The Mercurial Swords

[jetso]

One: Calling Swords

Sitting cross-legged amid the Sword Grave, Arrow called his sword to him. His joints frozen stiff and with prolonged inaction knotting up his muscles, it was hard to focus. Taking deep breaths, he closed his eyes and tried again, concentrating on a vague image of a sword and repeatedly mouthing the words "come to me..."

There was a stillness in the air and the wind was silent, even the low droning of the cicadas was oddly distant, as though they too were waiting for something. The pale trees which enclosed the Grave seemed spectral in the darkness. The moon was round, awake and watching him with interest. Blackened swords jutted out from the black soil: like rigid blades of overgrown grass. These were all the blades of their order, once wielded by the great Xia of their order, but now rusted with disuse they waited for a new wielder - him.

It was one of the first lessons of the order: "The greenest shoots grow from decaying remains."In the same way, he must in the Grave of Swords find a new blade. He had walked into the Grave as wood-wielder of the Followers of the Jian Mountains, only allowed wooden practice swords. By daybreak, a real sword would have found its way into his grasp and Arrow will be no more. There will be a new name, a new title and a new life.

He waited.

Agitated, he rested his hands on his knees, then overlapped them by his stomach. He rested them on his knees again palms upwards and turned over. He repeated the sequence half a dozen time more before clasping them conclusively by his stomach again. Absently he chewed on his braid. It tasted of the long grass, which have been braided into his hair as symbol of his wood-wielding status of the Followers.

He waited.

Realising what he was doing, he spat out his braid again. Stray hairs tickled the nape of his neck. He tossed his head. He unclasped his hands. He clasped them again. Hair now irritated his forehead; he shook his head vigorously.

The Xia were mostly aloof, but when they indulged the young with brief insight into the deapth of their wisdom they could never quite describe the importance of a sword to a swordsman: It was an extension of oneself, part of one's arm, one's external soul. Neither could they explain exactly what they meant by calling.

"Never doubt yourself. Know that it will come and call for it," one had said.

"You're to young to grasp the concept... no respect for the aged these days. Badgering us with questions. When I was young..."

The anticipation was almost too much to bear. What would it look like? Arrow imagined wielding the graceful twin knives of Li Shi'fu or the green glyph-inscribed sword of Mao Shi'buo. Barb had emerged from the Grave a week ago with a long sword that sung metallic notes when unsheathed. Maybe his would be like that...

"I had felt my whole life flash before my eyes. All that was, why I was there... and a glimpse of what could be... Good luck, brother of the sword." Those were Barb's last words before ceremoniously stripping away the layers of himself inside the Jian Temple and reappearing as Swordsmaster Beng the next day.

Arrow closed his eyes; his history wasn't flashing. Maybe it needs a little help... I was born sometime in late Autumn. He was adopted at the age of three into the order like many other orphans as the Followers" annual act of charity. Once adopted, he shed all traces of his former existence and became one of the many nameless rascals. Beneath everyone else, he was subservient to all the Followers and was subject to their whim. He had even thought of leaving the Jian Mountains and its Followers. Even life on the streets couldn't be as hard as waking before daybreak, sleeping long after moonrise and spending every watermark in-between with bones sore from menial labour. Waddling around in clothes too big for him, he fetched and polished, scrubbed and scurried six years away. But that rascal had endured to become Arrow the wood-wielder. The many watermarks of training and a strong daily dose of awkwardly positioned bruises and splinters made many consider leaving, but Arrow had survived.

Guiltily, Arrow peeked from behind his eyelids to check the progress of his sword.

Nothing. There was no dancing spectrum of colours or sword flying through the air to meet him, just the jagged landscape of the Grave clawing at the sky.

Doubt crept over him. What if the sword doesn't come? What if it doesn't want me? What if I'm not worthy? What if... He thought back to the years of training, the mornings he had awakened before sunrise for extra practice, the afternoons he had spent perfecting all the motions at snailspace, the evenings he had lingered at the practice fields, the nights he had laid awake too sore and strength-sapped to sleep... He cast the memories aside.

The sword will come.

Arrow thought back to Barb's advice. What was he and why was he there? I was a lost orphan. I was a nameless rascal. Now, I am Arrow the wood-wielder and I am here to become a swordsman. It was hard to structure his calling to become a Xia into thoughts. It was as compulsive and reasonless.

I want... to follow the steady footsteps of the Jian Mountains and to mimic their stony serenity. To do something about all the little injustices in the world, like that which resulted in the loss of my parents. To be a Xia and wander the wild of Jiang'hu.

Jiang'hu, the River Lakes, is the dangerous underworld of intrigue and honour that lies thinly-veiled beneath everyday mediocrity. Its people are those who have turned their backs to a normal life, choosing instead to devote their existence to the study of martial arts and to use that knowledge for good - or for more ignoble purposes. The different factions and schools of weaponry and practice hold a delicate balance of power guarding the secrets of their arts.

The Followers of the Jian Mountains was among the largest of these factions and the most righteous. Inspired by the ring of six mountains, a wandering Xia conceived of a philosophy and a set of sword techniques that imitated the mountains. He called it the Art of the Mountain. Its ninety eight movements and their subsequent variations won him much fame among martial circles. After being rejected by the woman who had defeated him in a duel, this Xia wandered distraught into what would become the Grave of Swords. Even then it was an eerie place; the annals described it as a place of "unnatural stillness." After meditating there for three whole days he stumbled from it light-headed, but enlightened. He changed his name to Shan'zi, meaning "child of the mountain," and founded the Followers of the Jian Mountains. His disciples later adapted and elaborated the Art of the Mountain, but the basics remained the same.

I want to be out there with sword in hand and fighting evil, reliving the famous tales of old, like Yan'An or Wei'zhi. To try and make things better, instead of sitting and waiting for things to heal themselves.

A merchants" caravan richly laden with trade goods, like a fat worm wriggling slowly across the countryside. Its guards was little more an exhibition of expensive armour and weapons than true swordsmen, wobble behind in half-drunken-stupor. The merchants, dressed in luxuriously inappropriate vesture for the harsh roads ahead, ride on overweight ponies with braided manes.

