To Walk in the Way of Lions

by H. Leighton Dickson

  There was a love, there was a lie,

  There was a mongrel born to die,

  There was a magic brought to life,

  There was a love.

  There was a time, there was a time,

  Beyond all ancient family ties,

  Some people fought, some people died.

  There was a time.

  There was little left of the bodies, save a large pile of black and silver ash blowing on the breeze. It hadn’t been hot enough to totally burn the skulls and long bones however, and they stuck out at awkward angles in the dust. Animals would scavenge through the remains, picking out what was left, but there was little else they could do. It was the way of things.

  Fallon Waterford sighed and wrapped her arms round her ribs. Solomon stood beside her, waiting.

  “So,” she said, eyes fixed on the smoke and ash. “We need to grab a few things before we leave, if we can…”

  He stared at her, not comprehending.

  “Well,” she went on. “Things like bits of burned cloth that will work as char for making fires. We can find lots of that right now. Um, what else? Knives or swords or other weapons that we might find, skins for water, you know, things like that…”

  “Uh huh…”

  “Oh! And rope! Anything that might work as rope, any kind of rope will do.”

  “Rope.”

  “Yup. Rope. That’s important.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do we need all of these things?”

  And she stared at him, not comprehending.

  “Well, it may take awhile.”

  “What may take awhile?”

  “To find the others, of course.”

  There was nothing to be said. The girl was an eternal optimist.

  She smiled at him. “And then, can I drive?”

  “Why not?” said Solomon, and together, they began to sift through the camp for supplies.

  Life

  There are six elements – fire, water, earth, air, wood and metal. They compose all things in varying degrees, some have more of one, others more of another, but for the most part, these elements are in everything that is, whether living, dead or inert. But in all those things that are living or even dead, there is always fire.

  For example, all trees, which are wood, have fire. Living ones have less, dead ones more. The matter was in the finding of it, and then its release. He supposed it was the same for water, earth, air or metal, but for now, he was concentrating on finding the fire, and he could feel it, just outside of his reach, just beyond his hands.

  With a growl and lash of his tail, he removed his gloves and tossed them aside. She wasn’t back yet, but she had caught a fine young boar, was carrying it back even as the thought crossed his mind. He could see her as though he could see her, and he marveled how clear things had become since his death. True, he still needed a hand on her shoulder, but given that, he could navigate the forest floor as if his eyes were not bound and his vision not impaired. He could ‘see’ the trees, the rocks, the rivers, and he also marveled at how well he heard things now too. Birds in far away peaks, rabbits undercover of fern, insects and water, stones and the wind.

  There, a glimmer of warmth beneath his hands, and he ran his fingers along the firewood, dry and ripe, perfect for kindling. He felt himself sink into it, through the rough bark and the softer lighter pulp, deeper and further and stronger. For some reason, he knew he needed to speed it up, to quicken it somehow so it would catch, and he concentrated on the thoughts of moving the pulp, bark against bark, moving the fibers in greater and greater speeds…

  “Nothing?”

  He hadn’t heard her, so deep was he, and he sat up, found her with his thoughts.

  “Bah,” he growled again and tossed the stick into the pile. “It is useless. I cannot do this.”

  He felt her move toward him, heard the boar drop to the ground by his knees, smelled the blood on its flanks. He could feel her standing straight, hands on her hips. Could feel the rise and fall of her hair on the breeze. He had given her several layers of his desert clothing, and she had shredded one to make an obi, and to wrap the bite marks at her wrists and neck. Even blinded, he could see she looked magnificent.

  “Well, it is not too bad. There is smoke.”

  “Really? Smoke?”

  “Yes. Try again, only not so hard. You try too hard.”

  He grunted, and turned his face back to the firewood. Suddenly, warmth against the rough linen at his temples, and he knew she’d placed her hands there. She was probably right. He usually tried too hard at many things.

  This time, he simply imagined what it would be like if the wood caught on fire.

  “Aiya!” she yelped and snatched his hands away, and he could feel the rush of heat on his face and fingers. “You did it!”

  He sat back, confounded. It had been so simple. So simple.

  He was a Firestarter.

  He couldn’t help but grin.

  “Oh, now you are proud. You will be insufferable now.” He could hear her begin gutting the boar with the Alchemist’s dagger.

  “I thought I was always proud and insufferable.”

  “Now you will be worse.”

  He cast his mind around the forest floor, found a patch of dried grass, imagined it catching on fire. It did.

  “Stop that. It is dangerous.”

  He found a mushroom, imagined it catching on fire. It did.

  “I said, stop that!”

  “But it smells wonderful. We can roast mushrooms along with the boar.”

  He could hear her grumbling, could hear her tail lashing back and forth through the ferns. He realized at that moment that he couldn’t imagine life without her. And for the first time in a very long time, Sireth benAramis, the last Seer of Sha’Hadin, was happy.

  “Hurry up with that thing. Firestarting makes me hungry.”

  “Pah. You hunt next time. Perhaps you will set a rabbit on fire.”

  He imagined the boar’s tail, a little black slip of a tail, catching on fire. It did.

