Nine Gates (60 page)

And you called yourself a coward for your behavior not so long ago
, Pearl thought, looking at the gangling figure with real affection.
Do you seek to redeem yourself?

Pearl stepped back. Everything Waking Lizard said made perfect sense. She took her position in a third rank, aligned behind Thorn. Des stepped up to partner her.

Righteous Drum formed the center of the fourth rank, with Honey Dream to his left and Gaheris to his right. Gaheris had armed himself with the Shang Gieh Kun, the three-sectional staff, that was among his favored weapons. Like many of the Orphans, he’d trained in weapons that were designed for subduing, rather than killing, for in the world where they lived, the penalties for murder were a factor for serious consideration.

And Gaheris has always considered…
Pearl thought.
He’ll rely on spells rather than weapons in any case, which gives us a very strong magical rank there.

Albert and Shen made up the fifth rank. Nissa, Brenda, and Deborah the sixth. Riprap, taking very seriously his role as rear guard, made up the seventh by himself.

It was a good arrangement, one that backed fighting strength with magical strength, medical care and retrieval positioned where they would be able to see clearly how the initial phases of the battle progressed.

A very rational organization for a situation that ceased to be rational as soon as the descent began.

Pearl stepped forward onto that black and white course and felt her mind begin to hum and throb. No longer did she walk, but slide, and slide faster and faster, as if the way beneath her was as slick as wet ice. Summer child, California girl, she didn’t have much experience with ice or snow, but in a long life, you learn more than you remember. Pearl leaned back and let the momentum carry her forward.

In her hand, Treaty sang a quiet song of blood on tiger’s claws, of promises made, and promises kept. Pearl used that to give her balance as well, and found herself soon comfortable. She looked to her right and saw Des—Rooster’s Talon adorning his right hand, a maniacal grin on his lips, shifting his weight like the surfer boy he’d been so long ago she’d forgotten that phase. His braid whipped out behind him, snapping like a whip in the wind.

Before her, Pearl saw Flying Claw had his recruits in hand. Twentyseven-Ten moved erratically, and Pearl noted that he kept his course to the more apparently solid black stripes. Thorn bunched down, keeping his center close and compact, his expression grim.

And so they flew down a trail that was also the back of Pai Hu, moving with all the speed of the White Tiger of the West’s resistance of that which drew him into dissolution.

What is large enough to swallow a universe?
Pearl thought, and wondered if the thought was her own.
Only another universe, and that one of hunger and emptiness. How the hunger calls. How I yearn to fill that emptiness, to be free of this pain for fullness.

And Pearl knew that the thoughts she heard as her own were those of Pai Hu, and felt tears wet her face as she felt the tremendous agony inflicted by this battle against nothing.

Forever the sliding went on, so long that Pearl began to forget she had ever been other, done other than ride an eternity through eternity. She was broken into awareness by the gleam of silver and substance ahead, by an interruption of solidity and shape against what had been nothing but motion.

Ahead were blocks and boxes, stacked haphazardly on top of each other, sometimes on their sides, sometimes, improbably, on their points. These towers should have teetered, but held firm and intact. Each block shone metallic—silver dominating, but with shades of copper, gold, and bronze as well—the whole hard and impervious as metal or doctrine.

The White Tiger of the West was being drawn to this
place, drawn to smash against these shining, polished surfaces that seemed as if they should reflect, mirrorlike, but in a parody of true reflection, shattered and broke whatever light touched their surfaces.

For now, Pai Hu was managing to restore himself intact as he broke and split, looping himself back into himself, but Pearl could see that the battle was beginning to be lost. Tiny flakes of black and white flecked some of the polished surfaces, bits of Pai Hu that created sympathy with the rest, making himself his own worst enemy.

Three other trails met at this point: one red, one green, and one black. Each smashed and battered against these implacable cubes and rectangles, each gave up confetti glitter that was itself turned assailant.

Pearl knew these by their colors and their auras as the other three guardians: the Vermillion Bird of the South, the Azure Dragon of the East, and the Black Warrior of the North.