With a rustle of leaves, black-clad bandits rush from their hiding place, brandishing swords and spears. They shout insults at the merchants as half the guards are shocked awake and the other half fumble with their weapons.

"Wandering by. Peace Disturbed. One must unsheathe the sword in aid." That would be me. The metallic ring of a sword unsheathed will follow and I'd appear sword in hand, ready to defend the hapless merchants...

That was how Tian Shi'fu and Mao Shi'buo found me - but they weren't as swift. By the time they leapt out of the sky, the bandits had killed all members of the merchants" caravan except for the women and the children who hung about their apron strings. Arrow winced. He was too young to retain any memory of the tragedy.

Market day bustles into town. Merchants and vendors shouting out their inventory and waving their goods in one's face. Scales are jingling and goods exchange hands, both with and without the counterpoint of money. I would wander through the plaza and when the familiar call of "Thief!" arises, I'll be quick to respond. A quick eye to sieve out the thief in the crowds and even quicker feet to catch him. The same quick eye will spot the clay pressed to make false the scales and the stealthy hands of an pickpocket.

A mother and her child huddle by streetside. The child is sick and feverish, moaning for something to soothe its suffering. Their garb grey and worn. A chipped dish is set out for donations, but the cheerful clink of pottery is always it being kicked aside. A black-clad figure will wander by and press a string of coins into her hand and vanish into the crowds. That too would be me... Arrow smiled. Once he gained the title, there was much he would do.

And there would be adventures... yes, adventures... like that dream: A tower gleams pearlescent in the distance, minaciously beautiful against a landscape of grey mountains. Mist coalesces into fog, obscuring all. The moon is just a thin slivers of curved light, as though it is averting its sight from this night's happenings. A horse whinnies in the distance. Shadows snakes between the trees.

Horses gallop towards me in a crescendo of hoofbeats and a furious storm of dust. The hooded figure astride the foremost horse reaches out a hand and snatched mine. The rush of speed hits me all too suddenly. Instinct took hold and I swing myself astride the horse in front of the figure.

"Lead. You know the way." Reins are pressed into my hands and I feel arms wrap around my waist. "Hurry."

I cannot comprehend the orders I shout to the horse, they are just loud sharp barks to me, but the horse seems to understand. It dives into the forest and weaves between the trees.

The shadowy horses seem closer than ever, their hoofbeats an echo of mine own. I feel the arms around my waist tighten and the warm breath of speech against my back, though I can't make out the words. The horse's gait smoothes as it seems to leap more than gallop; the gap between each set of hoofbeats lengthens. The woods gather around us: spaces between the trees narrow and the undergrowth thickens. Stray twigs snag clothes and branches whip at us...

Thrill lingered in him, but Arrow forced himself from the dream. He needed a sword before he could start doing heroic deeds. Arrow closed his eyes and tried to focus on his sword.

Come to me. Come to me...

His focus shifted and in his mind he was atop the silver horse again with the warm weight of his passenger pressed against him. The forest blurs into fog, which crystallises into the pearlescent tower. It looms before me, just a bridge away - a long, narrow stone bridge, which the architect had designed in a fit of insanity, across a yawning chasm. The horse balks at the threshold of the bridge. I reassure it, patting its shoulder. We dismount, knowing there was no way we could ride across the bridge.

"Tie up Hei. You have no need of him in the tower," comes the calm voice of my cloaked passenger.

My fingers shake with excitement as I fumble with knotting the reins. When I look up, my companion has moved to the ornate threshold and was barring the way with spread arms. Before I can draw conclusions, the cloaked one speaks.

"Arrow in flight yet without purpose. Will you accept this marksman's aiming?" The voice is deep, harsh and echoic, as though spoken from the opposite end of a tunnel. In the moonlight the cloaked one seems but an overgrown shadow.

"What quarry do you wish me to hunt?"

The voice grows deeper, more strained and distant. "You cannot know until you can tell the target from the arrow, the arrow from the bow, the bow from the bowman... Would you piece a life from the fragments of a dream? Would you let a legend guide you? Would you let an illusion, fabricated by a slumberer, rule your destiny?" The cloaked one waits. The wind whips the cloak to mimics the dance of flame, but the cloaked on remains motionless and waiting, with all the grace of a stalking cat, ready to pounce... and somewhere, there are tears... I can feel someone crying...

A breath of cold, metallic air scraped on his skin.

It had come.

He did not know how he knew, only that he did. The certainty of instinct was interrupted by reasoning doubt. Excitement pulled taunt his nerves and his stomach squirmed against his ribs. Silently, Arrow counted to six before looking down to what the ghosts of the Grave had deemed him worthy of.

Eyes met sword. For moments Arrow wasn't sure if he was judging it or it him. It stared back at him, waiting for him to move, the same way he waited for it to move. Sheathed in a battered leather scabbard.

The leather was warm and as his fingers closed around the hilt he knew that this was his sword and that he would never let go. It was like recognising an old friend in a foreign place. Old friends have changed; old swords have changed, but not so much that he does not recognise it. In a fleeting glance - a misplaced memory, or a prophecy of sorts - he saw how this sword will became one of the cardinal truths of his world, like his parentage, his ambitions and his skill. He knew he would be measuring time from this moment of this day; this was when he became real. All those years were but mimicry, cruel parodies of this truth.

With the sword came a new understanding. All the time he had wasted on lead-balanced practice blades and empty-handed arts, where the hand half-curled around an imagined sword. All those years was not enough to prepare him for this. It felt too different. How could warm, welcoming leather compare with harsh wood, which bristled with splinters?

He dared not draw it yet; the sword had chosen to come sheathed, such a choice should be respected. Arrow ran a finger down its length: from the brown tassels which hung from the ring at the end of the hilt, along the crisscross of the leather grip and to the tarnished bit which capped the scabbard. He judged the blade to be seven handspans in length, but it was hard to be sure with it still sheathed. The hilt was just over a handspan in length: a single-handed blade, but space enough for two hands to wielded it.

