The Eighth King (The White Umbrella Testament Book 1) Read online

  They passed another long bone in the road, Lin Gyat’s cleaning of them growing more and more thorough, presumably as the roasted calf diminished and he realized the limits on his rations. This bone was cracked in two, the marrow sucked away. “He will have to find food soon,” said Datang. “Or slow his pace, at least.” She thought on Netten’s disquisition on souls and hells, which had rung a few strange notes with her, and realized what she had noticed. “Why do you suddenly refer to Envied of Snakes by his given name?”

  Netten blinked twice, as though he had not noticed. “I have done, at that.” He thought on it for a long minute as their horses walked. “I suppose,” he said at last, “it seems wrong to talk of styles as having souls. One day our Lin Gyat may become the Oaken Skull, as he desires. A man may don and doff styles throughout his life. But man and soul cannot be separated while the man lives.” He reflected another moment. “Too, the nature of our immense friend’s particular style does not lend itself to conversation on grave matters.”

  “The health of the Python of Degyen is a matter of utmost gravity to Envied of Snakes,” said Datang. Seeing Netten about to protest, she made a placating gesture, palm out. “But you are not wrong.”

  “Are there striped pythons?” wondered Lin Yongten. “Perhaps we shall have to call it the Boa of Degyen henceforth.”

  “You may take up the problem of herpetology with Envied of Snakes when next we meet,” said Netten. “For myself, I will observe only that the rock snake and the milk snake both have stripes, and I should think their names would induce metaphors pleasing to our friend. Yet neither reaches the heroic proportions of the constrictors, which might soften his enthusiasm, and both are potently venomous, which might desiccate the interest of the associates our friend seeks to attract.”

  There was silence on the road for a bit.

  “The Lotus,” Lin Yongten said at last, “I believe you have been simmering that thought for an hour.”

  “You may believe what pleases you,” Netten said, not without the trace of a smirk.

  The air cooled as they ascended into the foothills of the Bat Mountains, and frost covered the sparse grass; it was as though they were walking weeks into the past. Every so often they passed a stand of boulders carved with the same rough portraits that studded the Hill of Faces near Rassha; Lin Gyat appeared to have finished all the long bones of the calf and was now leaving a trail of gnawed and hollowed-out ribs. “There was a once-great monastery here,” said Netten, “before the Priestkiller Worm painted it with blood. I believe that monks remain, and a village too, but it is dilapidated now, and there are rumors of ghosts. The lamas raided the library long ago, with an army of workers so the deed could be done between dawn and twilight. They succeded, but on the return, an avalanche buried three of the ten wagons of books and relics they had extracted.”

  “What is the Orchid Throne’s position on ghosts?” said Datang.

  “Somewhat more liberal than its position on men,” said Netten. “Like men, those in torment deserve assistance, those who threaten innocents must be stopped. But men owe sweat and fealty to the throne; whereas ghosts cannot sweat, and there is little they can do to express fealty.”

  “Then their existence is not questioned?”

  “The last ghost to attract the attention of the Orchid Throne was a petitioner to my great-great-great-grandfather. King Tenshing Trtiya, the Magnanimous,” he added, seeing Datang frowning over counting “greats.” “She begged him to liberate the provinces that now form Shrastaka from the Gardeners. He promised as much, and I believe he was sincere—but it is easier to be sincere when a promise is made than when it must be kept. The ghost showed up in court several more times, each in more terrible aspect. The lamas tried to dislodge her, but promises lend strength to ghosts, and they could not bring it off. She harried him at his deathbed until his son, already King, took up the oath.”

  “Which he kept,” said Lin Yongten.

  Netten shrugged. “After a fashion. He threw out the Gardeners, but at the cost of consigning Shrastaka to two generations of bloody border raids, until my grandfather installed proper standing armies in the Plums. It is not too unlikely that the ghost’s family renewed their acquaintance with her earlier than she might have liked.”

