In Darkness, Silence by Helen Keeble
"No wall stands forever. Only duty stands forever."--Kaiu Hosaru, A Perfect Cut
* * *
In Darkness, Silence
by Helen Keeble
Story by Helen Keeble. Posted with her permission.--Moto Maratai
Warning!
Do not read this without first reading Maratai's story From Darkness, Silence--it is vitally important to read that tale first! (find it in the archives--you won't regret it)
The plot and dialogue are all hers...but I can never resist an opportunity to riff. :-)
with apologies to Moto Maratai
*
The meat had gone bad. Shen swore under his breath, prying strands of frozen flesh apart with his talons, but the streak of black ran along the bone from wrist to elbow. Not even mid-winter could freeze corruption.
"Damn." Sighing, Shen pitched the arm off the side of the pillar on which he crouched, and tucked his hands under his arms. The wind was starting to pick up, whipping the snow from the rocks. He turned his back to it, but the wind, knife-edged with ice, bit through his fluffed feathers.
"No use trying to hunt in this," Shen muttered. His stomach growled in answer, clenching like a fist. "No, I mean it." Deprived of any other conversation, Shen had taken to carrying on these little dialogs with himself, just in order to avoid losing the habit of speech entirely. He had engaged himself in several debates over whether or not this was a sign of madness. "Nothing's going to be out, even if I do go all the way to the borderlands. Best to just go..." The word "home" stuck in his throat. He might not be entirely sure where home really was--the Barracks?--but he was absolutely certain of where it wasn't.
Still, the thought of tucking himself into the pile of scavenged rags he called a bed, within the deep, high-up cliff-side cleft that he refused to call home, was appealing, and growing more appealing with every passing moment. The wind was actually starting to wail now, as though determined to fulfil every possible winter cliche. Bracing himself, Shen unfolded his wings. The bitter wind raked claws across his exposed sides, but stroked his pinions with lover's promise. A sense of lightness filling his body, Shen leaned into the gale...and paused.
Not even Shadowlands storms had a tendency to sing--or at least, not to sing Moto travel music.
"Oh, shit," Shen said aloud.
Well, it was not as though he hadn't been expecting a visit from one at some point. Or several. Or an entire squad. He swore again, and leaped into the air. Best to get it over with, then. Snarl first, snarl loudest, snarl longest, and hope that the aggressor falls over and shows you his throat. At best, he could bluff them. At worst...Shen had an uncomfortable feeling that at least some of them had been known to fly.
Though, he reflected as he followed the faint thread of the flute through the storm, he hadn't been aware that the Moto were prone to announcing their presence musically. Was this another bizarre piece of Shadowlands etiquette? Did it have some hidden significance? Horrible thought--would he be expected to sing back?
The music was coming from the north, beyond his borders, where the stonefields melted into a flat, featureless plain. Shen caught the wind, letting it spin him up high into the air, and surveyed the land below. No squad; no mounted figures at all, in fact. Perplexed, he swung round, lower, and lower still--until finally he caught sight of the player. A single, slight figure, bundled in layer upon layer of padded clothing, the wind whipping the notes from her flute. Her shadow stretched black behind her, breaking the clear crystalline perfection of the snow.
She wasn't Tainted.
Shen's immediate reaction was to swing round again for another pass, this time looking for the hidden Crab. But where could they hide? There was no-one lurking in the lee of the boulders. Under the snow? Hidden pits? Surely he would have noticed before now any such elabourate preparations...
The player took the flute from her lips, and stood, waiting, head bowed.
"Sod it," Shen muttered to himself, and dove.
She was either deaf, or had the reflexes of a stunned chicken. By the time she had made even the slightest twitch to indicate she was aware of his presence, it was far too late. At the last second, Shen flared his wings out as wide as he could, twisting to hit her with his knees rather than the killing-claws of his feet. He grabbed hold of her coat, swinging his own momentum round so that he slammed down on top of her, claws ready at her throat, a shout ready in his own--
Which, much to his surprise, appeared to be completely unnecessary, as the surrounding drifts of snow utterly failed to erupt into armoured forms.
