To Journey in the Year of the Tiger

by H. Leighton Dickson

  To Journey in the Year of the Tiger

  (Book 1 from Tails of the Upper Kingdom)

  by

  H. Leighton Dickson

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1478127093

  Copyright © 2012 H. Leighton Dickson

  To Brynn, Graeme and Meg,

  (my own little lion cubs)

  DharamShallah

  It was hard to believe that a man could see twenty-three winters before he began to live. It is harder even to believe that his life began all at once, on one night, with the occurring of three obscure and apparently random things: the death of a bird, the flash of golden eyes and the first of One Hundred Steps. But for Kirin Wynegarde-Grey, it did happen, just this way. His life began, as all great and terrible things do, in the Year of the Tiger.

  ***

  It was almost the close of the Second Watch and the falcon soared high above the Great Mountains. She was small and speckled with the familiar mask of peregrine grey and the wide fantail of the raptor. Bells streaked from the leathers that wrapped her thin legs, securing a parchment in place. She scanned the land below, her wing dipping slightly as she spied the first of the torches lining the road into the city. She had flown all night, navigating the violent winds that blew through the mountains but now, with her destination in sight, she tucked in her wings and dove like an arrow.

  Still the swiftest creature of earth or sky.

  Suddenly, without chirrup or cry, the falcon died. Her tiny head twisted back, her wings folded neatly over her spine. She never pulled out from her dive and plummeted to the ground within seconds. A snowdrift became her tomb, silent and unadorned, save for the single small, dark pit to mark the bird’s passing.

  In a Hall far to the North somewhere, a priest died as well.

  It was the close of the Second Watch.

  ***

  He could see his breath when he paused at the top of the One Hundred Steps. The Imperial banner flapped above him in the darkness and lanterns burned all around, throwing golden light into the night sky. He was very high up and it was not quite dawn, so he turned back to look across the rooftops of the city at his feet.

  It was the quiet hour before sunrise and a few windows were already glowing from lamps within. Smoke could be seen curling from every chimney. The winter had been cold and hearths were kept fed long into the night. But winter would not last forever. Now, as he stood under the Imperial banner, he could see the first streaks of purple behind the mountains and he knew that they were greeting another morning in peace.

  This was DharamShallah, the Jewel of the Upper Kingdom.

  This was the Roof of the World.

  Towering above it all, the palace of Pol’Lhasa slept like a baby, cradled in the arms of her Mother, the Great Mountains. She needed no fortified walls, this Palace. The peaks themselves were her guardians, daggers of white against the morning sky. Kathandu herself was guardian, her snowy cliffs serving as battlements, her glaciers deadly moats. Bitter winds and treacherous paths were nursemaid and sentry, allowing only the chosen to enter the courts which were the heart and soul and will of the Upper Kingdom.

  He felt a rush of pride, which warmed him more than the hearths or the lanterns. He turned and made his way underneath the pillars of the Outer Court. Leopards watched him as he passed but said nothing, and large ebony doors swung open to allow him through. He was a lion and he wore a sash of Imperial gold. Of course they would let him through. They knew him well, these leopards – Kirin Wynegarde-Grey, Captain of the Empress’s personal guard. Like his father had been before him, and his father’s father before that. His was a noble family. His was a royal house.

  In this early hour, the Palace was awake but quiet. Leopards lined the walls, eyes roving, swords and staffs ready. Servants moved along the corridors on slippered feet, carrying baskets of linens and food. Ministers moved to and from their offices to the tune of a lone koto, bowed at night, not plucked. It sounded like the Palace breathing. At this hour, when most cats were sound asleep in their beds, a few worked to keep them safe and unknowing and fed. It was the way of things.

