Shadow Pavilion (13 page)

29

S
eijin was unaccustomed to nursing wounds and found the sensation was not uninvigorating. Female self was resigned to the situation, but male self had been giving Seijin no small degree of grief.

“This is shameful! The loss of face has been—” Male self stammered for an appropriate adjective. “Insupportable!”

“Face has been lost before,” female self reminded him gently. Seijin was once more in the upper story of the Shadow Pavilion, looking out across the shifting, gray landscape of
between
. The crowds that had heralded the arrival were now dispelling on the upper slopes, but the light was low, sending golden streaks across the gray plain below. Seijin watched as a small herd of ghostly deer emerged from behind the rocks and made their way out onto the plain; then something must have startled them, for their white tails went up and they skittered away, finally fragmenting into mist.

“Face has not been lost for many years!” male self protested. “This is a great dishonor.”

“My defeat was by the Celestial Emperor,” Seijin reminded himself. “There is little dishonor in that.”

“All the same—”

“And now we have a notion of his mettle,” Seijin went on. In fact, the Emperor's abilities had come as a surprise. It just went to show that one should not underestimate an opponent, no matter how much inside information one thought one had possessed.

“His time on Earth has weakened him,” the Dowager Empress had informed Seijin. “His liaison with this—this human
ghost
—has shown a deplorable degree of self-indulgence. He will not submit to duty, he shows no reverence for the past.”

From the words of the Emperor's mother, Seijin had formed certain opinions of Mhara: someone young, in Celestial terms, probably willful and petulant. There would be power there, yes, but little guile. Yet the Emperor had not only seen Seijin coming, but had gained enough knowledge of the assassin's movements to outsmart Seijin and seize a weapon.

That, if Seijin had been the anxious sort, was the really worry­ing thing. Female self, herself shadowy against the shifting tapestries on the Pavilion's wall, sank onto a seat and wrapped her hands together. “He has taken a pin! He can follow us here, if he chooses.”

“I am not so concerned about his pursuit,” Seijin said, reflecting. “After all, his powers will be greatly diminished here in
between
. But what it does afford him is the opportunity to spy.”

“What if he sends someone else?” female self asked.

“Who? A necromancer? You forget who we are.”

“I remember what we were,” female self faltered. And of course, Seijin remembered, too.

A river, at twilight, the water flowing oily and slow between the high banks, crashing with the blocks of ice that snowmelt had brought down from the heights. Seijin stood in a cold wind, looking out across the steppe. From the slight rise beyond the river, the plains stretched gray and endless, the grass shifting and whispering in this last wind of winter, spring on the way. Its taste came fresh on the air and Seijin reached out hands, welcoming this change of season when power came most easily. These liminal points, the change of the season, the hour. Power ran strong under the land, beneath the black, still-frozen earth, arcing in webs from the mountain summits, all the way across the plains to the distant birch-haunted tundra.

Seijin had been up in the mountains for the past week, hunting the spirits of a wolf pack that had threatened a tribe's meager herds. Sometimes, things did not know they had died, living so close to the otherworld that their recognition of their own death was no more than the sense of a cold wind blowing. Running the wolf pack down among the icy rocks, the black glitter of a ghost's eye in the darkness, drawing on the power of the waning moon to rip the beast apart, send it screaming down to Hell. Now, years later, Seijin wondered how many of those ghosts had ended up in
between,
racing the shadow plains. All the wolves had gone, the last cub spirit shrieking out into the winter air, disappearing. Then Seijin had come down from the heights, bearing spirit-scalps on a long thread, casting it down before the tribe's shaman as the warriors had stared in awe and horror. It had amused Seijin to allow female self the dominance, seeing the desire in their eyes as she shyly smiled, need chased by fear as they saw the scalps wither into a bloody smoke and blow away.

One of them had come after her. One of them had died.

