The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (8 page)

“Oh
look,” exclaimed Fallon, standing in her stirrups and pointing to a character
high up on the cliff face. Sherah shone the ‘torch’ in her direction. “There’s
Buddah! And and Ramah! And Kristos, the Three-in-One! Wow! And this, this is
the symbol for ‘eyes’, thousands of eyes, no - a
Thousand
Eyes
,
yes!”

“Can
you read this?”

 
“Yes. No. Very little
of it. Some of it though. Some words. Some symbols. Not much.” She glanced at
him, her usually bright eyes weary but earnest. “I think we’re close. If that
helps?”

He
tried to smile. It ached to do so.

“Shall
I lead?” purred Sherah al Shiva, holding her ‘torch’ out like a beacon.

“By
all means
, sidala.
But I shall be
right behind.”

She
mounted her horse and smiled again.

“Of
course.”

***

Night comes to the Great Mountains.

Night, anywhere, is a mysterious
thing but in the Great Mountains, in the Valley of the Seers, it takes on
almost religious tones. Night brings with it prayers and petitions, confessions
of sins and admissions of guilt. It brings questions and answers and then
questions again. It brings revelations and lamentations, and the soul-searching
of prophets. And especially, this night, when a sixth life is demanded and
ultimately surrendered, it is a sacred, somber, most terrible thing.

There is a new star in the heavens,
and the people see it and wonder and fear.

In
a small bamboo basket, on the back of a horse somewhere, a falcon dies.

In the Hall of the Seers, a candle
is snuffed out. A lone man kneels weeping and darkness advances into the room.

And
it is only the Middle of the Second Watch.

***

Kirin Wynegarde-Grey closed his
eyes.

“Sha’Hadin”

They had followed the glow of eerie
torchlight for the last hour, placing their trust in the sure-footedness of
their horses for they had only Sherah’s beacon and precious little moonlight to
guide them. It had grown dark swiftly and with the darkness had come the cold,
chilling them to the bones and creating treacherous ice slicks on the narrow
mountain paths. They had been forced to slow to an agonizing crawl to give the
horses their heads. Now, as torches burned before them and below them and
finally all above them, he felt a terrible weight settle onto his shoulders.

The Cliff of a Thousand Eyes, it
had once been called, and he could see why.

Hewn out of the sheer mountain
escarpment, were holes – windows that stretched up the cliff face as high
as seven levels, open to the night sky like many mouths, pouring forth light
and warmth from within. Inside those mouths, figures could be seen moving,
robed figures with bowed heads and outstretched hands, swaying in silent
rhythm. And from somewhere deep within, a gong sounded seven times seven, the
number of perfection.

Kirin shook his head.

They were too late.

And with a deep breath, he moved
his horse forward, beginning the descent into the steep ravine that was the monastery
of the Seers.

***

“Captain!”

Ursa Laenskaya spurred her horse up
the stony ground as she pulled up by his side. She looked as haggard as he
felt. Her long hair had escaped from the knot she had worn all day and her arm
was dark with blood. Things had obviously not gone well on their end. But he
was short on patience and he snarled at her.

“Major, why aren’t you inside?!”

“We were attacked, sir. We killed
three, lost one.”

“I see.”

Instinctively, he looked for Quiz,
picked him out rambling towards them in the darkness. And of course, thankfully
his brother, bundled in the pony’s blanket, looking ready to exchange saddle
for shale at any moment.

They had failed.

They had made it but they had
failed.

He could hear the rest of his
party, the Scholar and the Alchemist and the Leopard Guard, their horses
heaving and blowing in near exhaustion. With a sigh, he slid from his horse and
trudged up to one of the seven ground level openings. Like teeth to an open
mouth, it was barred by a black iron grill and torches burned on either side,
casting shadows across the stone. He reached up to take one.

“You’re late.”

On the opposite side stood a figure
hidden by darkness. Kirin lifted the torch from its perch and angled it toward
the gate. It was a tall man in dark robes. Many men actually, obscured by
robes, hoods pulled to cover their faces. They stood perfectly still, watching
him, weighing him with unseen, all-seeing eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “We are late.”

“Where is the falcon?”

Kirin looked at Ursa, still
mounted, noticed the dread coldness in her face.

“Which?” she asked sharply. “Living
or dead?”

“Dead.”

She reached under her cloak to
produce the small, feathered body. Its head lolled, and there was no flicker of
wing or tail. She handed it to the Captain, who passed it between the iron into
gloved hands. One of the figures disappeared with it into the depths of the
monastery.

“And the living?”

