Spirit Hunter (4 page)

My mother’s brethren: the Tribes.

Swiftarrow could not look away. A small gaggle of men had left the fire’s warmth, leading horses to a stream. In the dying light, the water shone like the blade of a knife. The men walked with a bow-legged gait: they were in the saddle more often than on their feet.

Swiftarrow froze. He closed his eyes, hearing again his mother’s last words:
My spirit runs free like a horse, dear ones, and so do yours. Even within a locked room, you shall be free, my loves. Do not forget
. He remembered waiting at the deathbed, White Swan standing at his side, gripping his hand so tight that her fingers left red burning marks.

Forget Mother: she’s dead,
Swiftarrow told himself.
You may have the blood of the Tribes, but you’re T’ang and you are also Shaolin.

Yet he could not help staring at the camp beyond the wall.

If Mother were not dead, I would be like them. I would be free.

The horses weren’t roped: they just followed the men. It was as if they spoke to one another without words. It was clear these people never slid from the saddle or commanded a horse to walk on, only to find the beast refused to move.
They treat the horses as kin,
Swiftarrow thought,
all walking together down to the water at sunset like old friends looking for a good tavern.
He swallowed another swift, sharp pang of longing that dug into his belly like a knife.
Barbarians. They’ve never even been near a bath-house.
He turned to look at the tents, low and humped close to the ground.
How do they wash?
And, as he watched, someone stepped out of the nearest tent.

It was a girl, tall and long-limbed. Black hair hung in two plaits over her shoulders, all the way down to her waist. She moved like a cat: swift, neat, wasting no effort. What was she wearing? Some kind of fringed cloak?
I bet the barbarians keep their women as slaves.
Swiftarrow thought of his temple-sister Autumn Moon, mistress of the Forbidden Garden, equal to any of the brothers. The girl drew her cloak tighter; she was heading for the camp where, judging by the laughter and raised voices, the gathered men were sharing a skinful of something fiery.

Most likely they’ve brought her along to cook and wash for them all.

But the girl did not stop when she reached the campfire.

She walked straight past the men, heading for the wall, for the West Gate of Samarkand, and not one of them turned his head to look at her. Swiftarrow crouched on his rooftop, still as a stone, scarcely able to believe it.

She was like him. The girl had simply made sure that she was not seen.

“You,” Swiftarrow said. He would not fail after all. “It’s you.”

Now he was a hunter: now there was prey.

S
omeone is following me. I feel their gaze hot on the back of my neck. They’ve been watching me since before I came into the pepper-market, but each time I turn around, I see nothing but the heaving crowd. The air’s heavy with the kick of spices and market-men calling; it makes my head spin. I wish I’d not left camp now. No one saw me go, either. I wish they had. I ought to have told them where I was bound, but I didn’t know then. I was just thirsty for the city, longing to wander alone down shaded alleyways that wind about on themselves, to forget who I am, my grief, my burden.

Shemi will be riled with me for going without him. At first, he was foolish with pride at being asked along to the Gathering but this morning as we scrubbed out last night’s stew-pots with mulberry sticks, he whispered to me, “I wish we’d been left behind with Yan and the others. It’ll be all the worst jobs for us till we get home.” For once, he was right.

I stop again, leaning against a stall where a fat woman sells chipped pots and rolls of badly cured leather and peppercorns from great wooden tubs. The stink of pepper-dust and rotting hide makes my eyes water. I wipe them with the back of one hand, breathing fast. I don’t like this. I don’t like being watched.

The stallholder’s arguing with a scrawny, sweat-stained man over something; they’re not of the Tribes so I can’t follow their speech. Either way, they pay no mind to me.

Will they help if I cry out, these strangers?

I gaze at the crowd seething through the market; sweat slides down my face, down the back of my neck, even though there’s no heat left in the sun. Soon it will be night. If there
is
someone following me, I’ll seek him out now and ask what he means by trailing me all the way from the West Gate. I must have been mistaken for some other girl. That’s it.

The crowd shifts as folk surge about. As always when I am among wall-dwellers, I feel this cold shiver of disgust, for they are not like us. Wall-dwellers have no spirit-horses and keep their souls locked within their bodies, tight and secret. I shudder. It is just as if they had no eyes, noses or mouths, and their faces were smooth and round like eggs. Mama was born a wall-dweller, but her spirit-horse is free now she lives among the Tribes.

