Prophecy of Tears: CH3: Triad
Triad - part 2
Outside, the wind howled and threw snow against the duracrys window in one of the fierce spring storms common to Falcon's Crossing. Inside, the woman known to the Diamond Sword as the Pure drew a bamboo hand rake through white sand in one of the Eight Sublime Patterns: "Crane Under Moon." She worked without haste, letting the motion come with the economy of long practice. Her robes rustled in soft counterpoint to the sound of the rake's teeth.
A gust battered at the window, and the wind shrieked as if in frustration. The Pure kept her focus on the stroke of her hand. The ancestors were angry. They were right to be, for treachery nested in the monastery. Treachery, yes, in the Triad itself. After all the effort and sacrifice, this betrayal was intolerable. But before action was taken, there must be stillness of spirit. The Pure had come here to meditate and consider the options.
Finished at last, she placed the rake by her side and examined the result. To her discerning eye, the pattern was far from perfect. Yet the flaws themselves represented part of a greater pattern incorporating the laws of Entropy, and therefore - paradoxically - made the final pattern just as it should be. Imperfection created perfection.
Water that is too pure holds no fish, she reminded herself.
Yet her spirit remained troubled. There were imperfections in the Plan. Riding the dragon carried certain risks, but the Plan had been crafted over decades, and its flaws had been minimal.
Until now.
Fury still lived, though it was to be hoped the Starwolf would soon remedy that failing. The wilderzone needed a leader more open to Triad influence. In addition, the Court of Blades had proven intractable of late, doubtless because of the machinations of that rogue kenshin Dur-Miquel. Something would have to be done about that one. And then there was this latest treachery, of course.
Ayia, it was time. Her legs were stiff from kneeling, so getting her old bones up proved difficult, but the Pure managed gracefully. She ascended a raised wooden platform overlooking the sand garden and assumed the lotus position on the quilted floor. A tray next to her held a small white pot and a pair of matching teacups painted with a delicate likeness of cherry blossoms. The fragrance of fresh tea suffused the air, and the Pure breathed it in with pleasure. She made no move to pour, but merely looked at the pattern she had made, letting its harmony fill her soul.
"May I serve?" A man's voice. Silky smooth like a rumble of velvet, yet precise as a razor in its measure of each word. It came from the other side of the tea tray, less than an arm's length away. She had heard no one approach, but this did not surprise her.
She finished one last deep prana breath before inclining her head. The faint trickle of pouring liquid reached her ears, and a moment later, a scarred brown hand offered her a cup. She accepted it, cherishing the heat it brought to her hand. Steam puffed from the rim like dragon's breath. She sipped carefully. The tea was very good.
"You are late, Ghost," she said at last.
"I did not wish to disturb your meditation, O Pure One."
"Ah. But my meditations are already disturbed. This tea is excellent, is it not?"
The Ghost's chuckle reminded her of dead leaves rustling across a stone floor. The Pure suppressed a shiver.
"Most delicious," he said. "Thank you also for this magnificent view, though I wish I could see it more clearly. What is the color of the wind?"
She returned her cup to the tray. "It pains me to say. To my poor eyes, the light strays as through a dark mirror."
"In accusing a reflection, you might in truth come to accuse yourself." The note of warning in his voice was palpable.
She fixed the Ghost with her sternest gaze. He was a small man, masked with the obsidian visage of a sharp-faced tengu. He wore a plain robe of black linen printed with a batik of preying mantises, and his teacup rested untouched before him. His eyes were beads of shadow. She bored into them with all the force of her will and faith.
"Evil cannot shatter truth, Ghost," she said. "I know what I see."
He put his cup down also. "A broken mirror will not reflect again," he warned.
She snorted. "What of that? Fallen flowers never return to the new branches."
"The Mandates guide my actions." His eyes glittered. "How stands the Unyielding?"
She made a dismissive gesture. "I cannot wait upon the enlightenment of others. The elephant does not take the rabbit's path!"
He gave her a short bow. "Lady, the Mandates constrain my actions. Yet if the elephant comes down the mountain, the mantis will not block the road."
"Very well. Then I tell you this: He moves to counter your Ghost at the Firetruce."
The Ghost nodded and flowed to his feet. "I will send a cautionary instruction and watch how the stones are placed. If I discover you are correct, O Purest of the Pure, then will I perform my duty." He bowed again, this time in farewell, and retreated, gliding noiselessly onto the floor and into the shadows.
The Pure let the tiniest smile spill onto her face as she picked up the teacup and sipped the cooling liquid. The encounter had gone as she had planned. A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip, it was said. Very well. She would ensure the Ghost found something enlightening when he looked into the mirror. The Reflective would pay for his defiance, and another imperfection would be obliterated from the Pattern.
Outside, the wind howled approval.[1]
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