Spirit Hunter (11 page)

It was as if she did not even see him. And yet he wanted to take her hand. He wanted to feel the knot of fire that had scorched him when they first touched. That was the truth of it.

Don’t be such a fool,
he told himself.
She is just a ragged barbarian, and you’ve ruined her life. She detests the very ground you walk on.

At last, someone clapped briskly, and quiet fell across the chamber. “Rise, my little half-breed.” Drawing in a long breath, Swiftarrow sat back on his heels, still looking down.

He
was here – Swiftarrow knew it: Lord Fang. He had picked out that soft, mocking voice from among the gossipy whispering. It would be foolish to look, and he had been kneeling long before the courtiers came in. Still looking down at the winding Persian flowers woven into the rug, Swiftarrow felt the heat of many people staring.

“La, see how he flushes,” whispered one lady to her companion. “So delicious.”

Oh, sweet ancestors, preserve me. Not this again.

“Take care, dear cousin,” the Empress said. “Have you forgotten the Shaolin can hear more acutely than dogs? See, you have made the boy ashamed of his beauty. Child, look at me. Am I not lucky to have so fair a weapon?”

A rush of sighs fluttered about the room like tiny birds as Swiftarrow raised his head to look. Sitting cross-legged on a red couch of carved carnelian-stone, the Empress was dressed this morning as a man: she wore simple robes stitched so fine they appeared seamless, but her piled-up hair was dotted with small peonies and her shaven eyebrows drawn in with sea-green paint. Her forehead had been dusted with yellow good-fortune powder, very bright against her pale skin, like the light of the sun.

Mad as a basket of snakes,
Swiftarrow thought, waiting for her to address him again. Speaking out of turn was a fool’s trick; men had died for less. He pushed the thought from his mind.
Where was the Emperor? Too sick to leave his bed again? What a fine empire this is, ruled by a shaking, palsied wreck and his spider of a wife.

The Empress smiled at Swiftarrow, showing blackened teeth, and it took all his self-mastery to crush a great shudder of disgust. “I am pleased with your work,” she said. “Autumn Moon tells me the barbarian girl is greatly skilled and shall do well once she is fully trained. Did you remember to thank my dear General Li? Were it not for him, you would never have found her, after all.”

Fat, lying hog – I should have known he would take the praise for that.
But Swiftarrow wished it were true and he had not been the one to ruin Asena’s life.

He nodded. “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. When I next have the good fortune to cross paths with General Li, I will thank him. I could not presume to seek out his attention but must wait till he sees fit to notice me.”

The Empress smiled again. “Good. Now, Lord Fang – what do you make of your Shaolin boy? Ought we to give him another task?”

“I scarcely know, Your Majesty.” The voice was slow, languid, as if the speaker had only just woken.

Swiftarrow’s heartbeat quickened and he glanced down.
I am worth no more than a half-forgotten painting, a new bolt of printed silk, a caged bird he admires when the fancy strikes.
There was no use in wishing that Lord Fang had any other use for him. He stared at the rug, woven flowers and strange beasts all twining about each other.

Light footfalls and the rustle of silk broke the quiet. Still Swiftarrow did not look up, even when he felt the cold touch of ivory at his throat; a long, pointed nail-guard grazed the skin just beneath his chin. “Look at me, child,” said his father.

The scent of rice wine stung Swiftarrow’s eyes. His first memory of Lord Fang was laced with the rich smell of peonies drifting around the House of Golden Butterflies and the sour reek of wine. He could still hear the echo of his mother’s voice:
Kneel before your father, my dear one. He has made a special journey to see you.

“I dare not gaze upon my most esteemed parent.”

Laughter floated around the chamber. The nail-guard dug harder into Swiftarrow’s throat and he looked up into the face of his father.

“Such impudence.” Lord Fang let each word fall from his lips like a drop of cold water. Swiftarrow stared back at him, savouring the small victory. Lord Fang’s hair was streaked with grey now, the lines around his mouth and eyes drawn deeper. In the House of Golden Butterflies, the concubines still whispered of him.
Lord Fang and your mother,
they said,
such a fair couple there never was before; and has not been since. They were surely blessed by the goddess of the moon. But, oh, they were doomed from the start.

