Spirit Hunter (24 page)

He is right. I hear it, too, just below the great surging cry of the crowd: hoofbeats pounding the earth. A wild blaze of hope burns within me. Can it be Autumn Moon? Did they turn back; did the Shaolin hear somehow that we were prisoners? Maybe White Swan had a dream—

“Let them die!” The Empress’s voice rises in a shriek. Her painted, powdered face is screwed up with rage, and I see now that she is mad. Through my fear, I wonder how long ago she lost her wits, and if those fluttering, fondling courtiers know it, too. This whole great, beautiful, rotten empire is ruled by a man too sick to leave his bed and a mad­woman.
Once in a thousand years the chance must come for a woman to rule the world,
I think,
and you took it, O Great Empress. When you are gone, men will never allow a woman to gain such power again: you have betrayed us all.
I am shoved to my knees and pain shoots through my legs. Never mind; never mind. I will feel nothing soon. I clench my hands into fists behind my back, digging my fingernails into my palms. The fear is worse. Now there is a tiny wisp of hope riding towards us on horseback, I do not want to die. Please, please, please let it be Autumn Moon.

The rider is coming closer. Autumn Moon, Red Falcon, is that you? I look up.

It is Lord Fang, clad in ice-white robes that fly out like the wings of a swan as he gallops closer. The crowd scatters around him, pulling each other desperately out of his way. Maybe, just maybe— Yet the last time I saw Lord Fang, he struck Swiftarrow across the face.

So this is it. We are going to die. Autumn Moon is not coming.

But what is he doing here? I turn to Swiftarrow. “Look!” I whisper.
“Look.”

Swiftarrow only shrugs and stares at the ground.

“Get out of my way!” Lord Fang roars, his voice torn to rags. The Gold Bird Guards let him past. Reining in his mare just next to the Empress’s carriage, he dismounts. He is not drunk. His spirit-horse stands still, firm at his shoulder, burning with a steady light.

Lord Fang drops to his knees before the Empress, bowing so low that he must be covering those icy robes with filth.

“Rise, Fang.” The Empress smiles, as if all this is a jest for her amusement. “What can you want?”

Lord Fang gets to his feet, turning to us, and his face is smeared with mud from the ground. “My son’s life,” his voice rings out. The crowd is silent. It is as if the whole world has stopped breathing. “I would have my son’s life, O Empress of Eternal Light, and that of his beloved.”

Still, Swiftarrow does not look up.

The Empress laughs. “But what will you give me instead, Lord Fang? I must have blood. Your son and his beloved committed an act of the highest treason. Who shall pay? Someone must.”

“I will,” says Lord Fang. “Take my life for both of theirs.”

“No!” Swiftarrow’s voice is sharp and clear. “Just spare Asena. Spare my father. But take me.”

Lord Fang turns, kneeling before him. I look away. “Do not be a fool, my child – you are young and you love one another,” he whispers. “It is perfectly beautiful, better than autumn leaves on the surface of a pool, or cherry-blossom blown in the wind.” Lord Fang bows to me. “So you see, a bad man can do good. Do not forget that good men can also do wrong. I beg you, take better care of him than I have.”

“Very well!” calls the Empress. “I will take you, Lord Fang, in exchange. And greatly I shall miss your poetry, so I am indeed making a sacrifice.”

Lord Fang gets to his feet and kneels before her. “Your Majesty. You are so very kind.”

The executioner hefts his axe, lifting it high in the air. The blade glitters in the cold light. Rain starts to fall, silvery drops tumbling from the sky.

“No!” Swiftarrow shouts. “No!”

It is too late. The axe has fallen. The crowd roars – a crashing sweep of sound louder than a snow-slip in the mountains.

The Empress is laughing. “What a foolish man!” she shouts. “Poor Lord Fang. He never saw that life was not poetry – kill the traitors.”

The executioner pauses, holding the axe-haft awkwardly in both hands as though he does not know what to do with it, even though Lord Fang’s head lies in the mud just paces away.

“Kill them!” the Empress screams, half drowned out by the roaring of the crowd. The Gold Bird Guards are being pushed forwards. They cannot hold back the people.

Swiftarrow is still kneeling, head bowed to the ground, but I struggle to my feet. The guards don’t push me back down; they are staring from the executioner to the Empress and back again.