Chirrups pierced the quiet as Ursa
loosened the ties securing the lid of the basket. Speckled wings burst forth,
then the head, hooded since the Palace and the bird sprang to the Major’s arm
as if home.

“Remove the hood,” came the voice,
soft now, almost purring. “I told you she’s hungry.”

For once, Ursa did as she was told
without question. The falcon lit from her arm, talon bells jingling. She tried
to follow it with her eyes, but the bird was only a shrinking silhouette as it
soared upwards, a black speck against the overpowering blackness of the cliffs.

The tall figure regarded them.

“You. Stableboy. See to your
horses. Rodreigo will show you the way. “

“We have no stableboy,” the Captain
started, but his brother cut him off.

“Actually, Kirin, that’s me. Just
me, accompanying the Empress.”

He slid from the mountain pony and
began to gather up the reins of the Imperial horses when a young pair of hands
touched his. Bright eyes smiled at him in the darkness.

“I
will help,
sidi.”

“Right. There you go then.”

As he handed off the reins, Kerris noticed
the Scholar, dismounting on wobbly legs. He swung around to grab her arms and
steady her.

“You alright,
sidalady
tigress?’

“Oh, never been better.”

“Well, you won’t be saying that
tomorrow. Come on, Rodreigo, these beasts are tired. We can all use a soft,
sweet bed right about now.”

And without so much as a backward
glance, he followed the youth deep into the ravine, leading the weary horses
into the night.

The gate swung open.

“Welcome,” growled the tall figure,
as he turned his back to them and disappeared into the shadows. “To
Sha’Hadin
.”

The corridors of
Sha’Hadin
were carved stone.

They were remarkable in fact, a
tapestry of etchings that rivaled
Pol’Lhasa
for its detail. Almost every
inch of wall space was carved with scenes and symbols, seeming to date from the
time of the Ancestors or beyond. Fallon Waterford ran her fingers along the
walls as she walked, as eager to stop and study as she was eager to see more
but far too weary to do either. Oil lamps burned at regular intervals,
providing welcome light and bathing everything in warm gold. The low minor
tones of chanting echoed through the halls, underscoring the mood with sobriety
and strength.

The tall figure led them in
silence. He had kept his back to them the entire time, his brown robes and
tufted tail swaying behind him with each long stride. Kirin had grown
accustomed to the futility of engaging him in conversation. Instead, he had
focused his attention on the gloves. It seemed everyone in
Sha’Hadin
wore them in one form or another. Some wore only palm gloves, leaving fingers
exposed. Workers, he assumed. Others, acolytes perhaps, wore gloves of fine
linen, others of silky satin, and others of coarse dark wool. Their ‘host’,
however, wore gloves of thickest leather, tanned and dyed and stitched with
elaborate detail. He carried them behind his back like a headmaster.

A pair of
un
-gloved hands
had caught his attention. Silver ones, curling into fists as she walked. The
Major seemed to be taking her failure rather personally. Or, perhaps, there was
something else. He would have to speak with her some time soon.

Acolytes and robed attendants
scurried around them, not rushing but moving with an efficient grace. One
attendant, an elder man with the silver hair and great wide hands of a lynx, had
fallen in beside their host and was now speaking softly in his right ear.

The
tall man paused and with back still turned, he spoke.

“This
is Tiberius. He is arranging for several mugs of hot tea for any who wish. Your
journey has been long and even in the worst of times, our home is open to all.”
He paused. “You have with you both Alchemist and Scholar?”

Kirin
nodded. “Both.”

“They shall accompany Tiberius to
the Chamber of the Dead. There they can begin whatever preparations they may need
make for tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow
night?”

“When benAramis dies.”

Sherah al Shiva moved forward, her
heavy, painted eyes boring holes between the man’s shoulder blades.

“Do we have leave to open the body,
sidi?”

For the first time, he turned his head
just enough for his bearded chin to be seen from the shadows of the hood. Kirin
was surprised. He’d assumed he’d been dealing with a lion. He shook his head.
This was no lion.

“Why?”

“To
determine the cause of death, of course.”

“I
know
the cause of death.”

Now,
it was Fallon Waterford who stepped forward, brows drawn, hands wringing like
damp dishcloths.

“Please,
sidi,
we - we mean
no disrespect, but sometimes there are signs in the tissues and humors, signs
which can help us confirm the truth.”

“Or
prove the lie,” Sherah purred.

“Whatever
their reasons,
sidi,”
said Kirin. “They have been sent by the Empress,
in Her service and on Her order. Do you deny them their duty?”