She saw, too, that they had given up less than had Pai Hu. The White Tiger was the hardest hit, the nearest to losing this weird battle. Pearl’s soul rebelled against the idea that a White Tiger could be weaker than a Vermillion Bird, an Azure Dragon, a Black Warrior, rebelled and in rebellion found an answer.

Pai Hu was being attacked with the most intensity. Why? Because he had made himself their ally. Before, the drawing away had been of equal force, but when Pai Hu had given them his aid, sought theirs in return, he had brought greater danger to himself.

Treaty hummed in Pearl’s hand, drawing greater power from fidelity betrayed, but thus far there was no enemy who could be fought with a cut or a slash. Indeed, other than these cubes and rectangles and the hunger of their undeniable need, there was nothing at all.

Nothing
, Pearl thought, and the word rang like a gong in the confines of her thoughts.
Wait. What can swallow a universe. Another universe. An empty universe? Wait. Where is the sound?

Her thoughts were a muddle and a jumble. Yet beneath the confusion was that grasping for understanding that is so frustrating because one knows the answer. Pearl
knew
she knew what she needed to know, but she could not make it come together.

So she concentrated on the smaller things, ignoring the larger as one ignores a cat stuck in a tree in the hope it will get frustrated with its predicament and climb down on its own.

Now she concentrated on something that had seemed natural until this moment: there was no sound. The Orphans—at least in their current incarnation—had proven to be a chatty group. Hardly any subject, from something as minor as what to have for dinner, to the planning of major expeditions did not get talked over—sometimes, she suspected, to the frustration of their allies from the Lands.

Yet here, at this key moment, when confronted with the most major challenge they had ever faced, no one had said a word.

She looked to her right. Des stood, tapping his chin with one forefinger, his expression thoughtful. She swung to look behind her.

Honey Dream looked frightened and kept glancing to her father, her body language indicating both a desire for guidance and a ferocious promise to protect.

Righteous Drum was studying the prospect below, his expression one of calm calculation. To his right, Gaheris looked frustrated and a bit angry.

Pearl inspected the rest of their company, and on all their faces she saw variations of the same emotions: fear, calculation, watchful alertness, but not a one showed a willingness to act. Nor, she noted, did any of them seem to notice her own motion.

We are caught within the nothing that can swallow a universe
, she thought.
So this is how it got a hold on the guardians. They might have felt some small unease, but until the hold was set and locked and their very essence drawn from them, they felt no impulse to act.

Pearl wondered if tiny colored flecks would be visible in time as their own lives were drawn from them to feed the hungriness beneath. She found herself wondering what color her own thread would be. Would it be the Tiger’s green or perhaps a multicolored rainbow representing the various other ruling passions of her life. What color was acting? What hue philanthropy? Were resentment and anger as black as they felt, or might they be the muddy purple-black of brooding storm clouds?

Treaty twitched in Pearl’s hand, swinging back, biting her on the exposed skin of her neck.

No one reacted to Pearl’s cry of shock and surprise. Neither Deborah nor Nissa, entrusted with the bulk of the company’s medical supplies, raced forward to bind the wound.

“Ah,” Pearl said, forcing herself to speak the words aloud, although she wondered if even her own ears would hear them. “I am in danger of violating my trust. Thank you, Treaty.”

No one moved. No one reacted, but Pearl continued to force herself to think aloud as she wiped the blade clean. The nick on her neck was not deep or dangerous, and Pearl continued to let it ooze forth blood, for the hot dampness saturating the collar of her robe was a good reminder.

“I must find myself a partner. Who among these others would be most likely to hear me?”

Three immediate prospects came to her newly focused mind. Chinese magic works strongly on correspondences. Here in this group there were three who had such with herself: Nissa, as the Rabbit, was her partner—the yin to her sign’s yang. Waking Lizard, as the Monkey, was her direct opposite on the wheel of signs.

And Flying Claw was himself a Tiger—in a sense, herself.

Pearl felt immediate revulsion for the idea of connecting with Flying Claw, but she had come to distrust those immediate reactions. She knew her mind was not wholly her own.

