In a distant land the Pona Hanni will choose their incarnation
To manhood will they live on distant shores, a child of metal and fire
Before returning on alabaster wings of light, to their mountain home of old, 

In new and golden form restored once more to Tahara-Li
They will bear the gift of tongues and a wisdom forged in flame
And for a year and a day will they share their gifts with chosen family
And the family in turn will help them regain the True Sight
Strength and humility combined to reveal a new beginning for Tahara-Li 

Then for seven years and seven days will they spread their word
To the world beyond their ancient walls and sheltering hills
In return will much be learned until the Saiota [Inner Eye] at last reopens
Returning in triumph to bring a new strength to the world from Tahara-Li 

Edain came awake, as he always did, completely and without transition, a few minutes before dawn. He lay on his back on his narrow pallet and stared up at the gray vagueness of his room’s ceiling, considering the coming day and the changes his life was about to undergo. Again.

It had been one year ago yesterday that his life had taken the strangest turn he could ever have imagined, when he had been magically torn from his old, comfortable life and dropped into this new, alien land and life. He often wondered what had ever happened to those three strangers he’d met in the tavern on that cold winter night. His mother had always said he was too stupidly affable for his own good, and he supposed she was probably right – otherwise, why did he so easily let the lady, Mariala, talk him into stepping into that weird Ancient device?

He was pretty sure she hadn’t intended what had happened next, and he hoped she didn’t feel too guilty about it. He assumed it was she who had sent the gold and the Ancient artifact after him; if so it followed that she would have brought him back if she could have. At least those two gifts had been a true boon to him, and he was grateful for that, even if he should probably have been angry instead. He never could keep an anger up, though, it just wasn’t who he was. Besides, she’d been nice to him, even if she did keep calling him Edan.

So, as confused as he’d been when he’d suddenly gone from that spookily lit underground room to a sparse pine forest slope lit by pale winter afternoon sunlight, he’d never really been angry. Confused, certainly, but in any case, he hadn’t had a lot of time to dwell on it, since he’d arrived about a meter from six orange- and blue-clad men and woman and their firewood-laden mule.

They’d been at least as surprised as he was, and after a brief moment of mutual shock, they’d begun jabbering at him in some sing-songy foreign gabble he couldn’t make heads nor tails of. In return, once his heart stopped pounding, he’d tried to speak very slowly, and then increasingly loudly, to try and make them understand proper Yashpari. They just looked confused in turn, and jabbered more loudly at him.

Their mutual frustration had reached a momentary impasse when there’d been a musical hum behind him – he’d turned to see the air shimmer for a second, then a flash of white light (which the monks said looked like bird’s wings, but he thought it had looked more wave-like, personally). As the light had faded he’d seen on the ground a small pile of old slagged, melted Khundari gold coins and an odd, boxy object of rose gold metal and pale crystal. He’d recognized both instantly – the gold he and the cantor, Volk, had found in the abandoned Khundari hunting lodge, and the odd object Miss Mariala had found in the ancient room beneath the lodge.

For a moment his heart had surged again at the thought they might be coming to rescue him… but when no further shimmers and wings (or waves) had appeared, his heart had sunk again. He’d bent down almost absently to pluck the metal-and-crystal box from atop the gold, and as his skin had touched it the crystal had flared with a brilliant purple light. It felt like someone had jabbed a red-hot metal wire into his brain, and he’d tried to both scream and drop the object, able to do neither.

The pain had passed almost as quickly as it had come, fading along with the violet glow. Now the strange object was cool and inert in his hand, although he still felt an urge to hurl it away from himself. But before he could act on the impulse one of the female monks had stepped up to him, looking concerned.

“Are you alright, my friend?” she’d asked, in a nice enough alto that reminded him of Master Ulthan’s wife’s voice. “That looked like it really hurt!”

“Yeah, it did, but only for a second,” he’d replied absently, still looking at the odd thing in his hand. Then he’d realized she was suddenly speaking perfect Yashpari! Their gazes had locked in mutual wide-eyed shock.

“You’re speaking Yashpari now!” he blurted out, over her own surprised “You’re speaking Kyenshi now!”