And he was sitting on top of Moto Maratai.
Who was, unsurprisingly, looking as though all of Jigoku had just dropped on her.
"Your bow isn't even strung, pony." The words escaped of their own volition, while his mind was still struggling to get to grips with the situation. Something was jabbing him in the side. "Unless you're planning to bludgeon an ogre to death with that flute."
"Are you an ogre?" Maratai's voice was a high-pitched gasp, which was understandable given that he was still kneeling on her chest.
A flame-eyed ogre with a fifteen-foot wingspan? "No, I'm Fu Leng." Shen had a sneaking suspicion that, so far, both of them had been speaking without the conscious control of the brain.
"Sojuan-san, then. Or Shen--?"
That jolted him back into lucidity. "Shen," he said. Where had she heard his name? His gaze roved over the landscape, and Maratai herself, searching for any clue as to what in Jigoku was going on here. Where was the weapon, the ambush? "Unstrung bow; the quiver at least is in the right place, not that it helps you without the bow..." A small haversack, stashed in the lee of the nearby boulder, caught his eye--there was a long, slender shape strapped to it, swathed in a protective cloth but still unmistakable. "A katana with your supplies, which I take to mean you still can't wield it worth a damn; and whatever you're carrying under these coats, it's still not enough." Tempting though it was to slip a hand under her garments to find out, probably best not to traumatise her that much. As it was, Maratai's face was going whiter and whiter as he spoke. Shen sighed in exasperation, and took his weight off her. "Jigoku's tortures, Maratai, what are you thinking? I could have killed and eaten you before you even twitched."
Warm, whispered his stomach. Warm blood. Hot. Rich.
Shen took a step away from her, snow biting his bare feet.
Maratai sat up, one hand rubbing at the back of her head. "I know," she said. Her voice was steady now, though she was still whiter than the snow itself.
Still keeping half an eye on the surroundings, Shen crouched down--a maneuvre that both took him out of the chill of the wind and placed him in the right position for a quick launch into the air if the situation demanded. "Then why--?"
"I wanted to ask your help," she said, simply.
Shen stared at her for a second--and then cracked up. "Oh," he gasped, when he could breathe again. "that's rich." Maratai was looking at him as though she thought he was having some sort of berserk fit. Shen struggled to get a grip on himself. "Do you know what I am, pony?"
"An oni, a Kuni experiment, or a maho-tsukai," Maratai replied promptly. "I think my odds are out of date, though, or I'd quote them."
"A Kuni..." Another burst of laughter nearly escaped him as he wondered if any of the Damned had heard of the betting yet--they could make a real killing. Though if they had heard the gossip, the Witch Hunters would have as well. That thought sobered him up instantly. "Well..." he said, wondering why he was telling her anything rather than getting out of here as fast as possible, "I'm Damned, among other things. If you hadn't figured that out."
"But not Lost."
Shen looked at Maratai. Her expression was intent, utterly serious. What do you think? he wanted to ask...but did not. Perhaps that marked him as weak. Instead he said, simply, "No." After a moment's consideration, he added, "Though it's what you're going to be, if you keep heading out this way. That, or bakemono fodder."
"I'm looking for my sister," said Maratai, in a tight, strained voice. "Moto Arioki. A duelist. She vanished several years ago, and I never heard from her...until now."
Arioki.
A razorblade of a woman, shining like glass against the rocks...her head cocked to one side, looking up with interest and without fear...
Maratai was holding something out to him, a scrap of paper with black scrawlings across it. Shen looked at it without really seeing it, Arioki's light voice still echoing in his head: "Do you engage in the dance?"
"A Lost duelist," he said under his breath, mainly to himself--but Maratai seized onto the words as if to a rope. Her entire stance shifted forwards in eagerness. No echo in that graceless pose of that other's wind-blown grace, but the face, the face... yes. They were very much alike. "No wonder the face looked familiar when she tested the boundaries of my territory. I told her that iaijutsu is not my domain," he waved the twisted fingers of his right hand in evidence, "and she went away." Thank Hida, he added silently. Killing a duelist outside of the permitted format of the duel would have landed him in all sorts of trouble.