The crossguard, curving gracefully towards the blade, shone in the moonlight. The metal was smooth and cold to touch. The scabbard was flecked with gold and slightly damp, smelling of sweat, blood and saltwater. Angular patterns had been scorched into the leather of both the scabbard and the grip, but it was too dark to read them.

Arrow picked it up, weighing it in his hands. It was much heavier than a practice blade, but that could simply be due to the added weight of the scabbard. His fingers drifted curiously to the brown tassels hanging at the end of the hilt, a relic from its former owner. Arrow drew from his robes the knot his mother had supposedly carried; he wasn't to bring it, but tonight of all nights he needed her blessing. Like his mother's, the knot from which the tassels sprung was a lovers" knot, often used by young lovers to seal a promise of marriage. Arrow tried not to craft a history for the blade's previous owner; he needed to focus.

Hello, sword... thank you for coming...

He had until dawn to bond with the sword. What exactly that entailed was another mystery. Like the calling of the sword, it was something that was to spontaneously happen and make sense.

Sunrise painted the eastern corners of the sky crimson as the fiery eye of Gu'r the Lonely One rises. Seeing his time in the Grave was over, Arrow unfolded himself from his cross-legged position. He shook some feeling back into his legs, numb from the long night's vigil, and walked back to the Halls of Keenness, where the Council of Six await him. He carried the sword ceremonially with both hands in front of him, relishing the feeling of worn leather instead of splintery wood.

Three thousand nine hundred and ninety nine misshapen stone steps paved the long trek up the mountain, leading up to a practical wooden gate set in ornately carved walls. Arrow shed his shoes as he entered the Halls of Keenness for only swordmasters were allowed to wear shoes within.

The green-roofed Halls squatted at the far end of the garden-turned practice fields, an angular wooden compound of low ceilings and narrow corridors, which made Arrow feel taller. Everything in the halls was patterned and painted, engilded and bejewelled. The walls were a series of murals narrating the epic founding of the Jian Mountains" Followers. The detailed carving on the overhead crossbeams are lost in the riot of colour. For a long while, it was as though the corridor would never end. Tradition dominated his pace, he dared not quicken or slow, so his grip on the sword just grew ever tighter as the only vent for his frustration.

Inside the main hall, the Council of the Six, one from each of the Jian mountains, sat in a half circle. Each enthroned in enamel and silver there was a certain majesty about them. The focus of the hall was on balance and opposites: the rectangular black floor twisting upwards to a circular white dome. Arrow winced at his reflection on the floor, remembering his endless days as a rascal polishing it.

"The wood-wielder Arrow greets Dai Zhang'men. The wood-wielder Arrow greets the five Zhang'lao," rasped Arrow formally, his voice was still hoarse from a nights disuse, as he dropped onto his left knee and clasp his sword to his forehead. Six pairs of eyes studied him in all directions; he was glad to stare at the floor. I should have done something before I...

"Tian Shi'fu greets the Six," chanted a voice behind Arrow.

He had not noticed his teacher enter the hall. Custom did not allow him to raise his face from the floor or throw glances behind him at his teacher, but Arrow could imagine Tian Shi'fu in him elaborate formal robes and damascened dress armour. There was the sound of shuffling paper.

One of the Zhang'lao spoke, "Young wood-wielder Ar..."

"Yes." Had I answered too quickly? Is it much fault to interrupt the...

"I see the young wood-wielder Arrow is eager," said another of the elders. His voice is gentler than the first and his cadence slower.

"Yes, Wang Zhang'lao. With the impatience of youth, the young wood-wielder Arrow is overeager. He will learn in time," said my teacher. His voice betrayed no emotion save moderate pride in his pupil's enthusiasm, but Arrow knew he was ashamed.

"Such energy should be channelled towards studies of the sword," the Zhang'lao paused. "Do you deem him worthy, Tian Shi'fu?"

"The young Arrow has trained hard: three years as nothing, six years as rascal, nine years as wood-wielder. He now stands eighteen years after his birth before you."

"If all is so, you may raise your eyes, young wood-wielder Arrow."

The young wood-wielder Arrow did so and lowered his sword to the floor. The Council allowed him time to absorb their magnificence. Instead of the Council and their thrones, his eyes searched the curtains of overlapping silk leaves. He smiled to himself; just behind the curtains he spotted the slender figure of Rain. As daughter of Wang Zhang'lao, she could steal into the such ceremonies with ease and had promised to be there for him.

Trained to seek detail, he noted the different designs of each of the silver and enamel thrones, which echoed the chosen weapons of the Council members.

He recognised Wang Zhang'lao, wielder of Moonblade, immediately by the silver medallion. His goat-like beard would have been comical if it wasn't set in a face so serious. His throne was adorned with the three moons, wreathed in wraith-like clouds and dragons. A shadow of the pattern is cast on his midnight blue robes in midnight blue embroidery. Etched with water-plants amid conflicting ripples, it had to be the throne of Cao Zhang'lao, keeper of the Lily Daggers. His robes were a milk-white with tinges of green and yellow, casting a sickly tone over his sheltered pallor.

"When did you first become a Follower of the Jian Mountains?" asked the square-faced elder sitting at the edge of the half circle. His title belied his youth; he seemed no older than twenty five years. His hair was hacked short, almost like thorns. The green stitching which gives his robes a suggestion of leaves and the enamel ivy winding around his throne indicated he was Tao Zhang'lao, wielder of the teeth-edged Briar.

Arrow turned to face Tao Zhang'lao. "At the age of two, found by Tian Shi'fu and Mao Shi'buo."

"When did you first become a rascal?" The trailing ice-blue triangles of his robes told Arrow this was Luo Zhang'lao. The silver tipped cones of his throne mimicked sharp icicles, like those on his blade, Glacier. His long hair was not braided, but instead fell in white icy sheets.

"At the age of three, as the cycle of the Mountains turns," recited Arrow. The Council knew all the answers; Arrow was relatively standard as wood-wielders went, but that knowledge did not calm him. He did not want to be mediocre and forgotten at the next change of the Mountains.

