by Matt Weber
“No more than he chose it when he was King, I think,” said Datang. “Or no more, in any case, than you choose your heart’s pain when you contemplate his death. Netten was trained his whole life to believe he was built for higher things, that he would lay down his life one day for what was right and good.”
“I know all this,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “And yet… perhaps it was the making of this daughter that fooled me. It was a project, if you can believe it, an endeavor that we worked toward in secret. On piles of borrowed silk.” Mother-of-Daughters grinned, teeth white in the night; caught off guard, Datang blushed, warmly enough that she worried the lady must have felt it. “I saw more of him in our covert trysting than I had since the first year we were married. And now?” She shrugged. “Now he is at work again. Do you know, I never thought of why he was so keen to make a daughter when the world would so likely end. That is why it is so hard to look past his choice of death—because I cannot help but feel that he was already planning this. Any chance, however small, to stop or delay the Worm.” Mother-of-Daughters looked up and around. Datang’s gaze followed hers, and she could tell in the moonlight that the bamboo was midnight blue. “Here we are.”
As Mother-of-Daughters spoke, the grass rustled around her, though there was no wind.
Datang found herself edging toward her, without intending to. “I infer that you intend to negotiate with the spirits of the grass.”
“That is apt.”
“Thank you. May I ask what your connection is to those entities?”
“You may, as I planned to announce it in any case.” She raised her voice to an annunciatory pitch. “I am Queen Pema of Uä, Chatelaine of Dhaul and Vavasour of Seventeen Shrines Meadow, eighth daughter of the Baroness Akara of Nagchu, herself eighth daughter of Hariti of Leh, made chattel to the Marquis of Leh in a suit for peace between Degyen Duchy and the folk of the River of Time.”
There was a gossipy rustling in the grass. “There,” said Mother-of-Daughters, with a palpable satisfaction. “The spirits hear and attend.”
“Lady Pema,” Datang said quietly, not wanting to seem as though she was whispering but preferring, nonetheless, not to be heard, “is the River of Time, perhaps, carpeted with grasses at its bottom?”
“Not as far south as Degyen,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “But I have not followed the River outside of Uä’s borders to my family’s homeland; perhaps it is grassy there.”
“That is useful information,” said Datang. Through the grass, a humanlike form approached them—barely visible among the stalks, illuminated by shards of moonlight. “I merely mean to ask, though—what is your affinity with the particular spirits whom we now encounter?”
“Ah. As to that: The courtliest of the wild spirits dwell in rivers, which see all manner of things from both upstream and down. And further, well, the spirits of the grass know to whom they turn when the rain is sparse. Their roots form a single network—not like the grasses of the field. Doubtless these stalks have tasted a drop or two of river-water.”
“So then, in your view, your connection to a powerful and more cosmopolitan class of spirits will win the support of the ones we now confront.”
“It hardly seems an outlandish notion,” said Mother-of-Daughters, with some small annoyance. The form was closing in—Datang could make out the outlines of a loose qipao, a pile of black hair, a pale face.
“To a courtier, it would not,” said Datang.
The form drew closer, moving much as Datang remembered moving with Mother-of-Daughters—not through the stalks of bamboo, nor yet bending them, but somehow translocated in a straight line through a space where such motion was impossible. It opened what seemed to be a mouth. A rustling noise came from it. Mother-of-Daughters made an abasement that struck Datang as dangerously perfunctory. “I greet my cousins of the grass,” she said, “and offer as a token of goodwill this staff, carved from old grass, which we won from a vassal of Imja.” She extended the Giant of the Grass’ stormcloud-grey staff.
The spirit took it in a hand that bore no obvious defect yet seemed somehow, irremediably, inhuman. It rustled again.
“By ancestry, it is true, I am rather far removed from the spirits,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “Yet I am an eighth daughter, and the nature of the river-folk is concentrated in my blood.”
The spirit made a rustling noise that started off low and, somehow, rose, so that even Datang could understand it was a question.
