Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (13 page)

‘I’ll kill him.’

For the first time she seemed to look at him. Then she laughed; her laughter so cold,
so unlike the laughter he had known from her, that it made his flesh tingle with fear.

‘He’d break you, little Sung. He’d eat you up and spit you out.’

She leaned to one side and spat. Blood. He could see it, even in this half light.
She had spat blood.

He went to touch her, to put his hands on her shoulders, but the look in her eyes
warned him off. He let his arms fall uselessly.

‘What did he do, Si Wu Ya? Tell me what he did.’

She looked down, then began to move on, forcing him to move aside and let her pass.
He had no will to stop her.

At the first of the smaller channels she turned and began to ease herself down the
shallow bank, grunting, her face set against the pain she was causing herself. Sung,
following her, held out
his hand and for the first time she let him help her, gripping his hand with a force
that took his breath, her fingers tightening convulsively with every little jolt she
received.

Then she let go and straightened up, standing there knee deep in the water at the
bottom of the unlit channel, the first light lain like a white cloth over the latticework
of the surrounding
fields, picking out the channel’s lips, the crouching shape of Sung. The same clear
light that rested in the woman’s long dark hair like a faintly jewelled mist.

She looked up at him. ‘Have you your torch, Sung?’

He nodded, not understanding why she should want it, but took it from his pocket and,
edging down the bank, reached out and handed it to her, watching as she unscrewed
the top, transforming it
into a tiny cutting tool. Then she took something from the pocket of her one-piece.
Something small enough to fold inside her palm.

The card. The tape that had the record of his theft. Sung swallowed and looked at
her. So she had done it. Had saved them both. He shivered, wanting to go down to her,
to stroke her and hold her
and thank her, but what he wanted wasn’t somehow right. He felt the coldness emanate
from her, a sense of the vast distance she had travelled. It was as if she had been
beyond the sky. Had
been to the place where they said there was no air, only the frozen, winking nothingness
of space. She had been there. He had seen it in her eyes.

She put the card against the bank and played the cutting beam upon it. Once, twice,
three times she did it, each time picking up the card and examining it. But each time
it emerged unscathed,
unmarked.

She looked up at him, that same cold distance in her eyes, then let the card fall
from her fingers into the silt below the water.
Yes
, he thought,
they’ll
not find it
there. They could search a thousand years and they’d not find it
.

But she had forgotten about the card already. She was bent down now, unbuttoning the
lower half of her one-piece, her fingers moving gingerly, as if what she touched were
flesh not cloth.

‘Come down,’ she said coldly, not looking at him. ‘You want to know what he did, don’t
you? Well, come and see. I’ll show you what he did.’

He went down and stood there, facing her, the water cold against his shins, the darkness
all around them. He could see that the flap of cloth gaped open, but in the dark could
make out no more
than the vague shape of her legs, her stomach.

‘Here.’ She handed him the two parts of the torch and waited for him to piece the
thing together.

He made to shine the torch into her face, but she pushed his hand down. ‘No,’ she
said. ‘Not there. Down here, where the darkness is.’

He let her guide his hand, then tried to pull back as he saw what he had previously
not noticed, but she held his hand there firmly, forcing him to look. Blood. The cloth
was caked with her
blood. Was stained almost black with it.

‘Gods…’ he whispered, then caught his breath as the light moved across onto her flesh.

She had been torn open. From her navel to the base of her spine she had been ripped
apart. And then sewn up. Crudely, it seemed, for the stitches were uneven. The black
threads glistened in the
torchlight, blood seeping from the wound where she had opened it again by walking.

‘There,’ she said, pushing the torch away. ‘Now you’ve seen.’

He stood there blankly, not knowing what to say or do, remembering only the sound
of her crying out in the darkness and how awful he had felt, alone, kneeling there
on the dyke, impotent to
act.

‘What now?’

But she did not answer him, only bent and lowered herself into the water, hissing
as the coldness burned into the wound, a faint moan escaping through her gritted teeth
as she began to wash.

