Five Odd Honors Read online

  FIVE ODD

  HONORS

  TOR BOOKS BY JANE LINDSKOLD

  Through Wolf’s Eyes

  Wolf’s Head, Wolf’s Heart

  The Dragon of Despair

  Wolf Captured

  Wolf Hunting

  Wolf’s Blood

  The Buried Pyramid

  Child of a Rainless Year

  Thirteen Orphans

  Nine Gates

  Five Odd Honors

  FIVE ODD

  HONORS

  JANE LINDSKOLD

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  New York

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  FIVE ODD HONORS

  Copyright © 2010 by Jane Lindskold

  All rights reserved.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor ® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-1702-5

  First Edition: May 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Jim

  From a Tiger to her Dragon

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to those who read this and assured me that weird was the only way the story would work. These include: Jim Moore, Bobbi Wolf, Phyllis White, and Yvonne Coats. My editor, Melissa Singer, gave the manuscript lots of her time. My agent, Kay McCauley, kept my spirits up.

  Special thanks to those readers who have contacted me to share their responses to the earlier books in this series.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CHAPTER XXIX

  CHAPTER XXX

  CHAPTER XXXI

  PROLOGUE

  Brenda Morris sat down at her computer, her fingers flying as she wrote a letter she knew she’d never be permitted to send.

  “Dear Shannon,

  “In your last e-mail, you sort of yelled at me for not staying in touch better this summer. No. I haven’t gotten stuck-up working for a movie star. Nothing like it.

  “It’s just that, well, there’s so damn much I’m not allowed to talk about, and it’s the stuff that I really want to talk about. Take Pearl—my famous boss’ as you called her. No. Go back further. Start with my dad hauling me out here to California to introduce me to a guy it turns out he’s known since they were both, like, ten. Maybe younger. I’m still trying to work all of this out. Take getting to that guy’s office—his name is Albert Yu and he’s famous, too, in a really weird way—and finding it trashed. And Albert Yu’s missing. And when we finally find him, well, he’s still sort of missing. And soon my dad is, too . . .

  “Then there’s finding out that Dad talks Chinese like a native, and that this skill is perfectly normal compared with the fact that he’s a sorcerer of a real obscure sort. And so’s Pearl. And so’s Albert. And . . . Jeez . . . so am I, at least a little. Yeah. This summer, I’m interning in magic and self-defense.

  “Hell. Can you see why I can’t talk about it?

  “You said you wanted me to tell you all about the people I’ve been meeting, the things I’ve been doing, that you already know I make a great chocolate mousse, thank you very much. Tell you the good stuff .

  “Okay. How about this? I’ve met a white tiger the size of a house. No, I’m not exaggerating. His name’s Pai Hu. I’ve talked to dragons and turned into a rat. Really.

  “I’ve made some new friends, and seen them bleeding, half crazy with terror. I’ve been cut by a sword. I’ve seen one of my new friends, a really cool old man named Waking Lizard, sprawled, deadddddddddddddddddd”

  Brenda’s hand stuck on the keyboard, that final letter stuttering out like her own heartbeat, as she remembered the horrible realization that victory tasted a whole lot like defeat.

  She didn’t realize she was crying until the hot, wet drops hit the backs of her hands.

  “Shannon,” she said aloud, her voice tight with tears. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t even tell you about the guy I . . . I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Brenda touched a few keys, let the words shine bright, then struck them away to nothingness, wishing, just a little, that all her problems could be erased so easily.

  “Thundering Heaven has betrayed us,” the ghost of Loyal Wind reported, his voice tight with suppressed fury.

  He who when alive had been the Horse manifested much as he had in the prime of life: a tall man, his shining black hair cut close to a well-shaped head. The styling of that hair showed some vanity for, although it was worn short, the sideburns were long and neatly squared. He wore a full mustache and a small chin beard. Loyal Wind’s clothing was simple, a long tunic, trousers, and riding boots, but the fabric was the best, the embroidered trim sumptuous.

  The one to whom he spoke, Nine Ducks, she who in life had been the Ox, was nothing like him. Even in death, where the choice of appearance reflected the spirit’s mental state more than any fidelity to the life lived, Nine Ducks manifested as an old woman, bent and leaning on a cane.

  Appearance of age notwithstanding, Nine Ducks possessed a tremendous vitality of spirit. She was attired in a shenyi—the long, full-sleeved robe praised by the philosopher K’ung for embodying a unique combination of functionality and symbolic import. The elaborate embroideries that covered the golden-yellow fabric invoked luck, prosperity, and longevity.

  “Thundering Heaven has betrayed us?” she said. “How?”

  “He has taken Bent Bamboo, the Monkey, into his keeping.”

  “Is Thundering Heaven holding the Monkey prisoner?”

