Spirit Hunter (19 page)

“Forgive me. I am sorry—”

“You have both done quite enough.” It is Autumn Moon. It is only the second time I have heard anger in her voice: the first was the night Lord Fang came. “Are you not ashamed to let Eighth Daughter witness such behaviour?”

I open my eyes. Red Falcon and Autumn Moon crouch at my side. Swiftarrow kneels, gripping my hand. I do not let go. Even after everything he has done, I want him to keep holding my hand.

“What is the meaning of this?” Autumn Moon demands. “Asena?” What riles her? The fight, or Swiftarrow holding my hand? Flushing, I tear mine away from his.

“Oh, do not speak to me of calm and peace and the Way while I am sent to spy on my own people, and you do nothing to stop it!” I snap. “It is all so false.”

Autumn Moon turns to Red Falcon and Hano. “Has anyone told our sister Asena of the news we await?” she asks.

No one speaks. Autumn Moon nods. “Very well. Asena – go and lie down. We will talk of this when you are rested. Swiftarrow, come into the hall.”

What news can this be? Red Falcon helps me to my feet. My head spins and I stumble. I have to lean on his arm as we walk inside. As we go, I turn and over my shoulder I see Swiftarrow still kneeling in the courtyard, and poor Eighth Daughter standing at his side. Hano will have to take her to the festival now. The unhappiness painted across her face completes my own.

I lie still, watching sunlight move across the wall. On the other side of the chamber, Eighth Daughter has left her covers in a tangle, hanging off the bed. If Mama were here, she would fold them, shaking her head. Tears stain my face and my head aches. The door swings open and I look up. There is no one in this city I want to see.

It is Swiftarrow.

Even now, my heart beats louder, faster just because he is near. I wish he would take my hand again. How foolish
.
After everything that has happened.

He closes the door. “I had no wish to hurt you. I am ashamed.”

I still cannot see his spirit-horse.

“Leave me,” I say. “Just go.”

But Swiftarrow does not move. “Autumn Moon told you of Brother Snake-eye’s journey to Mount Shaoshi?” he says. “If the Abbot permits, we shall all be free to leave Chang’an.”

I sigh. He is not going to leave me alone. “She told me after she spoke to you. But in the meantime, we are still here. What have you told the Empress about Lord Ishbal’s camp? You might think I’m a traitor to my own kind, but I’m not going to tell her anything.”

“I should not have said that. I was angry. I know you have no choice but to go. I’ve told her nothing, either. Lord Fang speaks to the Empress on my behalf—”

“Your father.”

He shrugs. “Fang is no father to me. I tell him nothing of any use. Listen, Asena—” he crouches by my bed— “we have both been spying on Ishbal’s camp, and you must know as well as I that a good number of his men wish to rebel against the Empress. But what if Lord Ishbal himself could be persuaded to abandon his loyalty to the Palace, and stand side by side with the Tribes? We should act together, you and I, not against each other.”

I glance out of the window to hide my shock. This was not what I expected to hear. “Why should I trust you?”

He sighs, sitting back on his heels. “I know I have done you nothing but wrong. Yet here is a chance to do good. Asena, I do not deserve your help, but what of the Tribes? I betrayed my own mother’s people, and I have a duty to make amends.”

I draw in a long breath. If Swiftarrow is lying, I would be wise to keep him within my sight. “How are we to persuade Lord Ishbal to do anything?” I demand. “Do you truly think a man like him would listen to you or me? In his eyes, we shall be nothing but a pair of young whelps barely worth looking at.”

Swiftarrow smiles, and I care for nothing else.
Fool, fool – I am worse than a drunk, addled by his beauty.
But I need him. I need to keep watch over him because he cannot be trusted. If his spirit-horse is so faded I can no longer see it, what wickedness is he guilty of?

“My sister,” he says. “Lord Ishbal and his men go to watch her dance at least every tenth night. White Swan will beg him to grant us an audience. And when my sister asks a favour of a man, he grants it.”

I stare at him, my heart pounding.
So be it,
I think.
I will play your little game for now.

I
cling to the roof-beam; it presses into my belly as I stare at the chamber beneath. Swiftarrow lies facing me and his hair hangs down, black like the wing of a crow. He is watching, too, stiller than a dried-out log in the grasslands that grows white in the sun, year after year.