“What a very pretty boy you are,” Lord Fang said, softly. “Dagger-tongued and foolish, too: just like your mother in every way.” Another light burst of laughter rippled about the chamber.

Swiftarrow looked away. His eyes burned.
I hate him, I hate him
. Sharpened by regret, his hatred cut all the deeper. He wished he had enough regard for Lord Fang to speak with respect. But it was not so. A sole tear ran down his face and shame washed over him like scalding water.

Lord Fang smiled, lazily. Reaching out, he let the tear slide onto his fingertip, sighing, “Full of such fire, you are, boy. Ah! So very like her. I ought to write a poem about you. I wrote several about your mother. I have written none about your sister. I do not think it would be quite proper.” He laughed, at last moving the ivory nail-guard away from Swiftarrow’s throat. Swiftarrow did not move; he knew the disgrace of weeping would haunt his sleep for nights.

Lord Fang turned to the Empress, who was now reclining on the carnelian couch. She watched them; a smile pinched her painted lips.

“Your Imperial Highness,” he said. “I shall be most honoured if you will allow my son to serve you again.”

I am here to amuse you,
Swiftarrow thought,
just as my mother was before me.

The Empress laughed, stretching like a cat. “How wonderful.” She sat up, looking around the room at her courtiers, who shrank away like chastened children. “What are you all doing, standing about like stuffed pig bladders? Tear your eyes from Lord Fang’s lovely son; none of you shall have a taste of the boy.”

There was a moment of shocked quiet, a suppressed giggle and then a rush of chatter as the courtiers turned back to their gossip.

Swiftarrow looked down at the rug again, sure that the weaving flowers and beasts would tangle about among his dreams.

“So, what would Your Highness have the boy do?” Lord Fang sounded bored.

“Is it not time the child knew his kin, Fang?”

Swiftarrow heard the smile in her voice and wished he could see the horror writ across Lord Fang’s face, but he did not trust himself to look up.
My father would rather stick knives in his eyes than admit me to the bosom of his family.

The Empress laughed. “Do not fear. I am not suggesting that you take home your whore-house leavings. Your poor wife! Does she not suffer enough with the summer fever? No, no. Look at me, boy.”

Swiftarrow obeyed.

She smiled again. “No, Fang – the boy must go to his Horse Tribe brethren. I grant that the tribes Lord Ishbal sent did fine work for General Li, but I fear very much that Ishbal and his barbarians now plot against me – against my dear husband. Go to their dirty little camp outside the east wall, boy, and find out if it is so.” She raised one hand to her mouth in mock horror. “How awful if all those horse-riding barbarians were to join forces from one end of the Roads to another! Only think of the smell.”

Swiftarrow swallowed his horror, making sure his face remained a blank mask of obedience.
I should tell her I refuse. I cannot do it again
. In his mind, he saw the burnt and ruined Horse Tribe camp – the fleeing horses, broken bodies, the smouldering tents. He saw the agony in a father’s eyes as his daughter was taken away.

The Empress’s smile faded; Swiftarrow knew he must speak. Lord Fang was frowning at his silence.
I’ve angered him,
Swiftarrow realized with a jolt of satisfaction.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I shall do whatever you most desire.” Swiftarrow bowed low again till his forehead touched the ground. He was a coward. He had promised to obey even though he knew it was wrong. He could not bear it.
I am not here.
A gasp rose up from the gathered courtiers and Swiftarrow heard the Empress laughing as he ran to the door, unseen by all.
Coward,
he cursed himself.
Filthy coward.

Swiftarrow wished himself into nothing, but as he ran, he wondered what price Lord Fang would demand.

I
stand facing Autumn Moon in the temple hall. We are alone, save little Eighth Daughter, who sits cross-legged like the statue of the Enlightened One, watching Autumn Moon and me. Streams of light the colour of golden ale wash across the stone floor from the high, latticed windows. Autumn Moon watches me, and I watch her. Her bald head glints in the sunlight, her face is narrow and lean and she has barely any chin: in truth, Autumn Moon reminds me of the fish that swim in the green, shadowy pools outside in the Forbidden Garden. Yet there is another kind of beauty in her – when she moves, it is like watching a bird in flight, but now she is still, she is like a pillar of rock out in the wild steppe: utterly motionless.

