by T. A. Miles
Hoping for a swifter journey back to Sheng Fan than he’d endured leaving it, Xu Liang bathed, redressed in his layers of silk that had seen far better days, and set about the task of combing out his hair. The length of his hair—even apart from his beauty—was what distinguished him from other men. It was as symbolic and identifying to him as Fu Ran’s dragon tattoos and his broad, sinister grin that gave him the title ‘Laughing Devil’. On a more personal level, Xu Liang’s ability to grow such a healthy length of hair set him apart from his brothers, all of whom followed Xu Hong by keeping their hair relatively short, tying up what couldn’t be hidden beneath a helmet. Fang, his youngest brother in Du—Xiang Wei of Ying was actually the youngest of his half-siblings—had for some time been trying to grow a long beard, but he’d managed thus far only to achieve a bushier aspect to his broad countenance.
“I suppose that we can’t all grow silk, brother,” Fang would often say good-naturedly to Xu Liang, who smiled now, thinking positively for once about his family. It was difficult to honor them properly, living under Xu Hong’s double standards. The Governor of Du could have adopted Xu Liang. Xu Mi was his wife. He had more right to her son than Xiang Wu, but pride overruled his sense of truth and honor. He chose to lie, and therefore to force that lie and the act of lying upon Xu Liang, while still expecting otherwise right and honorable behavior from him.
With the thought, a pain that had been lingering since his morning exercise stabbed suddenly behind his breast. It felt as if the muscles had suddenly pinched themselves together. Xu Liang placed his hand over the area of aggravation and breathed the kink out, then continued with his hair, tying and pinning it away from his face. He preferred it mostly freed.
Recognizing that in the past, Xu Hong thought to demonstrate during training what could happen to vain men on the battlefield by pulling Xu Liang’s hair more than once. Xu Liang quickly learned how to evade the brutal maneuver, and Xu Hong naturally took it for defiance. Xu Liang narrowly escaped having his head shaved, so great was Xu Hong’s anger at being outwitted by Xiang Wu’s son. Quickly, it was decided that Xu Liang’s hair be bound whenever he practiced his martial skills.
Eventually, Xu Liang’s hair became more his own concern than anyone else’s, particularly when he began spending more time in the academy town of Zhi Ping, where—as he suddenly recalled—he had first been introduced to Lord Ha Ming Jin, currently the Governor of Xun. The late Ha Sheng’s son was best described, then and now, as ambitious.
Xu Liang thought about his former classmate and the man’s current campaign against Ji, and wondered irresistibly how the troops he’d ordered to Fa Leng were faring. He’d left an even-tempered older general in command. The senior had the wisdom and planning of two notably versatile strategists to aid him, and the authority to summon more troops from the nearest city if necessary. Ha Ming Jin would not give in easily, but he should not have been able to advance against such resistance.
Gai Ping’s approach interrupted the thought.
Xu Liang waited for the man to perform his ritual respect and to state his business.
“My lord, the others are ready to leave,” the guard said. “The Lady Ahjenta awaits an audience with you as well.”
Xu Liang nodded his acknowledgment. “I will be along shortly.”
“YOU’RE NOT COMING?”
Tristus almost apologized for asking the question when D’mitri provided him with a sharp, golden glare.
When the Phoenix Elf seemed satisfied with the sting he’d inflicted upon his victim, he proceeded to oversee the saddling of a lovely steed, different from the other horses kept in Vilciel in that it was much smaller—built for speed rather than strength—and it was not black. Instead, its soft pelt was a reddish brown color, closer to the shade of the elves’ hair rather than their armor.
Ahjenta—whom, according to Shirisae, was at first opposed to her leaving—had not only been kind enough to provide them with food and shelter during their time among her people, but now she extended her support and generosity even further by providing horses for those without. Tristus was too busy admiring the reddish steed before him to wonder why everyone else received a large black horse—except the dwarves, of course, who would be riding with others. He did, however, wonder why D’mitri had taken it upon himself to personally deliver this animal while Fu Ran and the guards were accommodated by strangers.
