Spirit Hunter (23 page)

Swiftarrow lunges forward; he’s trying to get the blade, but I slide away faster than a snake. I laugh. “The door is locked. And I am no fool, O Imperial Highness. If I let you live, you will most likely have me thrown down a well.”

“No,” wheedles the Empress, “I should never do that to a brave girl such as you.” Her tone changes, becomes confiding. “We live in a world ruled by men, little Shaolin maiden. Strong women should stand by one another.”

“Do not do it, Asena,” Swiftarrow says. “Don’t become a killer. Not for her.”

I turn to him.
What?
Once again, the world around us fades to nothing, as it did the first time we met in the streets of Samarkand. It is just Swiftarrow and I.

“I did not come here to betray you.” He leaps forwards, snatching the knife, hurling it past the terrified, shivering maidservants to a far corner of the chamber where it slams point-first into the wall and sticks there, hilt quivering.

“Run,” Swiftarrow hisses at me. “Run!”

I
t was too late. The door burst open, splintering off the hinges, and the chamber was filled with guards. There were too many of them to fight, Swiftarrow knew it, and Asena stood like a ghost. The Empress and her maid­servants were screaming, pointing at Asena, but he could not make sense of the words. Everything seemed to be moving so slowly, like bubbles drifting through warm honey. The guards rushed at Asena and she fell to the floor, crushed beneath them. Her head bounced against the floor and a dark stain spread, pooling blood. Letting out a harsh cry, Swiftarrow leapt at the guards, but although there were five on Asena, holding her down even though she lay limp as a doll, five more came for him. Hands snatched at his clothes. Blows landed on his body. And all the while, the high, unbearable shrieking wailed on. More people rushed into the chamber, fanning the Empress, holding herbs beneath her nose to revive her. Pain burst in Swiftarrow’s head, throughout his whole body. Desperate, he clawed his way across the floor, trying to reach Asena, but the guards yanked her limp body upright and she was dragged away, head lolling, blood on her neck, face and clothes, dripping from her nose.

“No!” Swiftarrow screamed. “No!” And as darkness claimed him, he thought,
This is how her father felt when I took her.

He awoke, shivering. It was cold, very cold. Harsh light flooded his eyes. He sat up, holding his aching head. They were outside on dew-damp grass, and dawn had come. His sight cleared and he reached out to touch the bamboo bars of the cage. They were strong, still green, woven close together. Asena lay still in a cage just next to his, the bars almost touching, her blood-stained face grey, sunken. He watched the rise and fall of her chest. She was breathing. She was alive. Dread crushed joy.

But for how long?

They were caged in the Forbidden Garden, dying among the peach trees. Morning had come. Red Falcon had waited for them outside the eastern wall of Chang’an, but now he would be leaving, mounting up, riding to join White Swan and Autumn Moon, Hano, little Eighth Daughter and Snake-eye on the great journey to Mount Shaoshi.

There is no one to help us. They have gone. They know nothing about this, and we are going to die.

At least White Swan was safe, out of the city.

Sickness gripped Swiftarrow’s belly. How would Asena and he be punished? How would they die? It would not be quick. Would they both be beaten to death, or strangled beneath the willow tree in the East Market? Strangulation would be a dreadful way to die, worse than beheading, but at least he would return to the ancestors with his body whole. He shuddered, trying to swallow his fear.
That’s just a foolish fireside tale. It does not matter what happens to this body, I will be reborn and know nothing of it. It will soon be over,
he thought.
It will soon be done with.

Or would it? Would they both starve to death here in these bamboo cages, watched by courtiers in silken robes? If they were given no water, it would take only a few days. With water, it would be ten-night after ten-night before death came. He would not allow that. He would rather kill Asena himself than allow her to starve. But how?

Would Lord Fang come? Swiftarrow wished that his were a true father, one who would try to save him if he could.
But even if he were, I have brought shame on the House of Fang. He would be happy to kill me with his own hands for this.
No, there would be no rescue, no way out but to meet death with courage.

Asena stirred, moaning softly, and he laid a hand flat against the bars of his cage, the closest he could get to touching her. Slowly, she sat up. She looked dreadful: dark bruises beneath her eyes, her face blood-smeared; still he loved her.

