The Middle Kingdom (64 page)

SUNG WAS
kneeling on the top of the dike, staring across at the House as the
dawn broke. He was cold to the bone and his clothes were wet through,
but still he knelt there, waiting.

He had heard her
cries in the night. Had heard and felt his heart break inside his
chest. Had dropped his head, knowing, at last, how small he was, how
powerless.

Now, as the
light leached back into the world, he saw the door open at the head
of the steps and a figure appear.

"Si Wu
Ya...." he mouthed, his lips dry, his heart, which had seemed
dead in him, pounding in his chest. He went to get up but his legs
were numb from kneeling and he had to put his hand out to stop
himself from tumbling into the water far below. But his eyes never
left her distant, shadowed figure, seeing at once how slowly she
moved, how awkwardly, hobbling down the steps one by one, stopping
time and again to rest, her whole body crooked, one hand clutching
the side rail tightly, as if she'd fall without it.

He dragged
himself back, anxious now, and began to pound the life back into his
legs. Once more he tried to stand and fell back, cursing, almost
whimpering now in his fear for her. "Si Wu Ya," he moaned,
"Si Wu Ya."

Once more he
tried to stand, gritting his teeth, willing his muscles to obey him.
For one moment he almost fell again, then he thrust one leg forward,
finding his balance.

"Si Wu
Ya____" he hissed. "Si Wu Ya____"

Forcing his
useless legs to work he made his way to the bridge, awkwardly at
first, hobbling, as if in some grotesque mimicry of his wife, then
with more confidence as the blood began to flow, his muscles come
alive again.

Then, suddenly,
he was running, his arms flailing wildly, his bare feet thudding
against the dark earth. Until he was standing there, before her,
great waves of pain and fear, hurt and anger, washing through him
like a huge black tide.

He moaned, his
voice an animal cry of pain. "What did he do, Si Wu Ya? Gods
save us, what did he do?"

She stared back
at him almost sightlessly.

"Your face
..." he began, then realized that her face was unmarked. The
darkness was behind her eyes. The sight of it made him whimper like a
child and fall to his knees again.

Slowly, each
movement a vast, unexplored continent of pain, she pushed out from
the steps and hobbled past him. He scrambled up and made to help her
but she brushed him off, saying nothing, letting the cold emptiness
of her face speak for her.

On the narrow
bridge he stood in front of her again, blocking her way, looking back
past her at the House.

“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 lying 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 jeweled
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 traveled. 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 knew it. 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.

"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 dike, impotent to act.

"What now?"
he asked.

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 twelfth birthday—in the official 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 awakened 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. Nor 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 color. 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 fiill
of fire. She was smaller than the Andalu-sian by a hand, yet her
grace, her power, were undeniable.

"Well,
Father?"

All eyes were on
the T'ang. Li Shai Tung stood there, bareheaded, a bright blue
quilted jacket pulled loosely about his shoulders against the
morning's freshness, one foot slightly be-fore 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 leaned 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 around. Only .the T'ang remained still and silent. Hung Feng-Chan
danced around 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 around 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-humored 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 color of the summer, his ma
kua,
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
to. 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—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.