  Loyal Wind frowned. “I am not certain. Thundering Heaven may simply have made certain that the Monkey would hear only one version of recent events. For what ever reason, the Monkey will not see me. Without his cooperation, I cannot reach him.”

  “And without the Monkey,” Nine Ducks said, straightening, although she still leaned upon her cane, “we cannot move forward with our plans to open the gates into the Lands Born from Smoke and Sacrifice. Why would Thundering Heaven do this? Surely he does not wish our exile to be extended. Surely a hundred years and more is enough.”

  “Thundering
Heaven is complex,” Loyal Wind replied in a tone that indicated he did not approve of such complexity. “Or so I have been told. Debating Thundering Heaven’s motivations can wait. Among the living, our allies include the Rat, the Tiger, the Hare, the Dragon, the Rooster, the Pig, and the Dog. Among the dead, you and I—Horse and Ox—have agreed to join forces with the living. Even so, if we are to open the final gate into the Lands, we must have the Snake, the Ram, and the Monkey.”

  Nine Ducks nodded. “And among the living, these three are useless to us. We must have the cooperation of the dead.”

  “Yes.”

  Loyal Wind extended one callused hand. Where nothing had been before, there stood a powerfully muscled chestnut stallion, strength and swiftness singing from every line. The stallion was caparisoned for battle. As Loyal Wind swung into the saddle with easy grace, the ghost’s attire shifted to match the warlike gear worn by his steed.

  “The living must be informed about this turn of events,” Loyal Wind announced, looking down at Nine Ducks. “I have a connection to them which I can exploit to make contact, even though they have not summoned me.”

  “Very well. You tell the living,” replied Nine Ducks, pushing herself to her feet with her cane. “I will warn the dead.”

  Brenda Morris was growing accustomed to having really odd dreams, but this one was about to get star billing.

  She’d been half reclining on the grassy bank bordering a dancing, laughing stream. A handsome young man was seated next to her.

  The young man’s eyes were wide, round, and exactly the color of freshly opened spring leaves. His hair, the red-gold of dark honey, was curly, cut just long enough to look untamed without being in the least feminine. He had a wonderful mouth, full-lipped and sensuous. A moment before, he had been singing.

  At least Brenda heard music: robust and rhythmic as any rock-and-roll piece, but flavored with harps and flutes rather than electric guitar and drums. She didn’t know what you called this type of music, but she knew she liked it. She also couldn’t remember the name of the young man who was sitting next to her, but she felt fairly certain he was about to kiss her, and she liked that, too.

  Brenda felt a little odd about how much she hoped the young man with the green eyes and the red-gold hair would kiss her.

  This was a dream. Certainly it was all right to let a man kiss you in a dream, even if . . . you loved another man? Something like that.

  For a moment Brenda had a vision of that other young man, the memory of his face suspended between her and the youth with green eyes. This face had slanting, almond-shaped eyes, dark and serious. It was framed by silky black hair worn as long as her own, caught back with a leather tie.

  This second man was as handsome as the green-eyed youth of her dream, but far less real. Brenda couldn’t even remember his name.

  The young man with the red-gold hair cupped Brenda’s cheek in one of his musician’s hands. There was an urgency in the brilliant green of his gaze, an urgency Brenda didn’t think was entirely related to the kiss his lips still shaped.

  Something was buzzing in her ear.

  Brenda shook her head, moving out of reach of that cupping hand. She smelled horses. Sweaty horses. Hay and manure.

  What had happened to the stream? Where was the grassy bank? Suddenly, Brenda was sitting upright on a straw bale, the freshly cut straw a brighter gold than the hair of the young man who sat next to her, bolt upright and looking distinctly uncomfortable. A moment ago he’d been wearing . . .

  A cap-sleeved tunic? Yes! He’d been dressed like a page or young squire from that book of Arthurian tales her grandmother Elaine had loved to read aloud when Brenda had been too small to read for herself.

  Now the young man wore denim coveralls and a short-sleeved, red-plaid cotton shirt. The music in the background blended temple bells and brass chimes incongruously with banjo and fiddle. The green-eyed youth no longer looked as if he were about to kiss Brenda. Now his expression was distinctly annoyed.

  A chestnut horse had thrust its head in over the half-open door. Then a man stood there instead, a Chinese man with a full mustache and very short beard. He was wearing ornate armor and a helmet upon which a pair of the longest plumes from a pheasant’s tail were set. These caught a faint breeze, giving the Chinese man an illusion of motion although he stood perfectly still.

  Brenda recognized the new arrival at once.

  “Loyal Wind! What are you doing here? For that matter, what am I doing here? I was sitting on a stream bank. There was a . . .”

  She looked around. The young man with the green eyes had vanished like the dream he had been.

  “Why am I in a barn?” Brenda concluded, not really wanting to explain that she’d been sitting on the riverbank with a young man who was not the dark-eyed, black-haired young man whose name she could now remember perfectly.