There was a heavy pause. The man
sighed, took a deep breath.

“Of course not. They have leave to
open the body.
Bodies.
There are, after all, six. Now, Captain, Major,
if you will kindly follow me. I shall take you to the Hall of the Seers.”

Fallon
opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it quickly in a frown.
Wrapping her arms around her ribs, she watched as the trio departed down yet
another remarkably carved corridor, leaving the pair of them to their work. The
attendant, the lynx Tiberius, was smiling at them.

“Sidali,
this way, if you
please.”

Sherah
ran her tongue along a sharp, white feline tooth. “Of course.”

“He
knew their ranks,” sputtered Fallon as she trotted beside their guide. “We
didn’t introduce ourselves, not here, not outside, not before. I know, ‘cause I
was there. So, um, how did he know their ranks? How do you guys do that?”

Tiberius
turned, leaving with women with nothing to do but follow.

***

The staircase was as treacherous as
a high mountain pass. No guardrails were in place and the sides fell off into
sheer blackness. Gone were the regular, welcome torches that had lined the
walls of the monastery proper and a cold wind snatched at them, threatening to
push them from the steps and send them plummeting seven levels to the stone
below.

Ursa had been grumbling for a very
long time. The Captain was getting a headache.

“We’re
following a goat keeper, sir. I cannot believe they would let this happen. This
man is lost and he will get us lost yet again. Look at him. He is almost
swallowed by the darkness. I will not rush to catch him when he falls.”

“Major,
your voice causes an echo. Please stop.”

“He sees with one eye, that is
obvious when he talks. We are following an insolent, half-blind mongrel—“

“Major, that’s enough.”

“But Captain, your brother and I
met him earlier. He sent us on the wrong path. I can assure you, he is simply
the goat keeper.”

Kirin sighed, pausing mid-step on
the stairs to glance up at the figure receding into shadows.
The temper, the
arrogance, the breeding... Could he have been wrong?

“
Sidi,
are you taking us to the seventh Seer, the one that yet
lives?”

“You
shall make his acquaintance in the Hall of the Seers.”

“You
did not answer my question.”

“I
suppose I did not.”

“Mongrels,”
Ursa snorted. “We should kill them all.”

Yes,
he thought,
I will have to speak to her very soon.

When
they finally reached the top of the stairs, a heavy door waited. It was clearly
on the seventh and last level of the monastery and they could now see the many
windows carved high in the stone. In daylight, the staircase was likely flooded
with sunshine and cool breezes and in need of no candle or torch. But in the
dead of night, those windows seemed only to suck away the faintest flickers of
light that came near. It was impossible, even, to see stars.

The
man with gloved hands wrapped them around an iron clasp.

“The
Hall of the Seers.”

As
he pulled the great door open, a cold gust of air struck them, billowing the
torches on either side of the frame. First Kirin, then Ursa, strode across the
threshold and into the room. Save for the faltering hearth, several black
earthen bowls and a single wavering candle, the room was empty.

Large,
cavernous, and completely empty.

“Empty! This room is empty!” Ursa
whirled, tail lashing, her pale eyes narrowed. “Captain, I was right! This man
is a fool and we are all the more so to have been led by him, this, this keeper
of goats!”

Kirin
said nothing, merely watched as the man brushed past them to kneel in front of
the hearth, in front of the only flame of seven still burning. He watched as a
strip of talon leather was drawn from a deep pocket, the bells put to quiet
lips, then both bells and leathers laid in the hearth’s smoldering ashes. They
began to hiss and curl.

“I
think rather, a keeper of falcons,” said Kirin. “Sireth benAramis?”

Facing
the fire, the man nodded.

“What?
Who? Him?” Ursa was livid. “He said he was the goat keeper!”

“She hears without hearing. She sees,
but is more blind than I.”

Slowly, Sireth benAramis unfolded
his long legs and rose from the hearth, pulling himself to his full height to
face the Captain. He lowered the hood and finally, Kirin could see the infamous
scar.

“Captain
Wynegarde-Grey. I am honored.”

The Seer inclined his head, but did
not bow.

Kirin
did likewise, fighting back the rush of indignation. The man was living up to
his reputation already. He could understand why this Confirmation had been
hotly debated.

“And I you. I apologize for missing
your Confirmation.”

“Ah
yes. The price for peace with the
Chi’Chen.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, then, for coming now.” His
good eye glittered in the firelight. “The journey is not an easy one from
Pol’Lhasa
to
Sha’Hadin.
Nor I fear, a necessary one. Nonetheless, your people will
be well cared for here, until you decide it is time to leave.”

