The Art of Prophecy, page 12
“You impudent dog.” Luda’s curled fingers widened and he drew his arm back.
Jian had seen the Luda family death move only during practice. He didn’t believe it actually existed or worked. Half the styles claimed to have death moves. It was of course hard to prove any of their effectiveness. Jian, his neck still in Luda’s grip, flailed his arms. Luda’s claw struck Jian in the chest over his heart, his fingers digging deep into the flesh. The shock reverberated through Jian’s body. He looked down. That was when he realized.
His heart had stopped beating.
Jian tried to cry out; no breath came. He tried to move his arms; they were heavy like iron, and then he couldn’t feel them at all. His legs were rooted to the ground. He began to tip over. The look on Luda’s face was rage mixed with incredulity, as if he were surprised the move had actually worked. The world began to darken.
Taishi appeared out of nowhere. Her hand sliced horizontally across Luda’s face. A stream of blood burst out, and he screamed, clutching what had been his good eye. Taishi struck him once more in the chest with her palm, adding another mud skid to the previously manicured meadow.
She turned to Jian and touched the marks on his chest. Her eyes widened with deep concern. Her hand was a blur as she struck him several times with two fingers: on the base of his neck, over his heart, then once more on his solar plexus. She turned him around, and a sudden hard blow pitched Jian forward. Black blood spewed from his lips. His veins felt as if they were on fire, and then he could breathe again.
“I…” He couldn’t form words.
Taishi held him up by his shoulders. “What did I tell you about staying inside, boy?”
“I wanted to help,” he mumbled, although he wasn’t sure the sounds were making it past his lips.
Taishi half carried, half dragged him back to the clearing. She stopped when the squad of Quiet Death pulled up at the other side of the bridge. She yanked them both into the brush.
“Can…” He breathed heavily. “Can you beat them?”
“I’m not in the mood to fight a dozen fully armored Mute Men on horseback, no.” She paused. “I mean I probably could, but I’m not going to try.” She glanced up at the waterfall and dragged him back toward it. She whistled. “Peachlord, are you there?”
Faaru crept out of the bushes a second later. “Is Jian safe?”
Seeing Faaru there hit Jian almost as hard as Horashi betraying him. “Uncle Faaru is in on it too? He wants me dead as well?”
“No, stupid boy. He’s the one who warned me about this and guided me here. Faaru, is there a way out?”
Faaru pointed at the waterfall. “The water flows through an underground stream coming down from the mountains. If you’re strong, you can swim upstream to escape.”
Taishi glanced at Jian. Doubt flashed on her face. “A cripple and a boy…” She shook her head. “We’ll have to risk it.”
“You’d best hurry then,” said Faaru, urging them on.
Taishi nodded. “Thank you, Faaru. I had judged you wrong. You are a good man.”
“Just get the boy to safety, Master Ling.”
The palacelord looked down at Jian. He bowed. “It’s been an honor, Wen Jian, Hero of the Tiandi Prophecy, Champion of the Five Under Heaven…my boy.” The way he said it was completely different from the way Taishi did.
Jian caught himself swallowing back tears, and then he slumped forward into Faaru’s embrace. “I’m going to miss you,” he sobbed.
Faaru, body shaking as well, stroked the back of his head. “Lead a long and happy life, son.”
“None of us will do that if we stick around much longer,” said Taishi.
Taishi looped Jian’s arm over her shoulder and carried him, bounding up to a rock, then a branch, and then up to the cliff halfway up the waterfall. Jian looked down. The last thing he saw was Uncle Faaru waving his arms at three of the Mute Men as they approached. And then one of them cut him down.
The spray from the waterfall masked his tears as Taishi continued to work her way up to the top of the cliff, a fistful of his shirt in her hand. Jian’s head lolled as she jostled him up to the top of the waterfall, then up to the entrance of the underground stream.
“It’s getting cold,” he whispered between chattering teeth.
