Sean Russell - The Initiate Brother 2 - Gatherer of Clouds

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Book Information:

Genre: Fantasy

Author: Sean Russell

Name: Gatherer of Clouds

Series: Book two of a Duology

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Gatherer

of Clouds

BY Sean

Russell

One

The wind known as the Nagana blew in its season, turning the capital of the province of Seh into a city of whispers

and sighs. The near empty avenues succumbed to the Nagana’s invasion as it wound its way among the uninhabited

residences, wrenching at shutters and filling the streets with the echoes of the city’s former life—before the plague

had swept the north. Rhojo-ma was a city half full of vibrant northerners and half full of the ghosts of the plague dead;

only a decade gone, they walked in living memory still.

In the late afternoon the Nagana came out of the north to haunt the city with the voices of its past, and the people in

the streets hurried on their way, attempting to ignore the sounds. No family had been untouched by the plague and

the whispering of ghosts spoke to everyone.

By the curb of a lesser avenue, on the low wall of a bridge that arced over the canal, sat a Neophyte Botahist monk.

Apparently oblivious to the life of the city, he chanted—a low, barely melodic sound that mingled with the wind

echoing down an empty stone stairwell and off a nearby wall.

If he was unaware of the city around him, it could be said that the city, or at least those who walked its streets, were

barely more aware of him. Their only acknowledgment, the reflex action of a sign to Botahara as they passed, but few

turned their gaze to look for the source of the chant. A monk sitting by his alms cup was as common a sight as a river

man at his oar.

A coin rattled dully into the monk’s leather cup and he gave a quick double bow, not interrupting his chant or looking

up to see who his benefactor might be.

Without warning the already cool air turned colder and the wind died to a calm. The whispering of ghosts fell

to a hush. It seemed only the chanting of the young monk moved the air, and the pedestrians hesitated as

though they’d suddenly forgotten the purpose of their outings.

There was a long moment of this eerie stillness, and then a deep roll of thunder shook the walls of

Rhojo-ma, seeming for all the world to have originated in the depths of the earth, so substantial did it feel.

The air took on form and turned to white as hail palted down in a sudden torrent. The staccato of ice stones

drumming on tile drowned out all other sounds, but in moments it reduced its volume to a mere drizzle, then

turned to rain.

At the first crash of thunder the residents of Rhojo-ma hurried to cover, leaving the monk alone on his wall,

still chanting, apparently oblivious to the pelting hail despite the thinness of his robe.

The monk’s recent benefactor stood under the bridge, hoping the downpour would not last and

contemplating the timing of his offering with the bursting of the clouds. It was not the blessing he had hoped

Botahara would bestow. He shook the hailstones from his robe, brushing the white pebbles off the shinta

blossom and flying horse emblems embroidered over his heart.

Several of Seh’s more humble residents shared the man’s refuge, but they stood apart from him and had

bowed deeply before stepping into the shelter, waiting for his invitation. Though still a very young man,

Corporal Rohku was a member of Governor Shonto’s personal guard and, as such, a person of some

importance despite his lack of years and low rank.

The corporal’s father was the Captain of Lord Shonto’s personal guard and it was the young man’s secret

hope to bear this rank himself in his time. Even more, it was his dream that the Rohku name would be

bound to that of the Shonto over generations of important service—as the Shigotu of old had attained fame

for their service as elite guards to seven generations of Mori Emperors. For the time being he would have

to accept a more humble position, for he was not sure that Lord Shonto even knew his name.

Beyond the shelter of the bridge, hailstones flowed down tiny rivers that ran between cobbles, disappearing

before they made their circuitous way to the canal. Cor-

poral Rohku found himself following their progress, trying to decide where the stones ceased to be ice and

became part of the water. A second rumble of thunder shook the earth and, as though this were a signal, an

ornate barge took form in the mist that hung over the canal. Before Rohku truly registered this, the barge

faded again, reappeared, and then disappeared wholly into the clouds as though it had been only a specter

of mist shaped by an errant eddy of wind.