  It was not too far until they reached the village, a dense nest of multi-story buildings flanked by more modest houses that sprawled to the very edge of a plateau. It seemed an inviting enough place until Datang noticed the shattered windows like wounds, doors hanging open like broken jaws. There were a few houses occupied, out on the periphery where they walked; but there was no evidence of furniture, no kitchen gardens, no light marshaled against the gathering dusk. The only things distinguishing them from the abandoned dwellings were the occasional string of prayer flags and the blockage of the damaged doors and windows, tightly padded with wool or cotton batting or old rags. “Mendicants of certain stripes swarm like locusts around monasteries,” said Netten. “Which is why monasteries so often choose to set up in remote and harsh locations. The natives often are in direr need of their ministry, it is true, but can you imagine what manner of vagrant would flock to such charity if they could find it on a balmy Degyen beach?”

  “Or what manner of monk, for that matter?” said Lin Yongten. Netten shot him a dark look; Lin Yongten returned a small smile, though on his reserved face it might as well have been a toothy grin.

  A group of ragged children danced around an animal’s spine and partial rib cage. The bones nearly gleamed. “Well cleaned,” Datang said. “Either Envied of Snakes abandoned it some time ago, or the natives are hungry.”

  “Both could be true,” put in Lin Yongten.

  Datang acknowledged the justice of the point. “Do you know, though,” she added, “we have not found the skull.”

  “He could live for days on the tongue,” said Lin Yongten. “He may not yet be delayed.”

  The near-dead town grew more vital as the three friends approached the monastery, although it would be too much to call it prosperous. In the two- and three-story buildings, perhaps one storefront in three was open, one in two apartments visibly occupied; the grandeur and detail of the construction was streaked by decades of rain, the mortar on the brick buildings as badly eroded as the paint on the wooden ones. Huge-winged creatures circled on thermals, vultures or something else. Datang pointed at a man hawking cabbages from a cart. “You,” she called. “Has a huge, naked man passed by here recently?”

  “Not two days ago,” said the man, who looked at a glance older than he was—his face was not too deeply or densely lined, but his hair was a bright white. “He wanted my clothes. I told him to go see the monks. I do not know whether he did.” The cabbage-monger gave a slight shudder in memory. “I have never seen a man so savagely marked.”

  “Marked?” said Netten. “How?”

  “Black slashes all across his arms and torso,” said the cabbage-monger. “I imagine it is the fashion in the southern provinces these days—he was a Cascade man, that was clear enough from his complexion, or what of it could be seen under the tattoos.”

  Lin Yongten frowned. “Perhaps it is the wrong man.”

  “How many naked giants can possibly be traversing Red Tenshing’s Road toward Imja?” said Datang.

  “I have no idea, to be sure,” said Lin Yongten, “but had you asked me three days ago, I would have said none. Knowing that there is one, I should not be shocked to learn there could be two.”

  Datang turned back to the cabbage-monger. “Was he carrying a rifle, a club, and the head of a calf?” she asked. He nodded; Lin Yongten shrugged and spurred his horse.

  They asked a few other merchants, but all reports were the same; he had asked for clothes, then been referred to the monastery, and no one had seen him since.

  At last they came to the monastery itself, a towered, forbidding building erected against a cliffside. Small effigies punctuated the wrought-iron fence—a young woman in a qipao and parasol, a man sittin
g inside a lotus, a warrior on the back of a snow lion, several similar women whose skin showed the remnants of various pigments, long worn away by the weather. Above the gates towered a huge effigy of a monk holding a sounding staff and an effulgent jewel, rays of light painted in flaking gold leaf emanating from his countenance. “The Deity Who Waits,” said Netten. “He is here.”

  The gates hung open. Datang rattled the rope of copper bells that dangled from the arch as a courtesy before she entered. There was another statue of the Deity Who Waits in the yard, broken in half with the top lying on the ground near the base. The doors to the monastery opened. A chubby lama, short in stature, stood there to greet them. “Welcome,” he said as the three tethered their horses. “I am the abbot here; you may call me Brother Jhomda. Brother Gyat is waiting for you.”

  “Is he all right?” Datang found herself saying.

  Brother Jhomda shrugged. “What is ‘all’? He is alive and healthy, but his soul is stained and he is cursed by a god. Which of these is ‘right’ and which is not?”

  Datang closed her eyes and pinched the skin between her eyebrows.