She laid him down and pressed her ear to his chest. “I’m not going to lose you now, boy, especially with all the trouble I’m in. This is going to hurt.” Taishi stabbed two more pressure points along his neck, and once on both temples.
Everything went black.
* * *
—
Whether he was out for seconds or hours, he did not know. The next moment, Jian blinked his eyes open and found himself staring up at both the Prince and Princess playing in the night sky. He was drenched. Taishi, hovering over his body, was as well.
Jian sat up, opened his mouth, and promptly vomited up half of the Razor River. He struggled to breathe as his body spasmed several more times. For some reason, his body couldn’t push out whatever water was still trapped inside him, and he was drowning. Taishi appeared and rolled him onto his side. She slapped his back several times, and he spewed out what felt like the other half of the river.
Finally, he fell onto his back. It took a moment for his eyes to focus on Taishi again. “Something’s wrong. Everything feels numb.”
She struck him several more times on his pressure points.
The next time Jian spat, the liquid was black.
“What is happening to me?”
“That bastard Luda poisoned your blood. I’ve temporarily relieved the effects, but it won’t last long. I can’t cure this.”
“What does that mean?” Jian asked.
Taishi, for the first time, looked worn and defeated. She shook her head, resigned. “I’m sorry, boy, but you’re dying.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE SOUL OF THE KHAN
Sali pressed on for four more days. She dozed on horseback by day, letting her savvy roan pick her way over the uneven paths, and stopped only a few hours at night to let the mare rest. Nights were also a dangerous time to travel. The Grass Sea’s thick canopies obstructed the shine of the Celestial Family, leaving the jungle floor in near blackness. And so Sali did her best to stay alert all night, intently watching the ground.
Even by day, shadows and pitfalls awaited their every step. Her mare nearly broke her leg several times, and on one occasion they both nearly drowned when Sali walked her directly off a ledge where both were swept away by an underwater current.
Sali didn’t need to climb past the grass canopy to track the stars: The Khan’s Pull was the only compass she needed. The closer she got to his soul’s resting place, the stronger the draw. This compulsion crawled all over her skin. Over the last few hours, she began to find it difficult to breathe, her breaths turning shallow and forced. She had to grit her teeth to keep them from rattling. The need to Return was so overwhelming, it was all she could do to stay upright and move forward one step at a time.
The tops of the jagged black spires of Chaqra became visible past the canopy in the early evening of the third day, just before dusk reduced the twisted structures to gnarled silhouettes. The land was shrouded in darkness, with neither the moons nor the sun showing their faces. Sali and the mare were ambling forward solely on instinct, ignoring the protests from her sore backside and legs.
By dawn of the fourth day, it was all she could manage to stay upright in the saddle. That would have been the ultimate humiliation, to die in a fall hours away from her destination, not to mention the hassle it would cause the shamans to lose another piece of the Khan’s soul. Sali and the poor mare continued ambling mindlessly in the direction that the throbbing in her chest demanded. In the back of her head, she imagined she heard the faint, familiar welcoming whistles and hisses, the roaring clang of furnaces, followed by morning chants. Sali was so exhausted and delirious, her mind so numb, that nothing registered. The noise just sounded like echoes of memories in her head.
That was what made it so easy to get captured.
One moment she was slumped on the mare’s back, the next a dozen black-clad warriors wielding swords and tall shields with numbered tattoos on their faces—the number of their kills—had her surrounded. “Identify yourself,” someone ordered.
Sali recognized their black garb. Towerspears, or vigilant spears as they were often named. These were the spirit shamans’ personal army, handpicked from among all the clans and often chosen more for their fanaticism than their skill in defending their holiest city. Contrary to their name, the towerspears also never used spears—or resided in towers, now that she thought about it.
Sali gave them a dull stare. “About time you found me. I’m almost on top of you.”
“It’s a viperstrike!”
Technically she was the Viperstrike, of the first among seventeen viperstrikes from her sect, but that was a moot point.