The prickling down the back of my neck grows worse: I’m still being watched, and the watcher’s closer. I know it.

Maybe Shemi got tired of listening to the men telling wild tales and he’s trailing me in jest. But if that were so, I should see his spirit-horse flickering above the crowd, tail flicking, head tossing – and I do not.

It must be a stranger who follows me. I lean back against the post again, trying to pick him out from the crowd. So many faces. So many different voices. How can these folk live in such a way? Blood pounds in my ears; my heart’s racing. I’m trapped here among all these people with no horse beneath me, no Shadow to take me galloping far from danger. I’m like a goose fallen out of the sky, clumsy on the ground.

A hollow-eyed trader shouts and curses as he tries to push his cart through the throng—
There
– right behind him is a man clad all in black, watching me.

He comes closer, and
wait—

The watcher shifts, hidden within the crowd once more, melting away like a bowlful of curds left out in the sun. Relief washes through me. Have I imagined it?
Foolish girl
, I tell myself.
Why would any stranger be following you?

My heart’s still racing.

I must get back to Baba and the others: they’ll miss me before long. I may be shaman, but someone must feed them. It makes me wonder why the men do not all starve when they go trading, and without my help Shemi is about as much use as—

Mother Earth save me.

I see a flash of darkness among the stream of people. The watcher is no more than a spit away.
How did that happen? Where did he go?
He moves so light and quick. No one else in the crowd pays any mind at all. No one need step from his path; no one shoulders him aside. The stranger moves like smoke on the wind, hardly here at all, yet the heat of his gaze burns my skin. I stand fear-frozen, like a mouse before a snake.

If I don’t get away from here, he will catch me: I’m sure of it. No time to think. The crowd closes around me as I sprint west, heading for the city walls and our camp. I wish I were in the saddle with nothing but the open sky before me. I glance behind and catch a glimpse of black. The stranger is still behind, still following.

Who is he? What does he want with me?

If I lag too much, I’ll find out and I don’t wish to. I run so fast my heart’s bursting; sweat pours down the back of my neck, down my face, into my eyes so that I can scarcely see. The ground is hard beneath my bare feet. I duck past a camel laden with rolled-up carpets; I weave through the endless crowd.

The great crumbling west wall rises up before me. Two guards lounge on either side of the gate, gazing idly at the crowd. One is nearly asleep, tea-flask held loose in one hand.

What’s that?

Here’s a hand, fingers closing around my arm.
The stranger
. I’m caught. I gasp; his touch is red-hot. I can’t see his face for he is masked, a black silken scarf covering nose and mouth rippling like water as he breathes. Dark eyes burn into me, flecked with green like deep water.

And, just for a heartbeat, I see a spirit-horse shimmering above his left shoulder. Now it’s gone.

Who are you?
The world slows down as if we are swimming in honey. I reach up and snatch the mask from his face, a scrap of black silk; quick as thought, he grabs my wrist – another burning jolt – and the sight of him tears the breath from my lungs. Green slanted eyes, skin burnt gold by the desert’s heat, hair stripped of its deep black by the sun; it is fire-coloured in places: dark red, golden, too. The clamour and bright jumble of Samarkand fades, blurring.

It is just me and this boy staring speechless at one another as if we have slipped from the world of men altogether.

What am I doing? The boy raises his other hand as if to strike me, and white-hot fear sears through my body.

Run, you fool of a girl. Run.

I am not here. You can’t catch me.

If I think of nothing, there is no one to catch, for I become nothing. I am but a shadow, a ghost, fading away. Crying out, I wheel about, wrenching myself from the stranger’s grasp. I know not where this strength comes from and I care even less.

The stranger is gone. The whisper of his curse hangs on the air a moment and fades to silence.

The guards barely look up as I reach the gate. I’m just a girl, beneath their concern.

“Let me out!” I fight to keep my voice steady. I don’t want to stir them up, though it looks as if it would take nothing less than an earthquake.

They swing the gate open for me and I pass by, trying not to shake. My wrist still burns where the boy touched me, as if I leaned too close to the fire and was licked by a flame. But my skin is clear and smooth – untouched.