“I did not deliver you a man because it is a man I seek to save,” she said. “He spilled the blood of his heart to save me and my unborn daughter. I could not let him die.”
There was another rustle from the spirit.
“Yes, yes,” Mother-of-Daughters stammered, “my subject. But we are few and ill-provisioned, with only poor supplies for wound-binding—”
The spirit emitted another lengthly rustle, finishing it with a small fillip from the grey bamboo staff.
Mother-of-Daughters drew herself tall, shoulders back, belly thrust proudly out. “Yes, it is unusual for a Queen.”
The spirit’s mask turned to face the grass around it; a colloquy of rustles now sounded, some from the spirit, some from the surrounding stalks. It turned back to face Datang and the Queen.
“Seven, yes.” Mother-of-Daughters’ face became unquiet. “The babe as well. No man has gotten a son on me.”
There were flickers of movement at Datang’s periphery—first one, then another, then too many to count. A tendril snaked up her right boot, then her left; a like one slithered to embrace Mother-of-Daughters. She fought the urge to pull away. They were in the midnight-blue bamboo, the flow of rlung dammed for all the future that mattered; human efforts would not save the three of them now.
“Of course.” The Queen’s voice quaked visibly now; moonlight glinted from pearls of sweat at her hairline. “You may extort what you can. But remember this: I am an eighth daughter and a long-time denizen of the Orchid Palace, where human martial sorcery runs thick as condensed milk. More, I am the wife of the King that was, who mastered seven of the eight Rigors, and I have some passing acquaintance with the ways of fire. It does not avail me much now, to be sure, but the Third Blight will not last forever. If you think that I will choose life in your captivity over death on my own terms, you are mistaken. My daughter and I will burn on a pyre of my own making before I let you steal her.”
The declaration made Datang’s stomach turn. She could not let Mother-of-Daughters sacrifice the child. But, by the time they were captured, it would be too late for her to intervene.
“The girl has more assets than the spiritual,” she heard herself saying. “Royal blood runs in her. The now-acknowledged King has no issue; the Pretender is a eunuch; the Gracious Regent has no eighth son, nor yet a seventh, nor a sixth. Lady Pema, what about a fostering? The girl will be potent in the temporal realms; let her renew her connection to the spiritual, that she may serve as their ambassador in the human world.”
The spirit turned what passed for its head toward her with a posture of interest; Mother-of-Daughters turned as well, her face ugly with the shock of violated protocol and with a look of hate whose provenance Datang took a moment to understand. It was because the offer was reasonable, and because Mother-of-Daughters did not want to extend it, and because there was no other way. The spirits’ advantage was too great.
“I have just declared my willingness to sacrifice my daughter’s life before her freedom, freeman,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “What makes you think I hold our comrade’s life in higher esteem?”
“A fostering comes with a contract, Lady, as you know,” said Datang. “Make it reasonable. Her first five years with her mother, her next five with the folk of the River, her next five after that with the folk of the grass. Then she will be a woman, and equally a citizen of three realms; from there she may choose her allegiances. And perhaps the folk of the river would welcome their lost cousin back for a long visit, or more than one, when the time comes.”
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As Datang spoke, the tendrils slackened around her boots, though they did not recede.
“Lady, the Eager Edge threw down his life to cover our escape. And, more, it is not his life alone for which we sue now. We chose to enter the midnight-blue bamboo. We are buying four lives now, not one.”
Mother-of-Daughters’ gaze was as jagged and hard as flint. The Lotus, thought Datang, if she was not bluffing about the ways of fire, then I am lucky that the flow of rlung is dammed, for surely she would burn my blood to ash and iron in my very veins. “Leave me, freeman,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “We will hash out the contract. You have done enough.”