Pleasant memories. Seijin, standing, curled hands against the windowsill, feeling the muscles ache. Not a familiar feeling. Memory brought the river back, standing on that rise and watching the ghost lords ride the steppes, the Golden Horde on their fast, sleek ponies, sweeping from the east as they had once done, to sack and plunder the rich cities. But that was over a hundred years gone, Samarcand rebuilt into a glory of blue tile and golden dome, a city of sun and sky. If the horde reached it now, Seijin knew, watching the warriors ride by, they would sweep through the walls unseen. Perhaps they might make a child cry, give a seeress bad dreams. Nothing more than that. And as if he had heard, the man who rode in their midst turned his head and looked toward Seijin. Under the domed helm, his face was contorted into a familiar snarl, the eyes flat, black, mad.

“Hey, cousin!” Seijin cried to the Khan. “Guess what? I'm still here. Who'd have thought that, eh?” Then turned to the river and spat. In an instant, the ghost horde was gone, the grass hissing in the night wind. Seijin looked up and saw the Hunter of the Greeks striding across the late winter sky with the blue star at his heels.

“Enough,” Seijin said aloud, raised a hand and slit the air.

And now, back at Shadow Pavilion, the only home Seijin had for a handful of hundred years. Returning again, as so often. The servants were staying out of the way, although there was no real need. Seijin had grown tired of torture, some while back. But then again, that had been during the tedium of invincibility, and that, it seemed, was no longer an issue.

30

Z
hu Irzh and the badger sat high in a tree, looking out across the rustle of the jungle. The badger had eaten some beetles, which had disagreed with him.

“You want to be careful, you know,” the demon told him, swinging a booted foot. “Eating things in other people's Hells can be dodgy.”

“I needed food,” the badger said, stoically. “I will cope.” He spat out a fragment of glittering wing and they watched it float down to the ground. There had been no further sighting of the tigers, despite occasional distant growling.

“They've probably gone back to the palace,” Zhu Irzh said. “Can't see them hunting too late into the night. I imagine a party is in order.” He looked at the badger. “How d'you fancy going back?”

“To the palace?” The badger thought about this. It had a certain appeal. “We could kill more things.”

“Not
quite
what I had in mind,” Zhu Irzh said patiently. “There are rather too many of them. I was thinking about the portal. There's got to be some way of moving between the worlds—I don't think I was unconscious for all that long and it seems reasonable that we were brought directly to the palace. Which way did they bring you in? Did you see?”

The badger told him.

“Same here,” the demon mused. “A corridor, with hunting trophies. Seems like a clue to me.”

“Well?” the badger asked him. “Should we go back?”

“What do you think?”

“I don't like skulking about.”

“No,” Zhu Irzh said thoughtfully. “I didn't think you would.”

“Do you know the way?”

“Not really. I think if we follow the river, we've got a good chance of making it back to the grounds of the palace. There were a lot of streams and ornamental fountains beyond the hunting lawns and that suggests a water supply, even in a place like this.”

They were careful, following the river back, keeping eyes and ears open for anything that might be lying in wait. When they skirted the place at which Zhu Irzh had trapped the tiger, the badger saw that the water was bubbling and there was a strong smell of blood: something had dragged the tigress' body down into the river and was still engaged in the process of tearing it apart. Alligator demons? Well, why not? Apart from this, the jungle was humming with life. Something the size of a man, with green-glowing eyes, swung down out of the branches and stared at them.

“Good evening,” Zhu Irzh said, but it hissed and was gone, back up into the canopy. “I don't like meeting so many people,” the demon complained. “All it takes is for someone to report back …”

“Perhaps the tigers are not popular,” the badger suggested. Zhu Irzh conceded that this made sense.

After a time, the jungle began to open out, with clearings and glades that did not seem natural to the badger. Then Zhu Irzh put out a hand, trapping the badger's nose.

“Hang on.”

“What is it?”

“There's something there. Looks like a building.”

The badger snorted. He did not entirely approve of buildings. Keeping close to Zhu Irzh—it would be unfortunate if they became separated, as he was not convinced of the demon's ability to manage without him—the badger inched forward. Through the roots of a dense stand of mangroves, he could see a small, domed structure.

“It is ruined.”

“Hmm,” Zhu Irzh said. “Actually, I'm not so sure.”

