by T. A. Miles
Trust, Tristus had reminded them. We must trust Xu Liang.
He knew the mystic would not let them come to harm, regardless of Alere’s sentiments. He had surrendered Dawnfire at once to the elder guard, and when a serious-looking young man in a fanciful blue tunic patterned with images of dragons approached and cast a wary glare at him, he experimented in bowing as he had seen Xu Liang do countless times before. The results were reluctant, but as respectful as Xu Liang had promised. The young Fanese man performed a half bow in response and his expression transformed from concerned to curious.
Eventually, the others had followed Tristus’ example and they were led down paved walkways, along avenues of stone and painted wood, past buildings adorned with red pillars wrapped with carvings of dragons and fronted with red, black, and green latticework, set upon beautifully landscaped grounds. The walls that separated various parts of the city were clean and undamaged, providing a smooth gray—at times ivory-colored—curtain behind rows of slim trees. They had passed more than one pavilion—which appeared exceptionally delicate in their structure—and were brought along a path that followed a wide stream that glistened gold in the sun as it flowed beneath gently arched bridges. They passed over one of those bridges getting to an impressive trilogy of arches each with stairs leading up to them. On the other side of the arches lay more colorful pavilions and finally adjoining structures that may well have been houses. As it turned out, one of them was Xu Liang’s residence, which again, seemed like a series of rooms within a garden. The artistic complexity of the Fanese city was a marvel to Tristus.
If only the people hadn’t stopped their daily activities to stare at the outsiders, it would have been the most perfect sight Tristus had ever laid eyes on—one to be outdone only by Eris itself, had he ever witnessed it. Still, even with the staring, it was wondrous. In spite of the observing strangers, Tristus felt an instant fondness for these people. He wanted to help them, whatever the matter was here…however slight that matter seemed. Some carefully returned observation had him noticing the look of these people again; their intriguing exotic features appearing often thoughtful or curious. Yes, Xu Liang was without question cast from this mold. They were his people, and for that reason alone Tristus had to care about them.
If only certain others could feel the same way. At the very least, they might begin to consider themselves emissaries of their own cultures, rather than the potential prisoners of this one.
“You’re prepared to settle yourself right in,” Tarfan grumbled. “Aren’t you?”
Tristus regarded the dwarf with patience. “Since we’re here, I don’t see why we shouldn’t appreciate our surroundings. What would you have me do? Squat on the floor in a bundle of tension and nerves, like you, Master Fairwind?” He sighed while Tarfan muttered curses. “Look at this place—it’s lovely and peaceful. How can you not relax at least a little?”
“I feel like I’ve been shrunk down and stuck into a tiny ornate box with someone about to stick a bunch of pins into it,” the dwarf growled. “How in the hells am I supposed to relax?”
Tristus couldn’t help the small frown that came to his lips. “You’ve known Xu Liang longer than any of us, and you still can’t trust him?”
The dwarf rose quicker than Tristus would have believed possible, and stomped across the distance between them. He stood rigidly before Tristus, his fists clenched at his sides. “Damn you, boy! This isn’t about the mage! If you weren’t such a whimsy-hearted fool you’d recognize the danger of our situation!”
“Danger?” Tristus echoed with a frown meant to deflect the suggestion. “If they wanted to kill us…”
“Then why aren’t we dead? Is that the simplicity of your reason?” The dwarf glared an instant longer, then threw his arms in the air. “There’s logic for you!” He retreated to one of the cushions placed upon the floor as if to provide seating—there were no chairs in the room except curious ideas of them placed more along the periphery of the residence—and plopped down, folding his arms tightly across his chest.
While his logic wasn’t precisely as simple as the dwarf declared it, remorse filled Tristus immediately. “Tarfan, I’m sorry. I understand that your concerns are very real, but we have no choice but to trust our situation and to wait for Xu Liang to come and explain things to us.” He sighed and sat down upon one of the pillows now himself, feeling suddenly depressed. “At least no one’s staring at us in here.”
“At least there’s that,” Taya agreed with a huff that suggested her tension was in a similar state to her uncle’s.
The elves were busily studying their surroundings—Alere by treading the edges of their space in search of some sign of danger, perhaps, and Shirisae by examining the décor. It was quite different than the art left behind by dragons and the craftsmanship of the dwarves who had helped to build Vilciel. As well, it was quite different from the elven accents that had been lain over both. It was also abundantly separate from the art and architecture of Andaria. The Order had had a sort of admixture of asceticism and richness about it, power marked by riches placed within humble—though still vast—stone structures. It had seemed as if the Church of Andaria acted as a protector of God’s treasures once, but now, looking back it felt more as if the priests and Order Masters were hording riches God would have no use for.
He had been homesick at first, upon starting across the ocean to venture further from Andaria than he could have imagined. And now he was glad to be away. He would serve order another way, and he would do it by trusting the one who had saved him from his exile in the mountains.