“My mother would have lent you griffins, if they were capable of long flights across oceans,” the Phoenix Elf said, and he didn’t have to mention his disagreement with such a notion. It was more than evident in his voice and on his face.
“This,” he continued, gesturing at the russet steed, “is a gift from my sister. It is the offspring of wild horses. We discovered him abandoned as a colt in the forests of Gynth, wandered perhaps from the meadows of his birth.”
“Gynth?” Tristus echoed, surprised. “Why, that’s not far from the northernmost border of Andaria. You certainly cover a broad range in your wandering, don’t you?”
“Yes,” D’mitri replied. “So do you, knight. As I was saying, giving you this unique animal is my sister’s idea, and you’re fortunate that it is hers to give.”
“I am grateful,” Tristus said amicably. “Truly.”
“And you should be.” The elf glared at him again.
Tristus sighed, becoming impatient with D’mitri’s supreme intolerance. “I understand that you dislike us. I regret it, but I do understand, D’mitri.”
The flame-haired elf ignored his statement, stepping closer to Tristus, who felt in that moment as if he would have fit twice into the Phoenix Warrior’s broad and supremely fit frame, even knowing that he himself did not happen to be a small person, not since a much younger man.
“I allow you to leave here alive, human,” D’mitri said, “because I am confident that you will not return. Consider that when you think about Shirisae’s childish affections. Consider also, that I would not welcome a half-breed niece or nephew… and that I would hunt you to the ends of this world, if necessary, to be sure you could never violate another elven woman for the remainder of your existence, should I even suspect that you dared so much as lay a finger on her.”
For some reason, Tristus had always inspired the protective instincts of every man who was father or brother—or uncle, as it had recently turned out—to a female acquaintance of his since he was fourteen. It usually wasn’t to this degree, but he wished someone could explain to him how a man who honestly wasn’t interested could be so easily perceived as a threat to a lady’s honor. Perhaps his heart had foreseen this trouble ahead of time, and that was why he was not interested.
Tristus held the Phoenix Elf’s fiery gaze with equanimity that would have surprised himself if he considered it, and said, “D’mitri, I’ve no intention of violating anyone, Shirisae least of all. I respect and care for her as I would my own sister. As to her affections, the matter has already been discussed and set aside. You may rest assured that no dishonor will be brought upon your sister by me.”
D’mitri seemed to search him visually for evidence of honesty, then stepped back and proceeded to bully his fellow elves, unaware of the breath of relief that escaped Tristus. He glimpsed a white horse nearby and—almost as an afterthought—looked to her rider, quietly returning the smile that was in the pale elf’s eyes.
Alere seemed to be commending his handling of the flame-haired tyrant. Tristus felt very near to having been ‘handled’ himself, and he could only wonder if Alere read that in his expression.
“You,” D’mitri said to the white elf when he noticed him present, “I would invite back to this region for the occasion of your death upon my blade.”
Alere scarcely dignified his animosity with a frown and said, “There are other foul things in this world that require my attention. You will have to wait.”
D’mitri smiled wickedly and said something in elvish, words that Tristus could not begin to decipher, or perhaps he didn’t care to, given th
e tone.
Alere scowled in response to whatever D’mitri had said, his hand suddenly hovering over the hilt of his sword.
Tristus spoke up quickly, “What is his name?”
Both elves looked at him, confused and irritated by the interruption.
Tristus had never dreamed to see the two of them united in anything, least of all annoyance with him. He cleared his throat and said, “This...uh, this magnificent horse.” He gestured toward the russet steed. “You didn’t…didn’t tell me his name.”
D’mitri looked at the animal briefly. “Sylvashen,” he barked. And then he left, casting Alere a parting scowl.
“What does that mean?” Tristus wondered, relieved that the two elves were separated.
Alere came forward, looking the handsome beast over before giving Tristus his answer. “It means ‘of the forest folk’.”