Rain and hail forgotten, the Shonto guard mounted the stairs back to the avenue three at a time and ran out

onto the bridge. So absorbed was he in trying to part the clouds with an act of will that he failed to notice

the Neophyte monk was now standing at the bridge’s far end staring into the fog with equal focus.

They did not have long to wait, for the barge appeared again, this time in more substantial form. It was

intricately carved, painted crimson and gold, with banners hanging limp in the teeming rain.

One pennant did not need to stretch itself in the wind to be recognized for it was Imperial Crimson. A

five-clawed Imperial Dragon would circle the sun within those folds of silk. The other pennants were

unrecognizable.

Corporal Rohku waited with all the patience his young spirit could summon. A second barge, a typical river

craft, appeared in the wake of the Imperial Barge, for that is no doubt what it was. Just when the young

guard thought he could bear it no more, a hint of a breeze, a mere sigh, tugged at the pennants. Against a

dark field, a Choka hawk spread its wings, appeared to take a single beat, and then collapsed as the fickle

breeze died.

The guard was off at a run toward the Governor’s Palace. As he crossed the bridge, a young Botahist

monk hurried past in the opposite direction though the young soldier did not notice, let alone return, the

monk’s half bow. There was no time to be polite to strangers. Jaku Katta had arrived—and several days

before he was expected.

Corporal Rohku pushed on, keeping up his pace until reaching his destination, whereupon he spent several

moments regaining his breath before he could give his report with any show of dignity.

r

General Hojo Masakado, Lord Shonto Motoru’s senior military advisor, knelt so that he was between his

liege-lord and the two openings to the room—screens leading to an outer room and the balcony. It was an

old habit, one which he had developed in service to Shonto’s father during the Interim Wars. Having served

two generations of Shonto was a source of great pride to Hojo and he often found himself comparing the

two lords. Physically they were obviously father and son, the high, broad Shonto forehead seemed to miss

few generations, and both lords were exactly the same height and weight-slightly more than average in

both. Personalities differed, however. The father had been more reserved and formal, a biographer and

historian of some note; his humor was dry and intellectual. Motoru was far less formal, more inclined to a

social life, enjoying the company of those much older and noticeably younger than himself. He had the

ability of great leaders to make everyone comfortable in his presence.

Lord Shonto sat before a low table across from Hojo and the Shonto family Spiritual Advisor, Initiate

Brother Shuyun, each of whom bent over the table in turn and examined three small coins that lay on the

fine-grained wood—square gold coins with round holes in their centers.

“There is no question, Sire,” General Hojo said, “they are identical.”

Shonto turned to the Botahist Brother, raising an eyebrow in characteristic fashion. Shuyun held the coin in

the palm of his small hand, staring with the ageless eyes remarked upon by everyone who met him. Hojo

reminded himself that this small monk, no larger, and barely older than Lady Nishima, had once defeated

the most famed kick boxer in all of Wa. Despite his appearance and quiet manner, he was as formidable a

warrior as General Hojo—perhaps more so.

“I agree entirely, Lord Shonto,” Shuyun said. “They have even been struck by the same die. A small

irregularity can be felt along the inner edge.” He turned the coin over and ran the ball of his index finger

around the central hole. Both Hojo and Shonto did the same, with some concentration. Shonto looked at his

general and Hojo shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“I do not doubt that you are right, Shuyun-sum,” Shonto said, “though it is beyond my senses to feel this.”

The lord turned the disk over in his hand and realized he held the coin that had been taken from the raiding

barbarian warrior. The strange dragon etched into its lustrous surface seemed to look at him with some

suspicion. “Lord Kintari’s dissolute son, a barbarian warrior, and now the coins Lady Nishima brings from

Tanaka: ‘from a trunk the Imperial Guard spirited onto a ship,’ Tanaka tells us. A ship bound north. That is

all we know.”

