"Arrest them," he said, the confidence in his voice surprising them all. "All of them, and then burn the House. We must teach these hsiao jen a lesson, neh, Master Nan?"
"Chieh Hsia?"
Li Yuan turned to face him, the smile slowly fading from his face until, in its hawklike seriousness, it resembled his father, Li Shai Tung's.
"You heard me, Master Nan. Arrest them. Triad members, New Confucians, Representatives, and all. All who oppose me. It has begun," he said, his voice a strange mixture of fear and relief. "The gods help us, Master Nan, it has finally begun."
AT THE CLIFF'S EDGE stood a ruined chapel, its roof open to the sky, the doorway empty, gaping. It was a tiny building, the floor inside cracked and overgrown with weeds, one of the side walls collapsed, the heavy stones spilled out across the grass.
Kim stopped beside her, looking up at the lettering cut into the stone lintel.
"It's Latin," he said. "From the Revelation to John."
Jelka looked to him, surprised, as he began to read.
"I saw an angel standing in the sun, and with a loud voice he cried to all the birds that fly in middle heaven, 'Come, gather for the great supper of God . .
He turned to her, finishing the quote. " '. . . to eat the flesh of kings, of all men, both free and slave, great and small.' "
He smiled, then looked about him. "Is this it? Is this your special place?"
"No." She looked out at the sea beyond the ruin, then walked on.
It was an old path worn by many feet. Near the bottom, where the way grew steep, steps had been cut into the rock. She picked her way nimbly between the rocks and out beneath the overhang. Kim followed. There, on the far side of the shelf of rock, was the cave.
She turned and smiled at him. "This is it. My special place. The place of voices."
He went halfway across the ledge, then stopped, crouching, looking down through the crack in the great gray slab. There, below him, the incoming tide was channeled into a fissure in the rock. For a moment he watched the rush and foam of the water through the narrow channel, then he looked up. She was watching him, amused.
"Can't you hear it, Kim? It's talking to you."
"Yes," he said. "I hear it."
He stood, wiping his hands against his thighs, then went across and stood there at the edge of the rock, looking out across the rutted surface of the sea, feeling the wind like a hand on his face, the tang of salt on his lips.
"Here," she said, drawing his attention again.
There, on the wall behind her, were the ancient letters, a hand's length in height, scored into the rock and dyed a burnt ochre against the pale cream of the rock. Their sticklike, angular shapes brought to mind the shape of yarrow stalks. He frowned, recognizing them as runes—as a name. Tolonen. And yet they were—what?—fifteen hundred years old?
He shuddered, then narrowed his eyes, watching as she stooped, making her way farther in, toward where the ceiling sloped down to meet the floor of the cave.
"It was just here that I saw the fox," she said, turning, her blue eyes staring out at him from the half dark. "Later I dreamed of it and thought of you."
A fox. He nodded, then went in, taking her hand.
"So wild it was," she said, kneeling, then pulling him down beside her. "Erkki wanted to shoot it but I wouldn't let him."
He stared at her, bewitched, the dark scent of the place awaking something in him.
A fox ...
He drew her face to his and kissed her, a savage, fox's kiss, then pushed her down, the brightness slipping from him.
BACK IN THE HOUSE, he walked about the rooms, disturbed by what had happened; wondering just what it said about himself. Yet Jelka seemed happy. He could hear her in the kitchens, singing to herself, her laughter strange and unexpected. He had thought her so cold and regal.
At the door to the study he stopped and lifted his head, sniffing the air, then stepped inside, his eyes widening at the sight of so many books.
"Books!" he said, carrying one out to her. "Real books!"
"Kalevala," she said, taking it from him. "My uncle lent me this. It was the first real book I ever read. Here . . ." She handed it back to him. "You must read it. My people . . ."
"Your people . . ." He looked at her sadly. "You should contact him, you know. Let him know that you're safe. He'll be worrying."
"Let him worry!" she said. "He deserves it. But aren't you angry with him?"
"Angry?" he laughed, then, putting the books down, took her hands. "How could I be angry? Without him there would be no you. For that . . . well, I forgive him everything."
He smiled, trying to coax her to his viewpoint, but he could see she was not to be brought around. Not yet, anyway.
"Let me help," he said, looking past her at the pans on the old-fashioned stove. "I like to cook for myself."
In answer she beat his hand away. "That was when you were on your own. Now . . . well, now you're mine. If it worries you, we'll take turns. But tonight—tonight I want to cook for you. Please . . . I've dreamed of it."
He smiled. "You dream a great deal, Jelka Tolonen."
"Yes . . ." Her eyes grew serious. "I dreamed that you would come for me and save me from the World of Levels. I dreamed—" She stopped, a sudden fear growing in her face. "Something's .happened," she said. "Something ..."
She moved past him, heading for the great living room. ]He followed, intrigued by the change in her, by the sudden intuitive leap she'd made. As she crouched before the big screen, trying to tune it in, he looked about him, surprised, constantly surprised to find himself there on the island, in this strangest of houses. Had she dreamed this? And was he, even now, trapped within her dream—of no more substance than Caliban's dream?
"Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, that, if I then had wak'd after long sleep, will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, the clouds me-thought would open, and show riches ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak'd, I cried to dream again."
She turned, looking at him, even as the screen came to life behind her.
"What is that? It sounds . . . familiar somehow."
"Just words," he said. "Something that no longer exists, except in the mind of a Machine."
"Words?" But already her attention was being drawn by what was on the screen. There, framed by thick black smoke, was the House at Weimar, its great windows smashed, its levels licked by flames. Long lines of shackled men were being led away by visored guards. Then the image changed, to scenes of rioting and ruin, of screaming men and crying women.
"What's happening?" he said, stepping up beside her, then crouching, taking her hand. "What in the gods' name is happening?"
"It has begun," she said, a tremor passing through her. "The gods help us all. The War's begun."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Rider through the Autumn Wind
Y
O u MUST TALK to him, Chieh Hsia. You simply must."
"Must, Master Nan?" Li Yuan turned from the great map, stonyfaced, to confront his Chief Minister. "Will you tell me also who I must sleep with?"
Nan Ho lowered his head, chastened. All around the War Room others—more than forty in all—did the same, recognizing that tone in the T'ang's voice. At such times he was at his most dangerous—or so it had proved, these past five days.
Nan Ho glanced at his Master from beneath his lashes. Five days . . . was that all it had been since war had been declared? A mere five days?
"They say he is dying, Chieh Hsia," he said quietly, risking his Master's wrath; knowing he would never forgive himself unless he attempted some kind of reconciliation.
"Dying?" Li Yuan turned, surprised. "I ... I had not heard that. I thought—"
"Poisoned, Chieh Hsia. Or so I am told. It is ... well, difficult to know the truth. Our usual channels are not as reliable as they were."