Looking back, the next few minutes would have been hilarious to anyone watching the group as they gabbled, if now intelligibly, at each other. It had taken some back and forth, but eventually he’d realized it was him who had changed – they were still speaking their own language (which they called Kyneshi), but he could understand it now. Not like it was translated into proper Yashpari — just like he’d always known it. And when he spoke to the monks, it was in Kyenshi – which freaked him out for a moment, fearing he’d lost his ability to speak real language. But when he made the effort, by speaking to himself, he found he could still speak his native tongue perfectly. Well, as perfectly as he ever had, anyway.

He had explained to the very friendly monks what had happened to him, as best he understood it, but he wasn’t sure he’d made much sense. What seemed to get them all in a tizzy, though, was his mention of the White Crow Lodge. Even though he could understand their words now, he still couldn’t make any sense of what they were talking about then. Words like “prophesy” and “ponies” were flying, leaving him mystified.

“You must come back to Tahara-Li with us, Edain Haryx,” Suija, the girl monk who had first spoken to him, insisted. “The Abbas will explain everything. Please, will you come?”

It wasn’t like he’d had any better offers, that was for sure, and it was cold on that mountain-side. He’d said “Sure!” 

His life got very strange, very quickly. A very wizened old man, with shining white hair and a very long white beard, had explained to him that they believed Edain was the reincarnation of their spiritual leader, someone called the Pona Hanni (the monks hadn’t been talking about ponies after all, it turned out), who were themself the mortal avatar of their deity. It had taken a while for him to understand that this god, Byan’gon [beh-yon-GONE], was both male and female, as the mood took Him. Her? It? Them!

They had quickly compared calendars and determined that Edain had been born the day after the last Pona Hanni had died. That had been an old woman – apparently Byan’gon liked to switch genders with each change in avatars. She’d left some sort of deathbed prophecy about the next Pona Hanni’s return and apparently he, and his dramatic arrival, pretty much lined up with it. 

Usually the monks of Tahara-Li waited for five years after the death of a Pona Hanni, and then scoured the countryside looking for a child of the correct gender, with the correct birthday. They did some tests, and once they were agreed that they’d found the reincarnated Avatar, they whisked the kid off to be raised amongst them until he or she remembered all their past lives — which they called the Saiota, or the Opening of the Inner Eye, but also the Reawakening. They had a lot of names for things.

It was pretty unusual, but not unheard of, to go twenty years between Holy Avatars, but Edain had been dubious about the whole thing, once Abbas Wen Zi had gotten the idea into his head. Still, the monk was very old, and obviously very wise, and he didn’t say he believed Edain was this reincarnated Avatar, at least not right away. He’d taken a full tenday of questioning, studying and meditating (or sleeping, Edain wasn’t always able to tell the difference) before deciding the question to his own satisfaction.

The old Abbas had died seven days after declaring to his monastery that Edain Haryx was, in truth, the reincarnated Avatar of Byan’gon, their long-sought Pona Hanni. A bemused Edain, apprentice blacksmith and very lost boy, had promised the old man, on his deathbed, to give it time, despite his doubts. He felt he owed him that, after he’d helped Edain become aware of the the arcane powers he already possessed – abilities that explained so much about his skill at working metals, and why everyone (mostly) liked him.

But how much time? Edain still didn’t feel particularly reincarnated, even after a year of lessons, teaching and meditation. They kept telling him it would take time to achieve the Saiota, years probably, but he had to admit to feeling a little impatient. Plus, he hadn’t been laid in a year, not since that last night with Canotr Volk… while the monks here weren’t celibate, like those of Alea back home, they seemed awfully reluctant to have a tumble with their god incarnate. Honestly, it was getting to be a problem… 

The monks also seemed in no particular hurry for him to open this Inner Eye thing, and were mostly content to follow his lead, when he cared to express an opinion. Both the successor Abbas, Fyang Yu, and the old Senior Archivist, Sensin Wa, had proved to be very helpful in guiding him through his strange new responsibilities, and his newly awakened abilities. They were very different men, but both seemed dedicated to the monastery and to his own education, guiding him through the forging of the golden torc that was the symbol of his status… it was a big deal that he’d been able to design and craft it himself. he’d also worked the Ancient translator device into it, so he’d never lose it. 

He did get the feeling sometimes that Fyang Yu was sometimes frustrated when he refused to follow some of his suggestions for ‘modernizing’ things, but as Sensin Wa frequently pointed out, the old ways had worked for years, and changes should not be made quickly nor all at once… if they were good, time would show it.

