“I see,” Malthan said, though he wasn’t quite sure that he did. “So his chivalry came up short. He failed to uphold his ideals.”
Mol shrugged. “As did Sir Palan when he chose to let the prospect of losing his own honor by begging move him to take his own life and leave Lady Jessyn with no protector at all . . . save me and my poor cudgel. Some battles are impossible to win. Is it so different in your country?”
When put like that, Malthan had to admit that, no, it wasn’t so very different at all.
Lady Jessyn joined them soon after with her attendants, and Malthan stood up because it seemed the thing to do. She greeted him warmly. “I’m glad you’re still among our company, but I fear we have not been honest with you.”
“If so, I think I could find it in myself to forgive you,” said Malthan dryly. I’ve lied to her, in effect, and that’s it for honor. Maybe I’ll do better with chivalry alone to worry about.
Lady Jessyn smiled, but it faded quickly. “The truth is that I have no claim on you, save for what charity you choose to show. I must reach the castle beyond Stonebrier Bridge, and there is a very powerful man who will try to prevent it. It’s not just for myself I must ask, but for all those who dwell under my protection—”
Malthan raised a hand, and she fell silent for a moment, then sighed in resignation. “It’s of course your right to refuse, nor can I blame you.”
“You misunderstand me, Lady. I’m not refusing; in fact I accept heartily. I’m merely trying to save you the trouble of the explanation. There are always reasons for what must be done. One either chooses to do them or does not.”
Lady Jessyn looked at him intently. “I must warn you that I have not the means to pay you for your trouble; we have little more than what we carry with us.”
Malthan shrugged. “Should I be rewarded for doing what is right?”
Lady Jessyn smiled then, blushing slightly. Malthan thought the effect rather sweet.
“I am ashamed of myself,” she said. “I’m afraid I was searching for conditions when perhaps there were none.”
Malthan thought about the situation a little more. “I do have one small condition,” Malthan admitted, “and only one. After this adventure I will have to return to my own country. All I ask is that, whatever happens, when that time comes you remember me fondly. Will you do that for me?”
“It seems so little,” she said.
“It’s everything,” Malthan said. “Will you promise me?”
“I will, Sir Malthus. I do swear it.”
“Then let’s be gone. I would not want to keep the foe waiting.”
His name was Lord Ergas of Stonebrier. Malthan knew that because the fellow announced it very loudly as he blocked passage on the bridge. Malthan sighed. Bridges again. What was it about knights and bridges? He dismounted, much to the warhorse’s relief, and sized up his opponent.
Lord Ergas was a big fellow, clad all in black. Malthan rather liked the color; he considered it quite fetching. Which could not be said for Lord Ergas himself, or what Malthan could see of his face through the raised visor.
He’d make a better ghoul than some true ones.
“You’re in our way,” Malthan said.
Lord Ergas just stared at him for a moment. “Where is Sir Palan?”
“Dead, I’m afraid. You’ll have to deal with me instead.”
Lady Jessyn stood some distance away, but apparently heard the exchange clearly. “How did your know Sir Palan was my escort, Lord Ergas?” She said the man’s name like one describing a particularly vile substance that needed to be scraped off her shoe.
He laughed, and the sound rather reminded Malthan of the way his own father laughed when he’d scored a particularly fine piece of carrion. “How? Good lady, I arranged it. I spoke the praises of that young fool to the skies. My brother was quite impressed, and so commanded that the little whelp be the one to fetch you. I knew he would be no difficulty for me. So now I must kill this fellow instead. So be it. Either way, you will marry me, Lady, and not my brother. Once my lands are joined to yours, even my brother will bow to me.”
“He will not and I will not,” Lady Jessyn said. “Though you kill me.”
Malthan frowned. “Lord Ergas, you have no chivalry in you at all, do you?”
Lord Ergas, startled, turned his attention back to Malthan. “How dare you speak thus to me, you cur! You’re a knight of the hedges at best, and not worthy of my sword.”