What’s that? I see a shadow where there is no one to cast it, just by the Empress’s carriage. And another. And another. Now they are gone.

Still, the executioner hesitates, looking from us to the Empress, yet not daring to speak.

“Move!” Autumn Moon hisses. Relief floods through my body from head right down to my feet. She is behind me. Autumn Moon is here. She has come. The rope cuts into my wrists as she tugs, sharply. My hands are free. I turn, time slowing down, to see Red Falcon freeing Swiftarrow, hauling him to his feet, shaking him, shouting into his face, “Run. Run!”

I snatch at Swiftarrow’s hand, burning with hot, wild joy. We are free. The guards wheel around, frantic. “Where are they?” shouts one. “Where did they go?”

The executioner drops his axe and runs, lost in the crowd.

“Kill them!” The Empress’s voice rises up above the clamour: a ragged, mad shriek. But no one is listening to her.

Think of nothing; think of nothing. We are not here. Do not look at us, there is no use in it—

All around us, the crowd presses in – commoners in dirty white robes, merchants leading asses, grubby-faced children, old men in felt hats, a woman selling pastries from a basket.

We are gone, hidden by Chang’an, drifting away like leaves on the autumn wind; we are safe.

T
he inn on the post-road is empty, its sloping rooftops shadowed by plane trees. A lone pig noses about in the dusty courtyard. We stop, breathing hard. Swiftarrow takes my hand, still silent.

“Come,” Autumn Moon says. “We tethered the horses in woodland, out of sight. We near on have enough mounts for all – Eighth Daughter can ride with me.” She points at a straggling stand of bare-branched trees. Rain-filled clouds scud across the sky. It is cold, but I do not care. We are alive. We follow Autumn Moon and Red Falcon to the trees. I see the others already, I sense the dreams of gathered horses, longing for a gallop.

This place is no good as cover. We must get away from here as fast as we can. It shall not be long before the Gold Birds catch up. Every guard in Chang’an will be searching for us by now.

Hano, Snake-eye, White Swan and Eighth Daughter wait beneath a pine tree, huddled together for warmth. The horses stand near by, ears flattened back against their heads – they know we are hunted. Eighth Daughter is the first to run, stirring up a shower of pine needles and dead leaves as she hurls herself at Swiftarrow, then at me.

“We thought you were dead!” she cries. “The lady had a dream!”

White Swan walks slowly towards us but passes Swiftarrow by and takes Red Falcon’s hand.

So this is how it shall be. Wordless, they hold one another, the courtesan and the holy man.

Swiftarrow stares, then looks away.

“It’s good,” I tell him. “Don’t you see?”

“It is all right, you know,” Eighth Daughter said, tugging at Swiftarrow’s tunic. “He has given up his vows. It is allowed.”

“Autumn Moon,” Snake-eye says. “We must move on. We are hunted.”

“We have the start on the Gold Birds – we should use it,” Hano adds.

“You are right: they will be following us already.” Autumn Moon’s face glistens with sweat. Hano passes her a flask and she takes a long draught then wipes her mouth. “We must move. Now is no time to speak of love.”

“I will look after her,” Red Falcon says to Swiftarrow, quietly. “I swear it.”

Swiftarrow nods. Then he turns to his sister, finding his voice at last. “You were wrong,” he says. “Sometimes a cat can be a dog.”

What is he talking about? Somehow, White Swan seems to know. Tears spill down her cheeks. She reaches out and takes Swiftarrow’s hand. He lifts it to his lips, kissing her.

“We must move,” Autumn Moon says again. “Eighth Daughter, come – mount.”

Eighth Daughter has started to weep. “Don’t go, come with us to Mount Shaoshi! Please come with us.”

Swiftarrow lifts Eighth Daughter high in the air and sits her in the saddle before Autumn Moon. “Be brave, little swallow. I have a task. I must take Asena back to her kin. You must swear to look after my sister for me. Do you swear it?”

Eighth Daughter nods, her face streaming with tears.

And now I feel it: the hammering drumbeat of galloping horses. Everyone freezes, save White Swan, who just looks pale with fear.

“They are coming,” Autumn Moon says.

There is a flurry of hugging; we clutch each other desperately, whispering our goodbyes. At last, they are all mounted up except Swiftarrow and I, left with the strongest two mares, for we have the furthest to travel. We stand shoulder to shoulder, watching them go. We are left alone.