Time – how much time he owed was a question very much on his mind as the anniversary of his arrival neared. When someone, he wasn’t quite sure who it had been, had pointed out that the rest of the prophecy concerning the return of the Pona Hanni spoke of seven years and seven days teaching the world and learning from it, he’d jumped on the idea. Getting away from Tahara-Li would at least open up possibilities for finding a way home.

The Abbas had been against the idea at first, fearing for the Pona Hanni’s safety out in a dangerous world. He’d also pointed out that the prophecy was ambiguous, and didn’t necessarily call for him to leave the monastery. He could send his teachings into the world, and receive the world’s in return, without himself leaving the safety of Tahara-Li.

Old Sensin Wa had been very much against the idea too, an unusual occurrence for both men to agree on something. In the end Edain had put his foot, as the Pona Hanni, firmly down and insisted he would follow the prophecy as he understood it, and both men had been forced to concede the point. Somewhat to his surprise. And embarrassment.

Fyang Yu had insisted, and wouldn’t be swayed on it, that the Ponna Hanni must have a bodyguard. Edain had been adamant in turn that if he must have one, then he wanted Nong Suija. Fyang Yu had been resistant to that idea too, wanting someone hulking, like Yuwen Haji, but he’d given way on the point as well, eventually.

It was Sensin Wa who had suggested that he also take some of the guests currently resident in the monastery with him, at least on the first stage of his travels. And so the wandering monk of Kai Yi (whom Edain always thought of as Moonmonk, given the man’s mania for the Greater Moon), the mercenary Fire Archer Khatia, and the amusing troubadour Snow Crow would be joining him and Nong Suija as they set out in just a few hours. He liked them all, and was actually glad for more company… as much as he wanted to get out in the world, for so many reasons, its was also a scary thing if he was on his own.

And in seven years, who knew what might happen…?

————————

Suija moved slowly but methodically around her small cell, dusting the two shelves, the small table, and the pallet frame with her ostrich feather duster. Dust, the bane of my existence, ever since my childhood in Hejiagou [hege-EE-ah-gow], when my duster had been made of golden pheasant feathers… her thoughts shied away from going further down that path, a path she seldom allowed them to wander anymore. 

She didn’t like thinking about that time, when she’d been so happy, the time before her father had been called off to war. Called off, never to return. But today, as she prepared to begin a new and unsettling phase in her life, perhaps she should remember her past… at least some of it. 

She moved the duster over the empty spot on the higher shelf where the jade carving of a dragon holding an ivory dadao had lain these last five years. Her father had won that high honor in the third, and he’d thought last, of the wars he’d fought in as a youth; it was the only personal possession she kept, and was now safely tucked into the pack that sat near the door.

She had been eight when Chonglin had been called up for that fourth, and truly last, war by their lord, Zhang Wei Qi. They’d wanted experienced soldiers, and it was his decoration from years ago that had brought him to the warlord’s attention. Her father had been forced to leave his young daughter in charge of their pig farm, her mother having died a few months after Suija’s birth… but then, he hadn’t expected to be gone long.

She still remembered that terrible day a month later, when the representative of the War Minister had appeared in their village, calling for the Death Banner to be brought forth. On that white cloth, the color of death, were beautifully painted the family names of those from the village who had fallen in battle. She remembered the thrill of horror as she’d seen the latest name, freshly painted – Nong.

Lord Zhang was an honorable Hou, and he had taken steps to ensure that the orphan girl would be well taken care of, his representatives whisking her off that very day to the City at the Center of the World, Imperial Kyenyin itself. She’d barely been given time to gather her meagre possessions, but as she’d calmly said to the old soldier “Time and tide wait for no man.”

He’d seemed surprised at that. “Byan’gon has graced your tongue, young one. I hope that serves you well in your new home.”

It had taken almost two tendays for the courteous but remote man to drop her off at that new home, Bao’er Yuan, the famous orphanage in the southern precincts of the Imperial capital. She had been overawed and terrified, but had kept it behind her impassive face. And everyone had been so kind… at first.

It had taken many months for her to realize that the House of Orphaned Children was far more than it appeared to the world to be. But NO, she would not allow her thoughts to go there, never again! That time was over and gone, and thanks to the kindness of Fyang Yu she had a better, cleaner life now, serving an Immortal worthy of the name, and of her service. 