They fell silent and a sudden cloudburst unleashed a torrent of hail which battered the tile roof with a clatter

that would not allow quiet conversation—private conversation. Shonto reached over and opened the screen

a crack that they might watch the spectacle.

Hail turned to rain and Shuyun broke the silence. ‘ ’It is one of the lessons of the Botahist-trained that there

are times when speculation serves little purpose, Lord Shonto, General Hojo, if you will excuse me for

saying so. If we have considered all possibilities, then we must accept that we do not yet know enough.

Coins come from Yankura and make their way into the desert: that is truly all we know. There are,

however, other concerns which we can act upon. My teachers taught that we should begin where we may

and practice patience where we must.“

“Your teachers were wise, Shuyun-sum,” Shonto said, surprising Hojo. He had never heard anyone but

their former Spiritual Advisor, Brother Satake, come so close to criticizing his liege-lord. It was a measure

of how much Lord Shonto had come to trust this monk in the short time he had been in the Shonto house.

The lord turned the coin over in his hand one last time and then returned it to the table.

An almost imperceptible knock sounded on the inner screen and Hojo moved to open it a crack. He listened

to a voice neither Shuyun nor Lord Shonto could hear, nodded, and pushed the shoji closed.

Lord Shonto raised an eyebrow, a gesture his staff did not need explained.

“Jaku Katta has arrived in Rhojo-ma, Sire.”

Shonto reached unconsciously for the coins again but stopped himself. “Huh.” He turned his gaze back to

the opening in the shojis. “It would be interesting to know what the Emperor’s Guard Commander could tell

us of these coins.”

Hojo nodded.

“Please arrange a meeting with General Jaku as soon as convenience allows. We shall see if it is true—in

the dark tigers see more than men.”

Even by Botanist standards the Prefect of Seh was a very old man and his age inhabited his body in manner

uncommon among the Botahist trained. Monks typically remained lithe and youthful far past the age when

the untrained had slipped into infirmity if they remained alive at all.

Brother Nyodo, Master of the Botahist faith and Prefect of Seh, moved so slowly that he seemed always to

be progressing toward an early closure of the Form.

He set a tightly rolled scroll on his writing table and very slowly turned back to his guest; Senior Brother

So-tura, the chi quan Master of Jinjoh Monastery.

“There is no brother by that name in our registry; Hitari, yes but no Hitara. Was Brother Shuyun certain?”

“Prefect, I do not think it is possible for him to make such a mistake.”

“You think highly of this young Initiate, Brother So-tura. I begin to wish to make his acquaintance.”

“Perhaps that will become possible at some future time, Prefect. It is the Supreme Master’s wish, for the

time being, that we keep our meetings with Brother Shuyun infrequent. It is important that Lord Shonto feel

that his Spiritual Advisor is truly his.”

“I only hope this will not lead to…” the monk searched for a word, “… to the willfulness we experienced

with Brother Satake.”

“That is my hope also, Prefect.”

“Hitara… ?” the Prefect said slowly. “It is not possible that he was an imposter.” It did not seem to be a

question, so Sotura did not respond. “Is there not a Hitara in the Book of Illusion, Sotura-sum? I seem to

remember…” He trailed off, a look of confusion and then dismay at his failure of memory.

“In the description of the Divine Vale.” Sotura picked up the thread. “I had forgotten. Hitara—he who died

and was reborn. The servant who served the Perfect Master faithfully when all others left for fear of the

Emperor. Hitara rose from the flames of his funeral pyre: It was as though he stepped from the mist, and

though the smoke and flames threatened to consume him, Hitara was untouched by them. He was

like one arising from a dreamless sleep. When told of the seven days he had lain dead while his

family mourned, he fell to his knees and offered up his prayers. And his funeral became the

celebration of his rebirth and the celebration of his birth became the celebration of his life to be, for

no other man had known such a miracle.‘ ”

Both monks fell silent at this. Rain fell on the tiles in the courtyard, washing away the hail that had collected

earlier. A knock rattled the inner shoji.

“Please enter,” the Prefect said, surprised that his words came out in a near whisper.