"You know where I can find her." Maratai did not phrase it as a question.
Shen looked at her, frail form lost under the layers of padded clothing, her hands clutching her flute as though it were jade. "You're mad, and you should be locked up in the rice cellars of Hiruma Castle until you come to your senses."
"I can't leave without seeing her," Maratai whispered. Even with the warmth her coat, she was shaking. "She's my sister. It would offend all my ancestors if I abandoned her."
"No matter how unprepared you are."
"No matter how unprepared I am," she echoed, and looked down. "You've met her, Shen, tell me."
He crossed his arms over his chest. "Not my domain." Deliberately, Shen spat to one side--then realised that anyone who would happily converse with a glowing-eyed clawed monster probably wasn't going to be put off by a breach of etiquette.
Indeed, Maratai looked about ready to fall into a supplicant's prostrate bow at any moment. "Shen-san," she started.
Despite himself, Shen snorted with repressed laughter. "Oh, please." He couldn't think of a single time in his life when anyone had applied any sort of honorific to his name--at least not while knowing what he truly was. "You don't need to fake being a sodding Crane around me."
She laughed as well, though it sounded more like the gasp of a dying man. "I'm not." Her hands moved to the front of her coat, pulling back the edge to reveal the crossed handles of a pair of sai, thrust through her obi.
"Sai?" Shen said blankly, lost as to what relevance this had to etiquette. "you're still bakemono fodder, not matter how good you are with those things. Which probably isn't very." Sai were great when fighting katana-armed samurai; worse than useless when fighting opponents with natural weapons. What did Maratai think she was going to do, make someone fumble their fangs?
"My father came from peasant stock," Maratai said, wrapping her coat around herself again. Shen firmly resisted a sudden impulse to snatch it away and wrap it round his own form--he'd never get it over his wings. "And no, I'm not very. But better with sai than a sword."
Shen snorted. "That doesn't take much, in your case. Look, how can I say this any more clearly? Go back. Go home. Get out of the snow. Roast your toes by a nice warm fire and forget about the Shadowlands. If it's for anyone, it isn't you. You're terrible with weapons except that bow, which isn't enough, and Jade Strike is a shugenja thing, and the last thing that might prolong your existence is discipline, which I doubt you have either--"
"I am a musician," Maratai interrupted him. She stood a little straighter, two spots of colour on her cheekbones breaking the pallor of her face. "I can play music until my fingers are cut to ribbons and go through the last fifty years' court repertoire from memory in order. Or match pitch to the worst singer born." She was meeting his glare head-on, and Shen actually found himself forced to blink. It was something like being unexpectedly savaged by a small duck. "No, it's not the discipline you're used to, It's not even the discipline that would save me here. But I do have discipline. And if you can't tell me anything about how I can live long enough to confront my sister, I am going to keep going south with my flute and my biwa until I find her, or only my bones are left to chime in the wind."
Her anger sparked his own. Shen felt it flare, felt the killing-claws sliding into readiness. "If you keep riding south," he snapped, "you're going to be in my territory. And I eat things in my territory." Meat, said his claws, straining against his fingertips. Shen gritted his teeth, tightening control. Not unless she stepped over the boundary, he said to the blood surging through his veins. That was the deal. Hunger moved through his being.
"Shen." Maratai's voice, sounding very small and lost, broke through the pulse pounding in his head. She was shrinking into herself, all pride fled. "If you eat me..." She swallowed. "If you eat me--can you promise--if my sister comes this way--give her a clean death..."
The posture of submission, the bowed head and shaking voice, gave Shen the strength he needed. No threat! he shouted inwardly, and thrust down the berserker-rage. His claws relaxed, retracted. "Now I've heard it all," he said at last, when he could trust himself enough to speak. He shook his head, and sighed. "Look, I don't eat stupid naive ponies. I have too much self-respect."
