
the hoof.”

“But
Sherah can fix it?”

The
Alchemist continued to stare into her tea and Ursa hissed again.

“Kunoichi. Nin’jaah.
You
sabotage our journey at every turn.”

“I
said enough!”

Once again, for a fleeting moment,
Kerris resembled his brother in more than just face. But when he turned back to
the Scholar, he was Kerris once again.

“Nothing can heal this kind of
break,
sidala.
And since it’s an
Imperial horse, Kirin has to take care of it. But not to worry, his sword is
sharp, his aim sure. The creature will be dead before it even knows it has been
struck.”

“Oh...oh
no...” Emerald eyes brimmed.

“Yes, well...” Kerris huffed and
looked round at the faces. “I guess I’d better get to those provisions. We have
only one packhorse now. We may have to leave some books—”

“Not
my books—”

“And
some Alchemy stores.” He glanced at the pouch, bobbing and full at the end of
its tether. “You might want to consider leaving that.”

“No.”

“Believe
me,
sidalady
cheetah, Kirin is not
too well-disposed toward it at the moment. Or for that matter, you.”

She
looked up at him. The paint around her eyes had streaked with her tears and she
looked almost vulnerable.

“I cannot leave it. It is my life.”

“No.”
said Sireth. “It is your death.

“I
cannot leave it.”

“I
can leave my books,” said Fallon, biting back her own tears and wincing anew.
“If I can get them when we come back.”

“You
shall have them, then,” said Kerris and he started up the pole-ladder. The
silence he left behind roared louder than the wind.

***

He
was
handsome, she had to give him that.

In fact, Andreas Wolchenko Verona
Chiraq was perfect.

He was young and courtly, as well
mannered as any in her Imperial company. He held his tongue when it was wise to
do so, and offered opinions that made her think. His family was Sacred and very
old, dating back to the Second Dynasty and well spoken of by the people of the
region. They had governed
Abyssinia
well throughout the ages and
DharamShallah
had grown used to their tithes and tributes.

And,
as all of his people, he was gold. Like a lion.

The
Empress had to smile to herself. The man had been chosen by the First Mage
himself, his pick for suitor for the Empress’ hand, and she knew in her heart
of hearts the very reason. Not the only reason, however, so as not to offend
with the error of simplicity. Still, she found herself reminded in many ways of
her Captain. His eyes, while not blue, were as green as jade and reflected a
depth of thoughtfulness and humor that she found most appealing. His laugh was
effortless and natural, but not overdone, his discretion commendable. He was
well read, well taught, well groomed. All in all, the perfect match. The First
Mage was not valued counsel for nothing.