Min La didn’t stop until he’d passed through the temple’s front gate.
Wood carvings of Héothenin and Énan stood in grottoes on either side of the gates and watched him as he rushed through. He stopped abruptly on the street, surprised to find it filled with Rensoth's citizens going about their business. The gates closed behind him and he bent over, hands on his knees, panting. For a moment he thought he might lose the meal he’d just finished.
Some passers-by had begun to take notice of the strange, skinny young man breathing heavily at the temple gates as if he had been chased from the grounds by some terrifying monster, or perhaps by the monks themselves. So he slipped around the corner and leaned against the mosaic-covered walls until his stomach had settled and he had caught his breath.
It would seem that a great deal of doubt came after the act. He wanted to shake his fist at his brother’s memory. Surely this kind of doubt was more difficult to endure than regret. Distantly his brother whispered, “all good paths are lined with pain.”
If that was true then the path he had been on for the last several years must have been the finest of them all. He then imagined that his brother and father would probably be very pleased if they could see him now, making impossible choices, doubting them, and then drowning in a sickening wave of fear and uncertainty. But the choice was made and there was no undoing it. The tile, as the old monk would have said, had been set.
Without the silver he could no longer go south.
He felt an enormous surge of panic, fearing he had made a disastrous choice. Had he kept the silver, nothing in the world could have stopped him from continuing his attempts to go south. This, he knew, was the only way to stop himself, the only way to cut off that path.
Once he had finally calmed himself, he began to walk. Though without a plan, he did find himself going more or less in the direction of the market. Maybe he intended to beg or steal again. These daily occupations were practically muscle memory at this point. As he walked he tried to console himself with the thought that the boys would now be able to buy medicine for their sister. If nothing else, maybe she would live. Perhaps that was his fate, to help that child survive. He was surprised when that thought didn’t fill him with bitterness. After all, her survival might have come at the cost of his life. But it did not seem like his path had ended, not yet anyway. There would be other choices in his future. He took another deep, steadying breath.
Nearer the market Min La ducked into an alley. There he leaned against a wall and opened his bag. No matter what he did, he couldn’t just wander aimlessly waiting for Héothenin himself to appear and show him the way. Min La had known many in his life who had wasted their days doing just that. When he had come upon them sitting idly in front of the walls of their houses, he had asked, “friend, what are you doing?” and they had answered, “waiting.” When he had asked them what they could possibly have been waiting for, they had all answered the same way: “a sign.”
But Héothenin would not come to knock on their doors and lead them by the hand to the best possible path. In the end all must make their own choices.
But how could anyone know which choice was the right choice?
He was pleased to find that he still had his spare socks and his second golt, though it was was even more threadbare than the one he wore now. There was his striker and a needle for mending his clothes. His comb was wrapped in one of his clean socks. He was surprised that he still had an apple leftover from yesterday.
He had begun to question his decision to go to the market. After the beggar children had stolen the woman’s purse yesterday, they would no doubt be on high alert today. Perhaps it would be wiser to return to Enlin. With the generosity of the people in that city he might even find a way to winter there. Maybe it would be worth the risk to let himself be housed in a temple with the other orphans. No doubt they would let him stay for a time before requiring him to choose between leaving or shaving his head and wearing the monk's robes.
In that case, he thought, there was little point in going to the market at all. If he started out in the morning as soon as the city gates opened he could probably make it to Ŏno Soth in a day. The apple and whatever he could forage along the road would fortify him until then. In the capital he could beg for a day or two and then he could set out for Enlin. It was not the worst plan. He looped the bag across his chest and started in the direction of his little borrowed house. He had already filled his stomach. So now he should rest and get a good night’s sleep before he set off tomorrow.
In the back of his mind a quiet voice reminded him that he should not remain too fixed to his own plan. After all, something might happen between here and the capital that would present a better set of choices. It was at once frightening and strangely comforting to think in this way.
