Shi-da leapt from his pony and ran to him. ‘You must, brother! Shanqui must have the eyes in his hand, or he will have no servant in the Netherworld!’
A Sky Rider nudged his pony forward, then dismounted alongside Quing-chin. ‘You fought well, Dalsh-chin,’ he said.
The Fleet Ponies warrior turned at the sound of his childhood name, and looked into the sorrowful eyes of the Sky Rider. Lin-tse had changed little in the two years since they had left the Bodacas Academy; he was broader in the shoulder now, and his head had been shaved clean save for a short braid of dark hair at the crown. ‘It is good to see you again, Lin-tse,’ he said. ‘It saddens me that it should be on such an occasion.’
‘You talk like a Gothir,’ said Lin-tse. ‘Tomorrow I will come to your camp. And when I have killed you I will take your eyes, and give them to my brother. You will serve him until the stars are ground to dust.’
Back at his own tent, Quing-chin stripped off his bloodstained jerkin and knelt upon the ground. In the two years since he had left the Bodacas Academy he had fought to re-establish his Nadir roots, aware that his own people felt he was somehow tainted by his years among the Gothir. He had denied it, even to himself, but today he knew that it was true.
Outside he heard the riders returning with the head of Shanqui, but he remained in the tent, his thoughts sombre. The rituals of the revenge-duel differed from tribe to tribe, but the principles remained the same. Had he cut out the eyes of the Sky Rider and placed them in the dead hand of Shanqui, then the spirit of the Sky Rider would have been bonded to Shanqui for eternity. The belief was that the Sky Rider would be blind in the Void, unless Shanqui loaned him the use of his eyes. This would ensure obedience. Now Quing-chin had broken the ritual. And to what purpose ? Tomorrow he must fight again. If he won, another warrior would challenge him.
His friend Shi-da entered the tent, and squatted down before him. ‘You fought bravely,’ said Shi-da. ‘It was a good fight. But tomorrow you must take the eyes.’
‘The eyes of Lin-tse,’ whispered Quing-chin. ‘The eyes of one who was my friend? I cannot do this.’
‘What is wrong with you, my brother? These are our enemies!’
Quing-chin rose. ‘I shall go to the Shrine. I need to think.’
Leaving Shi-da, he ducked under the tent-flap and stepped out into the sunshine. The body of Shanqui, wrapped in hide, had been left within yards of his tent. The right hand of the corpse had been left exposed, the fingers clawed and open. Striding to his dappled pony, Quing-chin mounted and rode to the white-walled Shrine. In what way did they poison my Nadir spirit, he wondered ? Was it the books, the manuscripts, the paintings ? Or perhaps the teachings concerning morality, or the endless discussions on philosophy? How can I know?
The gates were open and Quing-chin rode inside and dismounted. Leaving his pony in the shade, he strode towards the Shrine.
‘We shall make them suffer, as Zhen-shi suffered,’ said a voice. Quing-chin froze. Slowly he turned towards the speaker.
Talisman stepped from the shadows and approached the taller man. ‘It is good to see you again, my friend,’ he said.
Quing-chin said nothing for a moment, then he gripped Talisman’s outstretched hand. ‘You gladden my heart, Okai. All is well with you?’
‘Well enough. Come, share water and bread with me.’
The two men strolled back to the shade, where they sat beneath a wooden awning. Filling two clay cups with cool water from a stone jug, Talisman passed one to Quing-chin. ‘What happened in the fight this morning?’ he asked. ‘There was so much dust I could see nothing from the walls.’
‘A Sky Rider died,’ said Quing-chin.
‘When will such madness end?’ asked Talisman sadly. ‘When will our eyes be opened to the real enemy?’
‘Not soon enough, Okai. Tomorrow I fight again.’ He looked into Talisman’s eyes. ‘Against Lin-tse.’