Swiftarrow turns to me, as if woken from a dream. “What do you wait for?” he says. “Hurry. My father did not give himself up to the axe only for us to be caught by the Gold Birds.”

We run; I leap into the saddle and Swiftarrow scrabbles to find his seat – he will get better at that, I hope. I burn with the thrill of being on horseback; I am no hunter but the hunted. We both are.

We turn the horses to the west, and gallop towards the setting of the sun.

W
e walk through the pepper-market, my hand in hers. Dusk is falling. The streets are crowded and the long, heartbreaking song of the Mohammedan call to prayer rings out. We stop at the Hippodrome gates.

“I hope the horse-traders are still taking coin,” she says, jingling the leather bag that hangs around her neck.

I can’t keep from smiling. Will she never learn? “Do you want every thief in Samarkand on our trail? Hide it, or you shall have to cut open ten more boils and free another old woman of a demon, O great shaman, before we can buy new horses.”

“Yes, yes.” Impatient, full of fire, she tosses the money bag from one hand to the other. “You chased me along this street. Do you remember? I thought my heart would burst with fear.”

“And I was ready to burst with rage when you got away.”

We both smile to hide our sorrow.

“I will never find Baba, will I?” Asena says, quietly. “It’s hopeless – the Roads are too long and too tangled. Perhaps he gave up looking for me and rode back to camp. It has been nearly a year.”

The Hippodrome gates open and a trader pushes past us, letting the gates slam behind him. We step out of his path. Asena watches him go, then freezes like a mouse before a snake. Suddenly, she drops the money bag. Her hands are shaking. I pick it up, squeezing her hand. Do these old memories sadden her too much? Yet I cannot wish that I never found her, never took her. I only wish I had never betrayed the Tribes to that fat old general. I wonder what became of him? Did General Li even bother going back to Chang’an? He’d be better off deserting than trying to explain to Her Majesty that Lord Ishbal just rode off with the Imperial coin and never even fired an arrow. When we caught up with him four days’ ride west of Chang’an, he insisted on escorting the pair of us safely across the Great Desert, back to the green grasslands of the steppe.

I don’t want her to cling to hope of finding her father when there is none. “Should we ride north and meet with Ishbal?” I say. “Or first search for the rest of your kin? You know Ishbal said we would always be welcome— Asena? What is the matter?”

From across the street, I hear the horse-trader saying, “There’s a fine beast. How much do you want for him?”

“He is not for sale.”

I know that voice. I have heard it before – from a bloodstained man with a wounded leg, lying helpless on the ground, begging me not to take his daughter.

She is staring across the street, wordless for once.

“The loss is yours, my friend.” The horse-trader walks away, off towards the pepper-market.

Here they are, a man leading a horse. He drags one leg slightly as he walks. The horse lifts his head and stops, standing stiller than a rock.

“Come, Shadow, what’s amiss?” says the man, patting the horse’s neck, running his fingers through the pale mane. Her father. O Lord Fang, does your headless ghost still walk the streets of Chang’an, or were you born into greater peace this time, away from palaces, courtesans and lovers?

“Baba!” Asena calls. “Baba! What is wrong with you? Are you blind?”

What penance will he ask of me? I will do anything but leave her, and he will not ask it, for he loves her too much. I can see that in his disbelieving, delighted smile, even as his gaze falls on me; he knows who I am, what I did – though not all.

I let go of her hand so she can run to him.

S
pirit Hunter
is just a story, but it is rooted in one of the wildest and most fascinating chapters of history ever written. For nearly 3,000 years merchants, monks, artists and fugitives traded, preached and stole along a great tangle of age-old trade routes running through Central Asia between China, Europe, North Africa, India and Persia – known today as the Silk Road. Very few, if any, travellers followed the whole route: there was such a vast muddle of paths with so many different beginnings and endings. A silk merchant in Chang’an, China, for example, would not travel with his cargo all the way to Venice – after stopping at an inn, he would sell his goods to another merchant, and slowly the silk made its way west, passing through the hands of many traders until it reached the marketplaces of Europe. The journey was by no means easy: many travellers died in the icy mountain passes and lonely roadside inns. Many more left behind their bones in the Taklamakan Desert and the sandy wastelands of Lop Nur, led from the safety of their companions by mirages – false images of cool, glittering water and shady trees, just tricks of the mind.