At the end of the alley he turned a corner and found himself in an open yard where three alleys met behind the large stone buildings of the main market street. Each alley was paved with simple flagstones, but the paving ended before the yard which was pounded earth. Min La stopped on the edge of it. He did not know why. Standing there, he felt the strangest sensation, not unlike when he had forgotten something important but couldn’t remember it despite the lingering sense of urgency. That was what had filled the little square, urgency like a tensely held breath. Alarmed, he looked around.
The recent autumn rains had made the packed dirt black with moisture. Crows sat atop the posts at the yard’s border regarding him with some interest. One had a wriggling beetle clutched in its beak. The air, Min La noticed, was unbearably heavy. It reminded him of that time when he had followed his brother to his army encampment near the coast. The rains had come in the night and he had been soaked through looking for shelter somewhere among the soldiers’ tents. Taking refuge in a thin forest nearby he had noticed that all at once the animal sounds in the trees had stilled. Quiet had fallen in layers growing heavier and heavier until little Min La had feared he might be going deaf. But then the silence had been shattered suddenly by a blinding crash of lightning. Not ten yards from where he had been standing, a tree had been struck and immediately caught fire. It had burned for hours before the rain had put it out. Min La’s brother had found him hiding when he had come to inspect the tree. He had been sent home in the morning and subjected, once again, to his father's disappointment.
The sense of held breath in the yard felt eerily similar to that moment before the lightning had struck. Silence was layering heavily, building and building, even the crows made no sound. Remembering the crashing lightning strike and the burning tree all those years ago, though he didn’t know why he did it, Min La took a step back.
At that moment, with a crashing almost like a lightning strike, a man burst through a pile of stacked wooden planks at the mouth of the alley to the left of where Min La stood. The wooden planks splintered and scattered into the muddy earthen yard. The noise of it shattered the thick silence. Min La felt his ears ring and found himself clamping his hands over them as if to protect himself. Startled, the crows alighted from their perches with a chorus of angry caws. The beetle was abandoned to wriggle into the soft soil.
Still stunned, Min La turned to the alley. The man who had burst through the pile of wood was sprawled now on the scattered pieces. A sword had clattered with the wood across the alley and into the muddy yard. It remained half-embedded in the black, spongy soil. The man was dragging himself backward with one arm, the other clutched to his chest as if wounded. He was searching the ground around him for his sword.
He wore a fine black soldier’s golt trimmed in green, and pants of dark gray wool. His brown cloak, coated in mud, seemed to be preventing him from crawling with any speed. Abandoning his search for the sword, he tried to get the cloak out from under his legs, yelling in frustration or pain as he did so. Min La saw then the blood that was streaked across the ground and the wood under him. Blood trickled through his fingers where his hand clutched his chest. The situation was clear enough: this was a fight and the man was losing. He had probably already lost.
At that thought Min La began to search the alley from which the man had emerged for any sign of his opponent. He had taken several steps back when the man had burst into the yard, but now he took a step or two closer. Just then the remainder of the pile of planks was shoved aside and another man — this one in a long black suede golt and gray cloak — approached the sprawled, wounded man, the point of his blade already shining with fresh blood.
This new figure, the man in gray and black, moved too slowly, Min La thought. His opponent was on the ground, he could easily finish him off. Why didn’t he?
The man in gray spoke then, his voice crisp and calm, “Where is he?”
“Dead,” came the reply. Min La saw blood on the wounded man’s teeth.
He considered running away. Somehow, neither of them had noticed him yet. But soon this tall gray man would kill his opponent and then he would see Min La standing there and he would come for him next. No matter who these men were, no one could get away with murder inside a city. The city patrol would have the winner of this fight — the man in gray, by the looks of it — in chains before sundown. The gray man must know this. He would not leave a living witness.
But if Min La ran now, he would certainly be noticed.
“We will find him,” the man in gray said to his bleeding victim. “But if you tell us where you’ve hidden him, I will spare you.”
The man on the ground laughed and made no reply. Min La had begun to understand, vaguely, that this man, the one who would soon be dead, was some kind of bodysword. And judging by the quality of his golt — and his sword, which was close enough for Min La to touch — he was from a wealthy House. This other man, the one in gray, was hunting his charge.
“Very well,” he said to the bodysword’s defiant laughter. And he raised the sword to strike.