He
turned to Ursa, with a faint trace of a smile.

“And I thank
you
, Major, for
pointing out some of my more obvious shortcomings. I wonder if, with all those
daggers, you wouldn’t care to take a stab at the other,
less
obvious
ones?”

To
her credit, Ursa held her tongue. If he had been anyone else, she would have
gutted him.

Kirin folded his hands behind his
back.

“You fear the journey is
unnecessary? Why?”

“What
has been killing us for six nights now, cannot be stopped by soldier nor sword.
Nor, I’m afraid, by all the books or brilliant imaginings of a Scholar. And I,
for one, place no trust in the Black Arts of a Necromancer.”

“There
are many who might say the same of the Gifts of Farsight and Vision.”

“Indeed,
Captain, that is true. I, however, am not one of them.”

With a dramatic swirl of his robes,
he moved away from the hearth, toward a small, open window in the wall.

“There
is a saying in
Sha’Hadin,
” he began, “That Time is little more than an
old woman’s knitting. A ball of yarn on one end and on the other, a scarf. Or a
pair of slippers. Or socks. It doesn’t really matter, for every time she knits,
she makes something different. But you see, she always works with the same ball
of yarn.”

He
reached down to the stone floor, scooping into his hand a mouse that had been scurrying
for cover. Again, Kirin was surprised. He hadn’t even seen it moving.

“Alchemists would seek to change
the scarf, or the slippers, or the socks, for change is the very nature of
Alchemy. They would attempt to change its color or its composition. They would
pull it apart, stitch by stitch, until the thing was completely unraveled in a
tangled up ball on the floor. And then they would claim success for they would
have indeed succeeded in determining her methods and her patterns. They would
be very, very pleased. The woman, however, would not be so similarly
inclined...”

The mouse was scrambling over his
fingers now, across his gloved palm, and he rotated his hand to keep it moving.

“Those with the Gift of Vision much
prefer to study the yarn
before
it passes through the needles.”

And with a flick of his wrist, he
sent the mouse sailing into the air, tumbling and twisting in its arc to the
ceiling.

A
speckled blur streaked through the open window, snatching the mouse in midair
with a jingle of bells. The falcon swept through the room, crying in her
shrill, sharp voice, circling the Major before coming to rest on the Seer’s
shoulder. She dropped the dead mouse into his palm.

“Pah,”
Ursa scowled. “Theatrics.”

“Sometimes.”

The
Captain stepped forward, his hands still firmly clasped behind his back.

“You said earlier that you knew
what was killing the Council of Seven. Tell me.”

Sireth looked at him, his head
cocked like the bird on his shoulder, and for the first time, it was obvious
the blindness in his left eye.

“That which has caused the deaths
of my dearest friends?” He sighed. “Terror, Captain. It is Terror.”

***

“Terror? Oh, Sherah, are you sure?”

The Alchemist stopped her strange
humming, but did not look up from her work.

“It is obvious. Look at the faces.
Look at the claws. They died screaming in fear.”

Fallon Waterford cast her eyes
downwards once again, at the wrinkled old faces twisted into grisly
caricatures. It broke her heart to think that such wise and noble men died in
such terrible ways. She had always believed that death would come, no -
should
come, with some measure of dignity to the aged. But, as she had begun the first
of her investigations, that belief had been torn from her and it stung like a
scorpion.

“You’re probably right. Yeah,
you’re right. But still...”

She turned back to the table, to
the long, polished lens that was suspended over a glass plate. Her tongue
peeked out between her lips as she peered at the smear of blood she had drawn.

“But why? I mean, there must be a
physical cause. The hearts must have seized, or humors ruptured inside their
skulls – but all the same way at the same time six nights running no that
doesn’t make sense at all now, does it? And still...”

“Here.
See?”

Sherah straightened up from the
body, her black silk sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her long arms thick with
blood. She turned toward the Scholar.

In her hands, was a heart.

Fallon
swallowed, but as always, curiosity got the better of her.

“Yes. Pale. Constricted. Like every
fiber has been squeezed together by a fist. Are they all the same?”

“I
shall tell you that soon, Scholar.”

“And
the lungs?”

“The
same.”

“And
the fingers and toes, they’re black as pitch. It’s like, like...”

“Frostbite.”

Fallon
shook her head.

“How
can this happen? Can this even happen? I mean, this is physically impossible,
really.” She pushed away from her table, letting her hands fall to her lap with
a sigh. “There are no problems with the blood, other than the usual anemia of
age. No signs of plague, no disease, no creatures–“