“Asena,” he whispered.

She put a hand against the bars of her own cage, stretching out her fingers to his, but the cages were too far apart. “I am so sorry—” For a moment, her gaze left his face and she seemed to be looking at something over his shoulder.

Fear gripped him again. “What? Do they come now?”

But she only shook her head, smiling. Tears ran down her face, mingling with the dried blood.

“You have a beautiful soul,” she whispered. “A strong, beautiful soul.”

He did not know what she meant, and so they just sat in silence, separated by bars of green bamboo.

“Do you hear that?” Asena demanded then, pressing her hand palm first against the ground. “Do you feel it?”

Frowning, Swiftarrow laid both hands on the earth, closing his eyes. “They are riding. Lord Ishbal’s tribe are riding away.”

He would have to tell her. There had been too many lies. “I want you to know the truth,” he said: “my father paid Ishbal to go with the Empress’s army. And I let him do it. I stood there and I let him do it. He swore he would have you killed if I tried to stop him. I don’t expect you to believe that, but it’s true.”

She did not speak, only looked at him through the green bars of their cages.
Just like in Samarkand,
he thought.
It’s as if she can see into my mind.
And he wanted so much to hold her, but he could not.

“I know you are telling the truth,” she said, at last. She smiled. “I know. You did all you could and more. You wouldn’t let me become a murderer.”

They reached out again, hands pressed against green bars, unable to hold one another. She had forgiven him.

They were going to die, and he would be repaid in the next life for the deaths he had caused. First the Gathering, now Li was chasing after the rest of the Tribes.

Asena had forgiven him.

What will it be,
he wondered.
Dog, worm, beggar, hungry ghost, demon?

And as if she could see what he was thinking, Asena whispered, “Hush.”

T
he light has changed. Shadows grow longer. Night will soon fall. All day long, no one has come. There is no water. Swiftarrow sleeps in his cage, too far away to hold, lying on his back in the grass, his hair very black against the green. I found a handful of small stones, and showed him how to suck them and bring spittle into the mouth as we used to do on the hunt if water was scarce, but we shall not last long without anything to drink. If we are still here when dawn comes, at least we will be able to suck dew from the grass. I do not know if we should.

I do not want to die slowly. I know now that I do not want to die at all. Swiftarrow does not deserve to, and because of me, he shall.

Even if he had not come, and I had killed the Empress, nothing would have changed. Why did I ever think that her death would save my people? If she died a thousand times, the T ’ang and the Horse Tribes shall always be neighbours, two empires side by side, one great, one scattered and faded. Nothing I can do will ever change that.

And now we are here, caged among the peach trees in the Forbidden Garden, waiting to die—

I hear people coming: six men, by the sound of their heavy footfalls. Through my misery, I smile. They are taking no chances with us, then. Swiftarrow sits up, shaking off sleep instantly.

“There are too many,” he whispers. “Do not try to fight them. We must save our strength – there may be a chance later…”

He does not finish speaking. If we are taken to meet our deaths in the marketplace, there will be no other chance. We shall be surrounded by crowds of people, all eager to watch us die, hungry with the thrill of it. I draw in a long breath and let it go, slowly. I must be the master of this fear.

Swiftarrow turns and smiles at me. “Come,” he whispers. “If we are going to die, let us face it so bravely that they are all ashamed.”

The crowd’s roar is like the cry of a huge wild beast. The roof of the carriage is chained down; iron clinks against wood, and it is so dark in here I cannot even see my own hand. We cling to each other, thrown about like raggedy-dolls as the carriage rolls through the street, growing closer with every moment to the East Market. It stinks in this prison-cart – a fog of urine, sweat and worse things, all wound about with the sweetish, rotten smell of pure fear.

This cannot be happening,
I keep thinking.
They cannot take my life. It is mine.
But it is happening and there is nothing we can do. Autumn Moon, Red Falcon and Hano will be far away by now, journeying east towards Mount Shaoshi. I long to hold on to Swiftarrow but both of us are bound, hands wrenched behind our backs, knotted tight at the wrists. The cart slows to a halt and the roaring of the crowd swells, growing louder and louder.