“Ah, Lady,” said Datang, “I yearn to obey. But I will lose myself in the grass. In any case, your cousins do not seem to wish to let me go.” She lifted a boot; the tendrils of the grass pulled it back down. The spirit took a stalk of the midnight-blue bamboo and bent it as easily as wire; a piece of the top fell off into its hands, leaving a clean puckered scar at the site of its detachment. The fragment split and rolled open in the spirit’s hand, and the interior pulp withered and fell free, leaving a curled surface with the consistency of rough paper. The spirit wrote with its forefinger, which etched the bamboo with no apparent effort: Three sets of three characters that Datang did not recognize, though the second and third characters in each set were the same. Mother-of-Daughters noted Datang’s incomprehension. “It is your deal, vintner’s daughter. Mother, five years. River, five years, Grass, five years. Barristers are few among the spirits; their contracts are concise.”
“I infer that they are empowered to enforce them?” said Datang.
Mother-of-Daughters shot her another envenomed look, though her hate seemed to have lost some of its vigor. “They empower themselves as we speak,” she said, as the tendrils of grass had crept under Mother-of-Daughters’ garments, as a dozen and another dozen tiny spots of blood bloomed through the cloth.
“The Red and White,” Datang whispered. “I did not know.”
“Nor I either,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “But I am not surprised. The spirits do not respect the boundaries of bodies, nor have they ever. Their nature is to infiltrate the skin and modify what lies beneath. I think it will not go well for me if the child’s fifth birthday passes and she is not near the River of Time.”
“I am sorry,” said Datang.
“You have saved our lives,” said Mother-of-Daughters, the tendons in her neck cabling in discomfort or agony. “The time for apologies has passed. We must all live in this world you have created.”
When Mother-of-Daughters guided the pair of them back to the makeshift camp, they saw Netten and Lin Gyat gazing apprehensively at a great tangle of tendrils and leaves on the ground. There was no sign of Lin Yongten, but the tangle was a bit wider than his width, a bit longer than his height. A spark leapt between Netten and Mother-of-Daughters when their eyes met, but neither moved to touch the other. “What did you ransom for this?” he said softly.
“I will tell you on our daughter’s first birthday,” said Mother-of-Daughters.
Netten stared at her a long time from his squat over Lin Yongten’s hidden body. “She is mine too.”
“She is his who raises her,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “That is a pact we made six daughters ago.”
Datang looked up and saw that the clouds were dark, not light, against the sky. “Your Grace,” she asked, “how long does this healing take?”
“I would not venture to guess,” said Mother-of-Daughters. “Even if they had told me, their nature is not one that is precise with time.”
“I put it to my comrades, then,” said Datang. “The Lady Pema and I have risked much to preserve Lin Yongten’s life, and our own. Do we now wait with him, to protect our investment in him; or do we flee with the light, trusting the spirits to invigorate him enough to catch up?”
“The Lotus, Left Hand,” said Lin Gyat, “the proposal reeks mercenary.”
“I state it only to make the situation clear,” said Datang. “The dawn’s light will embolden the Duke’s men in their search. It will not go well, I imagine, while the Third Blight is in effect, but we do not know how long that will last. We have bought the Eager Edge a chance at life. We may remain with him in hope of improving that chance, but our own suffer for the choice.”
“It hardly seems an unusual calculus, Left Hand,” said Netten.
“It is,” said Datang, “when a courtier and an unborn baby are among the equation’s terms.”
“Speaking for both of them,” said Mother-of-Daughters, “I have invested enough in this fencer’s life that I am not anxious to see it avoidably extinguished.”
“Your Grace,” said Datang, “we have not the power of coercion, nor of fleet escape, nor of the fiery lash and missile, not until the Worm releases the world from the Third Blight. What makes you think that the Duke’s wrath can be any better ‘avoided’ by five than one? After the debacle of last night, you cannot imagine he will come for us with a skeleton crew.”
“And thus the question becomes what it has always been,” said Netten. “Do we do our friend the honor of defending him, or ourselves the favor of fleeing him?”
“And if the question were put to you, me, and Envied of Snakes,” Datang said hotly, “I would give the answer I have always given; but there are powerless lives at stake now, and no amount of valiant speech will stand between them and steel.”