  There was more work to be done now at the cusp of a New Year, when celebrations were planned for the entire Kingdom. New Year’s festivals were monumental occasions, this one especially as the Year of the Ox withdrew into the waters and the Tiger prowled onto the Celestial stage. The Ox had been a good year, a productive one and stable. Policies had been made, alliances built, and the Wall had advanced into Shyria, half a world away. But the Tiger meant other thing, for Tiger years were turbulent, full of social upheaval. Things would change during this year. Society would change. For a man charged with the security of the Empress and such a Kingdom, ‘change’ was not a good thing.

  And he was a very young man.

  He strode past the Seven Candles, a prayer room for the ministers and chancellors of the Court, and he smiled. There were far more than seven candles in the vast scarlet room, with torches and incense pots and kettles. He held his breath as he walked past, for incense always gave him a headache. Already there were several ministers engaging in early morning rituals. Rituals of cleansing or forgiveness, of sanctification or supplication. Prayer wheels were spinning, holy beads were counted, parchments written and burned, prayers rising up to the heavens on trails of smoke. It was a room filled with talismen and idols, purified water and sticks of incense. They were a religious people, a favored people, and they held fast to many holy things. Cats are, after all, a holy people.

  The Minister of Fields spied him, bowed slightly. He nodded but continued walking. With his station, he needed bow to no one save the Chancellor or the Empress. He hoped he would see her today.

  His boots echoed as he trotted down a winding staircase made of polished teak and he raised his tail slightly so that the tuft would not sweep the wooden steps. They had servants for that sort of thing and he despised getting dirty, even if it was only his tail. Soon, he was in the Hall of Warriors.

  Which was really a misnomer. It was more a hall of diplomats, of government officials overseeing the armies of the Kingdom, and it was located on one of the lower floors of the Palace. Less colourful than the rest of Pol’Lhasa, it’s floors were grey stone, its walls and doors carved wood. He loved this Hall though, loved the smell of the cedar and teak and the leather, loved the shine of the swords, the gleam of the armor lining the walls.

  At the far end of the hallway, a panther stood outside his office, holding a scroll. Kirin’s heart leapt in his chest.

  “Kirin-san,” came a voice to his right, and he turned to see Master Yeo Tang St. John, Minister of Horses, in a doorway. St. John was also a lion, and he wore robes of Imperial gold. His mane was shot with silver and pulled back into an elaborate top-knot. Kirin rarely wore top-knots. He preferred a simpler style, his mane pulled off his neck in a simple queue. It fell down to his waist, straight as a razor.

  St. John bowed slightly. Kirin did the same, out of respect.

  “You have the drill plans?”

  St. John spoke in the Accents of the Old Courts but his voice was reedy, not at all like a normal lion. In fact, a little more like a horse.

  “Yes,” Kirin said. “In my office.”

  “I will need them soon. I hear you have asked for twenty more horses.”

  That shouldn’t have been a surprise, but he found himself confounded every time.

  “No,” he sighed. “I have not asked for more.”

  “Chancellor Agarwal said that Master Turlington said that Major Laenskaya said—“

  “I have not spoken with neither Chancellor Agarwal nor Master Turlington since the Moon Festival, and Major Laen
skaya…” He did not smile. “Major Laenskaya does not speak to anyone.”

  St. John grunted, made a move to slip back into his office. “I will need those plans soon.”

  “You will have them.”

  The door clicked shut.

  He shook his head.

  Two more doors clicked open, Ministers of Fireworks and of the Armory, and he reigned in his impatience to speak with them. It was the middle of the 3rd Dynasty, when the Sacred Empress was still young. In fact, she had not yet chosen a suitor and her people were growing anxious. They needed assurance, as much as they needed diversion. So, it was with all seriousness that he, the Captain of Her Guard, was occupied with the Drill Ceremony for the upcoming Festival. The Drill Ceremony required precision troupes to ride Imperial horses through a succession of patterns. There would be fireworks of course, and dancing dragons, and speeches - a spectacle designed to enthrall the entire city, held in two night’s time. All to impress a potential suitor arriving from Cal’Cathah.

