The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (80 page)

There was a place.

There was a hope, there was a plan,

There was a lion and a man,

And dogs so quickly overran

That hopeless plan.

There was a dream, there was a dream,

A silly girl and her ideals,

A love to last beyond the years,

There was a dream.

There was a love, there was a lie,

There was a mongrel born to die,

There was a magic brought to life,

There was a love.

There was a time, there was a time,

Beyond all ancient family ties,

Some people fought, some people died.

There was a time.

There was little left of the
bodies, save a large pile of black and silver ash blowing on the breeze. It
hadn’t been hot enough to totally burn the skulls and long bones however, and
they stuck out at awkward angles in the dust. Animals would scavenge through
the remains, picking out what was left, but there was little else they could
do. It was the way of things.

Fallon Waterford sighed and
wrapped her arms round her ribs. Solomon stood beside her, waiting.

“So,” she said, eyes fixed on the
smoke and ash. “We need to grab a few things before we leave, if we can…”

He stared at her, not
comprehending.

“Well,” she went on. “Things like
bits of burned cloth that will work as char for making fires. We can find lots
of that right now. Um, what else? Knives or swords or other weapons that we
might find, skins for water, you know, things like that…”

“Uh huh…”

“Oh! And rope! Anything that
might work as rope, any kind of rope will do.”

“Rope.”

“Yup. Rope. That’s important.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do we need all of these
things?”

And she stared at him, not
comprehending.

“Well, it may take awhile.”

“What
may take awhile?”

 
“To find the others, of
course.”

There was nothing to be said. The
girl was an eternal optimist.

She smiled at him. “And then, can
I drive?”

“Why not?” said Solomon, and
together, they began to sift through the camp for supplies.

There are six elements –
fire, water, earth, air, wood and metal. They compose all things in varying
degrees, some have more of one, others more of another, but for the most part,
these elements are in everything that is, whether living, dead or inert. But in
all those things that are living or even dead, there is always fire.

For example, all trees, which are
wood, have fire. Living ones have less, dead ones more. The matter was in the
finding of it, and then its release. He supposed it was the same for water,
earth, air or metal, but for now, he was concentrating on finding the fire, and
he could feel it, just outside of his reach, just beyond his hands.

With a growl and lash of his
tail, he removed his gloves and tossed them aside. She wasn’t back yet, but she
had caught a fine young boar, was carrying it back even as the thought crossed
his mind. He could see her as though he could see her, and he marveled how
clear things had become since his death. True, he still needed a hand on her
shoulder, but given that, he could navigate the forest floor as if his eyes
were not bound and his vision not impaired. He could ‘see’ the trees, the
rocks, the rivers, and he also marveled at how well he heard things now too.
Birds in far away peaks, rabbits undercover of fern, insects and water, stones
and the wind.

There, a glimmer of warmth
beneath his hands, and he ran his fingers along the firewood, dry and ripe,
perfect for kindling. He felt himself sink into it, through the rough bark and
the softer lighter pulp, deeper and further and stronger. For some reason, he
knew he needed to speed it up, to quicken it somehow so it would catch, and he
concentrated on the thoughts of moving the pulp, bark against bark, moving the
fibers in greater and greater speeds…

“Nothing?”

He hadn’t heard her, so deep was
he, and he sat up, found her with his thoughts.

“Bah,” he growled again and
tossed the stick into the pile. “It is useless. I cannot do this.”

He felt her move toward him,
heard the boar drop to the ground by his knees, smelled the blood on its
flanks. He could feel her standing straight, hands on her hips. Could feel the
rise and fall of her hair on the breeze. He had given her several layers of his
desert clothing, and she had shredded one to make an obi, and to wrap the bite
marks at her wrists and neck. Even blinded, he could see she looked
magnificent.

“Well, it is not too bad. There
is smoke.”

“Really? Smoke?”

“Yes. Try again, only not so
hard. You try too hard.”

He grunted, and turned his face
back to the firewood. Suddenly, warmth against the rough linen at his temples,
and he knew she’d placed her hands there. She was probably right. He usually
tried too hard at many things.

This time, he simply imagined
what it would be like if the wood caught on fire.

“Aiya!”
she yelped and snatched his hands away, and he could feel
the rush of heat on his face and fingers. “You did it!”

He sat back, confounded. It had
been so simple. So simple.

He was a Firestarter.

He couldn’t help but grin.

“Oh, now you are proud. You will
be insufferable now.” He could hear her begin gutting the boar with the
Alchemist’s dagger.