Below us, a group of men sprawl on low couches set out around the walls, drinking hot wine. Some are clad in barbarian clothes – buckskin trousers, rough tunics. Ropes of twisted gold hang about their necks, around their wrists. One, a man with a thin hollow-cheeked face, has a missing hand and I wonder how he lost it. Even from up here in the roof-space I catch the lingering warm smell of horses that hangs about these men, and a tear slides hot down my cheek: I have not been on horseback since before the Gathering. Hardly daring to breathe, I wipe away my tear – should it catch the light or fall and strike the balding pate of the man just below me, someone might look up. The other men are T ’ang. They wear the rich purple robes of high-class palace officials.

Girls with painted eyebrows and red-stained lips come in bearing flasks and dart about, pouring out more wine. From the waist up they are naked, shadows falling across their bare shoulders, their pale breasts. I stare at the skirts they wear, which are sewn with swathes of bright feathers and seem to change colour as the girls move from shadow to light. How many jewel-feathered birds were killed to make such things? The girls retreat and stand waiting to be summoned. A hush falls upon the chamber. I glance at Swiftarrow. He watches the room below, still, silent. His grip on the beam tightens and I look down.

White Swan is here. Clad in a robe stitched with winged snakes, she holds an unsheathed sword in each hand. Firelight glints off polished steel. A black river of hair pours down past her waist, falling forwards and tumbling across the tiled floor as she bows low.

Where is her spirit-horse? I still cannot see it. Not even the faintest flicker of silver. Cold fear thrashes in my belly, as if I have swallowed a live fish. First the tribe outside the city walls, Lord Ishbal’s people, then Swiftarrow. Now White Swan. What have they all done?

Not one of them can be trusted.

The men whistle and clap, but it is as if she hears nothing at all; she does not even flinch. She raises both arms above her head; the swords flash. Pushing my distrust aside, I watch, breathless, as she dances. Lighter than the wind, she wheels and spins, black hair flying. The swords spin, too, flashing, falling. The men cheer and clap. Even the purple-robed courtiers cannot look away, and they have surely seen the sword dance countless times. The feather-clad girls stand watching. They must be chilled to the bone, but none make a sign of it save the smallest one. She is hardly more than a child, hair still cut in a blunt fringe across her forehead. She shivers and cowers as the older girls glare at her.

White Swan steps backwards into another deep bow, and just as I think the dance is over, she leaps like a deer and both swords fly upwards, hissing through the air. My heart hammers as each person in the chamber follows the flying swords with their eyes: we are going to be seen.
T
hink of nothing; be not here. Think of nothing and they shall not see you.
The blades seem to spin so slowly, flashing, glinting. A gasp rises up from the Horse Tribe men below and one of them lets out a ragged cheer. The swords fly higher, higher – White Swan must have the strength of a tiger in those slender arms. If I reached out now I could touch the nearest blade and my blood would fall like rain on those gathered below.

The swords fall, tumbling, turning. White Swan leaps again and catches each one by the handle, bows once more and sweeps out of the chamber, hair hanging loose and shining down her back. Below us, all the men save one break out in cheering and clapping.

I look up, right into Swiftarrow’s face as he crouches like a monkey on the beam. He need not warn me: we must leave this chamber now or our luck will run out.

White Swan sits straight-backed on a jade stool, watching us. Her face is fair as ever, but her lips are pressed together. Is she angry or just afraid? Swiftarrow kneels at her feet; I crouch on the cedar chest I once hid behind, feeling as though I should be otherwhere.

“Did you see the man with one hand?” she asks. “That was Lord Ishbal. I know not what you may have learned listening to secrets in that camp, but after his fourteenth cup of wine this evening, our esteemed uncle told me that he longs to ride the Roads once more, to escape the shadow of Chang’an. So it seems you are in luck.” She turns to Swiftarrow. “Ishbal might be our uncle but that hardly means we can trust him. Do not forget that his father – our grandfather – gave Mama to the Emperor as a gift: his own daughter.”

“We will go to Ishbal anyway, O sister,” Swiftarrow says, “with your help or without. All I say is that it shall be much easier to persuade him if he knows we are coming. You take the choice.”