The shoji slid aside, revealing an Initiate of the faith, head bowed to the mat.

“Initiate?” the old man said, regaining his voice somewhat.

The young monk moved forward and placed a small stand bearing a neatly folded letter within reach of his

superior, then retreated and waited in silence.

“Please excuse me, Brother Sotura, I must attend to this.” He unfolded the crisp paper and read quickly.

The Prefect nodded as though acknowledging spoken words and turned back to the attending Initiate. “He

must be observed whenever possible. I will receive daily reports.”

The messenger nodded, bowed and retreated from the room, the screen closing behind him.

The Prefect turned to the chi quan Master. “General Jaku Katta has entered Rhojo-ma. He comes in an

Imperial Barge, making one wonder at Brother Hutto’s recent news.”

Sotura paused for a moment, reflecting. “The Son of Heaven has made no public gesture that would

indicate that Katta does not stand in the light of the Throne. But I have found that one ignores Brother

Hutto’s information at great risk.”

The older man nodded. “I agree, Brother. Appearances mean little in the world of the Emperor. He treats

Lord Shonto as a great favorite, but only a fool would accept this as the truth.”

“Jaku Katta in Seh… this is a cause for concern. I find this too much like the opening of a game of gü.

There are too many pieces for one to see clearly. It is complicated even more with tales of alleged

barbarian armies. It is as though another entire set of pieces waited to sweep onto the board at any

second.” Sotura met the Prefect’s eyes. “We must inform the Supreme Master of these developments

immediately.”

“Oh, certainly, Brother Sctura. There is no question. I have only hesitated so that I may decide how much

credence to give your young protegees report.”

“Brother Shuyun did not see the number of warriors that the encampment indicates, I agree, but I do not

think this was a barbarian ruse. As Shuyun-sum has said, riders from Seh were unexpected there. I fear his

information is horribly true, Prefect. I propose that we send word to Brother Hutto and to the Supreme

Master immediately, and under both our signatures.”

“I am not certain, Brother Sotura.” The older man seemed to return to his former state of confusion. “It is

so difficult to believe. An army of that size? How is that possible? Even the barbarians are not bred from

the sand. We would appear to be alarmists at the very least if this army does not exist. I hesitate to sign my

name to a report that is based on so little information.”

“Excuse me, Prefect, but may I remind you that Lord Shonto does not question what Shuyun-sum

reported.”

The old man shook his head. “One can never know the true meaning of anything Lord Shonto says or does,

Brother. He is engaged in a struggle for his life and the future of his House. If the Son of Heaven sent an

army to Seh to save his Empire from the barbarians and Lord Shonto could control that army…

consider—the balance in the Empire could be altered.” The Prefect gestured slowly toward the walls as

though they encompassed all of Wa.

“I do not profess to know the secrets of this Shonto’s mind, Prefect, but I take nothing he does or says at

its apparent value. We do have a Brother in the Shonto House, however—a trusted advisor to the lord

himself.“

The Prefect’s motion suddenly lost its flow and became almost stiff. “We have had a trusted advisor in

Shonto’s House before, excuse me for reminding you, Brother, and he was more loyal to his lord than to his

Order. We do not have verifiable evidence of the size of the army in the desert. I should tell you that this is

not the first report of barbarian hordes I have heard.”

Sotura considered this for some time. “If I send a warning to our superiors under my own signature, what

will the Prefect do?”

‘ ’I will feel obliged to report that I am not convinced by Brother Shuyun’s evidence.“

“Conflicting reports will certainly ensure that no action is taken. If Shuyun’s information is correct, there is

little time for hesitation. Little time to seek more information.”

“Excuse me for saying so, Brother Sotura, but Lord Shonto’s Spiritual Advisor, for all his abilities, is a young

man and new to the north. No experience from all my years in Seh would indicate that such an army could

exist in the wastes. I do not feel I would be acting as my position requires to give credence to

Shuyun-sum’s report.”