The badger was unconvinced. The building did not look inhabited; it was of marble, but the creepers and vines had grown up it in coiling profusion and the walls were stained with what smelled like mold, a dank, green odor that filled the clearing. In amongst the vines were carvings of humans engaged in sexual congress, a feature that passed the badger's understanding.

“I think it's a temple,” Zhu Irzh whispered.

“Why?”

“I don't know. I've seen pictures of buildings like this, in magazine articles. Also, it feels like a temple.”

“Who is it dedicated to?”

“I don't know. Think we should find out?” The demon's teeth flashed in the darkness. Before the badger could advise caution, Zhu Irzh stepped over the mangrove roots into the clearing and strolled over to the temple. The badger followed, scenting the air.

Inside, up a small flight of steps, the temple was clearly in poor condition. Some of the vines had broken through the roof and curled down the central pillars. The floor was slippery with fallen leaves. A small green snake, like molten jade, hissed at the badger without malice as it glided by. The badger murmured a greeting in return and went in pursuit of Zhu Irzh. This was not hard, for the temple was composed of only one room. He found the demon behind a pillar, staring at a statue.

“You asked who this place was dedicated to,” Zhu Irzh said. “There's your answer.” He gestured toward the statue. It was of a young woman, round-faced and smiling. She stood on one clawed foot, and was depicted in the act of playing a long flute, raised to her lips by taloned fingers. A tail curled around her ankles. But like the rest of the temple, the statue was spotted with mold, although it had not become corroded.

“Who is she?” the badger asked. “Do you know?”

“No idea. Some minor demon, perhaps.” Zhu Irzh glanced around. “Looks like a central theme of lust, anyway.” In a moment of whimsy that was lost on the badger, he kissed his fingertips and touched them to the woman's smiling lips. There was a blinding flash of light, dazzling the badger and forcing a growl out of him.

“Oh dear,” Zhu Irzh said. The young woman stepped down from her pedestal, dark eyes glittering, mouth twisting with fury, and punched Zhu Irzh in the face.

“Where is he?” she shouted.

“Who?” The demon spat black blood. “I'll say this for you, madam, being turned to stone doesn't seem to have done you a whole lot of harm.”

“Did he send you? Has he decided that, suddenly, I'm to be brought back to court? As a little ‘entertainment,' perhaps?”

Her naked limbs were still dappled with rot, the badger noticed, almost masking her musky odor. She smelled of amber and spice, a smell that even the badger recognized as strongly sexual.

“We're
…
not local, let me put it that way.”

“Oh.” The girl stepped back and surveyed Zhu Irzh. “No, you're not from here, are you? Did he capture you?”

“By ‘he,' do you mean the prince?”

“Prince?” The dark gaze flashed sparks, which showered to the floor and hissed out among the fallen leaves. “He told me I would be a queen! Queen Sefira, that's what he promised me!”

“Let me guess,” the demon said. “You're a forest spirit. A deva? You probably started out as a tribal fertility totem and as things got a bit more sophisticated, you changed accordingly. This is your temple, in which fertility rites of various forms of intensity were carried out. The prince shows up. He says he's a god. This is actually true. He offers you marriage, screws you for a couple of months, gets bored, tries to persuade you to go back to the sticks. You refuse, throw a scene, get turned to stone to shut you up.”

The deva stared at him. “How did you know?”

“My dear,” the demon said. “It's the oldest of old stories. Happens all over the place. Especially to little country spirits like you.”

“What a bastard,” the deva said. “I really thought he loved me, you know? I can't believe I was so stupid. Who's he got up there now?”

“A coven of tiger spirits,” Zhu Irzh said.

“What?
Those bitches? In my forest?”

“These are hunting grounds now. Sorry.”

The deva wrapped her arms around herself, as if cold. The badger watched Zhu Irzh's eyes travel across the deva's cleavage, and gave a mental sigh. Human-type people were all the same. It was not something with which he had any sympathy. He poked Zhu Irzh with a claw.

“We are looking for something. Ask her.”

“Oh!” the deva said, looking down. Insultingly, it seemed she had only just realized that the badger was there. “Isn't it sweet?”

“Fine,” the badger said, and teakettled. A muffled iron voice said,
“You
can carry me, then.”