Lord Ergas raised that sword, and brought it down suddenly, striking at nothing. Malthan heard the twang of bowstrings, then felt two white hot brands of fire in his side. He glanced down, saw the feathered ends of two arrows protruding from his side. They did sting, but in a moment the pain settled down to a gentle numbness. Malthan didn’t bother to dodge, or even to move. Mos and the Lady Jessyn’s servants covered her with their own bodies.
“Fear not,” Lord Ergas said. “I wouldn’t harm my bride on her wedding day.”
“You’ll harm no one,” Malthan said. “I’m going to kill you.”
Lord Ergas frowned. “He still stands?” He raised his sword again, brought it down. Nothing happened. He did it again with the same result.
“Your archers seem to have deserted you,” Malthan said. “No matter, when I said you had no chivalry, it was not an insult, merely a fact.”
Lord Ergas spurred his horse forward, waving his sword high. “I’ll cut that impertinent tongue out myself!”
For all his talk, Lord Ergas did not swing his sword at Malthan but rather charged directly at him, obviously intending to merely ride him down. Malthan found his legs a bit slow to respond, and Lord Ergas’ mount crashed into him. Malthan flew several paces to the side and fell hard. The arrow shafts brought a new wave of pain. Malthan knew full well that, save for his ghoulish constitution, he would be dead already. He sighed, finally admitting to himself that there were times when being a ghoul was not altogether a bad thing.
Lord Ergas dismounted, advancing on the fallen Malthan with his sword held high. “And thus it ends.”
“Yes,” Malthan said clearly. “But not how you think.”
Lord Ergas froze, disbelieving, as Malthan got back on his feet. Malthan knew he was hurt, but he knew too what strength remained in him.
“I said you had no chivalry, and it is true,” he repeated. “Now I say you have no honor as well.” Malthan’s voice rose to a peak of triumph. “And that is also true! That I am a prince in my own country matters not, Lord Ergas. What matters is that, poor wretch that I may be, I am still a better knight than you!”
Malthan drew his sword, and as Lord Ergas both frantically and futilely signaled his archers once last time, Malthan proved the truth of every word he said.
“I don’t suppose,” Gurgash said, from his perch atop Lord Ergas’s mutilated body, “that it occurred to them to send you a physician?”
Evening was falling. Malthan lay, still in armor, stretched out on the road on the near side of the bridge. “It will take them a while to reach their destination even without Lord Ergas to trouble them.” He winced, then. While it was true that their diet and constitution made ghouls very hard to kill, they felt pain as well as any human. “Did you see, Gurgash?”
“I more than saw, Prince. I helped. Those two archers, for instance. I dealt with them . . . although a bit late.”
“My thanks for that. A few more arrows might have done for me, but I meant Lady Jessyn. Did you see?”
Gurgash sighed. “Ah, yes. Quite a scene, with her crying and wailing, and her servants pulling her away because they simply had to be going before dark. She would have ripped your helmet off if that old man hadn’t stopped her.”
Malthan smiled. “Mos. I think he suspected something. No matter. They thought I was dead already. I made them think so. Besides, what would have happened if they had remained to loosen my armor? They would have known the wrong truth.”
Gurgash came close and, after a bit of fumbling, removed Malthan’s hel
met. “Wrong truth? What wrong truth? The truth is you were born a ghoul and remain a ghoul. You found no magic to make you human!”
Malthan smiled then. “You’re wrong, Gurgash. Now the truth is what Lady Jessyn will remember all her days, and all those who saw, and all who hear the story, that an unknown knight named Sir Malthus fought and died bravely with perfect chivalry. Those tales will live, Gurgash, as will I. I may be a mystery, but I’ll be a human one. That is the truth, Gurgash. I made it the truth.”
Gurgash just stared at him. “Malthan . . . ”
He was interrupted by a rush of wings and then a squawk from the oak tree nearby. Two carrion corbies had landed in the high branches and looked down, impassive. In the distance were the silhouettes of vultures beginning their circle, outlined against the sky.