As always when she thought of the Abbas she sent a small prayer of gratitude to Byan’gon for the man who had rescued her five years ago, and brought her into the blessings of that Immortal. As if the prayer had been a summoning spell, she turned to see the man himself standing in her doorway.

“Good morning, child,” Fyang Yu said, smiling fondly at her. “Are you prepared for your great new responsibilities, my dear?”

She bowed deeply. “Greetings, Master. Yes, I am ready, and will do all within my power to protect the Pona Hanni on his great journey of enlightenment.”

“Ah, good. I was afraid, after our talk yesterday, that you might have been having second thoughts,” his smile turned into a worried frown. “It was wrong of me to have expressed my inner fears about our young Avatar to you; such doubts should have been left unspoken.”

“No, I am grateful that you have trusted me with your thoughts, Master,” Sujia reassured him. “I’m certain they are unfounded, though. Surely Edain Haryx is no imposter, sent to corrupt usI But I promise you, I will keep my eyes wide for any signs that might prove such a suspicion true.”

“Good, good,” the Abbas nodded his head, his smile returning. “If I would trust anyone with the honor and sanctity of Tahara-Li and Byan’gon themself, it would be you, daughter-of-my-heart.”

He reached into the sleeve of his robe and pulled out a sachet of raw silk, tied with a hempen thread. “I have brought you a gift, my dear, to carry you through the early steps of your long travels. Here is a month’s supply, if you husband it carefully, of our tea that you love so greatly.”

She took the packet with another deep bow, concealing a certain moisture around her eyes. He had introduced her to this particular tea himself, shortly after he’d first brought her to the monastery. She’d been going through a rough time then, having terrible nightmares and feeling quite ill. He’d suggested this tea might soothe her, and indeed it had. Since then it had become something of a ritual with them, to have tea together twice a tenday, after the evening meal.

“Thank you, Abbas, I treasure your thoughtfulness, and I will make it last as long as I can.”

“Well, do not horde it unduly, child, or the herbs will go stale and lose their soothing properties,” he laughed. “But on the other hand, it is a gift for you, no need to share with your companions, eh? Not even the Pona Hanni. Enjoy it in solitude and think of me, my daughter-of-the-spirit.”

————————

Khatia finished her morning katas in the small courtyard off the guest quarters where she’d been staying this past tenday, and smiled. She was finally back to herself, thanks to the ministrations of both the Kwan Kari monk Mekha Viroj and the healers here in Tahara-Li. Her injuries from that last, disastrous battle in Kuhyen [que-yen] Pass were fully healed, and it didn’t look like she’d even have a scar to show for them. She sort of regretted that, just a little… but no scar also meant no reduction in function, and that was more important than her warrior’s vanity.

She had been uncertain what her next course of action should be, once her healing was complete, and had been grateful when Edain, that is, the Pona Hanni, had suggested she join his party when he set out on some sort of spiritual journey. It would give her time to think and consider her options. She doubted there was an Iron Eagle Corps to return to, after the debacle their last employer had thrown them into on the D’hanzhi, New Year Day; but maybe, if she could find any other survivors, she might put together her own mercenary force?

Mercenary life had not turned out to be quite what she’d dreamed of, all those years stuck at Fort Endless Sky, on the edge of the vast Centauri Steppes. There, in her unfair exile, she’d imagined she would serve herself as a mercenary soldier, picking and choosing her employers and battles as she saw fit, unbeholden to any other’s will. She’d had little doubt she would be in great demand, once prospective employers saw her in action. The reality had been a bit different…

She’d soon found that a mercenary’s life was not the banquet of choices she’d imagined. But if it wasn’t perfect, it was still better than most of her time in the Imperial Army had been. She was, more-or-less, her own woman, and she had found work — if not always to her taste, at least she began to gain a reputation. Eventually she had choosen to join the famed mercenary company known as the Iron Eagle Corps, and for 18 months life had been truly good. She’d finally felt vindicated in her life choices.

Then had come the contract with Lord Yagimashi and his very ill-advised foray into the mountains of Yongar… the new, young King of Yongar had proved every bit as able as rumor had suggested, and Lord Yagimashi every bit as incompetent as some in the Iron Eagle Corp had feared. He’d forced them to fight on heavy ground, in the face of an on-coming blizzard, where her own fire archers would be effectively useless. She’d been lucky to escape with her life when they were overrun by the Yongari troops, and that only thanks to her magical skill with the flame.

