The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (90 page)

“No Kerris.” His stare was strong
and serious. “I am meant for different things now. I don’t know what they are,
but I am quite certain they don’t involve a long sword. You have earned the
right to wear it, so wear it well. Protect your wife and children. Protect our
honor, as a family, as a People. You are our ambassador, now, and always have
been. You are the best of us, Kerris. Carry it with you and wear it with pride.
It is the Destiny you were always meant to have.”

With trembling hands, Kerris took
it. And then the Captain did something he had not done on the entirety of the
journey, from
Pol’Lhasa
to
Sha’Hadin,
from
Sri’Varna
to
Sri’Daolath,
from
KhaBull
to
TheRhan
to
Sharan’yurthah.

With fist to cupped palm, the
Captain bowed.

Kerris clutched the long sword to
his chest and stood up, just a little taller. He took a step back, unable to
speak.

“I love you, Kerris,” said Kirin.

A yak hide boot stepped back
again, this time into the water. And again, and again. Until he lifted those
yak hide boots into the small boat and sat at the point, as Solomon picked up
the poles he had called oars and began to row the small boat out far and
farther, with Kerris still clutching the sword to his chest.

Kirin stood on the shore as the
small boat, tiny now in the distance, met up with the sailing one. Great canvas
sails snapped open and billowed, catching the wind in a way that made him catch
his breath. And the great sailing boat began to move, slowly at first, pushing
its way through the waters and away from land. Away from the Upper Kingdom.
Away from him. Away.

And still he stood on the shore
until the sailing boat was little more than a speck, and it was then that he
turned and ran across the sand toward the stone stairs that led up to the
ruined city. He ran up the steps without slowing. And still he ran toward the
docks, toward the high mountain cliffs that stopped the waters and he stood out
at the very farthest point, as far out over the water as he possibly could, and
watched. The white sailing boat, like a sea bird now with wings unfurled, was a
white dot, growing smaller and smaller until nothing but waves remained in its
wake.

Kirin Wynegarde-Grey dropped to
his knees and wept.

***

It took them the better part of a
week before they came upon the great wall of tigers that lined the border of
the Upper Kingdom. In fact, the alarm had been sounded at first sight of their
dust, and cauldrons of flame burned from high points everywhere. They had some
trouble entering the Kingdom, for there was nothing of the Captain’s Imperial
uniform left, save the sash. It was clear he was a lion, but beyond that, all
assumptions were suspended and the small party riding a mountain pony and two
reclaimed packhorses were escorted into the gates of
Sharan’yurthah,
and the welcoming home of the Magistrate.

His little bay friend was
awaiting him.

They stayed with the Magistrate
and his wife for three days, resting, sleeping, dining, and shopping. The
Captain had indulged himself in several desert headdresses, for he could envision
his kheffiyah quickly becoming as tattered as his sash. He found several to his
liking, in various styles, but all in some form of Imperial gold. There was
even one that boasted a golden metal helm with a point and red tassel that
waved in the breeze. It reminded him of a sham’Rai helm he had seen in a museum
once and he thought it quite impressive. He also purchased for himself several
pair of gloves, all of thickest leather, but some with elaborate embroidery,
naturally in gold.

The tail leathers that Ursa had
made for him were holding up well, and he made it a point to commission another
set as soon as he arrived home.

Home.

Kestrels were sent ahead of them
as they were escorted, under a new Imperial banner, to the northeastern
garrison of
Sri’Verenshir,
and
finally, the Wall. This would be their road now for the better part of this
next year, for there was no need for speed, and the Wall ensured safety and
civility. For Kirin Wynegarde-Grey, Sireth benAramis and Ursa Laenskaya, the
Year of the Rabbit would always be remembered as the Year of the Great Wall, as
day after day was spent on its stone path. From
Sri’Verenshir
to
Tabrizh
,
from
Sri’Lankhoran
on the shores of
the
Kashphian to Challus
. It was a
long road, but a good one, as there were battleforts aplenty on the way and
generally good food and good company. None of the soldiers along the way knew
exactly what to make of the little party, which had been heralded as an Imperal
one, but appeared to be anything but. A man obviously a lion, obscuring his
mane, binding his tail, wearing an Imperial sash and riding a mountain pony.
Another man, obviously not a lion, able to control fire but not the wild young
falcon under his care. And the woman, well, she frightened them all. They were
followed, every step of the way, by a little bay colt, which was now more eyes
and legs than anything else. Indeed, this party was a strange sight.