"When did you first become a wielder of the wood?" said Ouyang Zhang'lao. He was nearly bursting from his crimson robes, which were delicately scarred with stitching of the same colour and the red-flecked bloodstone in his ornaments. He had small beady eyes set in the shiny folds of his enormous face. As Zhang'lao and owner of Blood Spear, he should not be overlooked because of his roundness.

"At the age of nine, as the cycle of the Mountains turns." He ached for movement.

"What is the first lesson the Jian Mountains taught you?" Cao Zhang'lao spoke with a measured slowness, as though to a very young child.

"Greenery sprouts forth in barren cliffsides, from the dry bony trees. In the same way is life birthed from death," intoned Arrow. He was questioned on all six of the Jian Mountains" lessons. He could not have made any error in them; they had been so ingrained into his being for the past fifteen years, but the Council's faces remained passive, even bored.

"Has the wood you wield ripened to metal? Have the Councils of the past judged you worthy of a weapon that metes out life and death, young wielder of wood?" Dai Zhang'men, most senior of the Council, leader of their order, finally spoke. His voice was languidly powerful, like the effortless strength of the Jian Mountains. He was a very thin, pale man, but there was nothing sickly about his appearance. High cheekbones, pale skin and dark, sunken eyes gave his long, emaciated face the haunting quality of a horse's skull. There was more augmenting his black robes than red embroidery, as it shimmered with hidden flame: like the glowing embers of new fire. His black braid was interwoven with gold thread and coiled around his neck like a tame serpent, a symbol of his status, belying his great age. It was his sword that bore the name of Ember.
"I have called a weapon to me among the Grave of Swords, Dai Zhang'men. This sword has answered," replied Arrow.

"And its name? Know you not its name?"

"I have not looked upon the blade, nor studied it in the light, Dai Zhang'men."

"Why? Are you not eager, young wielder of wood?" he drawled.

How was he to organise such instinctive feelings into words? And how long was it since the Council asked a true question that demanded individual answers? His body itched for movement. After taking a deep breath, Arrow stammered, "I... I was... told to bond with my sword, Ancient One. To trust it... For me to trust my sword, it too must trust me. By the teachings of the Jian Mountains, trust stems from respect. It chose to come to me and it chose to come in its scabbard. I respect its choice."

All eyes in the room turned expectantly to his sheathed blade. All the titles and status heaped behind their collective gaze made it feel heavy and overbearing. Of all the eyes staring at him, it were those of Dai Zhang'men that Arrow feared most. No. Those aren't eyes. Those can never be eyes. Without whites and without irises, it was the unswerving stare of dead man, the stare of empty sockets and the shadows that haunt them.

Realising he was expected to unsheathe his sword, Arrow reached for his sword. Time seemed to slow. His hands shook as they closed the gap between finger and sword. Finally, his fingers curled around the grip and scabbard; the leather warmed invitingly to his touch. He raised it slowly to eye level and masking his fear in ceremonial slowness, he drew the sword from its scabbard.
"Unsheathe it," commanded Dai Zhang'men with an impatient wave of his hand.

Squeezing his eyes shut in fear, Arrow did so.

There was a rush of sliding metal and a fractured crashes as it met the floor, followed by a collective gasp. Fear-filled, Arrow's heart lurched. The gasp hadn't been one of awe. He opened his eyes.

Protruding from the hilt was a broken sword, no more than a handspan of brown-streaked metal. The rest of the sword had fallen from the scabbard as he had tilted it: no more than so many fragments of tarnished metal. He stared at it in open disbelief. Granted, the swords brought back by the wood-wielders were sometimes a little out of shape, but they were never any broken ones. What happens to bearers of broken swords?

"Well, Arrow?" asked one of the Zhang'lao. Arrow wasn't sure whom, still engulfed in shock. Formalities seemed to have been forgotten in shock.

"I... the sword... it... I didn't know... " Arrow tore his eyes from the floor to face the Council. The air of bored serenity had left them, instead they looked confused. He had just broken years of tradition by the drawing of a broken sword, dragging them from the comfortable repetitions into an unknown domain. He couldn't but also notice that the slender figure of Rain had left from her place behind the curtain; he was alone now.
"What have you to say?" demanded Tao Zhang'lao, leaning forward. His hands were possessively stroking his sword, Briar.

"It... I just called... I didn't know... it didn't seem to be... it was... I mean... I never thought... how was I to know..."

"Enough," interrupted Dai Zhang'men, his voice cleaving through Arrow's floundering.

Arrow silenced immediately.

Dai Zhang'men stroked his chin thoughtfully. The smothering fires inside him had flared and his eyes, lost in what first seemed like empty sockets, glinted. "How do you weigh this sign from the Grave of Swords, Learned One?"

"Beyond my depth, Dai Zhang'men," said Tian Shi'fu. He no longer spoke in his formal voice, the harsh tones he used on the practice fields were creeping in. "But, 'tis my guess that if a weapon comes tottering along means the wielder is worthy, a broken one must mean he just isn't."

The words did not register. Arrow simply refused to hear them. He willed himself to hear something else, to slur the words together into another meaning. But as he silently denied the them, he could hear the sharp, almost musical, shattering of his ambitions and could see all the tiny reflective pieces of it mimicking his actions. As their meaning sank their poisoned teeth into his aspirations, Arrow could see his future, all those possibilities like little pinpoints of distant light, flicker and die, snuffed out by the blanketing words.

"There is reason in the words of Tian Shi'fu." Cao Zhang'lao nodded sagely with his gaze still riveted to Arrow. He coughed, his chest shaking with exertion. "What do you see as the meaning of such a omen, elders?"

"A wielder of wood unready is seen in the lack of a weapon and the promise that one will come. A wielder of wood ready is seen in the coming of a weapon. Thus a wielder of wood unworthy is seen in the coming of a broken weapon."

"Where does your mind stand in such a matter, Luo Zhang'lao?"

Luo Zhang'lao's eyes were as cold as his sword, Glacier. He stroked his white beard with his bony fingers. "I stand with Tian Shi'fu and Wang Zhang'lao. What are your thoughts on this, Tao Zhang'men?

Disagree. Please disagree... You've seen me practice. You've seen me...

"My thoughts are already voiced, Luo Zhang'lao."