In the dire two days alone before the Kai Yi monk had stumbled across her, trying not to freeze nor bleed to death, she’d had time to reflect deeply on her life choices…

Born in a town on the outskirts of Kyenyin, the Imperial City at the center of the world, from early childhood Khatia had keen to be an archer and soldier in the Emperor’s army. She had also been fascinated by fire from a young age, sometimes to her parent’s distress. When she learned, at age 13, that there was such a thing as Imperial Fire Archers, there had been no holding her back. Despite her parents very mixed feelings about her ambitions, she was their only child and eventually they gave their permission for her to enter the Imperial Training Academy at age 14. 

In the Academy her enthusiasm and natural talents were quickly recognized, and within a year she was training in the even more elite Fire Archer’s School. Both her strong natural affinity for the Hono convocation of magic and her tremendous physical skill with a bow were developed in that rigorous program for the next several year. There was every expectation, by everyone including herself, that she would enjoy a long career in the Imperial Archery Corps following graduation.

After seven long, arduous, but very satisfying years, Khatia had graduated and applied to formally enter the Fire Archer’s Corp of the Imperial Army. As expected, she was easily approved. After less than a month, however, she had been unceremoniously dumped, shortly after her first formal parade review before the Imperial Family. Apparently the Dowager Empress had felt Khatia’s “excessive height” ruined the symmetry of the archers’ line. 

That’s all it took for Khatia to be demoted from the most prestigious posting she could have hoped for, the one she had dreamed of since childhood, and be sent instead to some dire garrison on the far western edge of the Empire. On the vast plains of the Centauri Steppes she had served out her five year enlistment, building up a truly impressive reservoir of anger at the unfairness of it all. When her hitch was up, she had declined to re-enlist, despite the pleas of her commanders not to throw away such a talent as she possessed.

She’d had no intention of throwing away her talent, of course, but she’d be damned if she’d spend it in service to a government that was willing to throw it away, and for the most trivial of reasons! No, she would serve herself as a mercenary soldier, and set out from Fort Endless Sky with high hopes and a burning pride…

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of a discreet cough from the doorway into the guest house. Abbas Fyang Yu stood there, a faint smile on his saturnine features, his hands folded into the voluminous sleeves of his blue robes. She wondered how long he’d been standing there watching her.

“My pardon if I am interrupting your exercise routine,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time in this private moment?”

“Of course, Abbas,” she replied, wiping the sweat from her face with a soft cloth, then tucking it back into her belt. “But perhaps we could step inside? It is rather cold out when one is not actively exercising.”

He gestured for her to enter and followed into the foyer of the guest house. It was empty at this early hour of the morning, with most guests either still asleep or already in the refractory eating breakfast. She herself preferred to eat later in the morning, avoiding the crowd and retaining the quiet and calm of the early morning a little longer into her day. 

They sat on the bench across from the door, and she politely waited for the holy man to begin. She’d only met him twice before during her tenday stay at the monastery— once in the infirmary shortly after she and Mekha Viroj had been admitted, and then two days ago, in his office. He had been perfectly courteous both times, yet there was just something about the man that set her nerves on edge, and it annoyed her that she couldn’t quite put a reason to the feeling.

“When we met two days ago,” he began, after a moment to apparently gather his thoughts, “I intimated to you that I had some concern over the woman the Pona Hanni has insisted on taking as his body guard on this journey into the wider world.”

In fact he had danced around the subject, implying but never actually stating, that the woman, Nong Suija was a dangerous wildcard, who might snap at any moment and go on a murder spree. Not in so many words, of course, but she had certainly felt that to be the implication. For awhile, in the early stages of the conversation, she had also had the distinct impression the Abbas thought her, as a mercenary, little more than a paid assassin… but he’d veered off that tack soon enough, and she wondered if she’d imagined it.

“I was perhaps indiscreet in sharing my fears with you, but having done so at least allows me to make this proposition to you.” He reached into the wide orange sash around his wait and pulled out a leather pouch, which looked quite heavy. “I know you are planning on joining the Pona Hanni for a least a time on his travels, for your own purposes. Since that is the case, I would like to hire you.”