“They’ve come for Lord Ergas, but he’s ours.”
Malthan smiled. “No. They’ve come for me.”
Gurgash stared, disbelieving. “Crows and buzzards do not eat ghouls, any more than we eat our own!”
Malthan smiled. “Exactly.”
Gurgash sighed. “Fine, so you think you fooled the world. Did you fool yourself, too?”
“If I had,” Malthan said sadly, “you’d be drooling over the prospect of my flesh even now.”
Gurgash just looked disgusted and reached down to take hold of the arrow shafts. “Yet the ghoul in you asserts itself, meaning you’ll survive what would kill a human twice over, though this is still going to hurt for a while.” He yanked the arrows out with one vicious motion. Malthan winced again, but otherwise made no sound. Gurgash helped him to stand.
“Good thing those were war arrows instead of the broadheads they use for hunting. Even a ghoul couldn’t survive being bled out like a stag.” Gurgash looked his friend up and down. “So your little adventure comes to an end and you’re a little worse for wear, but that’s all. What was the point, my Prince? I mean, really?”
Malthan didn’t answer right away. He just gazed at the two disappointed-looking carrion birds in the tree above. He finally answered with a question of his own. “Do vultures, in dreams, remember what it was to be eagles?”
Gurgash frowned. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” Malthan said. “Let’s go home.”
Lord Goji’s Wedding
The training of young monks at Hanaman-ji in Kyoto was rigorous, and the old monk in charge of their training sometimes used blows to reinforce the lessons, and sometimes he used stories. The young monks were generally in agreement that storytelling was the harsher method of the two: the sting of a blow would fade in an hour or so, but a story could have them puzzling for days on end with no real understanding in sight. So it was with some trepidation that fine spring evening when the young monks noticed the gruff old man looking especially thoughtful.
This was always a bad sign.
Two of the more optimistic monks were already seated zazen and made a decent show of being in deep meditation when the old monk entered the training hall. Perhaps they thought to escape their fate, but the older boys knew better. They simply waited.
And waited.
The old monk stood in the doorway, looking at them for a long time. “You’re young,” he said.
Normally when he said such a thing it was clearly meant to imply that “You don’t know anything, so be quiet and listen.” Not this time. The old monk said it as if reminding himself of something he’d almost forgotten.
“Cushion,” he said after a while, and the two closest acolytes scrambled to bring it to him. He kneeled down there on the floor and made himself comfortable. One of the two “meditating” monks let out a gentle snore and the other sighed, opened his eyes, and punched his companion awake. The old monk finally started speaking.
“Long ago in a place not very far from here, there was a young scholar of good family. His name was Goji. He took his religious training at the local temple and was so moved by the piety of the monks and the purity of what he was taught there that he was actively considering a life in the temple. All that changed when he fell in love.”
Several of the youngsters visibly relaxed. Clearly this was going to be one of those “sins and distractions of the world” fables. So long as they could sort out the story type and extract the lesson the old monk expected, they knew there would be no problem. The old monk just smiled a wistful smile.
“Now, in that same temple there was a most worthy monk. Most worthy indeed. He knew quite a few things, and was always telling what he knew, for he believed that sharing knowledge was the act of an enlightened being.”
The old monk fell silent again, and one of the younger monks was moved to ask. “Was he an enlightened being, Master?”
“It was said of him,” the old monk replied. “He never said it of himself. Weigh that in the scales, for what it may be worth.”
The young monks just looked at each other, and after a moment the old monk continued his story. “He was invited to the wedding, of course, as one of Lord Goji’s favorite teachers. It was summer, and the monk was taking the breeze on the engawa when the bride’s wedding party arrived. It was his karma that he would be the first to greet them, or perhaps it was everyone’s karma present, for it happened just that way.”
“What happened then, Master?”