"As are mine," states Ouyang Zhang'lao, his swollen lips smacking together as he formed the words. He wiggled a fat finger around inside his collar, trying loosen it for breathing space.

"The Council of the Six speaks as one, for my opinions do not differ from those stated." Dai Zhang'men rose from his throne, stretching out his great height. "Stand you ready for your judgement, young wood-wielder Arrow?"

No! Never. How could I ever be ready... "Yes." Arrow heard his voice croak. For an instant he was be proud of the strength behind his voice, no matter how weak he felt inside.

"Then listen with care, young wood-wielder Arrow, to the judgement of the Council of the Six have placed upon you by the broken sword," orated Dai Zhang'men. "By the broken sword he called forth from the Grave of Swords, Arrow, wielder of wood, shall henceforth be no more a Follower of the Jian Mountains. He shall be stripped of all that identifies him as once a Follower. He shall be cast from the Jian Mountains. The broken sword, given by the past Zhang'laos of the Grave as a sign of his unworthiness, will remain in my care..."

"Good, because I don't want it." Arrow immediately regretted what he said, but it was too late. The looks on the Council members" faces turned to outrage. He flung the broken sword and scabbard down, spitefully glad for he knew it would scar the polished floor. He tore himself from the murderous scrutiny of the Council and marched out of the hall.

There were a multitude of things Arrow wanted to do: to stamp his feet like a mouth-foaming head-tossing horse and scrape his fingernails on the polished floor; to break something expensive, like the cabinet-ful of dancing figurines, their delicate serenity and simpering smiles were offending him. He wanted to hurl vociferous rage at the Council, declare them unjust and most of all, to snatch back his sword. My sword, he thought possessively. Whatever it means or signifies, it was given to me by the Grave. It is mine. But he was too well-trained to show his anger. He pressed his lips to a thin line, trapping the diatribe which was about to spew from it and wiped all other emotions from his face, schooling it into a passionless mask. He didn't know how successful he was; he could feel his lips distorting into the beginnings of a frown.

The wood-wielders and rascals practicing in the field swarmed towards him, bubbling with questions, as he strode from the hall. Their faces were red with excitement and exercise. The older ones were anxious for insight into the ceremony, hoping to glean something useful from his new wisdom.

"Arrow, how was it? What was it like? Was it hard?"

"Was the Council scary? Were you scared? You aren't scared of anything, are you, Arrow?"

"It's not Arrow anymore, is it? What name did they choose for you?"

"What's the name of your weapon? How long did it take to come? How exactly did you call it?"

Arrow ignored their questions. Just a day and a night ago I was exactly like them. Carefree and with purpose... The wooden gates were bolted and barred; he had hoped to fling them open for a dramatic exit and leave them swinging in his wake.

"What are you doing? Where do you want to go?"

"Speak to us, Arrow. Don't be all lofty and distant now that you're a swordmaster."

"I am not a swordmaster," growled Arrow, as he unbarred the gates.

"Where's your sword, Arrow?" One of the rascals had finally noticed.

Arrow didn't answer. He just pushed open the gate and slipped out, leaving the young Followers to speculate. The uneven steps stretched down, like a great gash of stone scarring the hillside. There was a finality about them, as though he could not return after walking down these steps.

He crouched on the steps, waiting for the dizziness of shock to fade. The steep steps were dangerous for one who swayed and stumbled like a drunkard. He gnawed on his braid, gnarling muffled curses into it. He had shamed even his long-suffering braid and the greenery braided into it.

Why?

Barb still had problems judging the balance of a blade when he became a swordmaster. Spear couldn't practice for two marks of the water clock without a break when he was deemed ready. Little and Axe had lost every single sparring match against Arrow, Skill and Antler were always asking him for advice; they all became swordmasters.

So why not me?

His anger was beginning to recede and his banishment was finally sinking in. Who am I to want to be a Xia? Who am I to want to be a Follower? What worth is there in myself that I judge myself above others, superior enough to judge them?

Carefully, he examined himself, searching himself for that secret failing that had hindered him. What had he done wrong? Arrow hugged his knees tighter to himself, but kept his eyes firmly on the steps. He stared at it until it blurred and became nothing but a long row of so many grey boxes.

I was too proud of my skill, too sure of myself. The mountain teaches us to be humble. The many times he had disobeyed his Shi'fu flooded his mind.

'remember. The practice fields are out of bounds between sunset and sunrise ... Don't go into the forest... Don't disturb the wood-wielders... Stop burdening the elders with your questions... Never wander out there alone... Don't insult your betters by a challenge... Don't boast of your skill...."

When had he ever followed his orders? He had sneaked out after the evening bells to practice almost every other night. He had led exploration parties into the forest. He had continually badgered the elders for advice and new techniques. He had challenged those superior to him and offended them by winning more times than he could count.

He had become too prideful, too arrogant, too boastful. He was too busy searching his fellows for fault to realise his own imperfections. His mind too bloated with praise to notice that he was unworthy.

"You don't hold your sword that way. When will you learn?... Keep your knees bent, else you can't keep your balance... That's a sword not a fishing pole... Angle your sword properly when you strike, else you'll damage the blade... Keep your movements big, you're not embroidering... Aim them properly, one hit is better than a dozen missed... Don't hurry your steps, perfect them first... Keep your sword between you and your enemy... Stop kicking, your sword is your primary weapon, not your feet... Don't wave it like that, you're fighting not dancing..."

Dark clouds were swiftly gathering overhead, cloaking the sun in its benighting folds. The ominous stillness of the night before had been a harbinger of a storm. It was the perfect weather for a theft. No, not a theft. The sword was mine to begin with. Tracks and scent would swiftly be washed away. Sound would be masked by the drumming rain and the crashing thunder. Darkness and lightning would distract even the most vigilant of Followers.

The idea festered in his mind. The more he nursed it, the easier it seemed. Was he not the Arrow who snuck in and out of the halls of the Jian Compound every other day? Was he not the Arrow who led the other wood-wielders and rascals through the forbidden corridors in search of adventure? Was he not the Arrow who had successfully slipped into the Jian Temple on the Night of the Sword and witnesses the secret ceremonies?