The old man seemed to slump a little as though this rebuttal had taken all the energy of his ancient spirit.

“I fear I have tired you, Prefect. Please excuse me if I have destroyed your harmony.” The chi quan

master bowed. He rocked slowly back on his heels, a look of concern registering on his face. I’m sorry, old

man, Sotura thought, but I cannot allow your fears to stop what must be done. There is more at stake than

your comfortable position. May Botahara forgive me.

Lady Nishima sat before a low table looking at the design for a robe which her servants would embroider.

Only moments before, as was often the case, she had a melody in her mind, a folk tune that a talented court

composer had borrowed to create a composition for the Imperial Sonsa troupe. But her visitor had disturbed

her harmony and the music faded away as

r

though the musicians in her mind traveled off into the distance.

“It is of no consequence to me, cousin,” Lady Nish-ima said, trying to keep her voice even. “Jaku Katta

could arrive at my door and I would not interrupt my painting.”

The mere mention of Jaku’s name brought back memories she would rather have left undisturbed. She

feared she colored with embarrassment, perhaps even shame, at the thought of what had happened

between her and Jaku when they last met. / went to his rooms, she whispered to herself.

Lady Kitsura Omawara nodded in response. “I did not mean to suggest that you would be… pleased by the

news, cousin, I am merely the messenger.” She smiled the smile that disarmed the coldest hearts.

“I did not mean to be abrupt, Kitsu-sum. Please excuse me. I am thankful for your consideration in this

matter.” She tried a smile in return. Kitsura had not intended to cause her discomfort, after all; Kitsura was

entirely unaware of what had happened between Jaku and herself. Deciding it would be best to change the

subject, Nishima observed, “You seem to be very well informed, Lady Kitsura. Does Lord Shonto have this

information? Or does he rely upon you?”

“I’m quite certain your esteemed father has all the information that I possess, ten times over.” She looked

down at her hands folded in her lap and began to turn a delicate gold ring until the design had gone full

circle. When Kitsura did not look Nishima in the eye, it was a sign that she had been engaging in certain

activities that she believed her cousin disapproved of. “I simply wish to keep us both informed. I have

befriended certain members of your father’s staff and often act as a confidante to them. After all, whom

could they talk to who would be more concerned for their lord’s welfare, except perhaps the Lady

Nishima?”

“I am not entirely convinced that their lord would view these breaches of security quite so benignly.”

Nishima said this with feigned disapproval while she fought the feelings of confusion that set her heart

whirling. Despite

all efforts, she was afraid that these feelings must show on her face. She tried to cover this with words.

“However, it is important to know as much as we can.”

“I agree entirely, cousin. So much is hidden and yet everything that is important to us is in danger of being

lost.” She moved to the next ring, turning it a little more urgently. “Do you think it’s possible that Lord

Shonto could be wrong? Could the Emperor’s general really be in disfavor at court?”

Nishima took a last look at the design and began to clean her brush. This would not be a brief interruption.

“I do not know Lord Shonto’s source of information at court, Kitsu-sum, so I cannot judge. But my father

has an uncanny ability to weigh information on the scale of truth. It is worth noting that he does not speak

of Jaku’s present situation in absolute terms.”

“This is what worries me, cousin. If Lord Shonto is right, then Jaku Katta’s fall from favor and banishment

are but a ploy to place the Guard Commander within our circle of trust. But if Jaku has truly fallen, and one

with so many ambitions could certainly do so, then Lord Shonto cannot hope to win the Emperor’s support

to battle the barbarians through Jaku. This situation is of great concern. It is as you have said; so much

depends on so little knowledge.”

“If Jaku Katta engineered the attempt on my father at Denji Gorge without the Emperor’s approval, as

Lord Shonto suspects, then it is possible that our handsome general is not in favor.” Nishima pushed her

table aside. “It is all very confusing. Being sent north to restore order to the canal is hardly a sign of

disfavor.”