“Word has spread,” Swiftarrow says. “They know we tried to kill the Empress.”

“It was not you,” I whisper. “It was me. They must let you go. They must.”

In the dark, I sense him turning to me. “It is not your fault,” he says. “I do not want to walk this earth without you, and I would die for you a hundred times.”

Hot tears burn my face.

Chains shriek and clank, harsh light floods the carriage and the guards reach in to drag us out. We land on our knees, hauled to our feet. The noise from the crowd is unbearable – I want to put my hands over my ears, but I cannot. For a moment, I fear my legs are about to give way but I take strength from Swiftarrow; his bruised, bloodied face is calm as he looks out at the mass of people swarming in the marketplace like maggots through a piece of old meat. There’s the willow tree. Beneath it, we shall die.

“Come on, no lagging!” the guard shouts, clouting me about the head. Another roar rises up from the crowd – it’s an angry sound, the whine of a wounded beast.

Swiftarrow turns to face me. His guard gives him a clout, too, and the roaring rises up again like the buzzing of a thousand angry wasps. Ignoring the guard, he turns again, giving me a smile that cuts at my heart. “Look,” he says, pointing. “We are honoured. She has come to watch us depart.”

I follow his eyes down to the willow tree. The Emperor’s black hunting carriage waits a few paces away, lacquered all over with birds and beasts. Gold Bird Guards hold back the throng of people, leaving a clearing around the carriage. One of Swiftarrow’s guards hits him, harder than before, and I see blood trickling from his lip. The roar swells again till it feels as if the sky must burst.

“Take care, you fool,” one of my guards shouts. “This looks to turn bad. Let’s just do our work and be gone—”

He is silenced by a rotten onion, flung from deep within the crowd. It bursts against his shoulder.

“They are barely more than children!” someone shouts. “It’s not right!”

The guards rush us forwards, cursing. I trip and am dragged along on my knees. They are torn to ribbons and bleeding hard, but it does not matter. Soon it will not matter at all—

He has an axe. The executioner has an axe.
I am flooded with relief that we are not to be strangled or beaten to death but the last of Swiftarrow’s colour drains from his face.

The Gold Bird Guards hold back the crowd as we are dragged beneath the willow tree. Trailing branches so green and gold brush my face. The last time I will touch a tree. The Gold Birds are not having an easy time – they lash at the people with sticks, screaming at them to stay back, but still everyone surges forward. Something brushes my forehead and I look up. Dried petals falling, pale against the grey sky. The crowd is throwing handfuls of dried peach petals at us; they float to earth like snow in the mountains. I shall never see snow again; I shall never ride beneath the sky in the light of dawn. Fear must have robbed my wits because a faint, silvery fire flickers above the throng of people and, as I watch, I realize I am looking at a great, wild herd of spirit-horses, bucking, rearing and wheeling about. White Swan was telling the truth after all. The T ’ang have spirit-horses. Even the executioner with his axe has a spirit-horse. He is staring at the ground, and so is his spirit-horse, head hanging low.

I see it now: before, I could not see what I did not believe in. I did not believe that the T ’ang were just like me. But they are. We are all the same. We are all children of earth. We are born and we shall all die, loving and laughing, hating and weeping together. We are all one.

I hope the executioner kills Swiftarrow first, so he does not have to watch me die.

A lone wolf walks out of the crowd, seen by no one save me. I reach for him.
You have come!

Yes, because you have opened your heart. You shall not go to the World Below alone,
he says, and a grain of comfort swells in my belly.

The door of the black carriage swings open and a sudden, thick hush settles. Two palace guards step out, clad in leather armour. I hear Swiftarrow’s heartbeat speeding up. The armoured guards help the Empress out of the carriage. She looks like a bejewelled doll, face powdered white, lips painted blood-red, hair piled up and dotted with bright feathers and pearls. Robes of scarlet flow like bloody water against the black carriage.

My wolf-guide snarls at the sight of her and I wish Swiftarrow could see him, but he is not paying any heed.

“Listen,” Swiftarrow hisses, leaning towards me. “Hoofbeats. A rider.”