“Hire me?” Khatia asked, her eyebrows going up in surprise. “To do what? As I think I made clear the other day, I am no hired assassin—“

“No, no, nothing like that,” Fyang Yu assured her. “On the contrary, it is a matter of protection that brings me to you, or at least of observation. I simply wish you to keep an eye on Nong Suija, to make sure she does no harm to the Pona Hanni. For that I am willing to pay you two months wages.” He handed her the heavy pouch, which proved to contain rather a lot of silver coins.

“This is considerably more than two months wages, Abbas. How long would you wish me to act as back-up body guard to your Pona Hanni?”

“At least two months, but if you feel your compensation warrants it, then as long as you feel you can serve.” He waited patiently as she mulled over the proposition, wisely not trying to hurry an answer.

Khatia had met the strange Western youth, and of course had heard the tales of his arrival at Tahara-Li. She didn’t know how much of them she believed, but she did know she rather liked the affable man — and had the distinct impression he didn’t believe he was any kind of living god, whatever those around him might say. She’d also met Nong Suija a time or two, and while she’d found her quiet, and maybe a bit odd in a way hard to put one’s finger on, she hadn’t got the impression the monk was dangerous. If all the Abbas wanted was a cautious pair of eyes, it seemed an easy enough job, in no way violating her principles… and heaven knew the extra money would give her more time to sort her options.

“Very well, Abbas, we have a deal,” she said, tucking the pouch into her own belt and bowing her head. He smiled and returned the gesture.

————————

Viroj was just finishing his breakfast, a bowl of hot oats in honey with dried apricots and a cup of yuong gold tea, when he saw the Abbas enter the refractory from the courtyard between it and the guest house. He thought the man had a rather smug look on his face, and wondered just what he’d been up to. Ah well, not his business.

He’d only met the man twice to speak to, the first time being on the day he and Khatia had arrived in the midst of a raging blizzard. Once Khatia had been seen to, the Abbas had inquired after his own business, and he had been indirect, without outright lying to the man. At the time he hadn’t felt it prudent to tell the head of a religious sect that rumors abroad in the land claimed that his holy superior, the famed Pola Hanni, was actually a demon-possessed monster. If it was true, who knows how far the corruption had spread; if not, well, the dangers of such an accusation spoke for themself.

 Of course, once he had actually met the Pona Hanni he was especially glad he hadn’t been more forthcoming, as it was glaringly obvious young Edain Hyrax was no demon. A foreigner, to be sure, and strange in the way of foreigners, but with an unexpected charm about him. Viroj had found himself rather drawn to the lad, actually. Which was a disappointment of its own, as yet another lead on a possible demon fell through. As they almost always did, it seemed.

One of the great disappointments of his life that was, actually: the dearth of true demonic possession in the world today. It was the thing that had attracted him to the worship of Kai Yi in the first place. He still so vividly remembered the day his foster family’s traveling acting troupe had been performing in a village when a monk of Kai Yi had arrived to investigate the rumor of a demonic possession. 

The battle between monk and demon-possessed sorcerer had been both terrifying and inspiring, in equal measures. It had totally upstaged the troupe’s own performance, of course, which had infuriated his foster parents, but he had been entranced. Three years later he had finally run away to seek out a temple of Kai Yi and dedicate himself to ridding the world of demons. He supposed the Naishi Roin players were still traveling the Kwan Kar countryside alternating between entertaining and robbing the peasantry, but honestly didn’t care enough to find out.

It was yet another disappointment that had lead him to where he was today. Last fall he had traveled far south into Pandari in pursuit of a renegade wizard who, given her depraved actions in Tackcho and Do’sha, seemed a very likely candidate for demonic possession. It had taken him months to tack down the sly and elusive mage, and when he had finally cornered her he’d been bitterly disappointed to discover she was nothing more than a run-of-the-mill psychopath with arcane powers. He’d dispatched her more in annoyance than passion, and headed back north.

Disappointing for him, but fortuitous for the mercenary Fire Archer he’d found in the lower reaches of the Kuhyen Pass, stumbling half-delirious from boulder to tree and on the verge of collapse. She’d try to draw her blade when he’d called out to her, thinking him one of her enemies no doubt, but couldn’t even clear the blade from the sheath. He’d found them shelter in a nearby cave and immediately set about treating her injuries.