“Being sent to Seh as its governor would not seem to indicate disfavor either, Nishi-sum.” Kitsura held her

ring up to the light, examining it carefully. “It is as Brother Shuyun says; at the gü board an opponent’s

design does not need to be strong if you are unable to see it.”

“I did not realize you discussed gü with Brother Shuyun,” Nishima said, her tone registering something close

to disapproval.

“Shuyun-sum has been kind enough to instruct me in the intricacies of the board… and to discuss matters of

the spirit, also.”

The two women fell silent. A distant thunder rumbled, like a far-off dragon. Rain beat on the gravel border of the

garden outside.

“Nishima-sum?” Kitsura said quietly. “We must be absolutely certain of Jaku Katta’s situation at court.”

Lady Nishima nodded. Yes, she thought, and I must know what this man expects of me. She remembered the last thing

she had said to Jaku the night she had gone to his quarters—they would speak in Seh. Now she did not know what

they would say.

“I think I know how this can be done,” Kitsura said quietly, “though I fear you will not approve.”

Sister Yasuko held the paper up and blew gently on the ink, careful not to spread it. The dampness of the evening

invaded her rooms and she huddled close to the charcoal burner and her single lamp. She blew again, careful not to

spoil the fine brush work.

“There,” she whispered and held the paper up to the lamp. It was a letter to her superior, Prioress Saeja.

Honored Sister:

In this time of great doubt, I wish I had better news. Our dear Sister, Morima-sum, shows little sign of improvement

since I last put brush to paper. She has times when her crises seems to be passing, but the scrolls of the Brothers

haunt her dreams still. We do not give up hope, Sister. We do not give up hope.

The young Acolyte who accompanied Morima-sum has not fared well. It pains me to report that she left us three days

ago. This was a tragedy, certainly, but nothing compared to the loss of a Sister ofMorima’s abilities. Our young

Acolyte had her own faith shaken by the crises of Morima-sum and as she said to me; ‘ ’If the way is too difficult for

one such as Senior Sister Morima, how do I presume to walk such a path?“ Perhaps she will return to us yet. I pray

that this will be so.

The rumor that Lord Shonto’s Spiritual Advisor went into the desert in the company of Lord

Komawara seems, incredibly, to be true. Our friend in the Governor’s Palace tells us that Shonto is convinced a

large barbarian army will attack Seh in the spring. We can neither prove nor disprove the theory at this time, but if

Governor Shonto and his staff believe this, it is my opinion that our Order should act as though there were no doubt.

When I think of the suffering that a war would bring and how it would affect our own efforts, my heart grows heavy.

We always hope calamity will not overtake us in this lifetime, rather like children trying to avoid difficult lessons.

But they must be learned: if not now, later.

Jaku Katta arrived today. It will be difficult to place someone close to him, but be assured our efforts will be tireless.

We have a trusted friend close to the Lady Nishima, however, and will certainly know if she continues to correspond

with the Emperor’s guard commander.

At this time Lord Shonto’s daughter seeks her companionship with the Ladies Kitsura Omawara and Okara

Haroshu, although the Shonto Spiritual Advisor is also one of her regular visitors—occasionally staying in her

rooms later than could be considered strictly proper: I know no more at this time.

There have been no cases of plague reported in Seh for several months now, for which we may thank the Botahist

Brothers even if they have done little else worthy of praise. Chiba has not been so fortunate, I am told. The many

followers of Tomso in that province have suffered terribly.

The rumor that the Uduntbara blossomed (Botahara be praised, Sister!), is not given credence in Seh—it is a rumor

all have heard many times before—and, as you predicted, the Brotherhood have denied it. I find nothing in all the

Brotherhood’s treacherous history as disconcerting as this denial. If an Enlightened Master walks among us, why

do they deny it? I am cold with fear over this.

Work on the Priory goes well and at less expense than we dared hope: Botahara watches over us. I would inquire of

your well-being, Prioress, but I know the polite response. I, too, am well enough to serve His Purpose.