I am that Arrow...

Storming out the Halls of Keenness without supplies and basic gear might have been dramatic, but it was also foolhardy. He needed food and water to last him the two-day journey down the mountains and into the nearest village. Something to defend himself against what the road will offer. There are no bandits this close to the Jian Compound, but there are many other dangerous things that inhabit the wild. Autumn was ripening; he needed warmer clothing and some coinage would also be welcome. The only maps he had ever seen were vague, swooping overviews of the entire Empire and even those he had not studied closely. Save for a general sense of direction, he had no idea where anything was.

Jiang'hu, the River Lakes, had once seemed such an attractive place to Arrow's supposed wanderlust. Without the knowledge that all six Jian Mountains was standing supportively behind him, it seemed a much more dangerous place to wander. Jiang'hu wasn't as much a physical place with maps as world hidden between the neat lines of normal life. Arrow knew he could not ignore Jiang'hu; he was too deeply immersed in its waters.

Rain fell. A raindrop, heavy and cold, plonked itself onto his neck. Others swiftly followed, as a storm amassed. The low rumbling of thunder grew louder as it crept closer. This was the reason for the stillness the last night, but he was too caught up in his heroic dreams to realise that before.

He thought of slender Rain. Pretty Rain. The Rain who smiled at him and liked watching him practice. The Rain who still hasn't learn how to curl her toes when she kicks but punches with a vengeance. Arrow licked his lips, tasting rainwater. Salty from sweat, yet almost bitter. Strange how the taste of rain changed with one's mood. But she never liked her namesake; its rhythm on the rooftiles and on the hard ground annoyed her.

Arrow forced himself to concentration onto the rain and each individual drop as it drummed on his skin, clearing his mind of everything and numbing himself to it. It soothed his loss.

Shielding his eyes with a hand, Arrow turned to glance behind him at imposing stone walls that surrounded the six Halls of the Jian Compound. Arrow no longer thought of the teachings of the Jian Mountains, which they embodied nor the purpose to which they were built. He became purely calculative, banishing all other thoughts to the edges of his mind. How was he to get in and out again? How much damage did he want to cause? How much commotion and chaos did he want in his wake?

The Followers respected the natural growth of the mountains; the few trees that leaned against the walls were not removed. Scaling them would hardly be a challenge. Once over the wall, it was a simple matter of prowling on the rooftops until he found the Halls of Keenness and the Dai Zhang'men's chambers. Simple.
Resolute, Arrow gathered himself. Nightfall was still far away, with Autumn shortening the days. Still, it was no reason for him to stand around and do nothing. Systematically, he stretched; he wanted to be ready when it grew dark enough. Rain-drenched, it was difficult to move. Rainwater trickled from his hair and down his face, it squeezed from his soaked clothes with every movement and excitement made him all the more sensitive to its streaming.

He counted the hours to nightfall. With night came safety and shielding, but the storm was darkening the sky to a shadowy grey, ever shifting in the winds. No one would notice an extra shadow, a little more solid than the rest, moving against the winds. He should not waste time in waiting for the night.

His toes curled, feeling the cold damp grass underfoot. Only then did he realise that in his hurried departure, he had forgotten his shoes. He added it to his growing mental list of things to acquire. I wonder how attached old Dai is to his shoes?

Trees groaned painfully at the assault of the winds. Arrow did not allow the storm to trouble him; the Jian Mountains taught that discomfort was merely a state of mind. He was still cold, wet and hungry, but it merely did not hinder him. With almost-exaggerated care he circled the Jian Compound, examining all the trees which grew close to the wall. He knew every leaf and knot of those trees from his frequent use of them, but his destination had changed and a reassessment was due. Chewing thoughtfully on his braid, Arrow decided against climbing his usual trees. Most of the wood-wielders and all of the rascals knew of his nightly escapades and a good handful knew his favourite routes. It would be easy for them to betray him.

He finally chose a slender tree, leaning heavily on the walls like fainting lady with her branches clinging lovingly and her leaves veiling in maidenly coyness. Arrow slunk up the tree. The young tree with its smooth bark and high branches did not offer many handholds, but Arrow judged it closest to the Hall of Keenness and years of experience did not fail him. The slim branches had seemed fragile, but they proved supple and merely bent compromisingly at his weight. Had he chosen a more ancient tree, the risk of rotten wood and cracking branches was greater.

Seeing Mother Dian briefly illumine the sky with lightning, Arrow timed his jump onto the roof. He smiled victoriously into his braid as all sound of his landing was disguised by the thunder god's hammer. He was completely drenched, even his braid tasted of rainwater. Wet hair clung to his face, obscuring his view. If I can't see, they can't see. He wiped a wet hand across his equally wet face. He pressed himself flat against the roof, hugging the surface. Wind from the heavenly billows tried to uproot him, but held fast. The practice fields were empty. The wood-wielders and rascals had probably retreated indoors. With my departure to gossip about, they hardly be rain-watching. Arrow squinted. Indeed, the windows were all tightly shut.

Spotting a door in the opposite hall, slid slight open to reveal a thin strip of light, Arrow crawled slowly towards it on the sloping roof. He gave a barely audible feline yowl, for the benefit of anyone who was following his movements.

Nearing a pillar, he stopped and waited for the Mother Dian to tip her Lightning Mirror. He was perfectly still: his breathing was measured and his heartbeat was only slightly irregular. His wet clothes, stuck to his skin, did not move in the wind. He bit impatiently into his braid and muttered a short prayer to Mother Dian. Please, tilt your mirror. I need it, Dian Mu, goddess of lightning.

It was a long while before celestial light reflected off the Lightning Mirror of Dian Mu lit the sky. Arrow counted three heartbeats before sliding down the pillar and crept across the manicured gardens, avoiding splashing in the growing puddles. The hammer of the beaked thunder god didn't strike until he was halfway across the yard. The fault in calculations irked him and the heavenly storm-bringers was still further away than he had guessed.