At dawn on the morning of his official birthday – in the court annals his thirteenth,
for they accorded with ancient Han tradition in calling the day of the child’s
birth its first ‘birth day’ – Li Yuan was woken by his father and, when he was dressed
in the proper clothes, led down to the stables of the Tongjiang estate.

It was an informal ceremony. Even so, there was not one of the six hundred and forty-eight
servants – man, woman or girl – who was not present. Neither had any of the guests
–
themselves numbering one hundred and eighty – absented themselves on this occasion.

The grounds surrounding the stable buildings had been meticulously swept and tidied,
the grooms lined up, heads bowed, before the great double doors. And there, framed
in the open left-hand
doorway of the stalls, was the T’ang’s birthday gift to his son.

It was an Andalusian; a beauty of a horse, sixteen hands high and a perfect mulberry
in colour. It was a thick-necked, elegant beast, with the strong legs of a thoroughbred.
It had been saddled
up ready for him and as Li Yuan stood there, it turned its head curiously, its large
dark eyes meeting the prince’s as if it knew its new owner.

‘You have ridden my horses for too long now,’ Li Shai Tung said to his son quietly.
‘I felt it was time you had your own.’

Li Yuan went across to it and reached up gently, stroking its neck, its dappled flank.
Then he turned and bowed to his father, a fleeting smile on his lips. The chief groom
stood close by, the
halter in his hand, ready to offer it to the prince when he was ready. But when Li
Yuan finally turned to him it was not to take the halter from him.

‘Saddle up the Arab, Hung Feng-Chan.’

The chief groom stared back at him a moment, open-mouthed, then looked across at the
T’ang as if to query the instruction. But Li Shai Tung stood there motionless, his
expression
unchanged. Seeing this, Hung Feng-Chan bowed deeply to his T’ang, then to the prince,
and quickly handed the halter to one of the nearby grooms.

When he had gone, Li Yuan turned back to his father, smiling, one hand still resting
on the Andalusian’s smooth, strong neck.

‘He’s beautiful, father, and I’m delighted with your gift. But if I am to have a horse
it must be Han Ch’in’s. I must become my brother.’

Throughout the watching crowd there was a low murmur of surprise, but from the T’ang
himself there was no word, only the slightest narrowing of the eyes, a faint movement
of the mouth.
Otherwise he was perfectly still, watching his son.

The chief groom returned a minute later, leading the Arab. The black horse sniffed
the air, and made a small bowing movement of its head, as if in greeting to the other
horse. Then, just when it
seemed to have settled, it made a sharp sideways movement, tugging against the halter.
Hung Feng-Chan quieted the horse, patting its neck and whispering to it, then brought
it across to where Li
Yuan was standing.

This was the horse that General Tolonen had bought Han for his seventeenth birthday;
the horse Han Ch’in had ridden daily until his death. A dark, spirited beast; dark-skinned
and
dark-natured, her eyes full of fire. She was smaller than the Andalusian by a hand,
yet her grace, her power were undeniable.

‘Well, father?’

All eyes were on the T’ang. Li Shai Tung stood there, bare-headed, a bright blue quilted
jacket pulled loosely about his shoulders against the morning’s freshness, one foot
slightly
before the other, his arms crossed across his chest, his hands holding his shoulders.
It was a familiar stance to those who knew him, as was the smile he now gave his son;
a dark, ironic smile that
seemed both amused and calculating.

‘You must ride her first, Li Yuan.’

Li Yuan held his father’s eyes a moment, bowing, then he turned and, without further
hesitation, swung up into the saddle. So far so good. The Arab barely had time to
think before Li Yuan
had leant forward and, looping the reins quickly over his hands, squeezed the Arab’s
chest gently with both feet.

Li Yuan’s look of surprise as the Arab reared brought gasps as well as laughter from
all round. Only the T’ang remained still and silent. Hung Feng-Chan danced round the
front of the
horse, trying to grab the halter, but Li Yuan shouted at him angrily and would have
waved him away were he not clinging on dearly with both hands.

The Arab pulled and tugged and danced, moving this way and that, bucking, then skittering
forward and ducking its head, trying to throw the rider from its back. But Li Yuan
held on, his teeth
gritted, his face determined. And slowly, very slowly, the Arab’s movements calmed.
With difficulty Li Yuan brought the Arab’s head round and moved the stubborn beast
two paces closer
to the watching T’ang.