  He smiled as he thought of it. Had he been Sacred-born, he would have no need of such horses, nor fireworks, nor speeches.Or had she been lioness...

  But that was blasphemy and Kirin Wynegarde-Grey was no blasphemer.

  And truth be told, he did not mind making arrangements for ceremonies such as this, for it reminded him of the blessed price of peace, for the succession of the Monarchy, and the perpetuation of the Pure Races.

  And so he spoke with the Minister of Fireworks and the Minister of the Armory, before finally setting off toward the panther at his door. He cut an imposing figure, twin swords at his hips, dark golden mane fanning down his back like a cloak. He was the ideal Captain for such an army, being tall, square-shouldered and regal like his father before him. The Bushido was strong in him too. He was Shah’tyriah, the warrior caste and the Way of the Warrior shaped his very being. In fact, he was in many ways like his father, possessing the same quiet authority, the same sober intelligence and the same deep, soft, rumbling voice accented in the tongue of the Old Court. Indeed, it was said that much of his authority came from his voice, for when he spoke he used few words and his men were forced to listen carefully for his orders. He had never been heard to raise his voice, never been seen to lash his tail, never been seen to unsheathe his claws. It was simply not his way.

  He was a lion among lions, ideal to command such forces of men.

  (And, according to the ladies of the Royal Court, he was also rather pleasing to look upon and he was often the subject of their fancies. Another thing that pleased the ladies of the Royal Court, was the fact that, like the Empress, he had not chosen a suitor, which was also and often the subject of their fancies, and his mother was constantly beset with offers. I know this for fact. His brother has told me many stories.)

  He recognized the panther for he was one of the elite and personal bodyguards of Her Excellency, the Empress. Kirin had handpicked their number himself. He himself had trained them. But the man’s name was escaping him and he made a note to look into it at a later date.

  “Sir,” the panther said and handed him the scroll. It was unopened, but it needen’t have been. It was common knowledge that none of the Queen’s Panther Guard could read. Kirn’s eyes flicked downward, to the Imperial seal of coloured beeswax. Red dragon entwined around a golden cat over a black lotus. Her seal.

  Kirin steeled his heart, took the scroll and entered his office, closing the door softly on the Hall of Warriors.

  ***

  The panther could hear the sounds of humming.

  After searching for hours along dark, bleak corridors, he had finally found the door. Agara’tha was notorious for its caverns. It was a labyrinthine monastery carved into the deepest rock. Its floors and walls and ceilings were granite, with veins of marble and amber occasionally breaking the blackness. Torches burnt from infrequent perches, anchored into the rock with heavy iron casings. And the incense was everywhere, heavy and heady, making him dizzy and wondering if he hadn’t in fact been searching for days.

  Yellow smoke seeped from beneath this peculiar threshold and with a deep breath, he knocked.

  “Come.”

  The panther pushed the door open. The ebony was warm under his palm. As he expected, the chamber was thick with incense, clouds of orange and scarlet billowing from a central hearth. It was an unnatural flame. He shuddered. The Alchemists were just as unnatural. He hated coming here.

  A figure sat, cross-legged, with her back to him, facing the hearth. Clothed in absolute black, she was almost a part of the shadows herself, silhouetted as she was by the hearth’s brilliant light. A burst of white erupted from somewhere and the incense folded dramatically around her like a shroud.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I am looking for Sherah al Shiva.”

  “You have found her.”

  Her voice was deep, throaty, and he imagined it was due in part to the large amounts of smoke she breathed daily. It only added to the mystique, however, and the Alchemists were fond of their mysteries.

  “I have a summons, sidala. From the Palace.”

  “Leave it by the door.”

  “Hand to hand, sidala. It bears the Royal seal.”

  There was only the briefest of pauses, while she turned her profile to him. It was long, elegant, proud - Aegypshan. Small dark spots ran the length of her hairline, framing her face, gracing her neck and disappearing beneath the wild crush of mane along her back. A black streak ran from the inside of her kohl-rimmed eye, down her nose to curl on her cheek like a serpent.