  “Stop that or I will gut you next!”

  “Ha! What else can I try…?”

  “Enough with the trying! Find us some water next. I do not wish to stay here any longer.”

  “Hmm…”

  Water.

  He set his mind to finding water.

  ***

  I said in the last chapter that death is a strange thing.

  Now that is true, and I trust that all that was written in the last chapter will attest to that fact. Death can be noble, it can be vain, it can be won and, in the cases of Kerris Wynegarde-Grey and Sireth benAramis, it can be lost. But as strange as death is, I think most of us can agree that it is life that is the stranger.

  For even at the hand of death, life cannot be tamed.

  Fallon Waterford believed this with every fiber of her being.

  And so, after they had scoured the camp of the dead for things that might help them in their quest for the living, here in this foreign land several days ride – forgive me, drive – from the borders of the Upper Kingdom, they began their search for life. It was a completely random search of course, of the forests, the plains, the mountains and the scrub of this new land of Turah’kee, for any sign of either of their compatriots - the brothers Wynegarde-Grey, the Seer or his Major. Fallon Waterford was not a tracker. Neither was the Ancestor who had taught her to drive. They simply drove the vehicle north, then south, east then west, in hopes of finding some trace of those whom Fallon was convinced were still living.

  As I said earlier, life is strange.

  Her infernal optimism was beginning to wear thin on her driving companion, Jeffrey Solomon, and he was beginning to wonder if he should just drive her to her border, drop her off in the company of other tigers, and leave, returning to his original ‘Plan B’ as he continued to call it. Something about a ‘boat’ and crossing an ocean to find a place called ‘Khan’adah.’ Fa
llon, for her part, would hear of no such thing.

  It had been several days now that they had been searching, and the tigress was growing hungry. She was weary of the vitamin squares and protein paste of the Ancestor, and as he sat sunning himself on the hood of the Humlander, she had slipped off into the trees to hunt.

  Now, Fallon Waterford had never hunted in her life. During the entire journey, it had been Kerris, Ursa or the horses who had brought down the fresh game, while she had watched and eaten her fill. But she had watched, and now, as she crouched low to the ground, white-tipped tail twitching and mouth watering, she moved in on her prey, a fat long-tailed pheasant ruffling feathers and thumping in the long grass.

  It hadn’t seen her. It hadn’t smelled her. She was close enough for a good pounce.

  Well, she wasn’t really, but she thought she was. For in truth, someone else was much closer.

  For even as she began the rush toward the bird, the ground began to shake and she could hear the thudding of hooves and the air piercing squeal of the mountain pony as he raced past her and pounced, pounding the pheasant into feathers under his tiny feet.

  Quiz snatched the dead bird up in his teeth and stared at her.

  And Fallon Waterford began to cry.

  She ran toward the pony, threw her arms around his shaggy neck, buried her face in his tangled mane. She kissed his soft muzzle like an old friend, stroked the crescent-shaped moon of white on his forehead, whispered sweet whispers into his fuzzy ears. All the while, he stood, allowing her to do so, with the dead bird between his teeth.

  “Where’s Kerris?” she asked through her tears. “Can you show me? Will you, Quiz? Will you?”

  It never occurred to her that talking to horses was strange. She had seen too much on this journey to ever assume such things again.

  With the bird between his teeth, the pony whirled and scrambled off, disappearing into the trees like a shadow.

  But for Fallon Waterford, it was more than enough. She called for Solomon and scrambled after him.

  ***

  For the better part of the day they trailed him as he slipped in and out of their sight. For the most part, he was a vapor, and just when they were about to give up and retrace their steps, he would show up in the distance, bird still between his teeth. It was as if he were waiting for them, or leading them. Fallon couldn’t be sure which, but she knew he was taking her to his master, his rider, her lover. She was as obstinate as the pony, this she knew. She would never ever give up.

  At first, Solomon had been reluctant to follow, for the forest was very dense and the terrain mountainous, and it meant leaving the Humlander behind and following on foot. But the tigress had been insistent, and once he himself had caught a glimpse of the pony, he quickly relented. But they were nowhere near as fast, and after several hours of running in dense forest, leaping and struggling over roots and tree trunks, then heading higher and higher still into the foothills of the mountains, they were exhausted and ready to quit for the evening. It was then that they heard the whistle.

  It was quite loud, even over the sound of rushing waters, and when they came upon the width of a mountain-fed stream, they knew they were on the right path. The river fell over rocks and tree trunks in its race to find level ground, and pines grew all around its banks, twisted and tall and reaching for the darkening sky. It was treacherous terrain, for one misstep could mean a twisted ankle, broken leg or worse, but now they could hear a voice, and nothing would deter their quest.

  It was sunset and there was still enough light to make him out, down on one knee as he was by the bank of the steep river. As they drew nearer, they could see that he was working on something that looked like the pelt of a rabbit, kneading it and pounding it with rocks to make the skin soft. A small pile of dead animals was at his side, including the pheasant, and the katanah lay on the ground a short distance away. Its blade was red with sunset.