‘Well, father, is she mine?’

The T’ang’s left hand went from his shoulder to his beard. Then he laughed; a warm,
good-humoured laugh that found its echo all around.

‘Yes, Li Yuan. In name, at least. But watch her. Even your brother found her difficult.’

They met by accident, several hours later, in one of the bright, high-ceilinged corridors
leading to the gardens.

‘Li Yuan.’

Fei Yen bowed deeply, the two maids on either side of her copying her automatically.

The young prince had showered and changed since she had last seen him. He wore red
now, the colour of the summer, his
ma k
’
ua
, the waist-length ceremonial jacket, a brilliant
carmine, his loose silk trousers poppy, his suede boots a delicate shade of rose.
About his waist he wore an elegant
t
a lien,
or girdle pouch, the border a thick band of russet, the
twin heart-shaped pockets made of a soft peach cloth, the details of trees, butterflies
and flowers picked out in emerald green and blue and gold. On his head he wore a Ming-style
summer hat, its
inverted bowl lined with red fur and capped with a single ruby. Three long peacock
feathers hung from its tip, reminder that Li Yuan was a royal prince.

‘Fei Yen…’ It might only have been the light reflected from his costume, yet once
again he seemed embarrassed by her presence. ‘I… was coming to see
you.’

She stayed as she was, looking up at him from beneath her long black lashes, allowing
herself the faintest smile of pleasure.

‘I am honoured, Li Yuan.’

Fei Yen had dressed quite simply, in a peach
ch
’
i
p’ao
, over which she wore a long embroidered cloak of white silk, decorated with stylized
bamboo leaves of blue and
green and edged in a soft pink brocade that matched the tiny pink ribbons in her hair,
setting the whole thing off quite perfectly.

She knew how beautiful she looked. From childhood she had known her power over men.
But this was strange, disturbing. It was almost as if this boy, this child…

Fei Yen rose slowly, meeting the prince’s eyes for the first time and seeing how quickly
he re-directed his gaze. Perhaps it was just embarrassment – the memory of how he
had shamed
himself that time when she had comforted him. Men were such strange, proud creatures.
It was odd what mattered to them. Like Han Ch’in that time, when she had almost bettered
him at
archery…

Li Yuan found his tongue again. But he could only glance at her briefly as he complimented
her.

‘May her name be preserved on bamboo and silk.’

She laughed prettily at that, recognizing the old saying and pleased by his allusion
to her cloak. ‘Why, thank you, Li Yuan. May the fifteen precious things be yours.’

It was said before she fully realized what she had wished for him. She heard her maids
giggle behind her and saw Li Yuan look down, the flush returning to his cheeks. It
was a traditional
good-luck wish, for long life and prosperity. But it was also a wish that the recipient
have sons.

Her own laughter dispelled the awkwardness of the moment. She saw Li Yuan look up
at her, his dark eyes strangely bright, and was reminded momentarily of Han Ch’in.
As Han had been, so Li
Yuan was now. One day he would be Head of his family – a powerful man, almost a god.
She was conscious of that as he stood there, watching her. Already, they said, he
had the wisdom of an old
man, a sage. Yet that brief reminder of her murdered husband saddened her. It brought
back the long months of bitterness and loneliness she had suffered, shut away on her
father’s estate.

Li Yuan must have seen something in her face, for what he said next seemed almost
to read her thoughts.

‘You were alone too long, Fei Yen.’

It sounded so formal, so old-mannish, that she laughed. He frowned at her, not understanding.

‘I mean it,’ he said, his face earnest. ‘It isn’t healthy for a young woman to be
locked away with old maids and virgins.’

His candidness, and the apparent maturity it revealed, surprised and amused her. She
had to remind herself again of his precocity. He was only twelve. Despite this she
was tempted to flirt with
him. It was her natural inclination, long held in check, and, after a moment’s hesitation,
she indulged it.

‘I’m gratified to find you so concerned for my welfare, Li Yuan. You think I should
have been living life to the full, then, and not mourning your brother?’