“I thought I was always proud and
insufferable.”

“Now you will be worse.”

He cast his mind around the
forest floor, found a patch of dried grass, imagined it catching on fire. It
did.

“Stop that. It is dangerous.”

He found a mushroom, imagined it
catching on fire. It did.

“I said, stop that!”

“But it smells wonderful. We can
roast mushrooms along with the boar.”

He could hear her grumbling,
could hear her tail lashing back and forth through the ferns. He realized at
that moment that he couldn’t imagine life without her. And for the first time
in a very long time, Sireth benAramis, the last Seer of
Sha’Hadin,
was happy.

“Hurry up with that thing.
Firestarting makes me hungry.”

“Pah.
You
hunt next time. Perhaps you will set a rabbit on fire.”

He imagined the boar’s tail, a
little black slip of a tail, catching on fire. It did.

“Stop that or I will gut you
next!”

“Ha! What else can I try…?”

“Enough with the trying! Find us some
water next. I do not wish to stay here any longer.”

“Hmm…”

Water.

He set his mind to finding water.

***

I said in the last chapter that
death is a strange thing.

Now that is true, and I trust
that all that was written in the last chapter will attest to that fact. Death
can be noble, it can be vain, it can be won and, in the cases of Kerris
Wynegarde-Grey and Sireth benAramis, it can be lost. But as strange as death
is, I think most of us can agree that it is
life
that is the stranger.

For even at the hand of death,
life cannot be tamed.

Fallon Waterford believed this
with every fiber of her being.

And so, after they had scoured
the camp of the dead for things that might help them in their quest for the
living, here in this foreign land several days ride – forgive me,
drive
– from the borders of the
Upper Kingdom, they began their search for life. It was a completely random
search of course, of the forests, the plains, the mountains and the scrub of
this new land of
Turah’kee,
for any
sign of either of their compatriots - the brothers Wynegarde-Grey, the Seer or
his Major. Fallon Waterford was not a tracker. Neither was the Ancestor who had
taught her to drive. They simply drove the vehicle north, then south, east then
west, in hopes of finding some trace of those whom Fallon was convinced were
still living.

As I said earlier, life is
strange.

Her infernal optimism was
beginning to wear thin on her driving companion, Jeffrey Solomon, and he was
beginning to wonder if he should just drive her to her border, drop her off in
the company of other tigers, and leave, returning to his original ‘Plan B’ as
he continued to call it. Something about a ‘boat’ and crossing an ocean to find
a place called ‘
Khan’adah.’
Fallon,
for her part, would hear of no such thing.

It had been several days now that
they had been searching, and the tigress was growing hungry. She was weary of
the vitamin squares and protein paste of the Ancestor, and as he sat sunning
himself on the hood of the Humlander, she had slipped off into the trees to
hunt.

Now, Fallon Waterford had never
hunted in her life. During the entire journey, it had been Kerris, Ursa or the
horses who had brought down the fresh game, while she had watched and eaten her
fill. But she
had
watched, and now,
as she crouched low to the ground, white-tipped tail twitching and mouth
watering, she moved in on her prey, a fat long-tailed pheasant ruffling
feathers and thumping in the long grass.

It hadn’t seen her. It hadn’t
smelled her. She was close enough for a good pounce.

Well, she wasn’t really, but she
thought she was. For in truth, someone else was much closer.

For even as she began the rush
toward the bird, the ground began to shake and she could hear the thudding of
hooves and the air piercing squeal of the mountain pony as he raced past her
and pounced, pounding the pheasant into feathers under his tiny feet.

Quiz snatched the dead bird up in
his teeth and stared at her.

And Fallon Waterford began to
cry.

She ran toward the pony, threw
her arms around his shaggy neck, buried her face in his tangled mane. She
kissed his soft muzzle like an old friend, stroked the crescent-shaped moon of
white on his forehead, whispered sweet whispers into his fuzzy ears. All the
while, he stood, allowing her to do so, with the dead bird between his teeth.

“Where’s Kerris?” she asked
through her tears. “Can you show me? Will you, Quiz? Will you?”

It never occurred to her that
talking to horses was strange. She had seen too much on this journey to ever
assume such things again.

With the bird between his teeth,
the pony whirled and scrambled off, disappearing into the trees like a shadow.

But for Fallon Waterford, it was
more than enough. She called for Solomon and scrambled after him.