Tristus walked toward Sylvashen and held his hand out to the animal’s muzzle to introduce himself. The steed came forward, warming to its new master at once. “Well, he certainly is—hey, now, stop that.” Tristus pulled the shoulder of his cloak out from between the steed’s teeth, then patted him on the snout and smiled up at Alere. “He certainly is friendly.”
“That’s surprising,” the white elf muttered. “Considering the source of the gift.”
“Be nice, Alere,” Tristus chided good-naturedly, stroking the red horse’s neck, shrugging to keep his cloak out of its mouth. “I think that Sylvashen and I…stop…are going to become quite—stop it, Sylvashen—quite good friends.”
Alere smiled. “He suits you.”
Tristus smiled back, until his gaze strayed to a platform just above the snow-covered yard, where Xu Liang was issuing his ritualistically polite goodbyes to Ahjenta. He stared until the mystic turned from the priestess and started down the stairs. Blue Crane was near. That meant that soon Xu Liang would be as well. Tristus knew that the right thing to do was to apologize, but he didn’t know exactly how to do so without seeming even more absurd than he must have seemed the night before.
The guards came first.
Tristus’ heart began to hammer. All thought and any hope of forming rational words escaped him. He turned slowly, and led Sylvashen away.
WHILE HUGGING HER twin goodbye, during a rare instance of displayed sentiment, Shirisae looked over D’mitri’s shoulder and saw Tristus avoid Xu Liang. Several days ago, she would have liked to see nothing else more. In her determination to see her own desires satisfied, she would have encouraged him to walk away from the mystic and to forget about him. She knew better now. She knew Tristus was truly, deeply in love with Xu Liang, and that he would never forget him.
Somehow her own love had evolved beyond simple desires for herself. She wanted now, more than anything, to see Tristus happy. It saddened her to think that he couldn’t be. And not because Xu Liang was too proud or not inclined to care deeply for another man. Shirisae had looked beyond the mystic’s charm that he wore like cloaks of glamour cast upon him by the fae folk. She had used the insight given her by her mother and her grandmother—and so on, back to the beginnings of her family—and she had seen that Xu Liang was afraid. His fear made him cold and, as she had tried to express to Tristus once before—then, for her own selfish reasons—it made him indifferent to the hearts that were offered to him. He knew they were in his keeping and he understood the hopes they represented, but he would not respond. He would rather watch them wilt and die in his hands, like plucked flowers, because to water them—to nurture them—would be the start to acknowledging them, and to maybe discovering that he wanted to continue caring for them. At times Shirisae pitied Xu Liang more than Tristus. At least Tristus confronted his feelings, whatever the consequences.
When she parted from her sibling, D’mitri looked over his own shoulder at the knight, then he gave his attention back to Shirisae. He was wearing his lecturing frown, rather than his scowl of disgust.
Shirisae smiled sadly when he lovingly touched her cheek, as he hadn’t for many years. He spoke to her softly in elvish. “I know what you believe was told to you by the Flame, my sister, but I want you to put it out of your thoughts. Put him out of your thoughts, please, so that my mind and heart can be at ease while you are so very far away.”
Shirisae took his hand in hers, and rested her face in his palm. “I wish you were coming with me.”
“Though you know I cannot,” D’mitri replied tenderly, accepting the change of subject. “I have been away too often and too long as it is. Come autumn I will be a father.”
“And I will be an aunt,” Shirisae reminded him, sighing wistfully, realizing that she was about to turn a second century and still had no children herself. Sudden tears threatened to make their parting sad, so she forced a smile for her brother’s sake. “I know you will raise a brood of excellent warriors, D’mitri, just like their father. Though hopefully they will not all be as stubborn.”
“Which brings me to what I’ve been meaning to say to you since last night, Shirisae.” He withdrew his hand and looked down at the snow beneath their feet, drawing a long pause before he finally let out what was in his heart. “I apologize, sister, for the way I acted concerning the hunter. I know it is for my wife and the child not yet born to me that you spoke to me in such harsh tones. I am truly sorry.”