Needlessly dampening his finger in his mouth, he made a small hole in the paper window and peeped in. The room seemed sparsely furnished: a bed, a table, two chairs, an embroidered screen, a wardrobe and a washstand. Arrow recognised it as Tian Shi'fu's room by the bridge of magpies, framed by the redwood screen. He had often boasted of it, the crowning treasure he had acquired from the adventures of his youth. Tian Shi'fu had also spoken of how close his room was to Mao Shi'buo's and the "harmonious" Mao Shi'buo in turn once said how apt it was that he lived in the Halls of Harmony. It's all beginning to make sense now.

Crawling on the roof and scaling up and down pillars, Arrow scouted the labyrinth of rooms which made up the interlinked Halls of Keenness, of Harmony and of the Steadfast. He listened through doors and peeped in through self-made holes in the windows. After half a dozen rooms, most of which were empty due to the duties of their occupants, the pattern in which the rooms were allotted became evident. For once, common knowledge of the Followers had held true: only the Elders and the Ancient One inhabited the Halls of Keenness itself. Others lived in the Halls of Harmony and of the Steadfast. Though interlocked with the Halls of Keenness, the other two halls had roofs of a slightly inferior shade of green.

The penetrating rain battered at the rooftiles. Closer examination in the fading light told him that they were an unmistakably expensive shade of green. He was right above the Halls of Keenness. Briefly he considered pocketing some of the tiles, but they were said to be unique to the Jian Followers, so would be traceable. Counting the pillars and doors, Arrow soon located the Dai Zhang'men's rooms. Anger had made him numb to excitement. Sneaking through the Jian Compound was no longer an adventure, but nerves still caught up, his heartbeat steadily grew more audible and his breath became laboured.

Characteristic of all classic designs, the roof jutted out to form a partially-sheltered corridor. Arrow paused there, letting himself drip dry. He wrung his hair and gathering handfuls of clothes, tried to squeeze some of the water out. Let's not leave too many tracks. The blurred silhouette against the sliding door told him there was no one on the other side.
With great care, he eased the door open and slipped inside. He gave an involuntary shiver as the warmth of the room enveloped him. The Zhang'men's room was a great deal bigger than that of Tian Shi'fu or any other room Arrow had peeked into. Ornamental screens divided the room into sections, misrepresenting its vastness. It was beautifully decorated, without the gaudiness of the main hall and ornamental corridors.

Arrow stood motionless, ready to bolt at the slightest inclination that someone was nearing. He could feel the rainwater trickling down his skin and pooling at his feet. He surveyed room, mentally assessing and sorting out its contents. Later, I will have time enough to brood over the injustices of this luxury, but not now. All the furnishings were carved from a dark fragrant wood. Black and red drapes radiated an aura of warmth. He noted the heavy blankets on the bed and the porcelain head-rest, the size of the ornate wardrobe and the pairs of embroidered shoes on the floor.

His eyes soon found and cornered his broken sword. Cradled in a pool of black silk, it lay on the table, as though the Zhang'men had negligently cast it there and hurried off again. He resisted the urge to rush up and claim it.

Slowly and with all the mannerisms of stalking cat, Arrow approached his broken sword. His bare feet made no sound as he slunk across the room. He wrapped the sword up in the silk, only too aware of the deep metallic jangle the sword fragments made. He welcomed the sound, though he knew of its dangers. Nimbly, he tied the bundle to his left shoulder; the weight was comforting.

With the bulk of his self-assigned mission completed, Arrow heaved a sigh and continued towards the wardrobe. His fingers swam through silken piles of black and red clothes, all reflecting the name of the Zhang'men's sword, Ember. There was nothing suitable for travel. The embroidered shoes would never survive the strains of the road and would soon become more hindrance than help. Arrow found what he hoped to be unrecognisable jewellery and slipped them into the tight folds of his sash.

Hearing voices and the rapid footsteps, Arrow concluded his search and climbed soundlessly up the pillar. The ornamental carvings provided him with handholds and footholds, making the ascent easy and he perched himself onto the crossbeam. He grew impatient as the owners of the footsteps paused and lingered. He had done this too many times to feel fear. The voices were still too faint for him to make out words. He tensed, picking out the silvern notes of Rain's voice. Finally, footsteps joined the twittering of voices, growing tangible.

"Arrow... sword... was there..." murmured Rain.

"I could hardly believe that of him, best swordsman of..." said swordmaster Tou, the former wood-wielder Axe.

"He wasn't the best swordsman... I am," said a second male voice. It sounded familiar, but Arrow couldn't quite place it.

"Arrow could have and has outfought, outran, outfoxed and outbraved you," said Tou. "He was the..."

They spoke of him using past tense, as though he were dead to them. Then again, I am dead. The wood-wielder Arrow is no more and no swordmaster has been born in his place.

The trio became silhouettes on sliding door. Rain, raimented in flowing robes with her hair coiffured into an elegant mass of coils and braids, was carrying a lantern, seeming like an immortal being from a shadow play, a goddess. The identity of the second man wasn't any clearer. He was carrying an umbrella, shielding Rain from her namesake.

"He isn't here to do so anymore."

"Yes, he gone," agreed Rain coldly.

"Could the broken sword..."

"Do you question the Council, Tou?"

"No... it's just..."

"There, Tou. Wasn't that easy? Mystery solved. He was..."

"Don't say it. I want to remember well of him."

The voices faded again. There was no time to ponder Rain's reaction to his absence. He weighed the need to acquire decent shoes and decided to raid another room. He could not travel far with bare feet. He counted five heartbeats and descended from the crossbeam. The door slid open with a soundlessly and Arrow slipped out again.

It was still cold, wet and windy outside, a great contrast to the coddling warmth of indoors. The wind grew stronger. Arrow could imagine Grandmother Feng, seated on her tiger, uncorking her gourd and the unleashed winds rushing out. Though anger and shock had dulled his senses; it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore physical discomforts. Only a little while longer. Finding a room with travel clothes and weapons would be simple; any swordmaster's would do. But lingering anger clouded judgement, demanding that he returned to Tian Shi'fu's quarters. He gnawed on his braid, feeling the rainwater filter into his mouth.