***

For the better part of the day
they trailed him as he slipped in and out of their sight. For the most part, he
was a vapor, and just when they were about to give up and retrace their steps,
he would show up in the distance, bird still between his teeth. It was as if he
were waiting for them, or leading them. Fallon couldn’t be sure which, but she
knew he was taking her to his master, his rider, her lover. She was as
obstinate as the pony, this she knew. She would never ever give up.

At first, Solomon had been
reluctant to follow, for the forest was very dense and the terrain mountainous,
and it meant leaving the Humlander behind and following on foot. But the
tigress had been insistent, and once he himself had caught a glimpse of the
pony, he quickly relented. But they were nowhere near as fast, and after
several hours of running in dense forest, leaping and struggling over roots and
tree trunks, then heading higher and higher still into the foothills of the
mountains, they were exhausted and ready to quit for the evening. It was then
that they heard the whistle.

It was quite loud, even over the
sound of rushing waters, and when they came upon the width of a mountain-fed
stream, they knew they were on the right path. The river fell over rocks and
tree trunks in its race to find level ground, and pines grew all around its
banks, twisted and tall and reaching for the darkening sky. It was treacherous
terrain, for one misstep could mean a twisted ankle, broken leg or worse, but
now they could hear a voice, and nothing would deter their quest.

It was sunset and there was still
enough light to make him out, down on one knee as he was by the bank of the
steep river. As they drew nearer, they could see that he was working on
something that looked like the pelt of a rabbit, kneading it and pounding it
with rocks to make the skin soft. A small pile of dead animals was at his side,
including the pheasant, and the katanah lay on the ground a short distance
away. Its blade was red with sunset.

“Kerris,” she called, and she
rushed toward him, but he didn’t look up, only continued muttering to himself
as he worked. She stopped.

“Kerris?”

Still nothing.

She threw a glance over her
shoulder at Solomon before moving in closer. The man shook his head, but she
ignored him and moved closer still.There was blood on his fingers as he worked
the pelt, dipping it in the water of the river and pulling it out again to rub
the inside of the skin, making it supple, pliable and soft. She could also see
that the tunic he was wearing was new, one she had never seen before, and
underneath that tunic, she could see part of his shoulder and grey chest and
the new long line of stitches that bound him together. Those stitches were
small, fine and precise. She had seen the handiwork before. He had worn them on
his back once upon a time, and his arms.

Her heart was thudding in her
throat as she knelt down on the riverbank. She could barely speak.

“Kerris?” And this time, she
reached out to touch him.

He almost jumped out of his
boots, and in a blur of motion, the tip of the long sword was at her throat.

Solomon’s hands were on her
shoulders, pulling her back, but she fought against his grip to free herself.

“Kerris!” she cried. “It’s me,
Fallon! Fallon Waterford! And Solomon! Surely you know us?”

But the look on his face told her
no such thing, for his eyes were wild and the sword did not waver from its
place at her throat.

“Go away,” he snarled. “Go away
and leave us alone.”

“C’mon,” muttered the Ancestor in
her ear. “He’s not right. We need to rethink this.”

She batted at his hands. “No, no
please. Kerris, it’s me! Fallon!”

“Go Away!” And with eyes never
leaving her face and sword never leaving its mark, he bent to scoop the dead
animals in his free hand, tuck them under his arm. They were soaked like the
pelt, and river water ran down his side, soaking his tunic and trousers. He
took a step back, and then another, before turning swiftly toward the steep
incline of the mountain.

She would not be deterred and
shook off the Ancestor’s hands. “Kerris, please! Come back!”

He began to scramble up the
rocks.

Her heart did a somersault. She
could not, would not lose him again. “Kerris. Please! We’re here to help!”

He froze in his tracks, little
rocks tumbling behind him down the slope, and she could see his breathing. He
turned his head over his shoulder.

“You can help?”

She stepped forward again. Her
legs were straining against the slope and the rocks and her heart. “Yes, of
course. Quiz brought us here. He knows we can help.”

And when he turned back to look
at them, she couldn’t help but think that something about him had changed, that
he looked utterly majestic and that the sword looked completely at home in his
hand.

“Do you have water skins?”

“Yes, yes, of course. We do have
skins! They’re not here, of course. They’re back at the Humlander. We can get
them if you like. It’ll just take awhile, to get there, and then back
again…It’s um, kind of far…”

“A rope?” he asked. “Do you have
a rope?”

“Oh yes, I do have a rope as
well. I made sure of it!” She squared her shoulders, vindicated.

He took one step back down, then
another, finally stopping directly in front of her. The sky was purple now and
she could see him fighting to remember.