At that moment Min La leapt forward. He plucked the sword from where it had been planted in the mud and rushed past the sprawled figure. At full speed, he closed the distance fast. The looming gray figure barely had time to react before Min La plunged the point of the blade through his black suede golt and into his chest. He fell beneath him.
Min La’s aim had been truer than he had expected. The blade had gone through the man’s ribs and up into his heart. He was dead.
The man on the ground lifted his free hand and gasped, “Behind you!”
Min La turned in time to see another attacker cloaked in gray running down the alley. His cloth was similar enough to that of his dead comrade that it must have been some kind of uniform. He wondered what House they were from. But he could not wonder for long. Whoever he was, he had his sword out and would be upon him quickly. Min La yanked the blade from the chest of the dead man under him. He tried to remember his training, but so many years had passed.
Half-staggering as he tried to stand, the sword in his hand was suddenly very heavy and he could not hold it upright. It fell, its point sparking on the flagstones. He was too weak to lift it in time, and too weak to stand in time. So he did the one thing he had always done when his brother had been sparring with him and he had known he could not win. He stuck out a leg and tripped him.
Surprised, the man in gray fell hard to his knees. Min La finally stood and heaved the sword up with the aid of his knee. With all the strength he could muster, he swung the blade hard, slashing low, a clean cut across the man’s throat. Blood sprayed the ground and the stone walls and Min La’s thin, worn coat. His shoulders burned from the weight of the steel.
He let the point of the sword fall to the ground and leaned on the hilt, covering his mouth with his hand. The smell of the blood on his fingers surprised him and he doubled over nearly vomiting. A retching heave left his mouth, but he managed to recover. Though the effort burned his chest and his throat.
On one summer evening years ago, when Min La had won a sparring match by tripping his brother and then bringing the blunt wooden edge of his blade to his throat where he lay stunned in the dirt, he had not said anything for the rest of the day. It wasn’t until they were riding back to their father’s estate that Min La has asked him if he was angry.
“No,” his brother had said. “But I cannot decide if you’re clever or conniving. Tricks will win for you from time to time. But if you learn to rely on them alone, you will lose your honor very quickly.”
“What use is honor if I am dead?”
“Your honor is a thing that lives in you, Little Shadow. If you do not tend it, it will die. And then what will you become? Sometimes you have to make a choice based not on whether or not you will win, but rather on whether or not it will wound your character.”
The ties on his sleeves had come loose and his hands were half knotted in the pale blue fabric of his coat where they gripped the sword. He was so distracted trying to find the brown strips of cloth that he did not see the gray-cloaked man collapse, blood gushing in sickening bursts from the cut on his throat. The wet gurgling sounds he made as he died turned Min La’s stomach and he once again had to fight to keep his meal.
He wiped his hands on his stained coat, then he peeled it off. And then, rather abruptly, he sat. His legs were jelly and his arms burned. The two bodies in the alley were bleeding enough to have made a small, shining lake of red. The smell of blood was overwhelming. Min La glanced into the yard and saw that the crows had returned and were watching him very closely.
He wasn't sure why, but as he struggled to catch his breath, he found himself crawling to the bodies of the two men he had killed and checking their pockets. Perhaps it was instinct, or the need to distract his mind from what had just happened.
“What are you doing?” the wounded bodysword asked, breathless.
This one had nothing, not a scrap in any pocket. And so he went to the other, the one whose throat he had cut. He found a small knotted length of leather in one pocket, but nothing else.
“What are you doing?” the man asked again.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Min La replied, surprised at how angry the situation was making him.
“You’re looking for money, aren’t you?”
“You are very perceptive.”
The man almost laughed. Then he coughed and blood sprayed his chin. At that Min La abandoned his pointless search of the bodies and went to him. He felt himself begin to calm as he looked at the many wounds on the pale, weakened bodysword. He was certain that the man would not live much longer and he pitied him greatly.
He said, as Min La attempted to hoist him upright, “These fellows don’t carry anything on them except steel. It is their rule.”
Min La said nothing.