“Sorry, but only for my sake,” Shirisae said, and tried to give the words a light tone, as this would be their final conversation for an unspecified period of time—maybe forever, if the enemy awaiting in Sheng Fan was greater than the Swords, greater than what their unlikely assembly of warriors could make of them.
D’mitri smiled. Her brother said, “I apologized for your sake, yes.” And then he recovered his frown. “For the orphaned Verressi, I would offer him only the satisfaction of dying a warrior’s death. Though I would be sorely tempted to drag his bleeding and broken body to the darkest caves beneath our city, and watch the spiders make a feast of him.”
“On that comforting thought, I will bid you farewell, then, D’mitri.” She couldn’t remember the last time she had honestly said farewell to him. She wasn’t braced for the finality of the moment. Her smile quavered and then shattered, showing her sadness openly.
Her twin took her into his arms once more and held her tightly. “I await your safe return, my beloved sister. Remember that you are heiress to the Flame...and that nothing frightens you.”
Shirisae laughed through her tears, recalling how, even as a small child, she had always tried to be as strong and fearless as her brother.
“I’ll miss you,” she whispered, then kissed his cheek and pulled away. He reached out to brush away her tears, but she wouldn’t allow it. He would remember her strong, and therefore he would not spend precious thoughts that should all be for his son or daughter, worrying about her. In Firestorm as well as in her heart, she was bringing the Phoenix with her. The Flame would still protect her.
On that thought, Shirisae left her brother and didn’t look back. At least she could be comforted in knowing that D’mitri had never cried a day of his long life.
SOME HOURS AFTER its departure, the company arrived at the base of the mountain that housed Vilciel. The group huddled in the pass for only a few moments, perhaps to finalize the route they meant to take to the distant coast.
And then, suddenly, ten well-bred horses were spurred across the snow with their riders, heading north. It was likely that none of them noticed the griffin soaring overhead, seeing them off with D’mitri upon its back, who watched as his sister and twin was borne away from him.
IT HAD ONLY just occurred to Fu Ran, as he counted the days since leaving his ship, that the Pride of Celestia was due at the northeastern tip of Upper Yvaria in eighteen days. Their passage aboard the ship would be guaranteed, and their destination would be Aer, the country which directly preceded Sheng Fan on Dryth’s eastern continent.
That was only if they could make it. They had less than twenty days to get to the port town of Willenthurn. If they
made it in time, and the weather was agreeable for sailing, they would have only a matter of hours to locate the ship, whose captain didn’t have a strong liking for long layovers where there wasn’t a large profit in the loading or unloading of cargo to be made. It would not be easy, but it was possible.
Xu Liang silently thanked the priestess Ahjenta once more. They would not have had a chance if not for the horses she had provided for the others. For the first time since leaving Sheng Fan, it seemed that luck was truly on his side.
Hold strong, my Empress. I am coming. And I have the Swords.
Continue the adventure in FIVE KINGDOMS.
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READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM FIVE KINGDOMS:
PROLOGUE: UNLIKELY ALLIES
Unlikely...the word doesn’t seem to fit. Then again, what else does one call the allegiance of two dwarves—myself and my niece—a mountain elf, a fire elf, an Andarian knight, and a large handful of Fanese men, which includes one strayed Fanese ox?
As I sit huddled in a cave in the extreme northern parts of Yvaria, freezing my beard off, scratching out another page of my memoirs, I see children before me—with the exception of one fellow ancient, who doesn’t happen to speak my language, nor I his.
Shirisae is actually the eldest of the brood, though she is still young for her kind. Proud, beautiful, and strong of mind and body; the Phoenix Elf is the sister who loves and guides, and protects in the absence of a mother. She didn’t start out that way—she had her moments of selfishness and thoughtlessness, sure as a lamb will frolic—but when it came time to assume a stronger role, she stepped into it with fortitude and grace. She watches the others with her golden eyes now, proud and protective as a lioness over her cubs. Even Alere, whom she once despised for his icy nature, has received more than one look from his fellow elf that almost half resembled something in the way of a tender—well, maybe more kind...probably just civil—smile. The lass is trying.