The squadlead who recognized her heart-saluted, putting his fist over his chest. “You honor us with your Return, Will of the Khan.” The other towerspears fell to their knees.
Sali remembered what her position meant to these warriors, especially in Chaqra. She did her best to sit up and not look so much like the wreck she felt like. “The Return to the Rebirth,” she recited. “Lead on.”
The squadlead gestured to his squad, and they spread out in formation around her, an honor guard of sorts. The warriors of Katuia did not believe in such things. Guards were required only for those who could not protect themselves. To assign guards to someone meant they were either weak or so important that custom had to be disregarded for the greater good. In this case, it seemed, Sali was both.
Her escort led her through several clusters of sickly-looking grass, as after a drought. That should have been impossible considering the season they had just weathered. Then Sali realized why it looked unwell. The flora around here had been trampled multiple times by track vehicles, abused by prolonged exposures to exhaust from the cities, and subjected to continuing proximity to humans.
“When did we turn into land-chained?” she muttered.
Sali got her answer a moment later. Her escort led her through several more blooms of grass before finally taking her to what she could describe only as a large refugee camp. Sali could only gape. Sprawling before her eyes was a field of cut and trampled blades, flattened lands of uprooted plants, and fires, dozens of them, dotting the landscape. The people here were living in makeshift tents and hovels, crowded together in disorder and squalor. Many huddled near firepits. Others sat aimlessly on the ground, despondent, their eyes haunted, their strength sapped. A group of children, many barefoot and shirtless, were playing in a stream, the waters polluted with floating debris. The sea underneath their feet had to be groaning from the weight and misery.
She was furious. “These fires are touching the ground. This is sacrilege.”
The lead shook his head. He too looked uncomfortable. “The shamans have made exceptions to ease the people’s plight.”
Sali closed her eyes. She could rattle off half a dozen heretical actions in front of her eyes with just a glance. Things had to be really bad if the shamans allowed this. It was still not acceptable, regardless of circumstances.
It didn’t take long for her to attract curious eyes, and then for word of her arrival to spread. Soon enough, people were flocking to catch a glimpse of her. The Wills of the Khan, twelve in number, were parts of his soul, and considered an extension of his being. Upon his death, it was every Will of the Khan’s duty to Return and join him at his final resting place in the Sanctuary of the Eternal Moor. Only after they all reunited, after he was made whole again, would he be at full strength to reincarnate to his next life and continue to lead their people to salvation.
The towerspears began clearing the way, but it wasn’t necessary. The seemingly endless throng parted before her. Most, if not all, placed their fists over their hearts as she passed. Sali returned the courtesy, keeping her eyes fixed forward, avoiding looking at the pitiful masses entirely. It was inappropriate for someone of her position to stare at commoners.
Eventually, after the excruciating passage through the refugee camp, an end-pod of Chaqra came into view. The space beneath it was even more crowded than the field. Most there appeared to be waiting for something. She didn’t know what until a ship ramp tilted out and lowered to ground level. The once orderly refugees began to jostle one another, pushing their way onto the ramp.
The squad leading Sali began to push back, using their shields and clubs to make space. At first the crowd appeared to overwhelm the towerspears, but slowly they got beaten back. She clicked her tongue irritably. Try as she might, it was difficult to ignore their wailing and begging to be let in.
Her escort ended at the base of the ramp. Sali needed help getting off the mare. Her knees buckled when they touched the ground, but between the mare and the squadlead, she managed not to fall on her face. He also tried to help with her gear, but she would have none of that. It was bad enough getting an escort. If someone was carrying her things for her as well, she would never have been able to face the warriors she commanded, let alone her fellow viperstrikes. Jiamin would never have let her live it down.
Sali slung her gear over her shoulder and gave the roan a gentle pat before handing her off to the lead. “She’s a strong horse, but skittish in space. Worthy to breed for the fields, but not for war.”
The squadlead nodded, taking the reins. “I’ll see that she is honored with good work before she feeds the people.”