May Botahara chant your name, Sister Yasuko

I

Two

Distant hills rise up Through an ocean of Wind tattered cloud

Peaks become islands

In a chaos of pale crested seas

The erratic spatter of snow-melt on the undergrowth seemed to grow progressively louder. Lord Koma-wara tugged at

the reins and moved his mare another twenty paces into the mist, stopped, and listened for the hundredth time.

Deep in the mist that had hung for days in the Jai Lung Hills it was impossible to determine the origin of sounds. They

echoed and distorted and seemed to emanate from everywhere at once.

Komawara turned in a complete circle, a motion almost as slow as Brother Shuyun practicing his meditations of

movement. Nothing… only the suggestion of mysterious forms: to his right a twisted, pointing limb perhaps belonging

to an ancient pine; behind him, an outcropping of rock suggesting the face of a disapproving Mountain God.

Shifting the horse-bow to his right hand Komawara worked the fingers, cramped from holding a notched arrow for far

too long. He returned the bow to the ready position and moved forward ten paces more, listening.

Years had passed since Komawara had last hunted the Jai Lung Hills—in company with his father then, when the old

man still had strength to ride. Much had changed, more than he ever expected.

There were bandits in the hills now. Holdings had seen

their gates battered down in the night and only armed parties would chance the roads.

The lord stopped again, listening as Shuyun had taught when they traveled in the desert. Armor bit into Koma-wara’s

shoulder blade where the leather shirt had worn through, his left hand cramped again, his boots oozed when he

walked, and his horse favored her right forefoot. If that was not enough, he was also hopelessly separated from his

companions and had only the vaguest notion of where he was. A soft drizzle fell, slowly soaking into the lacings of his

light armor. He listened.

Snow, heavy with rain, slipped from a tree branch and fell in a sodden pile at the lord’s feet, causing his horse to shy.

That, Komawara realized, was a true indication of the turmoil of his spirit—his mare had sensed it, had caught it in fact.

Every few seconds the same soft thudding could be heard somewhere out in the fog.

He moved forward, then paused, straining to hear. Was that the sound of a horse, far off? The creaking of a tree

distorted by the distance, by the imagination?

Komawara tried to stretch the tension out of his back and shoulders. In a fog there could be more to fear than

brigands: his own men he trusted, but the local men who had joined the hunt for bandits suffered in a silence of poorly

hidden fear. Men quickly lost their inner calm in fog such as this. It was as Shuyun had said, robbed of sight, every

sound became a threat—even a falling lump of snow would be in danger from an arrow quickly loosed. The arrow from

an ally ended more lives in battle than men would speak of.

Ten paces forward. Stop. Listen.

And then, among all the thousand imagined sounds, unmistakably, the thud of hooves on stone. His own mount

pricked up her ears. Komawara jigged at the bit and pulled her nose up to his cheek.

“Shh,” he whispered as though she understood. Three paces put them among a stand of long-needled pines. The lord

pulled the reins over the mare’s head and made her lie down, saddle and bags still in place. Automatically testing his

sword in its scabbard, he crouched down, intent on becoming part of his surroundings.

Horses moving, the scrape of loose rock shifting, the creaking of leather. Komawara drew the arrow back by

half. A horse stumbled and a man’s voice could be heard making comforting sounds, but the words were not clear.

Where? Komawara turned his head from side to side, certain at first that the sound came from uphill, then equally sure

its source was to his right.

He listened for a voice he might know. Be still, he told himself, let them pass, they would be easy to track in this snow.

They’ll make camp at dusk and it will be easy to find out who they are. But even as he gave himself this advice, he saw

a movement in the mist not twenty paces away. A dark form in the blinding white. Moving toward him? Away? He

tried to catch any hint of color, a familiar silhouette. A man on foot, walking slowly. Komawara almost stood for a

better view, so surprised was he by the sight: dark beard on a face tanned to leather by relentless wind and sun, a vest

of doeskin over light mail. A barbarian! A barbarian warrior leading a horse through the Jai Lung Hills.