As though his voice had broken some sort of paralysis, Maratai stumbled back away from him. Shen thought for a moment that she was trying to flee, but instead she wobbled over to the haversack he had seen earlier. Out of pure reflex, Shen's muscles tensed. Oh, please, he said to them silently, willing himself relaxed again. What could she do, whip out a Witch Hunter?
In fact, she produced nothing more ominous than a small sack, which she pitched at him with aim so poor that, if he hadn't moved to catch it, it would have missed him by a good few arms-lengths. "Do you take bribes?" asked Maratai, as the scent of dried fish and rice hit him. "Shen, I just want to know--if you can't tell me anything else, or won't, at least point me in the right direction and I'll leave."
His mind was only half on her words--most of his concentration was going towards stopping himself from sitting down and stuffing his face then and there. He pointed north, towards the Wall.
"Other than that. Wherever Ari is."
Shen swallowed hard, and commanded his mouth to stop watering. "You're really not planning to return, are you."
Maratai smiled sadly, and said nothing.
Shen looked at her, and felt the vast gap yawning between their beings. Her very nature was alien to him, as his was to her. And yet..."There are people in the Jade Hand who might miss your playing," he said softly, then shook himself and added, in much more his usual tone, "I could knock you unconscious and toss you back to the Crab." She was only little--surely he'd be able to carry her in flight, if he first got rid of all that heavy clothing...
"I'd come back," said Maratai, with utter certainty. "You'd have to break both my legs. And even then I'd crawl."
"Your horse would hate that." Come to think of it, where was that infernal beast? "Wherever you left it."
Maratai looked at him.
Shen became very aware of his own breathing, harsh and painful in his throat. He shook himself again. "I could break your arms too, now that you mention it."
"You've seen snakes move, Shen, haven't you?"
"You," he spat, through the pain in his chest, "are a sodding stubborn idiot. I'm not going to be responsible for your soul." He looked away, unable to meet her gaze.
"I don't know who Sojuan was, if that's not you," Maratai said softly, "but I think Utaku Midori was wrong. Even if I don't blame her."
Shen swung back round to glare at her, but Maratai did not flinch. "She wasn't wrong." His talons dug through the snow into the earth below. His wings hung heavy from his shoulders.
"And Midori-san's daughter grows more beautiful every day, my clansmen tell me." Her voice fell as soft and relentless as the snow.
"I'm not Sojuan, I don't sodding care."
"Tell me where to go," Maratai said, "and you need never hear my voice again."
He told her, and she went.
*
"You," Shen growled to himself, flicking blood from his hands, "are a sodding stupid idiot." He viciously kicked the bakemono corpse--only to have to hop around in a most undignified fashion as his talons stuck in the creature's flesh. Shaking the corpse free, he looked around. "The bloody bakemono are smarter than you, for a start." The area was deserted, the bakemono having got the message by the time he had torn the third one limb-from-limb. "At least they can recognise when to cut their losses and run..." Shaking his head, he unfolded his wings, ran a few steps, and jumped into the air, wincing as his flight muscles voiced their complaints. He had grown too used to being able to just drop into the wind from a height.
At least all this exercise is keeping me warm, he thought as he clawed his way upwards, not having the breath to waste on speech.
It's also burning up your energy supplies, a little rational voice pointed out to him.
Oh, shut up, Shen thought back at it, and turned his attention to scanning the landscape below. Nothing moved.
"Crap, now where'd she go?" Shen muttered under his breath, wheeling to catch a handy updraft. He soared back northwards, scrutinising the horizon. A distant black dot came into view, trudging with snail-like speed across the shining plain.
"The least you could do is walk a bit faster," Shen complained at the tiny form. "Guess I should stop ranging so far ahead." He sighed, stretched his wings to full extension, and idly turned a few wide circles, taking care to keep an eye on the progress of the figure. He was pretty sure Maratai couldn't spot him at this distance, not against the darkening twilight sky, but best to be safe.