The Katuia, with few exceptions, did not give character to their animals or objects. The mare was simply called what she was, as would be a stallion, or a dog. It was the same with their objects. A tool, be it a horse or hammer or sword, should be allowed to fulfill its purpose without the taint of human qualities.
Sali scratched the back of the horse’s ear one last time. She had enjoyed the mare’s company, the gentle and patient creature far more accommodating than the usually temperamental and strong-willed warhorses to which Sali was accustomed. “May your fruitful labors continue, mare.” She turned toward the pod, and then stopped. “One more thing, squadlead. No more fires on the ground. Figure out another way. Difficult times are no excuse for desecration.”
She walked stiffly up the ramp, all too aware of the hundreds of eyes and outstretched hands clamoring to be allowed to join her in the city. Once again she showed them respect by placing her fist to her chest and looking straight ahead.
A man who looked more beard than person was waiting for her at the top. Sali broke into a smile and cupped one side of his face with her palm while he did the same to her. Their foreheads touched. “Jhamsa.”
“Chaqra honors your Return, Will of the Khan.”
“Stop it.”
A wry grin appeared on his face, and the formality in his voice dropped. “Sali, my dear child. I have missed you. I had feared something had happened to you on your journey home.”
“The last cycle of the year isn’t clear and easy days, Spirit Shaman,” she replied drily. “Our Khan chose the worst time to die.”
“Indeed. I honor you for holding to your sacred vows, Sali.”
Not like she had had much of a choice.
He gestured for her to follow him to the end of the pod and across a rope bridge. “Come, you must be exhausted. You should rest before the ritual.”
“How many have arrived?” she asked.
“Besides the four who passed before the Eternal Khan, three perished during the rescue of the Eternal Khan’s body. They have not been recovered, and may never be. Soul Seekers are trying to find their bodies to recover his fragments, but the devastation on the battlegrounds is vast. Two arrived a few weeks ago and have already rejoined the Whole. The only ones left in the world, other than you, are Molari and Poli.”
“Take me to him,” she ordered.
Jhamsa hesitated. “You’ve had a long journey. Allow Chaqra the honor of opening our hearth. The ceremony can wait a few days.”
Sali shook her head. “My head is rattling so hard I fear my teeth may fall out. I do not need an audience to honor my death. What I wish for is to sleep in peace tonight.”
Sadness briefly flashed across the shaman’s face. He looked as if he was about to refuse her, and then nodded. “Your loyalty to duty honors and shames me, Will of the Khan.”
Jhamsa led her across the end-pod, which, like the one from Ankar, had a garage and a guardhouse on one side. On the other was a row of large tower crossbows. Sali had always thought it a pity. Chaqra was by far the most heavily armed of the Twelve, but because of its significance, it had never seen battle, at least not in her lifetime. Of course, before the time of the Sacred Braid and the war with the Zhuun, the cities had clashed with one another, until the city with the most weapons mounted on its pods became Katuia’s head of government.
They continued to the next pod, which housed several smithies—black, armor, weapon, steam—as well as a tinker shop. From there, the bridge forked toward three different pods. Like all Katuia cities, every pod was carried across the Grass Sea on tracks powered by steam engines set in the lower levels. They were all interconnected like a giant spiderweb, and the residents of the city could cross from one section to another; if necessary, each pod could disengage from its neighbors and reconnect where needed.
Welcome memories rushed into Sali’s thoughts as they strolled through the Black City. Nezra’s clan chief, Faalan, had been Sali’s uncle, and her family hailed from a long line of viperstrikes, so Sali had often come to the capital when she was a little girl. She remembered long days running across these same bridges with Jiamin, Mali, and the children of other chiefs. She could still hear their uncontrolled laughter as they caused trouble overturning carts and pestering towerspears while chasing one another throughout the webbed city. Poor Mali had always been falling behind. Sali admitted to often being an inconsiderate sister. Jiamin, on the other hand, always gentle, never failed to pick Mali up and carry her on his back.