  The abbot chuckled. “Ask a stupid question.”

  They passed a meditation room, then a relic room. The air grew damp with steam that smelled of grains and vegetables. “Of course,” said Datang. “He would be eating.”

  It was impossible to miss Lin Gyat at the long tables—he was twice the size of any monk there, the huge muscling of his shoulders and upper arms bulging over their heads. He was hunched over his plate, elbows tucked in, shoveling rice and vegetables into his mouth as though the world’s food were scheduled to burn tomorrow. On his face, and the muscles of his upper arms, the black slashes stood out in relief—although, looking at him in profile, it was clear they only streaked his front, lapping a little distance onto his sides but not his back. As they drew in, Datang could see they did not continue down Lin Gyat’s arms: Farther down, there were tattoos of leaves—so skillfully done, she could practically see them being blasted by the wind. “The black cyclone,” she murmured. “It hit him when the Deity disappeared, and blew him away.”

  At the sound of Datang’s voice, Lin Gyat looked up, then stood up, beaming, and threw his still-half-full plate to shatter against the wall. “My comrades!” he roared. “If you have not brought meat and wine, I shall have to eat your flesh and drink your blood!”

  Brother Jhomda looked at Datang, the cheer slightly dislodged from his countenance. “Brother Gyat has not yet adjusted to the monastic life.”

  “Why in the world do you tolerate him?” asked Datang.

  “Compassion and patience are two of the White Way’s cardinal virtues.”

  “Surely you must reject those monks who are unsuited to the calling.”

  The abbot sighed. “It is true. But no one dared ask him to go.”

  All present showed great signs of relief when word got out that Brother Gyat was leaving, though their words held only pride and sorrow. “It is rare that we send such a new brother out to minister in the world,” Brother Jhomda explained, “but some are born to the road. And, truly, Brother Gyat possesses deep karmic roots. He is more advanced than some of our monks who have been here for years.”

  Datang snorted. “No need to sugarcoat things, abbot.”

  “With respect, fencer, I am more than sincere. Brother Gyat has taught us many lessons in the perils of attachment. We monks do not think deeply enough on our excess of regard for our faith’s trappings—our quiet, our simple food, our mild conduct.” A mournful moue flashed across his face. “Our statues.”

  “Envied of Snakes broke that one?” Lin Yongten said. “The Lotus, roasted calf must agree with him. Or disagree with him.”

  The abbot lowered his voice. “Is it true that his markings come from the Deity Who Waits?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes,” said Datang.

  Brother Jhomda’s face grew hopeful and anxious in equal measure. “Tell me, then, warrior, did he have aught to say about the Worm’s coming?”

  “He said little,” said Datang. “The laws of heaven constrain him.”

  The abbot looked unhappy, but nodded. “As they must,” he said. “Was it for Brother Gyat he came, then?”

  “It was not,” said Datang, “though I think he saw the opportunity to do more with Envied of Snakes than he could with me. For my part, he only told me that I would have the chance to serve him. From which I infer that I must keep my eyes open for the chance to save a soul in peril.”

  That gave Brother Jhomda pause. “Perhaps. Yet souls are not his only concern. He stewards lives as well.”

  “The lives of animals, and babies, and the destitute.” Datang frowned in thought. “Perhaps his purpose for me is in this town?”

  “There is much peril of soul in this town, and of life too, and often in the same place,” said the abbot. “Yet, if he expected you to unearth the opportunity, I think he would have indicated it more clearly. I imagine you will know your calling when you see it.”

  “I hope so,” said Datang.

  Lin Yongten shrugged. “Be careful what you hope for.”

  They had reached the front entrance to the monastery. Lin Gyat had a joyful reunion with his horse—who seemed, if we may be frank, less joyful than our briefly lost hero, for she had grown used to carrying only saddlebags, and the prospect of once more bearing Lin Gyat’s immensity was not unalloyed with trepidation. The four friends swung into their saddles and proceeded at a walk, back to Red Tenshing’s Road, which would lead them further up into the foothills. In addition to his monk’s robes, Lin Gyat had also taken a monk’s spade, a long, thick staff with a shovel-shaped blade at one end and a crescent-shaped blade at the other.