Kai Yi had smiled on his efforts, and the Silken Wrappings of Ki ritual had helped the worst of her wounds heal in just a few hours. The next morning she was able to travel again, if still a bit slowly. The day after that they had reached the shelter of Tahara-Li monastery, if not quite before another blizzard had hit. The healing monks of the house had taken over her care then, and he had set about stalking his possible prey…

His second meeting with the Abbas of Tahara-Li had been two days ago. On that occasion the Abbas had come across him sparing with two of the monastery’s novices just outside the main gates, giving the youths some pointers on close-in knife work and the subtitles of identifying demonic possession. When he had finished the lesson, and the boys had bowed to both him and their superior before scampering off, the older man had asked for a moment of his time.

It seemed obvious to Viroj, in the subtle and indirect conversation that had followed, that the head of the monastery was sounding him out on his suitability to accompany his revered Pona Hanni on his great spiritual journey of enlightenment and teaching. He had no idea why, or if the older man had been satisfied with whatever he’d gleaned from Viroj’s somewhat laconic answers. Having asked his last question the Abbas had bowed his head slightly, risen, and taken his leave without another word. Viroij hardly knew what to make of the encounter, but he was quite sure he didn’t much care for Fyang Yu… he’d be glad to quit this place today.

————————

I’m sorry Jeff, the whole section I wrote about Snow Crow has just disappeared. Don’t know if I failed to save or what, but I can’t find it anywhere. Two hours down the drain…

It covered his birth in the temple of Mien-Jai in Kyoto, the capital of the island empire of Shoidan, to a Temple Devoteé to the Immortal Lady of Love (father unknown, of course); how an albino crow flew in the window and perched above the birthing bed while he came into the world, and how whatever name his mother had planned for him flew back out the window with the birdt — he was forever after known as Snow Crow.

Covered his fairly happy early childhood in the temple, where it was assumed a child as beautiful as he would follow in his mother’s foot steps as a temple prostitute, but how as he grew older the restrictions chafed him. How he increasingly found ways to sneak out, and the unsavory street toughs he ran with. How at sixteen, when he was set to take his formal vows, he’d gotten into trouble his roughish smile and charming charisma couldn’t get him out of – how he was framed by his Thieves’ Guild “friends” to take the fall for a serious crime, and was forced to flee the city two steps ahead of the Imperial Prefects. How even the countryside proved too hot to hold him, and he had taken an autumn sea voyage to Kwan Kar, and there used both his temple-taught entertainment skills (musical instruments, singing, acting, etc.) and his criminal skills learned on the streets, to make his way in the world as a wandering troubadour.

It covered how he’d found his way to Tahara-Li, having heard rumors of this new golden-haired incarnation of the Pona Hanni, and had been entertaining the monastery with songs and tales both holy and ribald. How he’d been invited by the charismatic youth, hardly older than his own 20 years, to join him and his other companions on his journey about the lands, and how he’d agreed, at least for a time.

And finally, how the monastery’s old Abbas, who clearly had little regard for men of his ilk, had warned him about trying to take advantage of the naive Pola Hanni, “inadvertently” letting it drop that the holy man would be secretly carrying a large number of valuable gems to fund his travels…

————————

Fyang Yu stared pensively out of the window of his private study and considered the Guan-Ju game table in his mind. All the tiles were in place, lined up just as he wanted them… now he need only wait for the first one to be tipped over — not by his hand, of course — and he would finally be rid of the roadblock that had detoured him from the direct path to his ambitions this long, annoying year. 

The sun-haired Westerner had thrown all his ambitions into the fire when he had dropped out of thin air on the slopes of Hingjui Mountain, a year ago today. Inadvertently, no doubt — the young oaf was too simple to have done all this deliberately, he was sure. Nonetheless… Fyang Yu ground his teeth as he recalled the events of that day. 

The old Abbas, who had governed the monastery of Tahara-Li ever since the passing of the last Pola Hanni, was finally nearing the end of his annoyingly long life. As his long-time second, Fyang Yu had been confident that day of his lock on the vote for successor that would follow the old man’s death. Indeed, he had been eagerly contemplating the great plans he had for the monastery, and the cult of Byan’gon, in the wider world — plans that would soon no longer be blocked by the hide-bound conservatism of old Wen Zi — when he’d been drawn by a clamor at the main gate. 

Several of the younger monks, including his own pet project Nong Suija, had been out in the thin pine forest above the monastery gathering firewood, but now were back, escorting a strange foreign-looking youth. They were calling for the Abbas, something about the return of the Pona Hanni, and despite the fact that he should have been on his deathbed the old man had tottered out to the central courtyard. Fyang Yu had hurried out himself, a premonition chilling his spine at the muttered talk he could hear from the rank-and-file monks.