“He greeted them, of course. It would have been rude to do otherwise. Since the girl was of noble family she was escorted by five samurai and several maids, plus servants bearing her sedan chair, and all in summer clothes and colors. The bride herself was wearing a shiromuku of such pure whiteness that she seemed made of snow. She was veiled, as is the custom.”
He paused again, and again one of the younger monks asked a question. “Master, I have sometimes wondered . . . in China a bride wears red, or so I am told, for the color is considered lucky. Why does a bride in our country wear white, the color of death?”
The old monk shrugged. “Perhaps because both marriage and death are transformations. Also, among old samurai families it was an indication that the bride came to them in the same spirit that blank washu comes to the calligrapher. As the paper takes the ink, so would she accept the family colors and mon of her groom. In the old days I believe the wedding costume was actually taken and dyed appropriately after the wedding was done. However, dye would not be enough to let this bride become part of Goji’s family. No, that was not possible.”
“Why, master?”
“She was a fox. For that matter, so were her attendants.”
The young monks gasped in such perfect unison that perhaps the old monk wondered, for a moment, why they could not chant the Lotus or Diamond Sutras with the same precision. Or perhaps he thought nothing of the sort.
“She was of ancient and noble family, as I said. But she was not human.”
“How did the teacher know?” asked another.
The old monk shrugged. “He couldn’t fail to notice. Years of practiced meditation and discipline had given him the ability to pierce many of the illusions of this world. Not all, perhaps, but many. When he saw the wedding party, he knew what they were, even as he greeted them. Foxes, every one.”
“The young lord had been cruelly deceived,” said the oldest boy.
“Perhaps,” said the old man.
“I don’t understand,” said the oldest boy. “You said she was a fox.”
“I did and she was. As for your not understanding, well, listen to what happened then. You still won’t understand, but you’ll know more. So, as I said, she was a fox. The teacher requested a moment alone with the lady to bestow his blessing. As he was a respected guest, her retainers withdrew to a discreet distance, though the bride of course remained veiled in her chair. He approached her with every outward sign of respect and he whispered the following words to her: I know what you are, Lady. Leave now and never return, or your beloved will know, too.”
“How do you know exactly what was said, Master?” asked the youngest monk. The oldest boy punched him then, but the old monk ju
st smiled.
“It’s a story, young one. How can I not know what I have decided the words should be?”
The youngest monk blushed furiously even as he rubbed his sore arm. Still, he must have assumed that his embarrassment couldn’t get any worse, since he asked another question. “You are saying, then, that this story isn’t true?”
“No, I am not saying that.”
Now the oldest boy frowned. “You’re saying it is true?”
“I’m not saying that either. Now be silent and let me finish.”
The young monks subsided though they looked, if anything, more confused than before. If the old monk noticed he didn’t show it. “The lady made a small sound, rather faint. A bit of breath, perhaps, no more. Behind them there was the whisper of sliding screens. A servant had informed Lord Goji of his bride’s arrival and the young man was on his way. The monk spoke to the bride again, saying: “I see what you are and I will not allow you to deceive my pupil, for whatever your designs might be they cannot be to his advantage. You are a fox, and no human girl at all. Begone while you can.”
There might have been no more questions then, but once more the old monk fell silent. One might think he had forgotten that he was telling a story at all, or perhaps the words had slipped away from him. He seemed puzzled, almost, looking off into nothing as if whatever was missing now might, perhaps, be there instead.
“Master, wasn’t the teacher afraid of being cursed? I’ve heard that foxes sometimes do that.”
The old monk grunted. “Why should he fear, he who saw with such excellent clarity? How could he fail to see, or speak what he knew? What heed of curses when there might, at the end of the day, be a profaned wedding instead?”
“What happened then?”
“The lady lifted her veil and the monk could see her beauty, despite the fact that he knew it was illusion, and she said: ‘I know what I am, good monk. Yet I love Lord Goji and mean no harm to him. If you can truly see what I am, then you can tell if I speak the truth.’ The monk, of course, said that this did not matter.”
On the Banks of the River of Heaven Page 11