“You miss your own point, Ape’s Left Hand,” said Netten. “Between the four of us now standing, all we have for weapons are two sabres and a dagger; we cannot even all arm ourselves. Netten can no more save his own life than Pema can save hers. Valiance is not now a question of potency, nor has it ever been.”
“But it is a question of self-determination,” said Datang, “and there is one here who cannot choose it for herself.”
“There is a simple solution,” said Lin Gyat. “We are divided into natural pairs—that is to say, the affinity between myself and the Ape’s Left Hand is undeniable, and the association arising perforce between Netten and the Lady Pema is salient as well. Since two will defend the Eager Edge’s insensate and possibly dead body no less ably than four, why not send the child with its father and mother, while the Left Hand and I remain here and pass the time in pleasant conversation?”
“I will not flee the Eager Edge,” said Netten.
“I will not desert the Lady Pema,” said Datang.
“Have you two become ventriloquists,” said Mother-of-Daughters, “or has this vintner’s daughter truly uttered the words that should have come from my husband’s mouth?”
Shame crossed Netten’s face; Datang’s own shoulders grew tense. The prospect of abandoning the Eager Edge was repugnant, the prospect of dereliction of her god-given responsibility even more so. But Netten would be a better defender than she, even with the flow of rlung dammed; when it was unblocked, his advantage would be even greater. “Very well,” she said. “If Envied of Snakes’ suggestion is agreeable to all other parties, then I do not object. Netten may accompany the Lady Pema to Pongyo Gorge; I shall stay here with Envied of Snakes and guard the Eager Edge.”
Once Datang acceded, there was little to do but implement the plan. There were no provisions and no equipment to divide up, save the weapons; Netten took the dagger, leaving a sabre each for Lin Gyat and Datang. When the moment came to part, Datang was filled with a strange yearning, an apprehension. She made the Abasement to a Departing Friend, then grasped Netten’s hand in both of hers. He was startled at the effusive gesture, but returned the grip. “We shall meet again,” she said. “At Pongyo Gorge.”
“Of course,” Netten said. “Seek us out at the monastery. We will try to stay there, or at least to leave word.”
“We will tell the Eager Edge that you were too craven to defend him.”
“Tell him. I have been asking to spar with him for years.”
Datang laughed. “I look forward to seeing it. Travel as safely as you can, Netten. And you, Lady P
ema, even safer.” She turned to Mother-of-Daughters with goodwill in her eyes, but all the former Queen could muster was a courteous smile, stretched thin like rubber over something whose sharp shape Datang was content not to see.
I have ransomed her daughter, Datang reminded herself as husband and wife departed into the grass. Let us all pray it was to the good.
The day passed; the night began. Datang and Lin Gyat sustained themselves on the foul, grassy pulp of the bamboo and little else; even Lin Gyat’s urge toward non-sequitur and sexual innuendo could be damped, it seemed, by sufficient thirst. Datang thought, sometimes, that she heard the movement of mailed troops through the grass, but each time Lin Gyat listened and each time his keen ears rejected her suspicions. He was never wrong—or, if he was, the troops Datang feared never drew close enough to prove it.
As night fell and their vigil over Lin Yongten approached a day in length, the tendrils around the fencer began to slacken and fall away. It was a slow process, but inexorable; first slivers of skin became visible in the large moon’s light, then finger-thick stripes as the earliest-slackening tendrils dried up and withered away. At last, Lin Yongten gave a great cough, then started to thrash and keen like a chained lion, the whites of his suddenly-revealed eyes visible all around the irises, which were now a vibrant cerulean. Datang and Lin Gyat backed away until he had freed himself, and the look he gave them was an animal’s, before he recovered himself. “The Lotus,” he said. “What has befallen me?”
“The spirits of the grass were persuaded to expedite your recovery,” said Datang. “Is your leg well?”
Lin Yongten touched it. “Stiff. But all my joints are stiff, and my skin feels like a lizard’s.” He rubbed his hands together, investigating their texture. “Is this the gift of the grass?”