Therefore, before the reaction to the revulsion had done
more than take shape, Pearl forced herself into action. Flying Claw stood two ranks ahead of her, Waking Lizard only a few paces behind him. She forced herself into motion, and was shocked at how much effort this took. Her bones felt as if they had frozen at the joints; her flesh felt as brittle as glass.

But she willed herself to move, and slid into place between the two men. Treaty went into its sheath, and she swung one arm around Flying Claw, the other around Waking Lizard. They moved like pawns on a playing board, stiff and without any sign of awareness—but that lasted only for a moment.

Waking Lizard’s eyes within their lines flashed alert and his wicked smile shone within his beard.

“Lady! You have finally noticed my admiration,” he said, flippant and yet sincere. He bestowed a dry peck on one cheek.

Flying Claw—always less inclined to speech—looked at her. His hand rose and touched the still bleeding cut on her neck.

“What is this, Aunt?”

“I was reminded of my oath,” she said, touching the hilt of her sword, then returning her hand to his arm. “How do you two feel?”

“As if I have been contemplating tactics for an exam,” Flying Claw said. “How long have we stood here?”

“Long enough,” Pearl said, “that the time for standing is ended.”

Waking Lizard—the tallest of them—glanced from side to side. “The others still stare and sleep. Shall I rouse them?”

“Yes,” Pearl said. “Start with Des, since the Rooster is the Monkey’s counterpart. My nephew and I shall go below and take a clearer look at the situation.”

Flying Claw looked surprised—but Pearl did not think it was her suggestion that they scout that had surprised him, rather that word “nephew.”

The youth flashed a brilliant smile. Then he nodded, all
seriousness once more. “Yes. The danger here is giving in to the sense that there is nothing. But if something here can swallow a universe, then nothingness is an illusion.”

Pearl drew Treaty from its sheath and let her hand drop from the young man’s arm.

“What can swallow a universe?” she said.

“Only another universe,” Flying Claw replied. “Did you sense it as well—that horrible hungriness?” She nodded. He began to pick his way toward the nearest of the cube towers as he spoke. “Yet I have the feeling that it is not the Void we feel, but rather something that seeks what it is lacking. There is too strong an identity in this ‘nothing.’”

He shrugged, as if knowing his words inadequate, and Pearl answered with a half smile of comprehension.

“Another universe—other—separation of identity,” she said. “There must be a point of connection.”

“I agree.”

“Why all these cubes and squares?” she mused when she stood at the base of one of the towers.

“In our teachings,” Flying Claw said, “the universe is a square or cube or rectangle. I think that one of these holds what we seek. The others are blinds.”

“How to tell which?” Pearl said.

“Ignore the blinds,” said the young man simply. “Where is your heart drawn? Where are you being pulled?”

Pearl did not pause to think, but let the hand that held Treaty rise and point.

“There,” she said, indicating one of the towers, no larger nor smaller than the others, topped with a cube balancing on one point.

At that single word, Nothing transformed into purest chaos.

Brenda hadn’t
been thinking of much at all, just standing light and ready in the almost rearmost row of their battle formation. She knew without being told what her job was to be—pulling out those who needed pulling, being ready to step in where needed.

So Brenda stood, watchful and ready, when a terrible need took hold of her soul.

Flying Claw. Why had she let herself be stationed so far away from him? What would any of this matter if he didn’t survive?

Brenda looked ahead, standing on her toes to see around those arrayed in front of her on the black and white striped road.

Panic flowered in her breast when she realized she couldn’t find Flying Claw. Heart pounding, sweat beading along her hairline, she inserted the toe of one sneakered foot on the lowest band of the Dragon’s Tail that encircled her. Using these coils as footholds, Brenda forced herself upward and at last caught a glimpse of Flying Claw’s broad shoulders, his hair caught up in a knot at the back of his head.

He was down among those weird cubes and rhomboid shapes. (Brenda felt an odd flash of pride that she remembered the right word for a four-sided shape that was not a square.) He was looking up at the top of an otherwise unnotable stack. But what was he doing now? Why was he pulling out his sword?