  Cheetah.

  “Hand to hand,” she repeated. “Very well. Choose.”

  She raised her arms, palms upturned. Suddenly, she was Kahli, with many palms and many arms, moving, undulating like many serpents flowing from the shadows of her body. He watched for a moment, spellbound before shaking his head. The incense. Of course. Only two hands, naturally, both completely still, awaiting the scroll that would end her divinations and bring her up from Agara’tha into the light of morning.

  He placed the parchment in one and backed away. The wax melted without a touch, the scroll unfurled on its own. Her black lashes flicked down for the briefest of seconds as she read, then she slid her eyes to look at him. He was a senior in the Empress’ Panther Guard, having faced dragons and dogs and the great leathery behemoths that roamed the foothills of the Lesser Kingdoms. But never had he seen such a look as the one sent him by Sherah al Shiva that night.

  “You shall accompany me. How delightful.”

  She rose to her feet and her legs went on, and on, and on. When she approached, he could make out her pelt, smooth, fine, the colour of churned cream. Her hair was as black as night, rising from a peak in the centre of her forehead. Her eyes, spaced wide apart, seemed both wicked and wise, the insides golden, the heavy lids painted with colors found only in stone. The tip of her thick, spotted tail curled about her ankles, and she wore both choli and salwar of black silk. Her midriff was bare and silver vestments hung from her hips, like curtains to a shrine.

  He swallowed. She smiled.

  “Some say the caverns of Agara’tha are tombs, sidi, waiting to claim lost souls in sleep. A man may get turned around in such darkness, in such shadow. But do not be afraid...”

  Long strong fingers brushed his chin as she passed and she paused to lean into him, fanning his neck with her breath.

  “…I believe I know the way.”

  He believed she did.

  ***

  Emerald eyes gazed out the small open window, drinking in the breathtaking splendor that was the palace of the Empress. According to her studies, architecture was the truest test of culture, and Pol’Lhasa was so very beautiful. With her steep stepped courts, blackened cedar beams and high, winged rooftops, she towered over the city like a monarch. In her many rooms, torches had begun flickering into life as the sun rose from behind Kathandu, the Fang of the Great Mountains. This was her view every morning. It sent her to sleep every night. She still
marveled that she was here at all.

  And so, with a dreamy sigh, Fallon Waterford dragged her eyes from the window and back to the cramped, cluttered room which had served as her home these past eight months. It was so very different from her real home in the foothills near Parnum’bah Falls. There she and her parents and sisters had had all the space they could ever need. Groves of banana, flocks of crested pheasant and glacier-fed rivers stocked with fish. Again, she smiled, for thoughts of home brought pleasant memories. A tiger’s paradise, her father had called it, and she heartily agreed. She would be enjoying it all still, if only she hadn’t been so cursedly, maddeningly, wonderfully clever.

  Sighing, she snatched the scroll from her workbench, the ink still dripping and fresh. She cleared her throat and began:

  “THE YEAR OF THE TIGER – A LAMENT

  by Empress Faisala the Wise, Second Dynasty, Year of the Tiger

  The Year of the Tiger brings war.

  The Year of the Tiger brings change.

  Kingdoms rise, Kingdoms fall.

  Nothing is the same.

  The Year of the Tiger means joy.

  The Year of the Tiger means strife.

  Beginnings end, Endings begin,

  The heartbeat of life.

  The Year of the Tiger brings change.

  Nothing is as it seems.

  Big adventures, Grand schemes,

  Nightmares and Dreams.

  The Year of the Tiger brings war.

  The Year of the Tiger brings change.

  People rise, People fall.

  Nothing is a water buffalo.”

  “Water buffalo?? Water buffalo?!” With a dramatic cry, she crumpled the scroll and tossed it to the floor. There were many scrolls discarded there.

  A pheasant peeped at her from its bamboo cage and she rolled her eyes at it with shrug.