  Flying Claw. His name was Flying Claw.

  Loyal Wind chose to answer her last question. “Perhaps you are in a barn, Brenda Morris, because I am the Horse, and where else would you expect to find a horse?”

  “In a parking lot,” Brenda muttered.

  Loyal Wind looked startled, and Brenda hastened to explain.

  “A joke some little kids I knew told over and over. They had just discovered knock-knock jokes, but they didn’t understand the logic behind them . . . Oh, never mind. What’s going on? What are you doing in my dream?”

  The barn was gone now. Brenda and Loyal Wind were standing, facing each other on a dry and barren steppe. Cliffs could be seen in the distance, burntorange, barren of all but greyish scrub growth in shadowed crevices.

  “I am a bit surprised to find myself in your dream,” Loyal Wind admitted. “I sought to bring a message to one of the Thirteen Orphans. I had thought my desire would connect me to Deborah or Riprap since they were among the Orphans who traveled to the Nine Yellow Springs under my guidance. Still, you took part in that journey as well. The Rat is the sign opposed to the Horse on the wheel. There is a strong attraction between opposites.”

  “But I am not the Rat,” Brenda protested. “That’s my dad.”

  She caught herself rationalizing aloud.

  “I know, I know. Dad didn’t go on that journey, and so maybe that’s the reason you reached me and not him. Maybe the others are both awake. Is it easier for you to contact someone who is asleep?”

  “Infinitely,” Loyal Wind said, and Brenda could tell that, for him at least, this explained the anomaly. She made a mental note to find out how late Deborah and Riprap had slept.

  But Loyal Wind was speaking.

  “I have come to bring the Orphans and their allies news of ill omen. You recall that when last we met, I agreed to journey through the Hells until I found the ghosts of the Thirteen Orphans—especially of those four of whom we had need—then seek to win them to our cause?”

  “Yes.” Brenda nodded. “We’ve been wondering how you were doing. Quite a few days have gone by since we parted. We’ve all been recovering, but recently Righteous Drum has started hinting that perhaps we should try some more traditional summons.”

  Quite a few days, Brenda thought. Well, just five. And I, for one, have been glad for them. What happened at the end of Tiger’s Road . . . I’ve needed time to think, to adjust.

  Loyal Wind, however, took Brenda’s comment as a reprimand. He answered with stiff , military exactitude.

  “You do realize that the afterlife is vast, far vaster than the worlds of the living, and to locate five spirits—not all of whom recalled me fondly—”

  “Yes. Yes,” Brenda cut in. “I’m sorry if I seemed unappreciative. Please, tell me what you learned.”

  Loyal Wind seemed appeased, but his words continued to hold the stiff tone of a report from scout to headquarters. “I located Nine Ducks, the Ox, first. I related to her the heroic tales of the dangers undergone in order to link the Nine Gates to the Nine Yellow Springs. This proved sufficient to win her to our cause.”

  Brenda remem
bered that Nine Ducks had been halfway won over already, but nodded understanding and approval.

  “Next in order on the wheel is the Snake,” Loyal Wind went on, “but as the Snake is not as greatly needed as the other two, I decided to leave Gentle Smoke for later. Equally, the Ram, my yin counterpart, was likely to be easy to convince—or so I judged, given that in life Copper Gong was fierce in her desire to return to the Lands. Thus, next I went searching for the Monkey.”

  “And did he refuse?” Brenda prompted when Loyal Wind fell silent.

  “Worse. I could not find Bent Bamboo at all—or rather, when I did, his trail blended with and then ended in that of another of the Exiles, one whom I had not sought.”

  “You’re procrastinating,” Brenda said. “Get on with it. I don’t want this dream to end like dreams do in those stupid books where the dreamer gets woken up right before she learns something vital.”

  Loyal Wind’s expression became vaguely disapproving, and Brenda remembered that in the strict hierarchy the Horse had been trained in, he would have expected more respect from a junior. Well, if he wanted abject respect, he shouldn’t have come breaking up her dream—especially when she was about to get kissed.

  “Where the signs showed me that I should find Bent Bamboo, the Monkey,” Loyal Wind continued, “instead I found Thundering Heaven, who was once the Tiger. Fierce and defiant, Thundering Heaven awaited me before the dark mouth of a sheltered cave. I knew without asking that the Monkey was within, and that unless I fought Thundering Heaven, I could not pass into that place.”

  “So you came to report,” Brenda said. “Smart.”

  Loyal Wind looked slightly embarrassed. “Actually, I was considering charging forth and challenging Thundering Heaven when I felt Nine Ducks seeking to contact me. Upon hearing her voice, I realized the wisdom in letting someone else know the situation before I confronted the Tiger, for Thundering Heaven manifested—even as did I—as a man in his prime.”