She bows her head and looks up. Autumn Moon rarely smiles, but often I catch the light of kindness in her eyes, behind that hidden sorrow. I wonder again what she has done, what haunts her so.

“Look,” she says in T ’ang – Eighth Daughter has taught me a handful of words – and lifts one hand, pointing at the Wall of Beasts. Every time I see this wall, the wonder of it makes me stare. How is it done? Birds in flight, huge, prowling cat-like creatures, bears, leaping wolves, all frozen for ever on silken strips that hang fluttering gently from the roof. They are not real birds and wolves, of course, I know that; they have been made by the scar-faced one, Red Falcon, who used to paint for the Emperor before he came to live among the Shaolin. But I had never seen anything like it till I came here. As the silk shifts in the breeze, the beasts seem to move of their own will, just like real creatures. There are black shapes painted here, too, in long rows. These mean nothing to me, but I think it is this magic the T ’ang use to talk to one another without speaking: the same as speech, only silent.

Autumn Moon smiles at my wonder and moves closer to the rippling silk, pointing at a running wolf. Strange how she chooses the wolf. I point at my chest.

“Me,” I say. I don’t know the T ’ang word for spirit.

Is it even true? My wolf-guide has left me. I am no wolf-girl any more.

Autumn Moon nods, slowly. Now she points at herself and says something I don’t understand.

“Sister Autumn Moon says that, over many years, the Shaolin have learned how to move with the grace and speed of beasts and birds,” Eighth Daughter explains. “Although there are many foolish tales of the Shaolin using these skills to defeat great armies of warriors, in reality we use them to fight our own selves – our anger, selfishness and greed – so that we can keep to the Eightfold Path and achieve eternal peace when we die. She says that your heart-sickness and your anger will be eased by learning how to do the same. So now she is going to show you the wolf.” Eighth Daughter grins. “Don’t be afraid, Asena. It’s easy: I can do this and I am smaller than you.”

“Wait. Tell me,” I demand. “This seeking for peace is not your only aim, is it? Let us be honest with one another: you have not the courage to kill with your own hands, but hide and sneak like shadows, delivering innocent men and women to their deaths just because the Empress has chosen it.”

Eighth Daughter frowns. “I – I don’t know.” She turns and speaks rapidly to Autumn Moon, who nods, answering in a quiet voice: this is what haunts her, the killing, the deaths she has caused.

“She says it is very hard, but that we have a duty to the Empress as well as to ourselves. And now she will show you the wolf.”

Eighth Daughter falls silent. Autumn Moon is watching me so closely I feel as if she can see the colour of my thoughts. Taking a few steps away from me, she stands still, breathing deep: I see the rise and fall of her thin chest.

She runs at me with the speed of sky-fire flashing across the night and I duck, putting up my arms. Now I’m helpless on my back – she’s got me pinned by the shoulders. Autumn Moon kneels on my legs, fixing them to the floor. The pain is bone-deep; she has me like a wolf with its prey. Shocked by the fall, I can scarcely breathe. Autumn Moon is smiling, and speaks a word I don’t know.
What am I meant to do now?
I would kick, but I cannot move.
Oh, Mother Earth, it hurts.
I try to roll, but I cannot. I’m helpless. At last, Autumn Moon lets out a short burst of laughter and gets up, releasing me. I stagger to my feet, rubbing my thighs where her knees dug in. Eighth Daughter laughs, too, and claps her hands.

“You.”
I know this word. Autumn Moon is speaking to me. She takes a few paces backwards and stands still, arms loose by her sides, waiting. Again, I catch a glimpse of that shadow about her eyes.

I turn and look at the silken wolf rippling against the wall, stirred up by the breeze.

Autumn Moon watches, waiting. I must strike her the way she struck me, in the manner of Blue Wolf hunting Red Deer through the forest. I draw in a long breath, steadying myself:
I am back with my people, deep in the tangled greenwood at night, before I ever became shaman and was forbidden the hunt. We are close about the fire. Now we hear it: the long, drawn-out moaning cry of the wolf-kind. Wolves don’t like fire, but if their hunger bites deep, they’ll come for us. I let my spirit fly free of my body, rising higher and higher. Wolves weave through the trees – nothing but dark shapes from this height. My soul sinks down, down into the body of the largest wolf; now I am the wolf and the wolf is me. We are one. My soul is inside him.