  “Kerris,” she called, and she rushed toward him, but he didn’t look up, only continued muttering to himself as he worked. She stopped.

  “Kerris?”

  Still nothing.

  She threw a glance over her shoulder at Solomon before moving in closer. The man shook his head, but she ignored him and moved closer still.There was blood on his fingers as he worked the pelt, dipping it in the water of the river and pulling it out again to rub the inside of the skin, making it supple, pliable and soft. She could also see that the tunic he was wearing was new, one she had never seen before, and underneath that tunic, she could see part of his shoulder and grey chest and the new long line of stitches that bound him together. Those stitches were small, fine and precise. She had seen the handiwork before. He had worn them on his back once upon a time, and his arms.

  Her heart was thudding in her throat as she knelt down on the riverbank. She could barely speak.

  “Kerris?” And this time, she reached out to touch him.

  He almost jumped out of his boots, and in a blur of motion, the tip of the long sword was at her throat.

  Solomon’s hands were on her shoulders, pulling her back, but she fought against his grip to free herself.

  “Kerris!” she cried. “It’s me, Fallon! Fallon Waterford! And Solomon! Surely you know us?”

  But the look on his face told her no such thing, for his eyes were wild and the sword did not waver from its place at her throat.

  “Go away,” he snarled. “Go away and leave us alone.”

  “C’mon,” muttered the Ancestor in her ear. “He’s not right. We need to rethink this.”

  She batted at his hands. “No, no please. Kerris, it’s me! Fallon!”

  “Go Away!” And with eyes never leaving her face and sword never leaving its mark, he bent to scoop the dead animals in his free hand, tuck them under his arm. They were soaked like the pelt, and river water ran down his side, soaking his tunic and trousers. He took a step back, and then another, before turning swiftly toward the steep incline of the mountain.

  She would not be deterred and shook off the Ancestor’s hands. “Kerris, please! Come back!”

  He began to scramble up the rocks.

  Her heart did a somersault. She could not, would not lose him again. “Kerris. Please! We’re here to help!”

  He froze in his tracks, little rocks tumbling behind him down the slope, and she could see his breathing. He turned his head over his shoulder.

  “You can help?”

  She stepped forward again. Her legs were straining against the slope and the rocks and her heart. “Yes, of course. Quiz brought us here. He knows we can help.”

  And when he turned back to look at them, she couldn’t help but think that something about him had changed, that he looked utterly majestic and that the sword looked completely at home in his hand.

  “Do you have water skins?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. We do have skins! They’re not here, of course. They’re back at the Humlander. We can get them if you like. It’ll just take awhile, to get there, and then back again…It’s um, kind of far…”

  “A rope?” he asked. “Do you have a rope?”

  “Oh yes, I do have a rope as well. I made sure of it!” She squared her shoulders, vindicated.

  He took one step back down, then another, finally stopping directly in front of her. The sky was purple now and she could see him fighting to remember.

  “I know you,” he said finally.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “I can’t remember why. Or from where.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I forget things sometimes.”

  “I know.”

  He glanced past her, to where Solomon was standing, eyed him up and down.

  “An Ancestor. How wonderful. Come on, then. Kirin will be delighted to meet you…”

  And he turned back to the mountain, bounded up and up again like a goat, sword in one hand, skins tucked under the other. The tigress glanced back at the Ancestor before making her own way across the rocks.
/>   ***

  The evening was, like most had been lately, cold and spectacular.

  “Have you found water? Elbow up and hold.”

  “Yes, I have found water. Much water, in fact. A river, a sea and the water that seems to be in all things, like the fire. Which would you prefer?”

  She pivoted, clasped her hands and reached them high and far over her shoulders, arching backwards in the Crescent Moon. She watched as he mimicked her perfectly, all the while, the cloth still wrapped around his eyes.

  “Enough to fish. Spread your fingers wide. Wider. Good.”

  “Ah, that feels remarkable. I should do this more often.”

  “You are lazy.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “We will go tomorrow.” She swung her arms forward, bent her body, touched the ground with the palms of her hands.

  “Yes, Major.” He did the same.

  The Moon Salute was the perfect way to end the day, channeling Chi, soothing tense muscles, preparing for sleep. He had been practicing with her every night since his death and to keep him sharp, every night she changed the routines. Even blindfolded as he was, he could still follow her perfectly.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  One last stretch to finish with the Mountain Pose.

  “Nothing. I said nothing.”

  He stretched, finished with the Mountain Pose.

  “You said ‘meehahn.’”

  She released a long cleansing breath. “I said no such thing.”

  He cocked his head. “But you did. I distinctly heard you say ‘meehahn.’”

  “Your breath. Release your breath.”

  He did.

  “I did not say ‘meehahn. I do not know what a ‘meehahn’ is.”

  He cocked his head again, only this time, like a bird. “It is a name,” he said softly, and instantly, she recognized the tone. “It is her name. Mi-hahn.”

  Very far away in the distance, a falcon cried.

  The sun was setting, turning the sky a brilliant red. The cliffs around them were black in silhouette, and suddenly she knew that they wouldn’t be searching for water in the morning.