Of course, if it was safety he was after, he'd be best off abandoning the whole crazy enterprise, and leaving the lunatic to her fate. As it was, he was probably only managing to provide the smoothest path to Jigoku ever offered.
"Someone," Shen muttered, "is probably getting a real good laugh out of this...oh, Maratai," he interrupted himself with a heart-felt groan, "no, please tell me that you're not stopping already..."
The distant Maratai, however, appeared to have decided that she had done enough meandering for one day. The figure paused, seemed to look about, and headed off towards a clump of rocks standing together like a huddle of cattle.
"That oni," Shen said under his breath, "had damn well better have buggered off like I told it to."
Fortunately, this did indeed appear to be the case, as none of the rocks creaked into life as Maratai approached them. However, she was quite capable of injuring herself even on completely inanimate objects. Shen winced as Maratai tripped over a rock, dropped her bag, picked it up again, turned around, and tripped over exactly the same rock again.
Possibly, Shen mused, Maratai had actually been dispatched into the Shadowlands to undermine the Lost from within. Arm her with the powers of, say, the typical akutenshi, and she would accidentally demolish entire platoons of Shadowlands creatures just in the course of trying to get up every morning. He groaned aloud as Maratai tripped over the rock for a third time.
"If you light a fire, I'm going to come down there and piss on it," Shen told her sourly, watching the small form crouch down and start to unpack her haversack. Fortunately, it appeared even Maratai wasn't that stupid.
She was however, stupid enough to curl up into a ball in the middle of the Shadowlands, and fall sound asleep.
"What would you do if I wasn't here?" Shen grumbled irritably, turning another wide circle over Maratai's camping spot.
*
Another nineteen hours, six goblins, four minor oni, and two Lost later, Shen was starting to get worried. Though Maratai wasn't picking up the pace at all--in fact, she was going even slower--the lands had obligingly shifted for her. In the distance he could see the distinctive jagged shape of the dead, withered tree that marked the end of the borderlands and the start of the Shadowlands lords' demesnes.
"Yohko one way, Shimekiri the other. Oh, joy," Shen muttered. He had heard enough about both to know that he wanted to tangle with neither, nor their various minions. Especially not Shimekiri's duelists, with whom he had an uneasy truce--formed during that meeting with Arioki, in fact. He couldn't risk crossing that boundary. He had hoped that Maratai would have been met before now...
"Can't trust the sodding Lost to do anything," Shen snarled under his breath. He'd shouted Arioki's name clearly enough at all the Lost he'd warned off Maratai's path--surely one of them would have been of the same affiliation, and sent a kansen with the message? Could Arioki actually want her sister to get eaten by some random wandering monster? He swore, wheeling so that his shadow skimmed the boundary without actually crossing it. In the distance, Maratai had nearly reached the tree. He wondered if she could tell her right from her left--at this point, he wouldn't have bet money on it--and whether he dared go down there and drag her out of Yohko's territory if she did go the wrong way.
Then he saw the slender, ice-pale figure step out from the shadow of the tree.
He could not hear the words. But he saw the meeting; distantly the sound of the flute drifted up to him, whispering on the wind of tall grass and endless, gold-green plains beneath the blue sky, the notes as thin and faint as dream. He saw the flute fall. He saw the sai, and the sword drawn in answer. He watched, for if he could not act he could at least bear witness.
And then he heard the other song.
It said to him, I know. I know of what it is that eyes that burn see; I know the tides that beat within blackened blood; I know the cold that lies under the moonless sky, and where the wind is warm. I know.
That sound sank hooks into his heart, and dragged him out of the sky. And while that song sang, he knew that he was known, and that he was not alone.
When he at last came back to himself, in the silence, he did not track the footprints that trailed back northwards across the snow. Where she went now, he could not follow.
*
The trip back was made in silence. In that time, he spoke only once, as his talons touched down on the ledge of his eyrie.
"Home," Shen said aloud; and did not speak again for many months.
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