The New Year came and went, and
the Year of the Rabbit was celebrated by all but these three on this long,
winding road. The Festival of the Blue Dragon, Night of Sevens (which only the
Seer celebrated), another Ghost Festival, all were met with similar disregard,
as little could affect the reflective mood of the trio. They had lost much.
They had learned much. They were going home.

The mountains had returned. Their
mother, the Great Mountains, rose high and higher the longer they rode on their
disparate horses along the Wall. The lights of
TheRhan
had been seen, as had those of
KhaBull
but the Wall took them north again, swinging upward into
the heart of the
Phun’jah
like a
curved blade. The winds howled, the winter snows set upon them once again, but
they party did not care overmuch. They had battleforts, they had hot stew and
tea and straw for sleeping. Life was good, for it was life.

Again, to the company of the fine
men of
Pesh’thawar
and
Sri’Gujarath,
who barely recognized the
travelers, but to their credit, said nothing. And the colt was growing tall,
his spirit untamed but his eye was bright and Kirin felt the old stirring of
companionship once again. He had taken to calling the creature aSiffh.
Apparently, in Shaharabic, it meant ‘forgiveness.’ It seemed appropriate.

Young Mi-hahn was growing as
well. While still as ‘happy and joyous’ as ever, she had indeed learned a few
things from the Seer. She had learned to be a fierce hunter, returning from her
nightly forays with mice, rabbits, pigeons and the occasional piglet for the
roasting. She had learned to wear the hood and bells of her profession,
although she regularly protested and loudly so. She had learned to carry a
parchment, although journeys between Seer and Major were as yet her only
outings. One night, very near the Winter Festival in the Year of the Rabbit, in
a battlefort high in the Great Mountains near
Sri’Varna,
Sireth announced that Mi-Hahn was hearing falcons.

The fire was warm for the night
was very cold. They were back in the Mother’s Arms. Her embrace was frigid and
strong and her hug broke many things. Sireth sat, eyes closed, bare hands laid
in his lap. The falcon was sleeping on his shoulder, her tiny head tucked under
her wing. The Major sat against a far wall, knees up, hair obscuring most of
her face. Kirin watched her quietly. He knew she was dreading the next days,
the days when they would come to a crossroads, one way to
Sha’Hadin,
the other to
DharamShallah
and
Pol’Lhasa
and duty. He knew how
she would be feeling. He himself was feeling it now.

“Hmm,” muttered the Seer, and he
opened his eyes. “Tiberius says hello.”

Kirin smiled. “He is there,
then?”

“He would never abandon
Sha’Hadin.
Although there are few left,
I’m afraid. Yahn Nevye is not a gifted Seer. Or a good man.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Kill him, I suppose.”

Behind them, Ursa snorted.

benAramis grinned sleepily. “Well
first, I must ask him to leave, But if he does not, then I shall kill him.”

Kirin grinned now too, finally
accustomed to the Seer’s humor. “But what about Unification?”

The man sighed. “Unification is
essential, Captain. I see that now. The separation of Gifts from Arts was
unnatural and unproductive. But some things cannot be tolerated, and betrayal
is the first of these.”

Kirin nodded. “You will be met
with resistance.”

“As I have all my life, Captain.
It is nothing new. But Jet barraDunne died out there and so now
Agara’tha
is without a First Mage.
Perhaps it is the perfect time for a coup.” And he laughed softly to himself.
“Imagine that, Captain. A mongrel in charge of both
Sha’Hadin
and
Agara’tha.
I shall undoubtedly be the most powerful man in all the Kingdom.”

A silver tail lashed. “That is
why you have me.”