The relief that swept over Song Da-Xiao when she saw her advisor enter the throne room made it almost impossible for her to maintain her calm, stately pose. She wanted to go to him. She wanted to abandon the dais and all stationed dignity, and throw her arms around him. She could do nothing but sit upon the throne, holding her head high in spite of the weight of her headdress—she believed she would endure illness again just for the comfort of letting her hair down—as she looked upon her oath brother with the regal chill her role as Empress required of her. To display her elation would be to demonstrate her weakness before the other officers of the court, several of which were present to witness Xu Liang’s return.
They would only have confirmation to what everyone present already knew: that she relied too heavily on the Imperial Tutor. They would view her tears of joy as feminine frailty and they would misinterpret her deep love for a girl’s petty desires. As if she weren’t as human as the rest of them. Sadly, it was in that misconception, that Xu Liang could be counted among his colleagues. More and more he regarded her as a goddess—his divine ruler—and slowly, the kinship they had known in the years of her father’s rule slipped away.
If only Song Bao had lived. The people loved him as they would never love her. The Empire had felt at peace. Song Da-Xiao’s world was so simple then and, as princess, how could she have been granted a more appropriate candidate for a husband than Xu Liang? He was highly respected by the Emperor and had been her brother’s closest friend. Surely, not even the wisest matchmaker could have denied such a union. And now it seemed impossible. Marriage wasn’t even discussed. Since her ascension, all her officers could talk about was politics, the faltering of the Five Kingdoms Resolution and now, the rising of the ancient Dragon Chaos, symbolized in their empress’ own nightmares and in the nervousness of her people. There was no time for love in Sheng Fan, and no place for it in an empress’ heart.
Xu Liang made that painfully clear as he bowed formally, speaking in tones of deference, and nothing more. “My Empress, I thank you for admitting me into your presence.”
Watching his long hair fall over his shoulders, Song Da-Xiao said, “Yes. There has been much concern about your extended absence, Xu Liang. You grace the court with your return.”
Xu Liang bowed once again. When he rose, he presented a scroll. “From Governor Xiang Wu of
Ying,” Xu Liang announced.
A servant went to her tactician to claim the item and promptly returned with it to his place near the dais.
Afterward, Xu Liang bowed, deeper than what was customary for presenting a letter. “And now it is with an unhappy heart that I must report the loss of three of your beloved and courageous servants,” he said. “Each of them died with honor, their lives lost to enemies met in the outer realms. I assume all responsibility for their fates.”
Xu Liang knew that they were responsible for their own fates and that it was their duty to sacrifice themselves before allowing harm to come to their master. She could not conceive of what precisely had befallen them, since Xu Liang had not specified, but she understood that her tutor was saddened by these events. By extension, so was she.
With a nod, she accepted his report regarding the lost bodyguards. And then she gestured to the empty space on the dais to the left of her throne and added, “Please, resume your rightful place. As of now, upon your faithful return, you remain Imperial Tutor and Supreme Tactician in strategic command of my army. I ask that you continue to serve me as such.”
Xu Liang straightened and gracefully approached the throne. He bowed once more. “My Empress, I shall serve you until death.”
Yes, Song Da-Xiao thought sadly to herself, and how tragically near that had been. Because she loved him so dearly, she was angry with him for the risk he took. She recalled Han Quan’s conversations now, how he had explained that Xu Liang could sometimes take himself too seriously and therefore behave presumptuously, giving counsel as if it were a command that she would automatically follow because of her supreme trust in him. Song Da-Xiao felt that was true to some extent, and she knew also that Han Quan was a person who had earned Xu Liang’s trust. Xu Liang might even agree with the criticism himself, if he were to reflect on his recent actions. Han Quan was not the only officer to tender such comments. Supreme General Yuo Shang had also given his view on the risk of a surplus of authority potentially lending their Imperial Tactician to a deficit in discipline. The Supreme General’s worded concern was that Xu Liang had expanded his boundaries of study further than was required to fulfill his duties. Again, it was a criticism that Xu Liang might agree with.
And so, with confidence but no pleasure, Song Da-Xiao made her decision and delivered it for all present to hear and acknowledge...and accept. “You may keep your title and all the responsibilities and privileges attached. However, for a rare lack of foresight that has jeopardized the safety of this city and, consequentially, the safety of the Empire, I hereby command that you depart for Fa Leng at once to make amends for your absence. As you know, we cannot lose Fa Leng. General Wen Xiu has proved incapable of fulfilling the task you have given him and you will therefore assume his role at Fa Leng as Supreme Commander of the forces there. I will grant you full authority to implement whatever military tactics are necessary to stop Xun’s advance. You have never failed me, Xu Liang. I will not allow you to begin now.”
Xu Liang’s brow creased slightly. He was not happy with this, but he would not question it. Song Da-Xiao did not expect him to say what he said next. “I shall strive to regain your trust.”
His frosted tone cut her. Xu Liang had never taken a tone with her, not even to chide her if he didn’t think she was paying close enough attention to his tutelage. But then, she had never doubted him and while she didn’t doubt him now, her words must have implied that she did. She had hurt him and, fairly, he had hurt her in return. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t dare. She wanted to escape, but she had nowhere to go.