Komawara sank lower as the man picked his way up the slope toward him. Behind the walker came others, their size

amplified by the fog. Knowing that a man could look directly at him in this fog and see nothing, Komawara held himself

utterly still. His mare shifted, he could almost feel her quiver. Do not move, he willed her, make no sound.

Concentrating on stillness, he found himself controlling his breathing, forcing his muscles to relax.

The barbarians turned to Komawara’s right and made their way across the slope, led by the man on foot who searched

out the path between the trees and rock. Sixteen armed men and they did not have the look of the hunted.

Is it possible they do not know we pursue them? And then he felt reality waver for an instant. Cold awareness. No,

there were no wounded, no riderless mounts. It was impossible that they could have escaped a meeting with

Komawara’s guard unscathed, of that he was certain.

The last man of the party disappeared into the fog less than a stone’s throw away and Komawara let out a long held

breath. Barbarians in the Jai Lung Hills! Bandits suddenly seemed an insignificant threat—a mere annoyance.

Barbarians in the Jai Lung Hills!

The lord waited, listening as the creak of leather and the clatter of hooves faded. Looking around at the sha-dowless

light he wondered how long it would be until

darkness fell. He thought often of his companions, twenty of his guard and half as many local men, wandering

somewhere in the mist. They were well enough armed, as one would expect of men of Seh, but they were not fully

armored.

Komawara had made a careful assessment of the men who had passed into the fog—they traveled light—little armor in

evidence and only short bows and swords. They would carry skinning knives also, they always did. Weapons well

chosen for fighting in the hills. He wished Shu-yun was with him for there was no telling what his powers of

observation might have added.

Komawara took up the reins and coaxed his mount to her feet. He began to follow. The footing in the melting snow

was treacherous to leather soles, but the young lord chose to walk all the same. The mare would carry him, she had

heart enough for that, but he preferred to give her a chance to recover—and walking allowed him to examine at first

hand the barbarians’ tracks in what appeared to be fading light.

The occasional distorted echo of horses passing came out of the fog and Komawara soon found the trail led out onto

a narrow road that wound its way around the shoulder of the hill. Although this seemed vaguely familiar to him,

Komawara was still not sure where he was.

Here and there hoofprints remained clear in the snow and a closer examination stopped Komawara abruptly. He’d

watched the barbarians pass and not even marked that they rode horses, and fine ones, too. They rode horses like men

of Seh—like bandits or barbarian chieftains! The horse was not adapted to life in the steppe and desert and was

replaced there by the barbarian’s hardy pony.

“Barbarians,” Komawara whispered. And here he was, an advisor to the Imperial Governor, separated from his

companions and lost in the hills. That would be a prize for a barbarian chieftain! If they had any idea that a man with

intimate knowledge of the governor’s plans wandered the hills alone, they would be searching the very clouds for him

even now.

The Komawara who advised a governor knew that he acted rashly, but the young lord who was bora and raised to the

ways of the north could not ignore a threat to his

province. It was opportunities like this that men of Seh prayed for—poems were made of such exploits, songs sung in

the Governor’s Palace and in the court of the Emperor.

The sound of falling water echoed out of the mist, how near, it was impossible to know. The barbarians’ trail suddenly

broke out of the trees and ran onto a wider path between the tall pines and cedars, their shapes barely suggested in

the fog.

Walking in the clouds, Komawara thought, and then he found himself stepping onto a wooden bridge over a narrow

stream. A small pool formed upstream and feeding that a twisting ribbon of white, falling water appeared like mist that

had acquired density and weight.

A breeze stirred his horse’s mane and began to move the surrounding fog in chaotic patterns. Out of the mist a granite

wall formed above him and the smell of horses seemed to mingle with the odors of rotting vegetation and the

indescribable smell of snow-melt.

The young lord brought his mount up sharp before her hooves drummed on the wooden planks. Would they make

camp by the water? He backed her up five paces and dropped the reins to the ground. The faint breeze pushed holes in

Sean Russell - The Initiate Brother 2 - Gatherer of Clouds

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