“Indeed,” and he leaned back and
kissed her. “That is why.”

Kirin smiled to himself.

“Can life become any stranger?”
he asked after a while.

“Perhaps it can,” said the Seer,
after another while. “You have yet to return to
Pol’Lhasa.”

There was silence, save for the
crackling of the fire. Kirin sipped his tea, feeling the hot liquid scald his
tongue and throat. “There is nothing for me in
Pol’Lhasa.
I will return to the Palace, give my report to the
Empress, give her the pearl from Kerris and be dismissed from my post. Perhaps
they will allow me to clean out my chamber. Perhaps it has been already done.”

“And why should they dismiss you
from your post?”

He sighed. “I have failed to obey
orders. Express orders from the Empress herself. I have dishonored her and my
commission.”

The Seer did not answer for some
time. He was a man who did not believe in Bushido, in the Way of the Warrior,
but he was a man who did believe in respect and dignity and integrity above all
else. Almost all else. “And what,” he began slowly, carefully, as if weighing
his words, “If you are met with an entirely different response?”

“She is married. She is most
likely carrying a child, an heir to the matriarchy. She has put honor and duty
over all things. What other response could there possibly be?”

“Hmm, yes. I see.” And he sipped
his own tea, the Major’s ice-blue eyes on him like fire.

They slept by that fire, awakened
in the morning and left the battlefort for
Sri’Varna.

***

It was three days ride before
they met that crossroad, the road which left the Wall and followed a very
different path up the impassable mountain that led to
Sha’Hadin
. And so they stood, the last three, Major, Seer and
Captain, on a road which was not broken, merely bent.

Fist to cupped palm, he bowed to
them.

The Major bowed back, perfectly.

The Seer, naturally, did not.

He strode over to the Captain,
his friend. Clasped him on the shoulders.

“There is a lifetime of journals
up there, Captain. Over one hundred years, they say. They need to be read. They
need to be recorded. You would be well suited to that job, I should think.”

The Captain paused. It was
tempting. The journals of Petrus Mercouri, Ancient of
Sha’Hadin
. A simple room, an open window, a cup of tea and books.
Tempting indeed,

“Perhaps after I have taken care
of things. Perhaps after
Pol’Lhasa.
I
will look in on my mother, see if she is well. There may be things I need to
order…”

“Yes,” said the Seer. “Perhaps
then.”

And the man executed a most
formal bow, fist to cupped palm, in perfect fashion. Audacious.

“Major,” said the Captain,
turning to her. She straightened at his words. Ever the soldier. He could see
that she was holding her breath. Her fate hung on his next words, and he knew
that he could shatter her world with the slightest one. “Major, you are charged
with the security not only with the security of the last Seer of Sha’Hadin, but
also of the monastery and its surrounding area. I will do what I can with the resources
that will be left to me. I can send you swords, lamps, troops, horses. Whatever
you need, the Empire will provide.”

“Sir,” she said. “All I will need
is a new uniform.”

He nodded, impressed.

“And boots, sir. Very high
boots.”

He suppressed a grin. “I will do
what I can.”

With a hand on the neck of the
mountain pony, he turned and walked away, choosing yet another path, not the
Wall, but still one that led to
Pol’Lhasa.

***

It was dark when he reached the
Mother’s Arms
at the Roof of the World,
but the interior of the Inn was bright with life. He had checked both pony and
colt in at the stable and smiled at the bedpost sign that still sat, piled high
with snow. The odors of ale, sakeh, sweat and smoke assaulted him as he pulled
open the familiar wooden door. It still boasted a notch from a well-flung
katanah.

A homecoming of another sort.

He crossed the floor, with only a
few heads turning in his direction this time. He sat himself at the bar, laced
his gloved fingers, waited for the tiger who would surely come. He did, fatter
and surlier than ever, wringing a cloth across an iron pot. The tiger eyed him
with suspicion.

“You drinking, friend?” In
Hinyan.

“Yes. A sakeh, if you please.”

“It’s strong for a lion’s blood.”

Kirin smiled.
“Shyrian
Arak is stronger.”