With the formalities done, Xu Liang straightened and proceeded to go about business as usual, explaining to her and the other officers present where he had gone and why. Of those present, only Song Da-Xiao and the Minister of Ceremony, Huang Shang-san, had been previously made privy to the full details of what he hoped to accomplish by leaving Sheng Fan. Xu Liang still omitted the intricacies of his journey for now, but reported that he had found the other Celestial Swords and he had returned to Sheng Fan with them. He reported also that there were unexpected conditions involved with acquiring the Heavenly Blades. Each, as it turned out, had a rightful bearer, an individual divinely chosen to wield the weapon as no one else could, and that all of these bearers were not Fanese.
“Barbarian warriors?” the Supreme General questioned, scarcely waiting for Xu Liang to finish. “You have brought barbarian warriors into Sheng Fan—into the Imperial City—at such a critical hour as this?”
And then, with a strange mordancy edging his voice, as if he suddenly felt surrounded by traitors on all sides, Xu Liang said, “Yes, I did.”
There was weariness in his expression, an impatience Song Da-Xiao had never before witnessed in him, not in this way.
“It is because of the critical situation we are in that I have taken this liberty,” Xu Liang continued. “The Swords are a symbol of unity. Their powers are unique...”
“And terrible,” Han Quan put in. “Forgive my interruption, Lord Xu Liang, but you do not seem to understand the weight of what you have done. How can we allow such base and ignorant creatures to roam free in our blessed land—free to corrupt and to destroy, as is their nature?”
“He’s right,” Yuo Shang said. “They will not resolve anything. They can only ruin it and ruin what chances we have of restoring order to the land.”
“There is no chance,” Xu Liang countered. “We have already ruined the peace of the land by enacting the Five Kingdoms Resolution. There will be discord for long years to come, but, as history has shown us, such discord can be contained and dealt with. It is the rising fear of the people and the fear within ourselves that cannot be contained, or dealt with so easily.”
“Yes, fear.” At last, Huang Shang-san elected to speak. “The fear of what all of us has felt trembling beneath our feet. There is an ancient power stirring beneath this city. It will rise and destroy us all if we do not act to understand it and to strike against it before it grows too strong.”
Xu Liang looked at the Minister of Ceremonies and for a moment the two seemed to speak secretly to one another, it was a language not between conspirators, but between friends. Afterward, Xu Liang faced Song Da-Xiao once again. “Your Imperial Highness, I ask that you allow me to at least present the Swords and their bearers to you. I know that you, as bearer of the Spear of Heaven, will feel the power I speak of and understand what must be done.”
Song Da-Xiao knew that all eyes were on her, silently giving their own advice, but her own gaze was on Xu Liang. She saw no one else and thought only of how she did not want him to go to Fa Leng, even though she knew that he was the only person who could turn the losing battle around. He would think of something, just as he always did. Still, if there was a legitimate reason to keep him near for a little longer...
“Very well,” she finally said to her dearest servant. “I will give you one week to prepare for this presentation. I have no doubt that there is much about the Celestial Swords that you have learned and could still learn. I regret that I cannot offer you the time you would like to have, but I will give you this small amount of it gladly. Please, feel free to do what you must concerning the Blades and their bearers for now. At the dawn of the eighth day from this one, I ask that you set your sights and your mind on Fa Leng.”
Xu Liang bowed. “I shall do as Your Imperial Highness commands.”
The Empress had done what she believed was right. Xu Liang could not question that. And yet, he could not ignore the misgivings in his heart while he traveled by sedan chair with Song Da-Xiao, to the Garden of Remembrance. He had felt this way once before, when he and Prince Song Lu had been separated by a similar decision: two battles, only one of which he could directly affect the outcome of. By sad coincidence the Empress had asked Xu Liang to accompany her to her brother’s tomb within the garden before he became involved in his studies and preparations concerning the Celestial
Swords. It was at the garden that the Empress became a girl in his eyes again. At the Temple of Longevity and Remembrance, in the final resting place of the previous heir to the throne of Sheng Fan, he looked upon his current ruler and saw the young sister of his dearest friend.
He realized, since leaving the heavy atmosphere of the throne room and its audience that his words in response to what was a command had been issued with what he considered too much familiarity. It had been familiarity between himself and Song Lu which had allowed for intonation that was as near to argument as an officer of the court dared. It was an allowance, granted to Xu Liang by Song Lu, because the prince insisted on their friendship…that their political roles not be allowed to eclipse it altogether. Xu Liang had determined to put his position as Imperial Tutor and Supreme Tactician ahead of his role as oath brother to the Empress. He could see that he had allowed that to slip when faced with what appeared distance, and disenchantment. It was apparent by now that his love for the Song family could not be suppressed.
“Please, speak your thoughts to me, my brother,” Song Da-Xiao said in her voice that rivaled the sweet songs of the birds who currently filled the trees grown in a perfect circle around the burial shrine of her sibling. It was not a command.
“I feared throughout the last days of my journey for your well-being,” Xu Liang said. “I’m glad to see you are not ill, but I have been told that the nightmares return.”