His mind was still struggling with the decision when he slid open the door to his teacher's room. He had chosen revenge. Perhaps this is why I am unworthy, that I am to choose such a path for my revenge. The thought tasted bitter on his tongue, but the saccharine flavour of revenge quickly masked it.

"You're late."

The voice startled Arrow, but he did not show it except in turning slowly and scanning the room for the source. He knew who it was; he had heard the same voice every day for the past fifteen years uttering crisp words in the same harsh tone.

Tian Shi'fu stepped from behind the screen. He had changed out of his formal clothes and into his padded jacket and trousers, looking no different to the stern-faced shi'fu that Arrow had been apprenticed to for the past nine years. Every line in the learned one's posture, from his folded arms to his unblinking eyes, was mocking him, gloating in his failure.

"What do you want with me?" spat Arrow, his braid dropping from his mouth. The bundle at his shoulder felt heavier.

The learned one's voice softened to whisper. ""A day as teacher; a lifetime as father." I owe you many lifetimes of fatherhood. Do you think I could forget you so easily? Take the bundle on the table. Clothes, some food, a good pair of boots. You'll have need of them."

"I don't want your pity."

"You don't have my pity. Take it, son."

Arrow didn't want to be practical; he wanted to throw the bundle back at the smug old man or hurl it the same way he hurled the broken sword. But as his fingers closed around it, he knew he could not let go. "Thank you, shi'fu."

"Do not call me that. I do as honour dictates."

There was a long wordless moment, but the room was anything but silent. Wind rattled the door and rain battered at the roof. Arrow occupied his mind with tying the bundle to his free shoulder. Out of habit, he picked up his braid again with his mouth and he chewed on it, trying to concentrate on it texture and taste instead of the learned one in front of him.
"I don't command this of you, son, nor do I ask it of you. It is merely a wish that you will shed your braid. You are no longer a Follower and it is not fitful that you wear it."

He dropped leaf-threaded braid. His mouth felt empty and tasteless without it. So that was the price of clothes and food. Arrow should have known. He had accepted the bundle, so must he pay the price. Honour dictates it. "So be it."

"There's a dagger on the table. Take it. Use it."

Arrow tamely followed the learned one's orders, while that little voice at the back of his mind raged. What am I agreeing to? Have I forgotten what it is? It is the symbol of my status, the accumulation of all I had laboured for. Is a bundle of food and clothes all I am worth? He tried to look into the eyes of Tian Shi'fu and read his expression, but the learned one's face was as stern and unreadable as ever.

With his eyes fixed Tian Shi'fu, Arrow picked up the dagger in one hand and his braid in the other. His hands were rain-wrinkled, numb to the comforting textures of warm, worn leather. He brought it to just above his shoulder and the little voice noted how close it was to his neck. With painful slowness, he sawed off the braid. Stray strands drifted to the floor. His grip on the braid tightened possessively, until his knuckles paled and his hand shook.

After what seemed like a lifetime of sawing and hacking, the braid finally fell away and slumped limply in his fist. Arrow paced it onto the table. His head felt light and strange without it, as though he had been relieved of a heavy burden. No, not relieved, there is no relief. The braid, lying lifelessly on the table, taunted him.

Dai Zhang'men's harsh words came back to him: "By the broken sword he called from the Grave of Swords, Arrow, wielder of wood, shall henceforth be no more a Follower of the Jian Mountains. He shall be stripped of all that identifies him as once a Follower. He shall be cast from..."

He had tried to escape them, yet they came back to dispense its justice upon him like an avenging ghost with long tongue and blood-stained sword. He was no longer the proud Arrow who swaggered into the Grave, the even prouder Arrow who paraded out of it nor the Arrow who strode out of the Halls of Keenness. He wasn't even sure he was Arrow anymore.

Tian Shi'fu stared at the bundle on his shoulder - the shards of the sword. His sword. I cannot allow their gazes to rob me of this truth. It is my sword. The weight on his shoulder seemed to grow heavier, a scar of the crime he had just committed. Would they demand this of me too?

"Once you're out of these doors, you will be as a wolf in the sacred halls, one beyond the Follower's code. They won't hunt you, but do not let them find you. Go to the Disciples of Master Jian, the long blood-feud between us may buy you some help, but do not turn your back on them. They are ignoble and will only aid you to their own ends. The Taloned Hawks of the Claw Mountains would shelter any wanderer, no matter his origins, but do not tarry there too long. They are a strange order.

"Jiang'hu is a dangerous place. Now leave. I will mislead the Followers."

"He who was Arrow thanks you..." he said. He rigidly laid open palm over closed fist in traditional salute. He did not want emotions to linger.

"He who was your shi'fu cannot accept your thanks."

Arrow said nothing. He sheathed the dagger and jammed it into his sash. Resisting the impulse to look back, he left; his bare feet and damp clothing made no sound, not even a soft swish of cloth. He was leaving, really leaving and he wasn't coming back. Noticing the silence of his departure, his own insignificance sank in. After he was gone, there would be no trace of him. Not even a carved name upon the enshrined stone erected in Destiny Garden. He had a sudden urge to do something and leave a mark, a scar, somewhere in these six mountains, something for them to remember him by, but he didn't act on it. He was getting used to ignoring such urges.

The storm shrouded the land; midday had yet to come, but it was dark outside. Lightning flashed ominously and thunder followed. He itched for something to chew on, but his braid was gone. Though he refused to even mentally admit it, he knew his steps were growing recklessly fast and noisy.




Please comment. I'm having problem with terminology, since I don't know how much to retain in pinyin and how much to translate... hope this was mildly entertaining.

[Quantum]

This is turning out to be one interesting story

Good Job Jetso!!
(its rude not to leave comments to such fine stories)

[darkcser]

Wow, your vocabulary and choice of words are quite impressive. Your descriptions have an almost poetic quality to them.

The beginning felt a bit drawn out but the story becomes very engaging after the twist.

The pinyin titles seem appropriate to me -although since I speak both English and Mandarin my views might be a tad biased.

I had a distinct sense that your writing has heavy influences of Western fantasy in it. Maybe it's just your choices of words, phrases or narrative style but I had the impression that you've read much from that genre.

I had to actually look up "minaciously"