  “Why the new weapon?” Lin Yongten asked as they passed through the gates.

  “I fear that, in a moment of discomposure, I broke my club on the statue of the Deity Who Waits in the courtyard of the monastery—a deed for which I am heartily sorry.” Lin Gyat cast his eyes briefly toward heaven. “The other monks commended this to me, as it is effective against bandits and the spade-shaped end can be used to bury the unconsecrated dead, should we run into any such on the road.”

  “That seems unlikely,” said Lin Yongten. “Are you not now empowered to consecrate your victims?”

  “Well, yes, but even the consecrated must be buried.”

  “And how does it feel to have taken holy orders?” said Datang.

  “Less itchy than the alternative,” said Lin Gyat. “It seems the Deity Who Waits has cursed me to wear only priest’s robes, which I find vexing. To be sure, I will be more readily fed, but now every dog and its mother will be asking me for consecrations, exorcisms, reverse engineering, the like. That is another use for the monk’s spade,” he said, with a perhaps too enthusiastic smile, “to dissuade petitioners.”

  “If the Deity Who Waits put you in a priest’s robes,” said Netten, “perhaps you would do well to accept the consequences. Unless your soul is reconciled to a return to hell.”

  “Return?” said Lin Gyat. “Who says that is where it began?”

  Netten looked, for whatever reason, to Datang; Datang shrugged. Netten returned his eyes to Lin Gyat. “Perhaps I misspoke,” Netten said. “What do you remember of your conversation with the Deity?”

  Lin Gyat shrugged in his own turn, an immense ripple in immense shoulders. “Little. I remember that he chastised me, and that he cursed me. That is all.”

  “A shame,” said Lin Yongten. “I had hoped he might know a good way through the Bat Mountains.”

  The sun threw their shadows toward the peaks. They rode on, ascending a little with every step.

  The fate of the Cold Water Salmon

  he lifelike table-map of the Great South Plain that filled the Crane’s Eye Chamber had not been built by Red Tenshing as the domestics of the Orchid Palace whispered to one another; nor by Keen Tenshing as royal historians of the contrarian strain have endeavored, never convincingly, to argue;
nor yet by the Green Crescent Deity, as commonly claimed by warrior-monks whose zeal exceeded their knowledge. Generals of the King’s army passed the knowledge with their rank, and in learning it, learned why it was kept close and cloaked in rumor. The table was built by Kendey, the last duke of Palden, in preparation to defend his duchy against Red Tenshing’s bid for unification… wherefore, we may infer, it had not much availed its builder. It was a good tool for all that, and Gyaltsen credited it with saving the lives of more men than he could readily call to mind—but it was a monument to its own limits, and no General of Uä ever forgot it, nor allowed his successor to do so. Gyaltsen was immured in gloomy failure of forgetting when a knock came low on the door. “Come in,” he called, letting his voice sound as rough as he felt.

  “I can’t move the door,” said a high voice, close to the ground.

  Gyaltsen recognized it immediately and leapt for the door. “Princess Kadzati.” He abased himself to the skinny girl with all the grace his bones would muster.

  Kadzati gave him a solemn look. “Don’t call me Princess. My nanny says a person could be killed for it.”

  A nanny could, Gyaltsen did not say. “Forgive an old man’s slip of the tongue, my lady. Only keep my transgressions from the King, and I shall be your servant henceforth.”

  Kadzati stepped into the Chamber; Gyaltsen closed the door. “You said that when I poured you a glass of wine that time, and again when I wrote you that poem. And even I know your tongue doesn’t slip.” She craned her neck to look at the table. “I can’t see.”

  Gyaltsen pulled a chair over, and Kadzati hopped gracelessly up, a flailing hand nearly knocking a model tower through a group of model soldiers; Gyaltsen drew a quick breath through his teeth, as though he had taken an elbow to the kidney. “A care, please, my lady—or two, if you can spare them. This represents the kingdom’s most current knowledge on the state of war in the Great South Plain.”

  “It’s probably all wrong anyway,” said Kadzati. “Remember the rout at Temple Ford?” She laughed, as the young sometimes do at errors whose gravity they do not understand.