White Swan stares at him a moment. “Very well. Ishbal is waiting for me to dance again, and afterwards I will speak with him alone once more. He knows that his men are starting to bear doubts about the Empress. I shall ask if he will see one of you. Going together might make him feel hemmed in and put him on his guard. But I pray you will take care—”

“I will go, if it is to be one of us and not both,” I say. “The Tribes are my people and I will save them.”

“Don’t be a fool. It is too dangerous. I must go,” Swiftarrow replies, sharply.

“
You
brought me to the temple,” I snap. What does he think I am, some hopelessly weak little maiden? “Autumn Moon has trained me well. I can easily manage this Lord Ishbal. If he turns against me, I will run.”

Swiftarrow opens his mouth to answer, but White Swan holds up her hand, silencing him.

“Much as I dislike the whole of this plot, Asena is right. Swiftarrow, your face is a copy of our mother’s. It has been many years since Lord Ishbal last laid eyes on his sister, but even so, he might see her in you and grow suspicious. I am only a woman, and so he does not fear me, but Ishbal is not likely to be foolish enough to think you mean him well.”

Swiftarrow frowns, but nods. “I don’t like it,” he says. “But if it must be so—”

“I will manage,” I say, daring him to deny it.

White Swan sighs. “I only pray that you will both take care.”

Swiftarrow bows before her. She kisses his hand.

“Leave us, brother.” White Swan turns to me. “I would like you to stay a while, Asena. My wish is to speak to you alone.”

Swiftarrow looks at her, but she just meets his unspoken question with a smile. Quick as a cat, he turns, leaping for the window. I listen as the sound of his heartbeat fades.

“Don’t fear: he has truly gone,” White Swan says.

How does she know? She has never lived among the Shaolin; she can’t hear what others do not as we can.
We.
I have become one of them; I am no longer just Asena of the Horse Tribes, Asena the shaman. I am Shaolin.

“I beg you, Asena, sit down.” White Swan waves one hand at the carved wooden couch.

Another cold wave of fear rushes through my body from head to toe. I must turn my back on it. I must keep to the Way. I sit on the couch, crossing my legs; I watch her.

White Swan is no longer smiling but looking at me in that strange manner again. The back of my neck prickles.
It is as if she can see inside me.

“My mother always told me I came into the world of men with two souls, Asena. One was a horse, she used to say; the other a wildcat.”

I stare at her. She is like me. White Swan was born a shaman, too. So where is her spirit-horse? My heartbeat quickens. Sick dread rushes up my throat and I draw in a long, sharp breath.

“I have never been certain,” White Swan goes on, “but I suppose it is why I see the souls of others, burning like silver fire, and why I read the secrets of men’s hearts with such ease.” She shakes her head. “And it is no gift but a curse.”

“No,” I say. It cannot be true. If White Swan were a shaman, I would be able to see this wildcat-spirit she speaks of, and her spirit-horse, too. Yet I see nothing, not even the faintest shadow. She is wicked. She has done a great wrong. Or perhaps she has just lived too long among the T ’ang, and now her spirits are locked up within her body.

And, anyway, she is lying. The T ’ang have no spirit-horses, so how could she see what is not there?

But I know what she is about to say.

“Once, you had the spirit of a wolf as your guide, Asena, but now he is gone.” White Swan speaks quietly. “And your spirit-horse is a twisted creature that limps and staggers. It grows weaker every time I lay eyes on you. Your soul is broken with the thirst for revenge and death. I am sorry, for it was my brother who brought you here.”

I stare at her, breathless.

“And yet,” White Swan goes on, “the holy people here say it is not others who create misfortune and misery, but ourselves.”

In my mind, I hear the voice of Autumn Moon:
Keep to the Way, Asena, and you will be released from suffering. Turn your face from anger. Turn your face from bitterness.

White Swan speaks softly, barely louder than the wind hissing through bamboo outside. “The great power in you is broken and twisted. The night before you first came here to learn my secrets, I dreamed of a she-wolf dying in a trap. The next morning brought you into the House of Golden Butterflies, Asena, and I saw the eyes of the wolf in yours.”

“No,” I say. “It is you.
You
have no spirit-horse. I saw it that first day, but it is gone now. So has Swiftarrow’s. Not one of the people in Lord Ishbal’s camp has a spirit-horse because they all betray the Tribes with their loyalty to the Empress. Or maybe it is because they have camped so long outside Chang’an that they have turned into wall-dwellers.”