Baba has spotted me already – a thousand curses. I ought to have slipped back into camp without being seen. He breaks away from the fire, loping towards me. The sharp reek of kumis hangs on the air, mingling with the smell of horses, warm and comforting.

The stranger had a spirit-horse – it was weak, hardly even there at all, twisted and faded by wickedness. Who is he? Why was he following me? Some wrongdoer driven away from his tribe, wits scattered with wandering alone? I’ve heard that can happen. He must be mad. Why else would a boy with a face like that be following
me
?

“Asena.” Baba reaches me, resting one hand on my shoulder, pulling me close. He folds me in his arms. His hair is stiff, windblown, blacker than scorched grass. His striped wool jacket is warm with the scent of smoke, spices and pepper-oil: shadows of the trade roads. “Where have you been? Is something wrong?” He shakes his head. “My love, listen: you are our shaman. You cannot just wander the streets of Samarkand alone. If anything were to happen—”

“Well, nothing did.” The lie slips out, my voice sharp. “Can I not be alone for a single afternoon?”

Baba stares at me, still shaking his head. “Asena, I know you are grieving for our old friend; we all are, but—”

I turn and walk away, back to camp, leaving him staring after me, half angry, half bemused. I know he is wishing that the women and brats had come with us after all and that Mama were here to unpick the mysteries of my female heart. I’m not going to tell him anything. Why should I? I’m not even sure what happened myself. My kinsmen are burning for a fight. If I tell them a boy followed me, they will chase him through the streets of Samarkand; they might even kill him. I’ve heard enough such idiotic tales; I know the terrible, bloody things men do if the honour of a tribeswoman has been insulted. I’ll keep this to myself.

Foolish,
says my wolf-guide, prowling out of nowhere.

For the first time in my life, I ignore him, and when I next look, he is gone. If I told Baba the truth, he would never let me out of his sight again. Yet another price I pay for being shaman: I am forever overwatched. In my mind, I hear Shaman Tulan’s last words to me:
Your powers will remain strong only if you live by truth alone. Heed your wolf or lose him. Trust him. Never forget: the spirits only guide those willing to be led.
Well, maybe I want to carve out my own path for once. It was only a small lie. I’m not going to turn some ragged boy over to my battle-hungry kinsmen just because he followed me in Samarkand. What can he have to do with the T ’ang, with this army I am supposed to send running back to the east, as if I might have the strength to dam a flooding river with my little finger?

My wolf will be back.

I can’t help looking over my shoulder, back at the crumbling walls of Samarkand. Shall I catch another glimpse of the boy? Would he follow me here? Who was he?

A ball of fear unfolds within me like the petals of a frozen flower, but with it a small, bright flame of excitement.

S
wiftarrow crouched in the dark. Alone, he watched. The Horse Tribers were eating cooked meat – he could smell the richness of it; his belly was hollow like a rotten nut. He looked down at his hand again, staring at the palm. He couldn’t help it. He still felt the burning jolt from when he’d grabbed her wrist, as if a knot of fire had passed from her body into his. Even now, he expected to see the skin puckered and seared, but of course it was not.

He had let her go. It had been like snatching a burning branch from the fire. She had torn the mask from his face and looked straight through him, right into his mind, or that was how it felt. Why? She was not even pretty. It was not as if he could claim to have been struck senseless by her beauty. He had just been outwitted by a lanky, dust-grimed barbarian girl and that was all.

By the goddess of the moon, what is wrong with you?
Swiftarrow asked himself. Autumn Moon would be so ashamed if she knew how easily he’d failed. But there was no use in mourning over the past.
I will get her, sooner or later.

Swiftarrow turned his attention back to the Horse Tribe camp. Here she was now, handing around a bowl, which the men dipped their food into. The girl passed her bowl to the smallest of the men – perhaps just a boy – and left the campfire, walking towards the nearest tent. Now she was less than a handful of paces from where he watched, hidden among a dark tangle of mulberry trees. He could smell the smoke in her hair, in her worn homespun jacket and trousers. Suddenly his prey stopped, very still, just like a cat before it leaps on a mouse. Clouds shifted in the night sky, and her face was lit up by the moon: long dark eyes, mouth set firm. Listening, waiting.