The brothers and sisters who had been present when the… event… had occurred were not reticent in recounting the tale for the others — a shimmering in the air, a flash of white light like vast bird wings, and then this tall, bewildered-looking youth was standing before them. His golden hair gleaming in the winter sun, he’d spoken no civilized tongue at first, and the startled monks were at a loss as to what to make of him. Before they could decide on a course of action a second, smaller shimmer, and another flash of white wings, had revealed a pile of partially melted gold coins and a strange object of crystal and white metal on the ground at the boy’s feet. 

Suija had told him later, in private, that the youth had seemed to recognize the items. Again before the monks could act, he had bent to pick up the mysterious artifact from atop the gold. At his touch the crystal had glowed violet for a moment, she reported, and suddenly the boy could not only understand them, but could speak Kyenishi as well as any of them. 

Of course, even the slowest adept had recognized the elements from the damn prophecy this tale evoked. Oh, how Fyang Yu had wished it had been him on that mountain side… how differently events would have played out! Instead, with excited reverence, the monks had dragged the reluctant youth back to the monastery, there to babble the tale to all and sundry. 

Fortunately, for all his fossilized ways, the Abbas was not one to jump on the beer wagon, and Fyang Yu had assumed the old man would dismiss the idea of this sun-haired simpleton as the Pola Hanni reincarnated out of hand. To his shock, the senile old fool had instead seemed to take the possibility quite seriously! And while the old relic moved slowly, it still took him less than a tenday of questioning the Westerner to formally declared that the boy was, indeed, the living reincarnation of the holy Pola Hanni, and earthly avatar of the Celestial Immortal Byan’gon. 

Fyang Yu had been stunned. But he was also a man quick of wit, who always had an eye out for the main chance, and he recognized the writing on the wall. thus, his had been the first and loudest voice raised in joyous acclimation at the return of the Holy One. No hint of his shock and rage was allowed to leak out in any way, and he had offered to oversee the tutelage of the young man. Wen Zi had agreed, although he closeted himself with his golden child for several hours each day, to Fyang Yu’s well-concealed annoyance.

Seven days after declaring the return of the Pona Hanni, however, the old fool had finally died. As he’d expected, and long planned for, Fyang Yu was elected the new Abbas by a solid majority of his fellow monks (if not quite as great a majority as he had anticipated). But his victory was bitter ash in his mouth, for with the Pola Hanni once more (supposedly) incarnate, he ruled the monastery, not the Abbas. Fyang Yu was, once again, playing second zither to another, and not calling the tune!

For a time he had thought he might make it work, given the foreigner’s lack of understanding of their culture and history; but the child proved surprisingly astute and a quick learner. None of the other monks seemed to hold the slightest doubt that he was truly the current mortal incarnation of their Celestial patron, and were eager to help him open his Inner Eye and regain his long memory. Fyang Yu could see that the insipid boy didn’t believe for a moment that he was really the Pona Hanni. But he wasn’t actually stupid, despite his ox-like demeanor, and clearly saw the benefit of going along with the charade — why not, it gave him power and a place in the world he’d never have earned on his own.

He absorbed the lessons the others imparted so willingly to him, and Byan’gon alone knew what the old Abbas had said to him, or taught him, in those closed-door meetings before his death — whatever it was, the boy proved surprisingly resistant to being… guided… by Fyang Yu’s subtle words. He’d known he would face resistance from some of the old guard monks for his modern, ambitious agenda, but had expected to be in command and able to compel obedience. Instead, he found many of his ideas and suggestions blocked by the Pona Hanni, who expressed a desire to not “rock the boat,” as he bizarrely put it, so early in his tenure.

Fyang Yu was certain that most of this obstruction really came from Sensin Wa, the Chief Archivist of the monastery and a long-time ally of the old Abbas. He’d certainly wasted no time ingratiating himself with the golden-haired interloper, quickly proving to be an infuriatingly adept counterbalance to Fyang Yu’s own influence. The Abbas had eventually realized he would never achieve his dreams as long as the Westerner remained… and it was then that he had recalled the full text of the ridiculous prophecy (or senile ramblings, as he’d always thought of them) which the old Pona Hanni had dictated from her deathbed, and a plan had begun to form…