“Do you not care who they are? These men you have killed?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“How so?”
Min La dragged the man over and propped him against the wall of the alley. He said, “They wanted you to give up your charge. Whoever they are, that makes them villains.”
“You are very perceptive.” The man considered him for a moment, then added, “Do you not care who I am? Who my charge is?”
Min La wasn’t sure it mattered. Whoever the dead men were, they were dead now and in the care of Ávoth. Whoever this bodysword was, he was probably soon to follow. The part of him that might have been curious about the details was still struggling under the weight of all the blood.
“They are Houseless,” the man offered. “Mercenaries.”
“I don’t care,” he said. Then, “How do you know?”
“I know—” the man grimaced in pain “—their master. There are probably more in the city. Looking for me.” He nodded at the bodies. “And them.”
Min La hadn’t thought of that. The friends of these Houseless mercenaries would probably come to kill him long before the city patrol. The brutal reputation of all Houseless mercenary bands was more than just rumor. Min La had seen them before roving the mountain roads in packs, killing travelers and stripping them bare. There was no law that could stay their killing hand.
Well, he thought, absurdly, if he was going to kill someone…
The man said, “Did you kill them to help me or to rob them?”
Min La didn’t know how to answer. He decided then, probably too late, that whatever there was between the wounded bodysword and these Houseless mercenaries, it was none of his business. Though he also found himself wondering what had become of the bodysword’s charge.
But Min La shook his head. “I do not want to get involved in any of this. I saw the situation and decided to help.”
“Decided?” the man asked with a smile. “Just like that? How fortunate for me.”
Min La had the sense that he was being gently mocked. The dying bodysword’s tone reminded him of his brother. It seemed that a great many things reminded him of his brother these days.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“But you don’t want to be involved.”
Distantly, he remembered the words of the temple master. What if you let go and let Héothenin guide your feet to exactly the place you need to be?
He did not need to be here. His being here hadn’t helped in any real way. The man would still die, that was plain enough. What Min La had done hadn’t changed anything.
“Thank you,” the bodysword said and Min La, ashamed of his failure to save him, made sure not to meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Then he pressed his wadded coat against the wound on the bodysword's stomach. Now that the situation had calmed somewhat, Min La had a chance to look at him. He was perhaps in his forties, though his trimmed beard was streaked with gray. When he looked at Min La, his gray eyes shone and his thin mouth relaxed into a slight smile. However pointless, Min La tried to focus on staunching the bleeding. He had begun to fear that he would be here when this man died. A person took a certain amount of responsibility for someone if he was there to witness his death. At least that’s what Min La’s father used to say.
“Take care, child,” he had said. “Ávoth might call you as a witness. And one does not walk lightly in the House of Ávoth.”
But the bodysword put his bloody hands weakly on Min La’s wrist and pushed him away.
“There’s no need,” he said with a smile, his teeth red with blood. “This is not even the worst of it.”
Then he opened his golt and showed Min La a deep gash in his chest. The blood flowed from it freely.
“What is your name, young man?”
Min La tried to use his coat to wipe the blood off his hands. “My name is Min La,” he answered finally.
“Your Housename?”
He shook his head. “I have no House.”
“No one is born Houseless.” He reached out with his bloody hand as if to touch Min La’s chest. When he looked down he saw that his brother’s martial seal had come out during the fight. Before he could put it away, the man had grasped it gently with the tips of his fingers. He held it for several seconds, long enough to study it closely and see the truth etched onto its worn surface. Gently, he ran his thumb over the words it bore, reading them.
“No one is born Houseless,” he repeated, his face suddenly grim. When he looked again at Min La it was like he was seeing him for the first time. There was, he realized with surprise, grief in the bodysword's eyes.
Min La took the seal out of his hand and shoved it back under his golt.
“I am Sen Rin No-Hŏnol.” The bodysword put his bloody hand on his chest and bowed his head.
Min La stared. “Hŏnol is the Palace House,” he said. “The House of the royal servants and the royal—”
“Bodyswords.” Sen Rin nodded. “Indeed. I am afraid, my young friend, that I must now ask a favor of you.”